Operation Longinus

Underground Level 13. A restricted zone.

A private bunker, severed even from the central air-defense grid. They called it the prison of silence—a place where no one could hear, and where no one could intervene.

The heavy door came down with a dull thud, and four gazes tangled across the conference table at the center of the room.

Edward Sloan, Deputy Director of the CIA.

Sun Yan, Director of the Operations Planning Office at China's Ministry of State Security.

Grigori Alekseyevich, Director of the Intelligence Analysis Bureau of Russia's SVR.

And one last man.

Oh Jaehyung, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠vice chairman of Ohsung Group, one of the five great conglomerates of the Republic of Korea.

He leaned back in his chair. By any measure he was presentable—the sort of face people would not hesitate to call handsome.

"So... are you going to tell me now why you asked to see me?"

"Ah, don't take it the wrong way. Having the real powers of America, China, and Russia come all this way to find me is an honor, I'll grant you that..."

Oh Jaehyung's manner was leisurely. These were faces one almost never got the chance to meet. At most, he thought, it would be the powerful sorting out their interests among themselves.

But then—

"Han Seungwoo. Do you know this name?"

The Korean that followed was so fluent it would not have been strange to call it a native tongue.

And in the next instant—

"And... who is that?"

Oh Jaehyung raised a single eyebrow as he asked it back. He truly did not know the name. No matter how he ransacked his memory—business contacts, political lines, even old classmates from university—there was no one called that.

"You don't know?"

Sun Yan set a hand on the table. He was not Sloan's equal, but he too spoke capable Korean. Men who moved on the world stage, they had picked up any number of languages.

"Search your memory carefully. Exactly ten years ago. March 8th. 2:12 in the afternoon. A rear-end collision."

At those words, Oh Jaehyung's face hardened.

"...What did you say?"

Grigori took it up.

"That day, you drove after drinking and after drugs. From the lounge of a private golf club in Gangnam."

The phrasing was a little stiff.

"Hold on!"

Oh Jaehyung raised a hand.

"That case is already... finished. It was just... a traffic accident. A mistake."

"And because of that mistake—"

Sun Yan cut in, cold.

"—exactly one person lived. Ten years old. The name, Han Seungwoo."

"...!"

Silence. Only now did a fine tremor enter his face. A small ripple moved through his eyes, and his fingertips drummed against the table.

"...And what does that have to do with me? I already received a punishment fitting the—"

"—or so you would have thought."

Sloan quietly opened a laptop, and the screen began to unfold.

The glass wall of Seongjin Group Headquarters collapsing in red. Executives screaming. Elite agents hurled through the air, soaked in blood. A black shadow descending out of the air, stepping on its enemies as it came down.

Oh Jaehyung had seen that footage too. But what came next was film of the coalition special forces of the three nations going down, every last one of them.

"Why... are you showing this to me?"

He was vice chairman of Ohsung Group. He knew, clear as day, about every suspicious movement at home and abroad. Of course he had also taken the measure of this man—the international terrorist whose name was all over the rumors these days.

So why this footage? The clip of three nations' special forces being destroyed was classified material so tightly held that even he had never managed to obtain it.

Tap, tap. Sensing something ominous, he drummed the table. His voice cracked a little. Breath caught in his throat.

Grigori, who had been watching that brief unease, opened his mouth.

"That is Han Seungwoo."

"The sole survivor of the family you killed ten years ago."

"..."

Oh Jaehyung's vision slowly blurred. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Something seized the back of his brain and tore at it, and it hurt.

"That's impossible..."

Even when he had heard the name, he had thought it was merely someone else who shared it. And yet the state terrorist Han Seungwoo was the only survivor of the family killed by his past "mistake."

He opened his mouth slowly.

"...He was... just a kid..."

Sloan smiled, quietly.

"That kid has now wiped out the special units of the CIA, the SVR, and the Ministry of State Security—and brought down Seongjin Group, a company your own firm worked with hand in glove."

"Who do you suppose comes next?"

"..."

He knew the answer. But in the end he could not say a word.

In his eyes was something he had never seen there before. Fear.

No matter that he was the chaebol designated to inherit Ohsung Group—if he became the target of this monster that barely qualified as human, the ending was obvious. It was the price of a sin committed against a monster who had once been human and had now transcended humanity. But he meant to deny it.

"...Is there something you want?"

If anything could be called a hope, it was these men—the real powers of three nations. He could, of course, be protected by bodyguards or mercenaries. But that was only ever the level of a single Korean chaebol.

The men in front of him were different. They were cadres of organizations that belonged to the strongest states on earth, organizations that could actually bring that power to bear. In ordinary times, even meeting the true operators of the dark was nearly impossible. They had come looking for him—the next object of revenge—because they wanted something. Of that he was certain.

If they wanted something, then there was room to negotiate.

"Of course, Mr. Oh."

And so the secret conversation between the three nations and the vice chairman of Ohsung Group went on for quite a long time.

What filled the room was not even silence. It was something colder, something stickier—an inorganic current, far removed from human warmth.

Within that current, Edward Sloan opened the laptop.

A single red sigil on a black screen. A window only those cleared for the utmost secrecy were permitted to see. Over it, system authentication proceeded in sequence: fingerprint confirmed, retina recognized, blood-flow pressure matched, heartbeat pattern registered. Only after every procedure did a voice, as if wrung out of a machine, come flowing through.

Only after he had confirmed that voice did Sloan's mouth, shut inside the silence, open.

"Operation name: Longinus. The sacrifice is secured. We are setting the target's induction route now."

"To date, the target has raided three prisons in the Republic of Korea. Cheongjeong, Daesan, and the Correctional Center. All of them places that became a scandal over internal corruption and the concealment of vicious inmates."

The channel gave him nothing back. He went on.

"Every inmate serving time for a serious crime, and every corrections officer in collusion with them—all dead. We have clearly identified the target's intent. The execution of justice."

He lowered the end of the sentence and added to it.

"Analysis shows the target is excessively fixated on a crude sort of justice. That justice is a dangerous form—one that leans on emotion and belief rather than on law and procedure."

"Yes. A man who makes justice the reason he exists. A man who cries out a crude justice. His movements always follow the standard called justice, and we use that standard in reverse."

Sloan worked the mouse and brought up a map. A ruined industrial complex. He pointed to it.

"Civilian density in the relevant area: 0.0023 percent. We intend to position the sacrifice there."

"The sacrifice is the man who slaughtered the target's family ten years ago. The moment he appears—and provided the place is empty of civilians—we are convinced the target will come. The probability is ninety-eight percent or higher."

In that instant the voice from headquarters fell, low and heavy.

Sloan's eyes shifted by a fraction.

"There are... no changes? That weapon is the last card of asymmetric power between nations."

It was not hesitation. It was a simple reconfirmation of the operation's scale.

"There may be civilian casualties in the surrounding area."

At those words, headquarters answered with finality.

Sloan asked nothing more. He was an agent to the marrow, and he was an American. He believed not in justice, but in orders.

Only—

"And if another nation, Russia or China, captures him first? Or recovers the research asset?"

The question was polite, but a clear unease was mixed into it, and political tension with it. Headquarters, though, yielded not an inch, answering with the coldness of a declaration prepared long in advance.

"...All-out conflict?"

Stillness. Sloan kept his mouth shut and stared only at the waveforms of the electronic lines inside the monitor.

The words were an order and a warning, and at the same time something like a violent declaration aimed at the entire world. Sloan quietly bowed his head.

"...Order received. The key that leads to the future will be America's alone."

In those eyes there was no hesitation, no ethics, no mercy. Only a single component, fitted to the victory of a great America. Long ago already, he had discarded the variable called humanity.

And so the monster wearing the shell of justice became, without ever knowing it, a sacrifice laid upon the greed of all humanity. And America finished its preparations to seal even that monster's corpse beneath its own flag.

A deep silence had settled inside the shielded conference hall. Seated there were the people who actually moved the Republic of Korea.

The President. The Prime Minister. The Chief of Staff. The Director of the Office of National Security. The Minister of National Defense. The Minister of Foreign Affairs. The Director of the Central Intelligence Bureau. Even the leader of the ruling party. Under the name of a matter on which the nation's survival depended, only those who had been invited could take a seat in this room.

A single document was projected on the screen before them. A secret diplomatic communiqué, come from the American mainland. They did not read its contents themselves. The meaning of the request already delivered had been shared well enough.

"To summarize..."

The Minister of National Defense spoke first.

"...The substance of the request violates international agreements outright, and the Constitution head-on. If we accept it, the diplomatic backlash and the condemnation will be enormous..."

"That's meaningless."

The Chief of Staff cut him off.

"China and Russia have already fallen in line. We're in a position where we can't refuse."

A sigh burst out of them at the reality bearing down. The Director of the Central Intelligence Bureau closed his eyes, fingers laced.

"The subject... is looking past even that. He isn't a simple terrorist, and he isn't a fanatic. This is a challenge to the system. Revenge against power."

"Which is exactly why he's more dangerous."

The Minister of Foreign Affairs cut in.

"If he keeps executing that foolish justice of his, the very concept of a leader in this country cannot exist."

At those words the hall was swallowed by stillness again.

And then—

"Han Seungwoo."

The President, the man with final responsibility for the government of the Republic of Korea, quietly opened his mouth.

"He is certainly a dangerous man. I... can state it flatly. That bastard harbors a ferocious hatred of power. It is aimed at the high officials, the leadership, the entire establishment."

The President turned a page.

"What matters is that the hatred was carried into action. It isn't mere feeling. He took up a weapon. He made blood flow. He proved it. Beyond anything we can handle."

His gaze swept the inside of the hall.

"If we don't settle this now, someone among us dies. This isn't guesswork or anything like it. It's a reality that's coming. It's the future."

The leader of the ruling party ventured a word, carefully.

"Then... you're saying we accept America's request?"

The President nodded.

"We accept. America, and the great powers, are offering to bleed in our place. What reason is there to refuse?"

A moment later someone among the working staff carefully opened his mouth.

"But... Your Excellency. If that plan is carried out... the civilian casualties could be severe. Hundreds—no, perhaps thousands..."

Before the words had even finished, the President turned his gaze and looked at him. A cold look. The corner of his mouth did not so much as twitch.

For an instant the air froze solid. Not one of them could speak.

"We cover it up quietly, the way we always have. Isn't that enough? The press is in our grip, and the police and the prosecutors obey orders. If we need to, we can drive it as a conspiracy theory cooked up by those insolent opposition bastards."

Someone swallowed a breath.

The President leaned back again. In those eyes there was neither guilt nor hesitation. Only thorough calculation, and profit, lay underneath.

"Accept America's proposal. This mission must end up in our hands."

And no one could object. The justice of the Republic of Korea was quietly dying, once again.

A single footstep raised the dust. The ruin of an industrial complex, old metal and concrete wreckage tangled together—this was already dead land.

But I did not miss a single breath of the place, nor a single movement.

Because—

...Oh Jaehyung.

The bastard who had killed my parents, and my little sister, in a traffic accident ten years ago was here.

An accident? No. To call it an accident was an insult to the family that died. It was... murder. Getting behind the wheel after drugs and after drink is already no different from having decided to kill someone.

A revenge I had waited ten years for. Finding him had not been so difficult a thing. No—there was no one alive who could slip past my Eye of Judgment and my History of Judgment.

His close aides. His friends. His subordinates. The history I had walked through blood and judgment had left those traces perfectly clear.

Screee—

The rusted iron door of the abandoned factory groaned open.

But—

"..."

It was nothing like what I had expected. All the way here, there had been no resistance at all. Not a guard. Not so much as a single ant. As if the place knew everything that was about to happen here, the door stood wide open, like an invitation.

But my steps did not stop. And deep inside the factory—

"So you came."

A voice I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had never once forgotten, not even in dreams. His voice—no, his very presence—had not changed from ten years ago. Still at ease. Still arrogant.

Oh Jaehyung. The existence who had killed my family. The existence who had made the beginning of every tragedy.

"Should I call it ten years?"

"..."

A smile hung at the corner of his mouth. Interest, more than fear. Mockery, more than terror. And the sight of him was deeply... unexpected. I had thought he would be huddled up like a frightened rat.

I stared at him, cold.

"...You were waiting? Not hiding?"

"Hiding? Me? Haha. Don't kid yourself. This isn't hiding. I drew you in."

He rose slowly and brushed off his shoulders. A suit without a speck of dust on it. Shoes that shone. He looked exactly as he had in the past—the face of a third-generation chaebol, splendid, and arrogant.

"Tsk, tsk. I'm sure I made it clear to you ten years ago."

"..."

I said nothing. Oh Jaehyung shook his head, as if pitying me, or as if he were bored.

"You don't get it. All that thrashing around you called revenge—in the end you were nothing but a puppet, dancing on my hand."

He lifted the remote in his hand and showed it to me. If I wanted, I could have cut off the hand holding that remote whenever I pleased. But I didn't. That remote might as well not have been there. Because all of this was a trap, precisely built.

"Your justice. That worthless conviction. It led you here, and it's going to end your life."

Click. At last he pressed the button. In truth that was not his will. It was my permission.

And in that instant the air shuddered, a deep roll running through it.

"...What?"

The cold smile on him broke. Startled by the roof groaning and shaking, he looked around.

"The—the troops? The special forces from the three nations...?"

The panicking man's words never reached my ears. I could feel it. Terror and awe at the same time, beyond anything words could describe.

Space itself was trembling. Something vast enough to strip the very idea of atmosphere of its meaning—vast enough to make the gravity of the earth look pale—looked down on the world from above the sky, past orbit, from beyond the heavenly bodies.

Through the holes punched in the ceiling of the abandoned factory, I could see it.

The sky split. Blue-black cloud tore away, and light poured out of a rift in the vastness of space. Information of an overwhelming density. Death at a purity of one hundred percent. A god's command to destroy something was striking down upon the world in the form of light.

It had a concrete shape. A spear, driving in a straight line from the end of the sky to the end of the earth. Its size was enough to swallow the entire industrial complex, and its brightness was brilliant enough to make even the sun jealous.

A light of hell, born of earthly greed disguised as the will of heaven. And it whispered the same words to every living thing.

But I refused that will.

With a ringing like tinnitus, my time—no, the time of the world—stopped.

"..."

Not a sound reached me. Not Oh Jaehyung's disgusting howl as he screamed in panic, nor anything else.

A technique of enlightenment, unlocked by transcending Agility a second time and by raising the special stat, Qi, to 5.

This stillness was a time I had made. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠As if I had pressed pause, I looked at Oh Jaehyung inside a state where time was twisted.

A moment ago, through the History of Judgment, I had grasped every proposal the cadres of the three nations had made him. In the end, he... had been deceived. America, Russia, and China had dug a trap to catch me, using him as bait. And that trap had included his life as well.

A satellite weapon. I did not know exactly what form of weapon it was, but its purpose was to incapacitate me through it—or to deal me a fatal wound unto death—and obtain me as material for a living experiment.

I had guessed all of it. Even so, I had shown myself in this place because I was certain.

Clearing the three prisons, and the dens of evil they had not yet identified, I had stacked an enormous quantity of Karma. And already that had become the source of my power.

My right hand closed. I raised it and took hold of the kitchen knife. I looked up at the sky—at the spear of radiance that looked ready to plunge at any moment—and drew in a breath.

"Hup—!"

That single breath swallowed the whole of the air. A hum rose, and the kitchen knife began to give off a faint light, like something fluorescent.

A manifestation of power, awakened upon transcending Strength a second time and upon reaching a Qi value of 10. Gathering every emotion and every will into a single point, and cutting—the first step of a human reaching toward a god.

I drew the sword toward the sky. Toward the colossal arrogance that meant to reign over this world.

And that single sequence of motion split the world. A single line of light, extending from the tip of the blade. The straight line of that sword qi, cleaving the heavens, collided head-on with the falling Longinus—that brilliant spear.

In the instant cosmic reason and radiance crashed together, the sky tore in two.

And the fragments fell, embroidering the sky like shooting stars. The arrogance of humans who had tried to imitate a god was broken in the hand of a mere human.