Heaven's Concession (3)
"Saecheonnyeon Guwonhoe Salvation Cup Final Match—Starting nooow~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~!!!!!"
As I grabbed the mic and slammed down the beat, a torrent of cheers and roars erupted from the countless devotees. Getting here had taken countless battles, sacrifices, love, and friendships. I can't go into details, but it was about ten chapters' worth of content—and if I'd dragged it out week after week describing every bit, I'd get flak for padding. So this was my considerate edit. Anyway, the devotees were here with me today to put the finishing touch on this epic saga, a flood of blessings for our Saecheonnyeon Guwonhoe.
"Alright! At 10 o'clock, devotee Park Cheol-kwon, Terran, who's punched his way through the faithful one by one with an iron fist to reach this point. Facing him at 5 o'clock is the living legend on wheels, Kim Geum-gang, who's clawed his way up past sixty by scheming everyone under the table—a wheelchair myth come to life, Protoss."
The classic Korean pastime. The game that united the nation regardless of gender—to decide the ultimate winner on my orders, personal booths and gaming PCs were swiftly set up. Now, as the Saecheonnyeon Guwonhoe leader, commentator, and self-proclaimed know-it-all bullshit expert, I'd see this battle to the end.
"Kim Geum-gang sends out his probe faster than expected. But heading exactly diagonal... is this pure luck on the scout path, or prepping a forward gate? Ah! He's dropping the pylon now! Betting it all on a single-elimination final—the fiery spirit of a sixty-something youth! It's an old build, but one that still lands pretty well!"
"Exactly. In this high-go high-meat era, who falls for a forward gate? But true to form for a sixty-year-old, he seems clueless about 'these days.' Though we can't rule out he's gunning for modern players with that bold pick..."
I slurped down a diet cola at Devotee A's elaboration. Drinking this made you feel like you'd crushed a brutal diet day—turns out it wasn't bullshit.
"If you scout the enemy's main before the forward gate finishes, it's theoretically a nightmare to defend. A gate in the center lets you rush the shortest path to either base... Ah! Caught by Park Cheol-kwon's scout!"
"That's trouble. Pylon's already down, but building the gate now means it'll get walled off. Pull back, and you've wasted resources. Worst, you'd have to rebuild elsewhere, losing that early aggression edge!"
"Park Cheol-kwon flashes a smug grin? Like, 'No way I'm losing to some boomer!' Knowing the forward gate's toast, he rushes a factory?"
"Once you've read the strategy, no need for walling or defense. At this rate, vultures'll pop before Kim Geum-gang's dragoon!"
"Kim Geum-gang... Ah, building a main nexus and going for cannons. Skip gas-hungry dragoons, block vultures with photon cannons for a breather, then mass up and counter?"
"Flexible thinking for a sixty-year-old. Not his first rodeo—probably a PC bang grinder."
"If he was a PC bang lifer, that's why he became Savior Han Guwon's child? lolololololololololol."
I tore into the kitchen staff's chicken with Devotee A, leisurely watching the Salvation Cup apocalypse. Loser ascends to heaven for salvation; winner to heaven for the prize. Either way, I'd send 'em packing to heaven myself.
From the moment the commotion kicked off, Park In-ha watched from afar like a spectator, unseen by all. Han Siwoo—no, Han Daeri—knew these cult fanatics would off themselves the instant they clocked him rejecting their heaven trip. So he'd switched tactics. Despite his overwhelming power, instead of crushing them one by one, he'd exploited their absolute faith—their greatest strength and fatal flaw: blind devotion to the leader.
He'd toppled the cult leader as if it were nothing and slipped into his 'conceptual' skin. To Park In-ha's all-seeing eyes, it was still Han Daeri through and through. But to the others? Probably looked like Guseju Park Sim-man. They might wonder why their savior was suddenly spouting crude, clownish banter, but hey, he's the leader—follow blindly. Fanatics who'd die on his word kept the faith, even if his personality flipped 180.
But Han Daeri's goal and methods were brutally straightforward: spot a sinner, force repentance, ship to heaven. No detours into hidden truths or mysteries. He just executed.
He's not the type to care about that stuff anyway.
First met him at Hanyang University freshman OT, but they weren't close in college. Her insight pierced Han Siwoo's life—darker, emptier than anyone's. Like a marionette stripped hollow, stitched with thread to sham survival. So grotesque, horrific, with no future in sight, she'd kept her distance. No future meant death.
Problem was, this dead man walked—reappearing in unrelated prophecies. Han Daeri, popping up amid the end times. Had he shed his humanity? Killed Han Siwoo and hijacked the shell? Unclear. With that thing loose on earth, apocalypse made sense.
And that sparked guilt. What if she'd helped him back then? Approached human-to-human, given a reason to live? Had her arrogant eyes—judging him empty, undead, futureless—doomed this? Unknowable. Her eyes observed reality, predicted futures—not rewound pasts.
That's why she wasn't there. Her place wasn't this boiling pot of Han Daeri pickling souls for heaven. It was with the culprits behind it all.
If only she lacked these eyes, she could've lived normally. Instead, they dulled her danger sense—woman or not. Danger was the unforeseeable, inescapable, unblockable. A blatant spell-trap? Like dodging rain on a sunny stroll.
Descending the basement stairs, she twirled past bursting pipe shards from pressure, ignored venomous leeches hidden in hydroponic roots—they never touched her, bundled tight in her shed devotee robes like a hobo sack. Easier than cheating off a test sheet. Dull, emotionless.
"Weird, right? Sure, idiots fall for cults these days, but fanaticism this extreme? Rare."
She tossed the words toward someone in the hydroponic room depths—no reply. Predictable; she'd known.
"Extracting paralytics and hallucinogens from leeches, dosing the crops, feeding devotees to numb negatives and amp positives via hallucinations—not bad. But drugs leak, so a sealed cult. Decent ploy under 'salvation' banner."
No two-bit conman sweet-talk. Sorcery, narcotics, insular fanaticism—a top-tier strategy. Small group, but tier-1 faith. Led by the one outsider: Daesingwan, puppeteering his way.
"That's far enough, witch."
Out stepped Daesingwan in black robes, gripping a rare Korean shotgun—hunter's scattergun. Hoarse voice, shaky hands, sagging wrinkles, gray hair: old, ragged. But fanatic eyes burned with obsession; pursed lips screamed stubbornness.
"Dragging that monster to my lab? Your doing, slut...!"
"Oh? Was it me? I just followed."
"Shut it! This is my lab, my hand-reared specimens. You wrecked it overnight... You ruined my lifelong dream!"
He spat rage, finger on the trigger. One pull, and it'd shred boar—or her.
But no shot. It wasn't a shotgun.
"Wh-what... why?"
"Oh dear. Mistaking a broom for a gun? Hallucinating?"
"Uh... ugh...?"
"No fingers? Pity. Still gotta lop it off."
"How...!"
"I know everything. You're a minion of 'Judas Iscariot's' finger-servants. And your research? The 'perfume' that intoxicates all humanity."
Daesingwan dropped the broom, face quaking as he looked up—past Park In-ha's head, to the blinking hydroponic lights. There, brighter than bulbs, darker than shadows: a dual light wheel flickered.
"■■■!"
With a death-scream, lightning-struck, he incinerated in seconds. Not a speck of ash left.