The Center Director’s sharp cough cut into the staffer’s ears like a blade. His irritation carried the weight of authority, heavy and suffocating. Kim Nabin sat quietly, unshaken, but the employee felt crushed under the pressure, gasping for air.
“Where are the results?”
Han Chul-yong tore his eyes from Nabin and fixed them on the trembling staffer. So startled that his heels nearly lifted from the floor, the man fumbled with shaking hands to hand over the tablet displaying Nabin’s mana test results.
“Hm…”
The reason the Director had rushed down from his office to the testing room lay within that small device.
At twenty, every Korean citizen was required to report to the K Ability User Center for mana measurement. Those identified as Espers underwent additional tests to determine their specific abilities, while Guides were ranked according to their mana capacity.
If Nabin had been classified as an S-rank Guide, Han Chul-yong would have simply summoned him for a private meeting later. But the report delivered in such haste had been enough to drag him from his chair and bring him here himself.
Unlimited.
That was the word flashing in the rank column after the analyzer measured the calm young man before it. A grade the Director had only ever considered theoretical.
Not S-rank, but beyond measurable limits—an existence no device could quantify.
They would need to re-test, of course, but the analyzer’s margin for error was virtually nonexistent. Since the Guide was a Korean citizen, his allegiance naturally fell under the K Ability User Center, but the world was full of exceptions.
He wasn’t just S-rank—he was immeasurable. If that fact leaked, agents from around the globe wouldn’t hesitate to descend on Korea. The U.S., China, and perhaps even more reckless nations might resort to open threats or shows of force.
That thought made Han Chul-yong uneasy. He had to keep this Guide secured within the Center, and his mind raced through the mountain of urgent matters demanding his attention.
“Go to my office. Until I give direct orders, you are forbidden to reveal what happened here to anyone.”
“Y-Yes, Director…!”
He dismissed the staffer first. Later, the man would need to be silenced for good, but for now the Guide came first. The way Nabin had refused his hand earlier suggested that, despite his quiet appearance, his temperament was far from ordinary.
“Where do you live? From today, the Center will provide you with every support you need.”
His sharp eyes took in the boy’s condition. The clothes were worn thin, the sleeves frayed.
It didn’t look like a fashion statement—it looked like he had nothing else to wear. Even if he tried to pass it off as “vintage,” the kind young people favored, the garment was simply too shabby. The fabric had faded unevenly, proof of age and hardship.
Some wealthy eccentrics chose to look destitute despite living in luxury, but the calluses on Nabin’s hands told a different story. He had worked. He had suffered.
The details of his background could be uncovered later, but he didn’t seem to have any real backing. And even if he did, the Director of the K Ability User Center held enough power to sweep it aside.
“….”
Despite Han Chul-yong’s deliberately cordial tone, Nabin stayed silent. His gaze remained fixed on the floor, immovable, as if the Director’s words couldn’t reach him.
Is something wrong with him?
A deep crease split the Director’s brow. A Guide unmoved by his effort was alien—and irritating. Yet he couldn’t let his temper flare. As much as he wanted to scold the boy for lacking respect, he had to restrain himself.
Since becoming Director, he had never had to suppress his temper so forcefully. His neck stiffened from the strain. His aura leaked into the air like a storm front, but Nabin seemed completely unaffected.
He looked young, naïve, yet a foreboding sense told Han Chul-yong that handling him would not be easy.
Korea, with its unusually high ratio of Espers and Guides, was already under constant scrutiny from foreign powers.
And within the Center itself, foreign spies lurked. If evidence surfaced, he could crush them immediately, but no matter how many were rooted out, more sprang up like weeds.
Secrets whispered inside the Center often reached foreign leaders within a single day. To purge every spy was impossible. Better to maintain a delicate balance of coexistence. Besides, Han Chul-yong himself had agents planted in other nations’ Centers.
Still, his sudden personal appearance here was bound to draw attention. He had encountered only a few staff along the way, but without using an invisibility Artifact, suspicion was inevitable.
The staffer’s lips had been sealed, but he wasn’t completely trustworthy. Time felt painfully short. He needed to return to his office immediately, yet he couldn’t take the Guide with him nor leave him here unguarded. Only one man came to mind.
The only one I can trust with this… is him.
Even S-rank Espers were not easily swayed by the Director’s authority, especially for unofficial assignments. Most were defiant by nature, their strength enough to earn them respect anywhere.
But among them, only one was discreet and reliable, carrying out his tasks without question.
“…Esper Lee Hayan, where are you right now?”
He summoned him immediately. By chance, Hayan had just returned from a mission and was already at the Center. When the Director ordered him to come here, there was a brief silence, then a curt reply: understood. The line went dead.
With the most urgent matter addressed, Han Chul-yong felt some relief. As long as the Guide was secured, the rest could be solved one step at a time.
“I’ve called an Esper to protect you. If your results leak, your life could be in serious danger.”
He dropped the warning deliberately, trying to instill some caution. But Nabin barely seemed to hear him.
Instead, only one thing lingered in his mind—the voice on the other end of the phone.
They had met only once, yet that meeting had never left him. It was a rope he had clung to in the darkness. Something he could never forget.
That deep, resonant voice poured gentle rain onto the parched wasteland of his heart. For the first time, light stirred in eyes that had been hollow, as if belonging to the dead.
His thoughts drifted to the Artifact that had stayed with him until the very end. A constant companion, now absent—and the emptiness clawed at him.
His trembling hands searched through his clothes. He had hidden it carefully, out of Kim Minsu’s reach. If Minsu had seen it, he would have taken it immediately. If he had been an Esper, no hiding place would have worked—but as a mere human, what he couldn’t see, he couldn’t find.
The jumper Nabin wore was old and torn, its fabric frayed in many places. In one of those gaps, the Artifact lay hidden.
His desperate fingers brushed against something solid. Carefully, he drew it out.
The Artifact was just as he remembered.
Like the scar carved deep into his wrist, the butterfly-shaped pendant was split in half. Along the broken edge of its wing, bloodstains still marked that horrific day.
It was hard to look away from the blood-soaked fracture. Within it lay the final chapter of a life he had struggled so desperately to hold onto, only to lose.
I’m sorry…
It wasn’t only people who had died because of him. If Hayan had carried the Artifact instead of him, its wings would have remained bright and unbroken. Seeing it shattered, ruined in its attempt to protect him, made his eyes burn with tears.
At last, a droplet fell, tracing a fresh path across the old stains.
Just then, the closed door swung open. A man with white hair strode in, his confident steps carrying him straight toward Nabin and the Director.
Even his gait revealed his nature. His footsteps, calm as though lifted from the quiet corner of the night itself, reached Nabin’s ears as he sat with his head bowed.
