Chapter 98
Chan-seong's foot slammed into the dry ground. Parched dust scattered in all directions in his wake.
Did he move? No, he hadn't. Chan-seong hadn't budged a single step from his spot.
At just 21 years old, pulling off feints with nothing but eye flicks, subtle motions, and sheer presence?! It was a presence that made even me—who'd danced through countless brushes with death—flinch.
'I won't let him die.'
His talent, palpable on my skin, was far too enticing.
"...As expected! This much doesn't faze you at all."
Chan-seong's lips curled up lightly, his eyes widening in what seemed like genuine surprise.
"Now, for real!"
His shoulder twitched instead of his foot, and in an instant, the distance closed. Without even trying, every motion deceived, probing for openings.
This is what they call a genius.
'He's this good now... imagine him growing even more with age.'
My eyes narrowed as a senior confirming his junior's potential. That's why I couldn't let him die.
'Break his tempo.'
Chan-seong's fighting style mixed feints and real strikes to bewilder opponents. It wasn't something you could learn—it was pure innate talent. The only way to shatter it was overwhelming aggression.
I ignored the fist flying at my face and closed in. Bewilderment flickered in his eyes.
'So this is the real one.'
A Muay Thai-style low kick sliced through the air. An ideal trajectory arcing gracefully like a painting. If it weren't aimed at me, I'd have applauded its beauty.
But! He was still green.
Shifting my weight forward without a step, I loaded it onto my lead foot. A Taekwondo low side kick crumbled his base leg.
It wasn't some fancy kendo concept of the late strike arriving first. Just pure physics: a straight-line attack starting later hits the target before a curving one that started earlier.
One strike to end it.
My fist rocketed toward Chan-seong's contorted jaw from the pain. But he twisted his neck along the punch's path, dispersing the impact.
'Damn, he's a natural.'
Even among pro boxers who trained nothing but punches, few could evade like that.
"...As expected of Senior Kang Cheol-gu! I didn't think you'd be this good."
As I nodded, Chan-seong—panting heavily—spoke up.
"It's not too late. Let's stop here."
"No."
He shook his head, replying in his signature hollow tone.
"I heard it on the news right before you arrived, Senior. Song Dong-in, founder of Boeun Construction, died after being attacked by an assailant. I'm already a murderer. No turning back."
"We can still fix this. I'll help you."
"...Would you leave revenge to someone else if you were me?"
His question stabbed like a blade.
"I know I can't beat you, Senior. But I have no other path!"
He bared his teeth and lunged at me, avoiding my gaze. Steam rose hazily from his collapsed body like a mirage, mocking the early winter chill. He fought like a man living only for today, so to break him, I had to go all out too.
"S-Stop! Chan-seong's gonna die!"
His final punch packed real heat. As I rubbed my jaw, Moon Kyung-i—who had watched for God knows how long—rushed in front of me. Tears welled in her drooping eyes.
Namgung-min, pale as a wax doll, quietly shook his head.
"Take this guy to the shelter first."
"Got it."
Namgung-min's eyes deepened as he supported the fallen Chan-seong.
'This wasn't my place to interfere!'
Jo Chan-seong. The quiet kid with no friends, yet he earned the children's trust with his uncanny presence. Unlike me, who'd strained to avoid disappointing my father—Namgung-cheol, who saw only first place as worthy—this smug bastard threatened my spot without even trying.
That was Namgung-min's view of Jo Chan-seong.
But after hearing his painful past from Senior Kang Cheol-gu and witnessing his true skill in combat...
'Both of them live in a different world from mine.'
The senior's broad shoulders ahead looked somehow sad, and the slight frame of his fellow officer on his back felt oddly heavy. Namgung-min squeezed his eyes shut.
* * *
"Looks like Chan-seong's gotten himself into some big trouble, huh?"
The shelter director—her hair snow-white—didn't flinch at the sight of the carried-in Chan-seong, as if she'd already guessed. She just fixed her spirited eyes on me, awaiting my response.
"Yes. But I'll help him."
"I appreciate it. ...None of the kids here are without a story, but Chan-seong's the most pitiful. That child bears the sins of history our generation couldn't resolve—all alone."
From the director's lips flowed fragments of Chan-seong's past I'd only glimpsed in news snippets. As I nodded slowly and downed the cheap green tea she offered, the door burst open with Moon Kyung-i's shrill scream.
"Senior! Chan-seong...!"
In the cramped room—barely fitting two adults lying down—Namgung-min lay collapsed first. Through the wildly flapping curtains like a madwoman's hair, the crude roar of a motorcycle engine leaked in. A red RX 125 was climbing the mountain path, impossible to chase by car.
"N-No!"
The director's frail groan followed as she slumped powerlessly.
* * *
– President, we have a suspect in mind!
"Spill it."
Song Gyu-tae—phone to his ear in the car—breathed heavily at Deputy Pyo's excited voice.
– A week ago, an 81-year-old named Kim Soon-rye died. Two days before that, her son died too. And get this... He lowered his voice, wary of listeners.
– It was Jo Gap-seong.
"Who's Jo Gap-seong?"
The name was a blank in Song Gyu-tae's memory.
– You know, the guy who formed a union and picketed our HQ every day... We handled him quietly with some kids.
Memory flickered dimly.
"Didn't that loser croak? Lasted longer than expected. What's the issue? Mom dies, then him too."
– Thing is, Jo Gap-seong had a son. Jo Chan-seong, 21 this year, a police academy student. Hasn't shown up to school since Kim Soon-rye and his dad died—vanished.
Song Gyu-tae's caterpillar brows twitched.
"So you're saying this punk avenged his dad Jo Gap-seong? But then he'd come after me, not leave his father like that...?"
– Sorry. We haven't figured that part yet...!
The puzzle didn't fit. Song Gyu-tae, about to bellow, slowly shook his head instead.
Managing people meant carrots and sticks. Deputy Pyo thrived on carrots, not whips.
"Got it. Good work. If you're right, priority is figuring why he targeted my father, not me. Dig a bit more."
– Yes. I'll do my best. But...
Deputy Pyo trailed off, hesitating.
– Japanese contacts are landing at the airport today. Should I go?
"No. Things are chaotic—I'll handle it personally."
– Yes! Understood.
Song Gyu-tae hung up on the suddenly upbeat deputy, smiling bitterly.
'Useless punk, all talk and no spine.'
* * *
Incheon International Airport buzzed with over 150,000 daily visitors. Driver Kim Yong-man—arms crossed—kept glancing at Song Gyu-tae while checking the Incheon flight's arrival.
"...President personally welcoming them? Must be some VIP."
"Less 'precious' and more 'untamable wild beast.'"
"What do you...?"
"Hey! Came yourself?"
As Kim Yong-man tilted his head, a voice called Song Gyu-tae.
Turning, Kim Yong-man's eyes wavered. Amid five or six burly men stood a late-20s guy with strikingly red lips for a man, waving at Song Gyu-tae.
A yellow-dyed bosozoku-style hairdo—rare these days—piercings in both ears, dragging a long white coat to his ankles as he approached.
"Long time no see, Sanama Genjo-san."
"Yeah, yeah. Good to see you."
Awkward accent, but pleasant enough. Even at the young punk's cocky greeting, boss Song Gyu-tae remained polite.
As Kim Yong-man—knowing his boss's temper—grew puzzled, it hit him: 'Sanama Genjo!'
Deputy Pyo had mentioned offhand: 'You know President Song Dong-in, our founder, got a marquis title from Japan in colonial days? The Sanama family—three generations of ties from that. Their youngest son's a total psycho.'
'What do you mean?'
'Sanama's old military lineage. Yet at 17, he ran with bosozoku gangs, later cozying up to Japan's last yakuza, the Kudo-kai... Unpredictable—don't even make eye contact if you see him!'
Deputy Pyo shuddered, dodging further talk.
'That Sanama youngest is him? Looks like a spoiled rich kid...'
Kim Yong-man tilted his head at the still-bright-eyed Genjo.
"...So this Jo Chan-seong guy's a prime suspect in attacking President Song Dong-in?"
"Yes. But we haven't pinned a direct motive for targeting my father. If grudge, it'd be against me..."
Kim Yong-man swallowed dryly, checking the rear seat via mirror. The light mood gone, Genjo's eyes gleamed demonically over documents—like a Peking opera lead donning masks at will.
"Why fuss over direct motive? Seems to me he's on the perfect path."
"...What do you mean?"
"Japan and Korea are neighbors, but worlds apart. We have a curse: haji shirazu—'shameless human.' It slams those who can't avenge their parents' deaths, failing to settle grudges."
"My learning's shallow; I don't grasp your meaning, Genjo-san."
"Tsk tsk!"
Genjo wagged his head, eyeing Song Gyu-tae pityingly.
"If it were me with a grudge against you, I'd kill you and every last mongrel in your house. Assume he's driven by that, and nothing's weird."
The boyish-faced Genjo cocked his head, adding casually.
"...Who knows? Korea-Japan history's long—plenty hidden stories we don't know."
"So, what should I do next?"
"Really no idea? Be bait. Fresh, wriggling bait."
Genjo flashed a grin at the gulping Song Gyu-tae.