“Get a hold of yourself, Esper Ryu Soh-an.”
Hayan infused mana into his voice. It wasn’t just words—he pressed down on Ryu Soh-an with his ability, and only then did clarity begin to return to the man’s blurred gaze.
The sharp emotions that had brimmed in those sky-blue eyes sank back into his depths, but his expression grew heavier than ever.
“What am I supposed to do…?”
Now fully conscious, Ryu Soh-an muttered in a hollow voice. Sometimes absurd things happened in the world, but what had happened to Nabin was unbearably cruel.
Had Nabin… regressed? Like in a movie or novel?
The last of those horrific memories was Nabin ending his own life. The image of him slashing his wrist without a moment’s hesitation surged up, and Ryu Soh-an squeezed his eyes shut.
Just how much pain must he have endured to step willingly into death, the thing everyone fears most? Fragments of memories so gruesome that death itself had seemed like a release stabbed into Ryu Soh-an’s chest.
Even with his ability, he felt certain that Nabin’s scars could never be erased completely. Even if he treated him every day, wounds carved so deeply into his soul—wounds that had broken him into pieces—might never truly disappear.
The only mercy was… that Nabin hadn’t given up entirely. He still carried a will to live. Without that, he might have already tried to end his life again.
“…How bad is it?”
Even when Hayan asked, Ryu Soh-an found it hard to answer. What he’d seen couldn’t be explained logically.
Even if he told the truth, there was no guarantee Hayan would believe him. More importantly, these were Nabin’s memories. Unless Nabin chose to speak of them himself, Ryu Soh-an had no right to.
In the end, he chose the only words he could give. His voice was cautious, deliberate.
“…It’s severe. Even with daily treatment… I can’t promise he’ll ever recover.”
He didn’t know how Hayan and Nabin were connected, but he could feel it—an invisible yet unbreakable thread bound them together.
What Ryu Soh-an had seen were only Nabin’s painful memories. Hayan hadn’t appeared in them. Still, some fragments lingered.
“Do you know where the Artifact is? The one with a violet butterfly pendant?”
It was the item Nabin had clung to like a lifeline whenever things became unbearable. Ryu Soh-an couldn’t be certain, but it seemed that pendant had kept Nabin from collapsing completely.
And considering Nabin had chosen death after it was destroyed, the thought wasn’t without reason.
“It seemed precious to Guide Kim Nabin. I think it had some kind of function to protect him emotionally. Do you know about it?”
Of course Hayan knew. He couldn’t not know. It had been his gift to Nabin—a keepsake from his late mother. He had given it to him, hoping, as Ryu Soh-an suggested, that it would guard his heart.
“…It’s broken. I’ve left it with a craftsman to be reworked into another form.”
It would’ve been ideal if it could be repaired, but the Artifact’s life was already gone. It had been one of a kind; finding another was impossible.
Even so, Nabin had treasured it. When his mind grew faint, he had clutched the pendant and eventually entrusted it to a craftsman.
Hayan had planned to have it reforged into a smaller accessory, so Nabin wouldn’t hurt himself whenever he held it.
“And there’s something else I’d like to confirm… May I see Guide Kim Nabin’s wrist?”
Now that he knew the pendant’s whereabouts, Ryu Soh-an nodded and asked carefully. After seeing Nabin’s memories, he treated him with greater caution than ever.
In those memories, Nabin had cut his own wrist in the end. If he had truly lived through that, then scars would surely remain.
“Just a moment, Guide Kim Nabin.”
Hayan nodded and gently extended Nabin’s arm. With trembling hands, Ryu Soh-an rolled up his sleeve. On the right wrist, there was only smooth, pale skin. He let out the breath he’d been holding.
But when he pushed up the left sleeve… his breath caught again.
The scars, jagged as though carved with a broken blade, twisted across the wrist like fat worms writhing under the skin.
They were so deep it was a miracle they’d healed at all. At the sight, tears welled without warning and slid down Ryu Soh-an’s reddened eyes.
“This is…”
Hayan, too, was shaken—perhaps even more than Ryu Soh-an. The moment he saw those crimson marks, he remembered the dried blood that had clung to the wing of the pendant.
Back then, he had noticed traces of older blood beneath the fresh stains and wondered if Nabin had hurt himself before. Now he knew.
There was no proof, but an undeniable certainty struck him—that the object which had carved those scars was the very pendant he himself had given Nabin. His vision trembled as the blood-red marks blurred together.
“…So it’s true.”
Ryu Soh-an’s voice broke, twisted in pain, just like the cruel scars marring Nabin’s wrist. He had clung to hope, however faint.
Sometimes, people dreamed vivid nightmares that felt too real. Couldn’t it have been like that for Nabin? That fragile hope shattered at the sight of the scars.
If Nabin had truly endured all of that… how could he possibly beg forgiveness?
Even if Ryu Soh-an hadn’t been the one, those sins belonged to people close to him. Even the affection he now felt for Nabin seemed tainted, leaving him no better than a criminal in Nabin’s eyes.
The only way to atone… was to help heal the wounds in his soul as quickly as possible. That was all.
“How did you know the scars were there?”
Even Hayan had only just discovered them. Nabin always wore long sleeves and never once rolled them up.
Even when they had gone shopping together, Nabin had changed alone in the fitting room.
Maybe his wrists had shown in passing, but whether through chance or deliberate concealment, Hayan had never noticed. With scars this vivid, even a fleeting glimpse should’ve left an impression.
Yet Ryu Soh-an had spoken as though he already knew. Hayan’s gaze sharpened, fixed on the man who wept in sorrow.
“It’s my ability. When I make contact to treat someone’s mind, fragments of the memories and emotions tied to their trauma transfer to me. Only a fraction, but enough.”
Hayan remembered Ryu Soh-an’s face twisting in agony during treatment. An S-rank Esper’s mental strength was formidable. For someone whose very ability lay in the mind, it had to be even greater.
And yet, even he had gasped in pain from the fragments of Nabin’s memories and feelings. If that was only a fraction… then Nabin’s suffering was beyond imagining.
Hayan’s jaw tightened.
By now, Nabin had drifted into a deep, almost unconscious sleep in his arms. Hayan brushed a hand gently over his tear-streaked lashes.
He had expected severe trauma. Even during their first meeting in the abandoned dungeon, when Nabin had seemed far more alive, he had shown signs of PTSD.
What had happened to him after that day?
The body in his arms felt unbearably light, almost weightless. Even accounting for Nabin’s smaller frame, he was too thin.
His neck, his wrists—everything was frail. Hayan didn’t need a doctor to know he was suffering from severe malnutrition.
If he could, he would go back to that day—not to let Nabin go, but to keep him close and protect him. He had never imagined he would carry such deep regret.
“…Please continue his treatment.”
For now, Hayan resolved to do what he could. It wouldn’t be cured in one session. He bowed his head respectfully, asking Ryu Soh-an for his help.
No one in the world was more specialized in healing psychological wounds than this S-rank Esper.
The resentment Hayan had once felt at Ryu Soh-an’s gentle concern for Nabin dissipated like mist.
What mattered most was Nabin’s recovery. Hayan now cherished him so much that when Nabin hurt, he wished he could take the pain in his place.
For someone that precious, Hayan could bow his head to an enemy a thousand times if he had to.
