A Completely Different Homecoming

Click.

The sound of a mouse click broke the silence of the studio.

I clicked the post as if under a spell.

As I scrolled down, carefully captured and translated reactions from Japanese readers came into view.

These weren't mere compliments. They bordered on awe.

And as I scrolled a little further, the praise didn't taper off — if anything, some of the comments made even me flinch.

One Piece. Naruto. Bleach.

The so-called Big Three — the legends of Japanese manga that once ruled the world.

My work, still in its early serialization, was being compared to those legends. And it wasn't us forcing the comparison. Those titles were coming out of Japanese readers' own mouths first.

The Korean netizens' comments stacked underneath were pure celebration.

Something hot and swelling rose in my chest.

Money? Of course it was good. Every time the numbers in my bank account climbed, the thrill was real. But the feeling I had now was cut from a different cloth than capitalist pleasure.

A cultural victory.

Japan — the nation that prided itself as the birthplace of comics — was going wild for our methods and our names. We had proven that even without forcing Japanese names under the banner of localization, pure entertainment was enough to break through.

I want to do even better.

The hunger rose in me. Not simply the hunger to make more money — the pure craving of a creator who wanted to ride this wave and show them something more perfect, a story even more overwhelming.

"Hoo…"

But I wasn't the only one feeling this heat.

I glanced at the seat beside me.

Han Se-jin.

A man who had once stood at one of the peaks of the wuxia novel world. He was staring blankly at his monitor — and his gaze was locked on the same screen I was looking at.

Gulp.

His Adam's apple bobbed hard. His eyes were blazing, like the eyes of a martial god who had once commanded the jianghu in his prime.

"Author."

"Yes."

"My heart… is pounding."

Han Se-jin spoke in a trembling voice.

"They say that when one person in the industry breaks through the ceiling and opens a new meridian, the dreams of everyone following behind grow wider too… Today, I felt that for real."

"…"

"Before, I just hoped I could write enough to put food on the table. If I got a little greedier, maybe become a bestselling author. That was about it."

He clenched his fist. Tendons stood out on the back of his hand.

"But watching you, the size of my dream is changing. I want to succeed at that level too. I want my writing to make someone across the ocean tremble… That desire is boiling up inside me."

I smiled.

I was happy.

Happy that my success wasn't ending as mine alone — that it was giving a colleague new inspiration. Proud that I had planted a reason to pick up the pen again in a genius author who had been crumbling, and not just any reason — a massive goal.

Of course, that didn't mean the happiness the numbers brought was any smaller.

Bzzzt—!

The phone on my desk vibrated. It was Representative Kang Suk-woo.

"Yes, Representative."

Kang Suk-woo's voice on the other end of the line was pitched high with excitement. For a man usually so composed, even his breathing was rough.

"Subscribers…?"

Kang Suk-woo launched into an excited explanation.

The Japanese market was closed off. Readers who had always used print manga or publisher apps had no reason to download Neon, a Korean webtoon platform. Webtoons were a foreign culture to them.

But once word of mouth for The Regressed Hunter Is Merciless started spreading, the situation changed.

Where do I go to read that?

Just download Neon.

That current had formed.

"That's good to hear."

Kang Suk-woo rattled off the numbers.

Thirty million.

An astronomical number.

Of course, the web novel industry had its legendary works — a wuxia novel that had racked up eight hundred million cumulative views. In absolute terms, we still had a long way to go. But that work was nearly two thousand chapters deep, a monument built over more than a decade of serialization.

And my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠novel?

Barely a hundred and eighty chapters. The serialization period hadn't even hit a full year. And yet the growth curve was steeper.

Whatever the case, the fact that a debut work is even being compared to that legendary title is absurd enough on its own.

I nodded.

"Thank you for sharing the good news. I'm even happier that it proves your eye for talent wasn't wrong either, Representative."

I hung up.

Numbers and renown. Kang Suk-woo's voice had proven we had caught both rabbits.

At the same time.

The Muse office.

Park Do-hun sat frozen like a statue in front of his monitor. The eyes behind his glasses were trembling.

On the screen before him, a single Excel file was open.

"…"

Park Do-hun took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on. He wanted to believe the numbers were wrong. He suspected an extra zero had been tacked on.

But the numbers stayed exactly as they were.

He knew the web novel market had grown. He'd seen the news articles about it becoming a multi-trillion-won industry. But that was the market as a whole.

The web novel market was a classic thumbtack structure — a winner-takes-all world where the top one percent claimed more than half of all revenue.

And standing at that very peak was his little brother, Kang Minjun.

Domestic web novel revenue. Domestic webtoon revenue. And the Japanese webtoon revenue added today. When those three locked together in perfect rhythm, the units on the calculator changed.

"In a single day…"

Park Do-hun's hands shook.

"Pure profit alone is a hundred million won…?"

Not revenue.

After the platform took its thirty to forty percent cut, after taxes — the remaining pure profit was crossing a hundred million won a day.

Thirty billion a month. Three hundred and sixty billion a year.

And that was only at current levels. What if webtoon chapters kept stacking up, print volumes came out, and animation rights got sold?

Gulp.

He swallowed hard.

"At this scale… this is a real major content company."

This was no longer the personal corporation of a popular author. The value of the IP Kang Minjun held right now — plus the potential of upcoming works, plus writers like Han Se-jin who would be brought in through Muse — if you put a corporate valuation on all of it combined?

A hundred billion won.

The number flashed through Park Do-hun's mind. Even to himself, it sounded insane. A unicorn company? He never imagined that wouldn't be someone else's story — it would be his little brother's.

A company not even a year old, a company that was only just starting to expand its headcount, valued at a hundred billion won?

But he couldn't deny it. One look at his inbox was enough to know it was real.

He'd unplugged the phone line — and now the inbox was exploding.

Major game companies whose names everyone knew. Drama production houses. Film distributors. Merchandise companies. Even investment proposals from the financial sector. Love calls were flooding in so thick he could barely find the emails that actually mattered.

"Hoo…"

Park Do-hun tipped his chair back and stared at the ceiling.

None of it felt real.

Just a few months ago, his life had been about catering to Executive Director Choi's moods at Ad Like and waiting for payday.

Back then, yeah.

He'd hesitated over a single drink because of credit card bills. A ordinary breadwinner who felt guilty he couldn't give his wife more household money. Last year's wedding anniversary, he'd secretly opened a negative-balance account to buy her a gift because he was broke — a conscience gift, really, after failing so many other anniversaries.

And now?

He was watching the price of a Gangnam apartment land in the company account every single month.

He pulled a worn wallet from his pocket. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠leather was frayed and tattered. Inside, a family photo.

"I miss them."

His wife Su-jeong's face rose unbidden in his mind.

When he'd told her he was quitting the company to help Minjun — he would never forget the look on her face. Eyes full of anxiety. The clear worry about next month's loan interest. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠But still, saying she'd trust her husband, telling him in a trembling voice, Alright. Go for it.

Without that faith, he wouldn't be who he was now.

I can tell her now.

He wanted to say it. Proudly. That her faith hadn't been misplaced. That they had done it. That she no longer had to pick up a buy-one-get-one deal at the supermarket and put it back down again.

Park Do-hun stood, grabbed his jacket, and dialed his little brother.

Ring, ring—.

"Minjun. You busy?"

"Today… let's go home for a bit."

"Yeah. My place. Su-jeong says she misses you. Let's grab a meal."

Minjun's laughter came through the receiver. His little brother had caught on — the emotion leaking through his hyung's voice no matter how hard he tried to hold it down.

"I'll come pick you up."

Park Do-hun hung up and left the office. His steps were light.

The weight of the air was nothing like that night he had last gone home to ask for permission. Back then, he had carried heavy feet full of anxiety and apology. Today, his steps were full to bursting with gratitude and pride.

A completely different homecoming.

In the elevator mirror, Park Do-hun's face held a strange mix of a breadwinner's solid pride and an older brother's deep satisfaction. He adjusted his tie.

Returning home in glory.

Was this what it felt like — to go home dressed in silk?

Tonight's dinner, he thought, was going to be the most delicious meal in the world.