Don't Be Fooled by Appearances!
Once a month.
The representatives of the four guilds that ruled Korea gathered around a single round table.
Geumseong of Gangnam.
Baekho of Gangseo.
Hyeonmu of Gangbuk.
Cheongryong of Gangdong.
The monsters who held Seoul’s four cardinal directions in their grip met under the noble pretext of discussing cooperation and harmony.
Korean hunters had given the event a single collective name: the Sabang Round Table.
Officially, it existed for national security and the safety of civilians.
To mount a united front against dungeon disasters.
To share information and reduce pointless competition.
In short, the press releases always painted it as a mature step forward for the four major guilds of hunter-advanced South Korea—an evolution beyond the era of mutual bloodletting.
Reality, however, was somewhat different.
The Sabang Round Table was not a social club.
It was a battlefield where no blades were drawn.
In the twenty-first century, outright collisions between major guilds had become exceedingly rare. The four guilds in question had simply grown too large.
Hundreds of hunters. Mana-engineering equipment. Affiliated corporations. Political networks. When entities of that scale clashed head-on, it ceased to be a guild war and became something closer to a civil conflict inside Seoul itself. Neither the government, the military, nor the Hunter Association would tolerate it.
So the methods of war had evolved.
Information instead of fists. Public opinion instead of steel. Contract cancellations instead of raids. Rather than killing one another outright, they leaked each other’s weaknesses until sponsors and partners fled.
For major guilds in an advanced nation, there were more than enough refined ways to destroy an opponent without crudely spilling blood.
And the Sabang Round Table was the monthly occasion when these predators were forced to sit across from one another and smile.
Myeongdong, Seoul.
At the summit of a towering skyscraper sat an exclusive Korean restaurant. One entire wall was glass, offering an unbroken view of the city center below.
Inside a private room, three women sat around a long wooden table.
Jang Songhui of Geumseong Guild.
Han Sora of Baekho Guild.
And.
“Fufu. Sorry, sorry. Am I a little late? The advertising shoot ran longer than expected.”
The woman who entered swept her long black hair back in a languid motion. A single lazy strand poked comically from the crown of her head.
“Guild Leader Yun Mija… For someone of your stature to arrive last at a meeting of this importance is rather surprising.”
“My, my, Songhui dear. The more important the occasion, the later the star should appear, no?”
“This is not an awards ceremony.”
“Which is exactly why I rushed straight here the moment filming ended~.”
The Guild Leader of Hyeonmu.
Yun Mija.
At first glance she was an undeniable beauty, her face so smooth it was impossible to guess her age, her smile effortlessly relaxed. Yet among everyone present she was the hunter who had survived the longest—and, naturally, the one with the most entangled connections.
“Hm. As expected, Cheongryong is absent again.”
Jang Songhui shrugged.
“This makes it the third consecutive absence.”
“Without prior notice, I assume?”
“Correct. Not a word.”
Han Sora set down her teacup and added, “From what I hear, another internal power struggle has broken out.”
“Again?” Yun Mija’s eyebrow rose a fraction.
“They truly are consistent.”
“Only natural for a group that clawed its way into the four majors through brute force alone. I understand the current guild leader was assassinated as well. The executives are currently ripping one another apart over the vacant seat.”
“I thought this one might last longer. Three months?”
“Four.”
“A respectable tenure by Cheongryong standards.”
None of the three women laughed at the remark. They showed neither pity nor particular interest. They simply lifted their teacups, gazed out the window, or offered the faintest of shrugs before beginning the meeting as usual, the empty seat left untouched.
“Several regional guilds have reportedly attempted to transfer exclusive dungeon rights to Chinese hunter corporations.”
“Dungeon spawn rates are equally concerning. Compared to last quarter, the appearance frequency of C-class and higher dungeons has risen noticeably. Rank-up incidents are increasing especially rapidly on the capital’s outskirts.”
“Japan is buzzing with rumors of a new S-class candidate. No official announcement yet, but advertising contracts and political outreach are already moving in tandem. We should consider it half-confirmed.”
Geumseong tracked the flow of money. Baekho read the flow of dungeons. Hyeonmu inquired after the flow of public sentiment and political power.
The Sabang Round Table always opened in this manner.
Domestic dungeon conditions. External checks. Movements in the overseas hunter market.
They tore into one another with genuine venom, yet the moment a common threat appeared they aligned their information without hesitation. Enemy when necessary, ally when required. Perhaps that peculiar solidarity was exactly why Korea had become known as a hunter superpower in such a short span of time.
The meeting continued until the sun outside the window began to tilt and most of the dishes on the table had been cleared.
Yun Mija slowly set down her teacup.
“Sora dear.”
“Yes, Guild Leader Yun Mija.”
“Hohoho. Now that I look at you, our Sora has grown unrecognizably since we last met. You’re old enough to be married now.”
Once the official agenda ended, the real event began. With external threats discussed, only internal psychological warfare remained. The latter half of every Sabang Round Table had always unfolded this way.
Han Sora laughed—on the surface.
Internally she was already spitting.
This old hag. What nonsense is she about to spout now?
Yun Mija. A woman who had looked exactly like this since Han Sora’s mother’s generation. Rumors clung to her like shadows—that she had lived not merely through the Japanese occupation but since the Joseon dynasty itself, that the name Hyeonmu was nothing more than a convenient shell. Despite that mythic scale, her behavior at the end of every meeting was tediously consistent: playing the doting grandmother while quietly digging knives into women far younger than herself.
“Still, child. A flower in her prime shouldn’t spend all her time in a guild corner digging up dirt on others. You’ll get wrinkles. Wrinkles! How about letting this granny help our Sora with her work?”
“What sort of help do you have in mind?”
“For example… sharing a little of the information you’ve been so diligently collecting lately.”
Just as expected. She called it help, yet it amounted to nothing more than demanding a share of Baekho’s hard-earned intelligence. Even the act of “adding a single spoon” was wrapped in such elegant packaging.
Yun Mija’s eyes curved into a smile.
“In return, I could introduce you to a rather popular male idol trainee from the entertainment industry these days.”
“Ohoho. I must firmly decline.”
Han Sora cut her off with a bright laugh.
A male idol trainee. It sounded like tempting bait, but in reality it was nothing but a painted cake. In this world, male entertainers were not mere celebrities. They were ultra-high-risk human assets monitored by both the Ministry of Male Affairs and the International Male Protection Organization. Even one of the four major guilds could not touch them lightly. Besides, if Yun Mija truly possessed such connections, this old spinster who had never properly held a man’s hand in all her long years would have claimed him for herself long before offering him to anyone else. In short, it was pure nonsense.
“What about you, Songhui? I hear Geumseong is preparing a new equipment venture. If you share just a little about it, this granny could arrange a nice blind date with a decent man.”
“My apologies, but my loyalty is not cheap enough to be sold for a single bout of lust.”
“My, my. Young people these days really are blunt.”
“I simply feared that if I spoke too indirectly, Guild Leader might fail to understand.”
Yun Mija’s jab had now turned toward Jang Songhui, yet the red-haired woman did not so much as blink. On the contrary, her direct retort caused a thin veil of silence to fall over the table.
Everyone assumed the Sabang Round Table would end here with the usual light bloodshed.
Until the next moment.
“Now that I think about it, Sora.”
“Guild Leader, as I already said, I must decline any such—”
“Is your mother well?”
Before the true Guild Leader of Baekho was mentioned.
“⋯⋯.”
Han Sora had attended the Sabang Round Table as acting guild leader for eight years. No one had ever challenged it. At least not until today. Yet Yun Mija had brought up that name for the first time—and so openly.
Jang Songhui showed no reaction. To her, unaware of Baekho’s internal affairs, it likely sounded like nothing more than a casual inquiry about a retired legend. But to the daughter herself it was different. She knew better than anyone that Yun Mija was not the sort of person to speak such words without intent.
“Why are you suddenly asking about my mother?”
Her voice had dropped. Instead of answering, Yun Mija rose slowly from her seat. She moved behind Han Sora and placed a hand on her shoulder, the very picture of a grandmother comforting her granddaughter.
At least on the surface, the gesture was affectionate.
Yet the touch was unnervingly cold. Like smiling while pressing a blade to the nape of her neck.
Han Sora offered no reply. Only the faintest tension entered the fingers wrapped around her teacup.
Yun Mija smiled once more. The same sly, grandmotherly expression she had worn while prattling about male idols and blind dates. Yet Han Sora understood perfectly.
This was no joke.
It was a warning.
Perhaps even a naked declaration.
Hyeonmu had already caught the scent of the deepest wound Baekho had tried to conceal.