The Eid Portal that manifested in the MA Department Store made headlines everywhere. For those directly involved, it carried even greater weight—an attack that seemed deliberately aimed at Tae Woon.
But the truth turned out to be surprisingly mundane. After the portal was cleared, the host voluntarily turned herself in to the Paranormal Phenomena Response Agency before she even had a chance to recover from the physical and mental toll.
In the Eid Portal Management Division, the section chief alternated glances between Gwak Yoonsang’s report and the woman identified as the host via the portal analyzer. An employee in the department store’s VIP lounge, she sat with her head deeply bowed. She looked pale enough to collapse at any moment, the aftermath of the portal’s destruction still hanging over her like a fog.
“So… you’re saying the Eid Portal was triggered because you were mentally overwhelmed after seeing Guildmaster Tae Woon and his companions?”
“Yes…”
She nodded weakly, wearing a face that screamed she wished the ground would swallow her whole.
A longtime fan of Tae Woon, she’d already nearly lost her mind once before. A friend who worked at a phone store had texted her: “Tae Woon gay??? Just showed up with his boyfriend???”—and she had barely held it together back then.
Before she’d even had time to sort through those jumbled feelings, Tae Woon had walked into the store in person—accompanied by Kim Sibaek, no less. She somehow managed to hold onto her sanity… until she found out that Pi Minhyung and Seo Gaeun, also VIP members, were visiting as well. That was the final trigger.
“I thought they were a couple… I was just so shocked… I’m really, really sorry…”
She shrank in on herself like she wished she could disappear. The section chief offered her a sympathetic smile. Thanks to Tae Woon and the three Hunters from the 7777 Guild carrying the raid, civilian casualties had been minimal. While a few Hunters had sustained injuries, they were recovering without complication.
And most importantly, being chosen as an Eid Portal host wasn’t anyone’s fault.
Uncleared Eid Portals were living nightmares. In the early days, when no one understood how portals formed, hosts were branded like criminals. There were even cases where hosts of successfully cleared portals had taken their own lives, unable to withstand the public backlash.
But like many things, time changed that.
No human could completely suppress their emotions. And with the looming possibility that anyone could become a host tomorrow, few people dared to cast stones.
Nowadays, some even used Eid Portals as a form of trauma therapy—though that was a privilege reserved for the ultra-rich or powerful, who could ensure a successful clear.
After confirming through drug testing that there was no foul play involved, the woman signed a contract—one detailing the restriction of her personal information, the public release of portal footage, and the division of profits from the portal clear.
With the formalities done, the section chief finally asked what he’d been most curious about.
“So… were all those merch items part of your collection? My kid’s really into that stuff.”
“Oh, n-no, not all of them. Just a few photo cards and plushies…”
Her neck flushed red as she fumbled through her reply. It seemed her unconscious desire had manifested in the portal.
“I see. In any case, I’m sure the aftermath of the clear has left your body in rough shape. Get some rest—and maybe check in at a hospital too.”
After bowing apologetically in every direction, the woman finally left. The section chief turned back to the report and carefully read it over again. The phenomenon captured on the action cam had been so implausible that the matter was sealed as classified. To maintain security, he had taken the host’s testimony himself.
The overall strategy had been fairly straightforward—even accounting for Tae Woon’s overwhelming ability. The real issue lay in the final core phase of the portal.
Normally, the Portal Keeper found in an Eid Portal’s core possessed danger levels equivalent to an A-rank monster. But this one, despite having A-rank demonic energy, devoured mana with the speed of an S-rank. An utterly bizarre occurrence.
Even stranger was the combat footage.
…Is this real?
If not for the video evidence, they’d have likely sent every Hunter and survivor—Gwak Yoonsang included—for psychiatric evaluations.
If this guy—Kim Sibaek—hadn’t been there, they might not have cleared the portal at all.
Even more surreal was that they’d found no personal information on him beyond the name he’d given. But nothing felt more out of place than Tae Woon’s reaction to him.
The section chief skimmed the section describing Tae Woon’s change in behavior toward Kim Sibaek. Gwak Yoonsang had emphasized it in his report, but no matter how he looked at it, it sounded wildly exaggerated.
Earning the nickname “Mad Dog” wasn’t something just anyone could do—it meant you had unmatched accomplishments, an infamous reputation, and a personality to match. Sure, people sometimes called Tae Woon the “Savior of Seoul Refugees” or the “Hero of Busan,” but the public overwhelmingly preferred “Mad Dog.”
Tae Woon’s explosive personality was just as legendary as his power. The idea that someone could flip that Mad Dog on his back and have him panting with a single sentence? That had to be Gwak Yoonsang’s wishful thinking after enduring Tae Woon’s wrath for too long.
At this rate, I should probably refer Yoonsang for counseling before he ends up as a portal host himself…
Still, if by some miracle Kim Sibaek really was the one holding Tae Woon’s leash… then his value might surpass even those who possessed divine gifts. The section chief chuckled at his own absurd daydream.
***
“The symptoms resemble mana depletion, but his vitals are incredibly stable. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Tae Woon replayed the doctor’s words in his mind, his eyes the only thing moving.
Kim Sibaek lay unconscious in the hospital bed, having collapsed right after taking down the portal’s top-tier monster. He hadn’t woken up since.
Though the symptoms mirrored mana depletion and he was receiving IV fluids, his breathing was steady, and his expression peaceful.
Ironically, the one who looked worse off was the baby crow propped up by a pillow beside his head. With thick black feathers covering even its face—if you could call it that—it was hard to read its condition. Tae Woon had considered calling a vet to give the crow an IV too, but since it was a divine incarnate, he had no idea whether its physiology even resembled that of a living creature. So he left it alone.
Mana depletion, huh…
Tae Woon tapped his folded arms lightly with his fingers.
The total amount of mana a person could wield varied from individual to individual. If you pushed beyond that limit, it could leave you crippled—or kill you. But Kim Sibaek didn’t look like someone who had pushed himself to the edge. He looked more like someone who had simply slipped into a deep, exhausted sleep. Even when he lost consciousness and collapsed into Tae Woon’s arms, there hadn’t been any overwhelming sense of danger.
Maybe it was different because it wasn’t mana depletion at all—but divine power.
His divine power, the natural bane of chaos-born monsters. A power unique to Kim Sibaek alone in this world.
Ha…
A flicker of unreleased ecstasy glimmered ominously in Tae Woon’s three-colored eyes. He reached down and took Kim Sibaek’s limp hand, placing it over his own heart. Covering the hand with his own, he pressed it down hard—forcing the palm against the left side of his chest. As if, by pressing hard enough, it could tear through skin, split muscle, crack ribs, and reach his heart.
He savored that self-inflicted pressure, the warmth of the hand against him. Drawing in a rough, shaky breath, Tae Woon slowly opened his eyes, his expression settling into its usual emotionless calm.
I’m no better than a pervert, doing this to someone unconscious.
He evaluated himself with chilling objectivity. Then, he lowered his lips to the back of Kim Sibaek’s hand. Unlike the desperate grip just moments ago, his gesture now was delicate—as if he were lifting a sacred relic. Careful. Reverent.
Still wearing gloves, he gently rubbed the center of Kim Sibaek’s palm. His thumb traced slowly along the etched lines in the skin. As he glided over the life line, the hand twitched faintly, even in sleep.
Tae Woon liked that Kim Sibaek’s life line was long. It made him feel like the man would live a long life. Longer than his own.
When he first held this hand at the age of five, it felt like the strongest, biggest thing in the world. Now, it was smaller than his. The calluses had faded after Kim Sibaek gave up fencing—but the skin had grown rough again. Signs of a life Tae Woon knew nothing about.
Sixty-eight years. And nine. Just nine years. Barely nine.
The sheer imbalance made Tae Woon feel sick.
Nine years might be nothing more than a fragment buried in the margins of Kim Sibaek’s long life. But for Tae Woon, those nine years were everything. His beginning and his end.
And Tae Woon… in Kim Sibaek’s life, those nine years would only ever be—
“Mmm.”
Kim Sibaek’s closed eyelids trembled, then slowly began to flutter open. Tae Woon watched in rapture as hazel eyes emerged beneath long lashes, his own reflection caught in them. He whispered softly,
“Hyung… did you sleep well?”
A simple greeting—spoken again for the first time in twenty-one years. An ordinary hello. The kind of greeting exchanged by people who see each other every morning, who look into each other’s eyes and smile.
A normal greeting. One shared in the quiet routines of daily life.
Tae Woon loved that.
Because in front of Kim Sibaek, he still felt like an ordinary person.
