The Youngest Daughter of the White Night Group
The academy on the final day of the second semester was unusually quiet. The training grounds stood empty, and footsteps in the corridors were few and far between. It felt like everything had ended. Everyone wore expressions of relief as they tidied up and prepared to leave. The first semester had closed with a clear sense of finality.
Normally, on a day like this, I would have started organizing things right away. I might have acknowledged my accumulated fatigue, sorted through what needed to be done next in my head, and headed home. But I couldn't bring myself to finish. Just because the final evaluation was over didn't mean the problems I carried had disappeared. Scores were merely results, and results didn't conceal their causes. Whether the outcome was good or bad, if the root cause remained unresolved, the same instability would return—and the next time, it would be even more dangerous.
I already knew this. Not from the moment I obtained Crimson Trace, but earlier—when I first opened my status window after the midterm evaluation. From the instant each line of explanation tightened around my fingertips. And from how long my mana capacity could possibly sustain those conditions. What I possessed wasn't power. It was a limitation.
That was why I headed for the annex. A restricted area accessible only to the student council, upperclassmen, and select special management targets. A place no first-year had any reason to visit. Precisely because of that, I felt certain. If I wanted to meet this person, it had to be now. Once vacation began, everyone's paths would scatter. This was the last day I could see her at the academy.
As I walked down the corridor, I minimized the sound of my footsteps. It was a habit. When I reduced the noise, I could hear my own breathing. And when I heard my breathing, my thoughts settled.
The access terminal at the annex entrance chimed briefly. Beep.
Even as I approached, I kept wondering whether what I was doing was reckless or inevitable. The inner corridor was even quieter. Instead of the usual metallic scent of the training grounds, it smelled of a meticulously maintained space—floors someone wiped daily, walls that gleamed. The tension here felt different from anywhere else.
I walked to the end of the corridor. And there, in the room at the very end, I found her.
Seo Yu-ri was seated in a chair, holding a slim tablet in one hand as she scrolled through the screen, checking something. Her posture was perfectly composed. Even with minimal movement, her presence filled the room—it seemed to be her default state.
In that moment, a thought crossed my mind. …Was this senior always this beautiful?
It wasn't the first time I'd seen her. Her name and background were far too famous; I'd passed by that face countless times. At student council events, in the corridors, at the cafeteria, in the training hall stands. Whether by chance or design, the name Seo Yu-ri had always lingered somewhere in my field of vision. Yet strangely, until now, I had never truly registered her appearance. It was more accurate to say I hadn't been interested. My attention had always been fixed solely on what was necessary for survival—opponents' fingertips, foot placements, the angle of a shoulder rising, the timing of a breath catching. Those were my priorities.
Now it was different. Her expression was coldly refined. Her eyes revealed little emotion. Her face, which never smiled, maintained a deliberate distance. She didn't give the impression that approaching her would bring warmth, yet she was the kind of beauty whose gaze was difficult to avoid. She carried an urban air, the sort of person whose coldness registered first.
If Eun-seo were beside her, that person's warmth would put me at ease. Even without many words, things would feel comfortable. In contrast, Seo Yu-ri was the type who made you straighten your posture just by facing her. The kind of person who would read you instantly if you didn't stand properly—someone who would discover your weaknesses before you even realized them yourself.
Seo Yu-ri lifted her head. It happened at the exact moment I stopped. As if she had known I would come and had simply been waiting to see when.
The instant our eyes met, the back of my neck felt inexplicably cold. It wasn't the sensation of being watched—it was the feeling of being seen through.
Seo Yu-ri didn't change her expression. Yet somehow, she looked as though she were smiling faintly. It was the look of someone intrigued, neither mocking nor particularly friendly.
"You're later than I expected."
That was her first line.
I took a breath before answering. "Were you waiting for me?"
Seo Yu-ri shrugged. "I wouldn't go so far as to say I was waiting." She folded the tablet. "I just thought you'd contact me a little earlier than this."
Her tone was definitive. Certainty. Not baseless arrogance, but the words of someone whose calculations were already complete. I couldn't think of a rebuttal. Instead, her words made my own choice feel lighter—as though I hadn't come here after some grand decision, but had simply followed a predetermined sequence.
I took a step closer. "Could I speak with you for a moment?"
She glanced down the corridor once. "Follow me."
We moved to the lounge. Two sofas and a low table sat beneath curtains drawn halfway, keeping direct sunlight out. The space was neither bright nor dark—a room designed so that someone could stay for a long time without growing weary.
Seo Yu-ri sat first. I took the seat across from her, keeping a respectful distance.
Seo Yu-ri spoke first. "Han Do-yoon."
The way she said my name felt less like a summons and more like a confirmation. As if she were rereading a document she had already stamped.
"During the midterm evaluation," I said, raising my eyes, "someone died."
My heart sank, just slightly. Her tone remained calm. She wasn't probing or pressing—she was simply stating a fact. A fact that wouldn't disappear just because I pretended not to know it. It was an incident the entire academy knew about, one that remained in the official records. Even so, few people brought it up so directly. Most avoided it or spoke of it with careful circumlocution.
I didn't deny it. Denial would have been meaningless. And the reason I had come here already presupposed that fact.
Seo Yu-ri continued. "And right after that, you awakened."
She tapped lightly on the table. The sound wasn't loud, yet it echoed more clearly in my mind than it should have.
"In that case, the awakening condition was murder. A first, as far as I know."
I exhaled slowly. Exhaling was both a way to organize my thoughts and a way to buy time. She was someone who would allow that time—and simultaneously someone who could render it meaningless.
"…Is that what you thought?"
"It wasn't difficult to figure out." Seo Yu-ri didn't avert her gaze. "The clearer the sequence of events, the easier it is to deduce. Even if the method has never been seen before, a result is still a result."
A simple, precise conclusion. The kind that left only the outcome without unnecessary explanation. It was very much like her. And strangely, I didn't dislike it. She didn't pity me, nor did she offer forced comfort. This person gave calculations instead of consolation. Calculations, at least, were useful.
A brief silence passed. Seo Yu-ri changed the subject. "I also looked at your final evaluation combat records."
She spoke as though her fingertips were tapping at the boundary lines inside me. Final evaluation combat records weren't materials ordinary students could easily access. You either needed clearance or someone with clearance to move on your behalf. The mention of the White Night Group alone was enough to confirm that her background was no mere decoration.
Seo Yu-ri said, "There was something strange about them."
I remained silent.
"You only used one type of skill."
Her gaze fixed on me. Under that gaze, I recalled the moment—the sound of orcs collapsing, the sensation of the skill lingering at my fingertips, and the rapidly narrowing options. Three times. That number was both my weakness and my reality.
"Most awakened individuals mix their skills when they have several. They adapt to the situation."
"But you didn't."
Seo Yu-ri tilted her head. "So I thought—either you only have one skill, or you're in a situation where you can only use one."
Those words struck exactly. I stayed silent. Silence was neither denial nor affirmation. But in this place, it was an answer in itself. Pretending not to understand would have been pointless. She had already reached her conclusion and was merely confirming it.
"Am I right?"
The corner of Seo Yu-ri's mouth lifted ever so slightly. It wasn't a simple smile—it was the smile of confirmation.
I thought for a moment. What I needed was help, and she could provide it. Someone in need of assistance had no choice but to show their cards first.
I spoke quietly. "My skill… is locked."
"How much?"
The question was short, without hesitation.
"I don't know exactly how much is locked. But there is a visible condition."
Seo Yu-ri nodded. "As I thought."
"I haven't met the condition yet. The displayed progress is 0/10."
"Beyond this skill issue, I want to grow stronger overall. Can you help me, Senior?"
Seo Yu-ri pondered briefly before speaking quietly. "Crimson Trace."
She spoke my skill's name precisely. "It's an accuracy-dependent type. But accuracy is difficult to raise, and with your naturally low mana, you can't use it much."
What she said wasn't mere speculation. It sounded like the conclusion of someone who had observed the actual scene—tracing back from the results to determine at which point I had faltered and why I had only managed two uses.
"…That's correct."
"You can raise proficiency through training," Seo Yu-ri said. "But training and real combat are different."
I nodded. I had already felt that difference in my body. In the training hall, the trajectory's sway was predictable. In real combat, it became unpredictable. If my fingertips couldn't withstand that difference, my accuracy wouldn't improve. And if accuracy didn't improve, having the skill would be no different from not having it.
"You need real combat experience."
"That's something I can help with."
Help. Real combat. That combination was both appealing and dangerous. And help always came with a price—especially from someone like her. Seo Yu-ri seemed like the type for whom transactions came more naturally than goodwill.
"And your unlocking condition. I can help with finding that too."
A brief pause.
"But," Seo Yu-ri said clearly, "it won't be free. We'll help each other."
I drew in a breath. "…What do you want?"
Seo Yu-ri studied me for a moment. It was the gaze of someone evaluating a person—measuring both potential and risk. As that gaze passed over my skin, my shoulders tensed slightly without my realizing it.
"I won't tell you now," she said immediately. "You're not ready yet."
That was true. It stung, but it wasn't wrong. I had only just awakened, possessed only one skill, and even that lacked proficiency. I had little information and few options. To make a deal, I needed to at least understand what I could offer.
Seo Yu-ri rose from her seat. The motion was so natural that I found myself accepting that the conversation ended here.
"Do you have time during vacation?"
"I do."
My answer came at once. What I had been contemplating wasn't whether I had time, but which direction to take. I needed time to decide on a direction, and to decide on a direction, I needed real combat experience. Clearing my schedule had already been decided.
"Then we'll meet separately. Not at school." She added, "Come to my house."
I paused for a moment. The White Night Group. That house. A place where the gap between imagination and reality would be stark—a space I had never imagined entering of my own accord in my lifetime. Stepping into that space meant closing the distance. I had always chosen to keep my distance. Yet now, I couldn't avoid it.
"Are you scared?"
The way Seo Yu-ri asked was light, but not truly light. The answer would reveal my disposition. Saying I was scared would mark me as someone who chose safety. Saying I wasn't would mark me as someone willing to take risks. Either way, it would give her information.
I answered after a slight delay. "…No."
Seo Yu-ri nodded. "Good."
With that, the conversation ended. There were no explanations, no details of the promise. Where, when, with whom, what—we settled nothing. Yet strangely, it already felt decided. From the moment I sat in this lounge. No—from the moment I chose the corridor leading to the annex.
Seo Yu-ri turned as she spoke. "I'll contact you."
And then she was gone.
The door closed, and the room fell silent once more. The quiet felt thicker than before. I hadn't said everything I wanted to say, yet the conversation was already over. Even so, it felt as though everything necessary had been exchanged.
I remained seated there for a while. The final evaluation was over. The semester was over. But I hadn't finished. So I had made a choice. With that single meeting, my vacation no longer seemed likely to unfold as I had expected.
No—it was certain now. I was going to have an unexpected vacation.