The Commander's Proposal
Kim Jun lay there staring up at the ceiling.
A green safety net sagged above him, and beyond it, the steel framework holding up the Uramata Guildhouse came into clear view. He'd poured all his strength into that final burst, and even his body—which had endured half-marathons without breaking a sweat—now felt utterly spent.
Go Cheolmin's face appeared overhead.
Kim Jun nearly burst out laughing.
Looking down at him, Go Cheolmin resembled a grim reaper one moment and a grumpy neighborhood uncle the next.
His jaw was covered in a thick beard, and his round, bald head had thinning hair above the forehead, making it look like a path had been cleared through the lush forests extending past his ears.
"How long are you planning to rest? Gonna set up house right there?"
Kim Jun shot to his feet and staggered.
Go Cheolmin reached out and steadied him effortlessly.
Kim Jun shook off the hand lightly. Go Cheolmin's strength was every bit as legendary as his past fame suggested.
"The average carrier lifespan is two years and three months. That doesn't mean they all die—most just quit because it's so grueling and dangerous. I know one who stuck it out for fifteen years, but the rest? They get hurt or wake up to reality within a year or two and find other work. So, how long do you plan to be a carrier?"
It was a serious question.
After some thought, Kim Jun revealed the truth. It was a secret even his friend Choi Muhyun didn't know.
"…Until I find my father."
"What?"
Go Cheolmin was stunned.
Choi Muhyun, who had come up beside him, looked equally shocked.
"My father entered the Yongsan Dungeon and never came back. That was seven years ago."
"In that case, of course…"
Go Cheolmin started to speak but trailed off.
"I know. I know the odds of surviving seven years in a dungeon. I know everyone thinks he's dead. But I believe he's alive. Until I find him myself, I can't give up that belief."
"So that's why you want to become a carrier and get into dungeons, no matter what?"
"Yes."
Kim Jun was calm.
"Hah, well, this is something."
Go Cheolmin wiped sweat from his brow with a meaty palm.
"Help me, please."
Kim Jun said.
Go Cheolmin turned and glanced at Choi Muhyun.
"What do you think? Is this kid smart?"
"You saw his college entrance exam scores earlier."
"Plenty of smart kids in school turn into idiots in the real world. You know that."
"This guy's the real deal. He succeeds at everything he tries. If he'd awakened, he'd be better than Lee Hwan. Master, you saw him dodge that ball yourself today."
"Hm."
Go Cheolmin had already accepted Kim Jun as a carrier.
But he didn't want to waste the boy's talent hauling gear. His athleticism was impressive, but what truly amazed him was how he stayed cool under fear.
Even awakened raiders often froze in terror, botching their skills and getting hurt or killed in seconds.
In that razor-edge world of life and death, the most vital skill was clear-headed thinking. It was wisdom Go Cheolmin had learned the hard way after over a hundred dungeon raids.
He thought of the 'Pride' team, who had finished morning practice and left.
Despite their pride, they lacked effort and grit, yielding poor results for their talents. No one stepped up as a true leader.
Kim Yun-seok lacked responsibility as a tanker.
Jo Mi-yeon obsessed over fashion instead of maximizing damage output. Gim Geon-do chased flashy techniques, neglecting basic support as a buffer.
The biggest issue? No leader who fully grasped the roles of tankers, dealers, and buffers—issuing precise commands where needed.
The leader of Korea's strongest guild, Jushin, was Yoo Wan-seop.
Yoo Wan-seop was the top dealer with a panoramic view of the battlefield. He commanded Jushin's tankers directly, repositioned buffers, and adapted dealer attributes to the situation, securing dominance in dungeons.
Thanks to him, Jushin boasted 23 straight raid successes this year alone.
Yoo Wan-seop was a natural awakener and a brilliant leader.
People with both talents were exceedingly rare. That's why most guilds' small teams suffered from a lack of commanders.
Large guilds fared no better.
Lee Hwan's guild, Brave, challenged the B-rank Gangnam Dungeon with over five hundred raiders but failed again this year.
A crushing defeat with 75 deaths.
Analyses abounded, but critics agreed: lack of leadership.
Lee Hwan was still too young.
Raiders over thirty didn't fully respect him yet, so he couldn't lead. His arrogance weakened team cohesion too.
Go Cheolmin knew most raiders awakened young, fostering stubborn, independent personalities unaccustomed to teamwork.
He himself had been the same—proud until nearly dying in a dungeon, realizing his folly.
'Already five years, huh.'
The last time Uramata Guild led a B-rank raid was five years ago.
They'd charged into the Suwon Dungeon with 350 raiders full of vigor.
First wave back: barely 120 survivors. Scattered groups reformed, totaling 180 survivors—but 170 dead. A nightmare raid etched in memory.
Uramata lost its B-rank license.
The Dungeon Association revoked it for the failure.
For five years, Go Cheolmin had fought to reclaim it, but it was tough.
New awakeners per year stayed constant.
Competition was fierce; wealthy guilds snatched high-scorers first.
This year's top score? A third-year middle schooler, signed by Jushin for 3 billion won. Photos showed beaming parents, jokes about them striking it rich.
Uramata's status had declined.
Outcompeted by giants.
Even holding C-rank was a struggle now.
In his endless deliberations to revive Uramata, a new raid style dawned on Go Cheolmin.
Most guilds still used strategies from decades ago.
Tankers block, dealers damage, buffers aid as needed.
He'd found inspiration in a computer game.
In strategy simulations, gamers won by leveraging unit strengths/weaknesses—producing faster or striking weaknesses cleverly.
As guild master, Go Cheolmin was drawn to it. If raiders were units, the master should play gamer.
Problem: He couldn't enter dungeons to command directly.
He knew his strengths and limits well.
Having both Yoo Wan-seop's awakener prowess and leadership would be ideal, but his limits were clear.
Thus, he conceived a new role: commander.
After tanker, dealer, buffer—the commander!
"Kim Jun."
"Yes, Master."
"Can you trust me?"
"Huh?"
Caught off-guard, Kim Jun glanced at Choi Muhyun.
"Master, why phrase it like that? Sounds like a con man or cult leader."
"Butt out. Kim Jun, can you trust me?"
Go Cheolmin stared intently, unblinking.
"I've trusted you—that's why I've given everything these past two years."
"Good. I'll raise you up."
Kim Jun and Choi Muhyun couldn't fathom Go Cheolmin's beaming grin.
Anyone could be a carrier.
No need to pass awakening tests. Carriers just collected cores from dead monsters inside.
Train as a carrier?
No guild master boasted like that.
Out of Go Cheolmin's sight, Choi Muhyun twirled his finger.
Kim Jun just nodded quietly.
The two left Go Cheolmin to his thoughts and exited the guildhouse. At a snack bar, munching kimbap and tteokbokki, Choi Muhyun tilted his head.
"Man, maybe I should switch guilds."
"Why?"
Kim Jun chewed a rice cake stick and asked.
"Master's getting weirder by the day."
"He seems like a good guy, though."
"He is."
"You're not serious, right?"
Kim Jun treaded carefully at his unusually solemn friend.
"Joking, obviously. But the guild's in rough shape. Gotta debut soon. One gravidium core could buy a building like that."
Gravidium—from A-rank dungeons only—was key for anti-gravity engines.
It had ended America's space dominance; now colonies dotted the Moon and Mars.
What once cost astronomical sums was becoming reality.
"Me? Podum."
Kim Jun said.
Podum cores fueled teleporting portals.
They burst out laughing at each other.
Even a thousand top raiders struggled to claim one. Youthful dreams, ignorant of dungeons' terror.
Moments later, Choi Muhyun spoke.
"I had no idea."
"Just… didn't wanna say. Felt like playing tragic hero."
"Nah! I think it's cool. Figured you had reasons, but not this."
"Thanks for understanding."
"Haha, my heart's as wide as the ocean."
Choi Muhyun cackled.
"Oh yeah—today's the Gwangjin Dungeon raid."
"Is it?"
"Cheonhondan leading. You're watching too."
Kim Jun grabbed the remote from the snack bar lady and flipped channels.
A C-rank raid—live broadcast. Helicopter cams showed raiders lined orderly before the dungeon entrance north of Gwangjin-gu, Seoul.
Close-up: a handsome middle-aged man exuding masculine charm.
"Ah, it's Min-su!"
The lady clapped, rushing to the TV.
Choi Muhyun shook his head emphatically, but Kim Jun wouldn't miss the chance.
"Auntie, this is the son of that famous tanker, Choi Min-su."
"Really?"
"No way?"
The owner and server gawked, comparing son to father on screen.
"Kinda similar, but Min-su's way hotter."
Their verdict.
"Dude, I said don't!"
Choi Muhyun whispered.
"Why be ashamed?"
"…I haven't earned the right to be his son yet."
"What kinda talk is that?"
Kim Jun looked up at the TV. He envied his friend just for having a father nearby.
His heart raced. What lay inside that dungeon, swallowing 700 raiders at once? No cameras penetrated—electronics failed inside.
Descriptions relied on survivors' tales.
Then Optitarakum decoded monster cores for post-raid footage. A broadcasting revolution—vivid raids for viewers after the fact.
Now, cams showed assembled raiders.
"Not worried?"
"Dad's strong."
"Yeah, Korea's top tanker."
"One of the top tankers."
Choi Muhyun hated blind praise.
Objectively, four or five matched his defense. Still, the title stuck.
Seeing his father shrank his pride.
They said he inherited the talent, but Dad slew an Awakerus at 15. At 17, a SpiriduRus—national fame.
Back then, systems were lax. Now, under-20s were barred, even prodigies. 19-year-olds allowed as apprentices.
Dad was his goal.
He wanted to catch up.
"Here we go—the dungeon gate's opening!"
The reporter shouted.
The semicircular gate between Guui Station and Children's Grand Park yawned open. Cheonhondan raiders and allies surged in like a tide.
They vanished; the gate sealed.
Majestic, no matter how often seen.
No sight dug deeper than men risking lives into darkness.
"On the house, kids."
Fish cakes and fritters arrived.
"Thank you."
Kim Jun stood and bowed; Choi Muhyun grudgingly followed.
"You're a handsome young man too."
Aimed at Choi Muhyun.
He grinned awkwardly.
After a satisfying meal, Kim Jun parted with Choi Muhyun and headed home. The cheer was gone. School likely called—chaos awaited.
Home was the fourth floor of an apartment.
His heart weighed heavy. What if family learned he'd joined as a carrier? Chest tightened at the thought.
But he couldn't hide forever. Better rip the band-aid off.
'Yeah, pick the moment and tell them. That's best.'
Unlocking the door, the living room was dark.
Clock read past 10 PM. Everyone asleep? Then Kim Ji-hyun popped out with a lit cake.
Mom behind her.
"Congrats! Perfect score!"
Kim Ji-hyun.
Mom dabbed tears.
"Blow it out quick."
Urged his sister.
Kim Jun extinguished the candles. Kim Ji-hyun set the cake down and flipped on the lights.
Mom hugged him tight.
In that warm embrace, he couldn't confess skipping college or joining the guildhouse as a carrier.
"You've worked hard."
"Me? You've packed lunches, kept us fed—that's the real work."
"Don't say that. Makes me feel useless."
Mom and Kim Jun laughed at Kim Ji-hyun's words—her grades middling.
Blissful time flowed.
Mom had jumped into work after Dad vanished seven years ago. Her radiant smile made even wrinkles beautiful.
"Oppa, you're such a liar."
Kim Jun's heart dropped.
"…Why?"
"After the exam, you told me it was tough! Scoring perfect after whining 'tough'—what about everyone else?"
He sighed inwardly in relief. Not busted.
"No, I meant the problems were hard. Compared answers with kids—totally different from mine."