Resolve
The quiet hospital room felt almost miraculous in its stillness. Kang Hayul lay in bed, her body so thoroughly broken that simply having survived felt like an act of impossible luck. Several ribs were cracked, one lung had temporarily lost function from the impact, and her shoulders, sides, back, waist, arms, and hands all bore the hidden marks of her fight with the Blood Crystal Martial Artist beneath layers of bandages and braces. The surgery was over and her life had been saved, but the real problem was only beginning.
The doctor had explained it in a dry, clinical tone. At this level of injury, simply surviving was already fortunate. More precisely, because Kang Hayul was not an ordinary First-Class Martial Artist but a hunter who stubbornly trained her body like iron through external martial arts alone, the damage had stopped where it did. Had she been a typical First-Class Martial Artist who cultivated Blood Qi to grow stronger, the same wounds would have forced her to consider retirement rather than recovery.
Hayul lay half-reclined against the pillows. Even the smallest shift sent a slow, burning pain spreading through her side, and drawing a deep breath felt like something scraping the inside of her chest with a needle. She had to learn, all over again, how not to move. For a hunter whose daily life consisted of running and chasing, learning stillness felt like an entirely new form of training. Walk instead of run. Stop instead of charge. Wait for someone else to approach instead of reaching out first. It was as exhausting as the physical pain itself.
The door opened carefully and Yu-jin stepped inside. Behind her came two people who had no right to visit at this hour—neither guardians nor family. Yoon Chaewon and Lee Sumin. The moment they crossed the threshold, both women stopped at the same time.
Hayul lowered her eyes the instant she saw their faces. She had been late to contact them. No—she had been unable to. Right after being brought to the hospital her consciousness had flickered in and out; for several days after surgery her sense of time had been hazy; and after that she simply hadn’t known what to say. Saying she was fine would be a lie. Saying she was in pain felt pointless. While she hesitated, time had passed, and now the two of them had come in person, following Yu-jin.
Sumin opened her mouth, but she couldn’t manage her usual light laugh. Her gaze traveled slowly over the braces around Hayul’s neck, the bandages and supports, the tubes and machines lined up beside the bed. Anger filled her eyes.
“I heard you were ‘just a little hurt.’ This isn’t ‘just a little.’ If you were planning to brush this off like it’s nothing, I’m actually going to get angry. This isn’t consideration—it’s just pushing us away.”
Chaewon didn’t pour her emotions out the way Sumin did, but her quiet expression was somehow more resolute. She took one more step forward, pulled the chair closer to the bed, and spoke softly, leaving Hayul no room to look away.
“…It’s natural to be in pain, so you’re allowed to say it hurts. You don’t have to pretend you’re fine. At least not in front of us. We know how you’ve lived until now, but please don’t keep using that same way of living with us.”
Hayul couldn’t answer right away. The room was warm, the light from the window gentle, yet she felt more suffocated than she ever had during an argument.
“I wasn’t pretending to be fine… Besides, telling you I’m hurting won’t make it better. I just…”
Sumin cut in immediately. “Yeah. Telling us won’t take the pain away. But we can still stay beside you. Enduring it together and suffering alone are completely different things.”
Chaewon continued. “You didn’t contact us, didn’t tell us your condition, and tried to let everything pass quietly until we came looking. You might have thought you were sparing us worry, but you actually took away our chance to accept what happened. At the very least, you should have given us the opportunity to hear how badly you were hurt and when we might see you again.”
Hayul closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. It wasn’t only shame that had silenced her.
“I didn’t contact you because I hadn’t sorted out what to say… I hid my condition because I didn’t want to worry you any more than necessary. And—I promised I would definitely come back. I wanted to show up looking whole.”
Sumin’s expression wavered. She had wanted to be angry, but that honest, foolish answer made anger impossible. Chaewon pressed her lips together and finally let out a sigh. She understood how seriously Hayul had taken that promise, and why she had tried to hide her broken state. But understanding and accepting were not the same.
Sumin stepped right up to the bedside. “If you only ever show us the perfect version of yourself, you’ll keep missing the moments that actually matter. We don’t like you because you’re flawless. If you come back alive—even if you’re hurt, in pain, or a complete mess—that’s enough. So next time, please don’t decide everything on your own.”
She leaned down and pressed a short, fierce kiss to Hayul’s lips. When Hayul’s eyes widened in surprise, Chaewon followed with a longer, quieter kiss. Warmth, breath, and feelings that had refused to settle into words became clear. Even after their lips parted, Hayul remained silent for a long time. The pain was unchanged, the room was the same, yet the reasons to keep moving forward had become far sharper than before. Reasons to return. Reasons to survive. The knowledge that people were waiting for her could be the heaviest shackle and the strongest driving force at the same time.
Yu-jin, still standing near the door, watched the scene in silence before turning her gaze aside. She was pretending not to see, but she also lacked the courage to keep watching. She tried to keep her expression neutral, yet the documents in her hands crumpled slightly.
Before long the door opened again. This time Se-a entered. Instead of the white coat she usually wore in the lab, she was dressed in neat outdoor clothes, but the small case in her hand made her purpose obvious. She took in the atmosphere at once—Chaewon and Sumin standing beside Hayul’s bed, Yu-jin a little apart, and the lingering heat of emotion in the air. She spoke calmly, as if deliberately ignoring it.
“I brought a recovery accelerator. My investigation team colleague said a little service like this should be fine, and Garam handed it over herself. The doctor’s approval is already secured, and the dosage has been adjusted for your current condition, so there’s no need to worry. At least the doctors here trust Garam Bio’s products more than I do when it comes to safety.”
At the mention of Garam’s name, Chaewon glanced toward Se-a and Yu-jin’s eyebrows moved almost imperceptibly. Hayul read the hidden meaning in Se-a’s tone. It wasn’t the voice of a simple messenger. Garam had deliberately created an excuse, and Se-a had accepted it while knowing exactly what it meant. If their past relationship had truly ended, Se-a wouldn’t have gone to meet Garam in the first place.
Se-a didn’t bring it up further. Instead she opened the case, took out a syringe, and explained.
“The principle isn’t very different from how a mutant regenerates. It forcibly accelerates the body’s recovery and increases the speed of tissue regeneration. It’s a stabilized medical product with no side effects by design, but it isn’t free. Recovery works by burning the energy stored inside the body, so after the injection you’ll feel an intense hunger. So when you suddenly wonder why you’re starving, just eat as much as you want.”
Hayul watched Se-a prepare the injection and asked, “Did President Lee Garam give it to you directly?”
Se-a’s hand paused for the briefest moment before moving naturally again. “Yes. She could have sent someone else, but she didn’t. I’m not so dull that I wouldn’t understand her intention. But right now your recovery comes first, so any other interpretation can wait.”
Hayul didn’t press further. Se-a administered the recovery accelerator slowly. For the first few minutes nothing seemed to change. Then, gradually, a hot sensation began to spread through her body. The areas around her wounds itched and pulled; torn muscles and damaged tissue seemed to reach for one another from the inside, bringing a strange pain and heat. It wasn’t as repulsive as a mutant’s regeneration, yet it wasn’t comfortable either. Hayul exhaled shallowly and furrowed her brow.
“It’s normal. The sensation of regeneration can feel unpleasant, but that’s an expected reaction. As I said earlier, you’ll get hungry soon.”
True to Se-a’s words, less than ten minutes later Hayul felt an almost unbelievable hunger. Her stomach felt hollow in a way hospital food could never satisfy—an primal emptiness, as though her entire body had suddenly begun demanding sustenance after days of fasting. Hayul, rarely flustered, looked around in confusion. Chaewon stood up.
“There’s a twenty-four-hour convenience store nearby. I’ll get some high-calorie lunch boxes, protein drinks, and a few things you can actually chew. Hospital meals won’t be enough.”
Sumin rose as well. “I’ll go with you. Judging by that look on your face, you really might eat anything that comes near you right now.”
The two left briefly and returned quickly, arms full of plastic bags. Convenience-store lunch boxes, rice balls, high-calorie protein bars, chocolate milk, boiled eggs—enough to feed overnight-studying college students. Hayul, however, couldn’t feed herself. Sitting up properly was still difficult, and holding her arms up for long brought pain. Sumin opened a lunch box and spoke playfully.
“If I’d known this would happen, I should have imagined this scene earlier. Now that it’s real, it feels a little awkward. Well then, Kang Hayul-ssi, are you ready to say ‘ah~’?”
Heat rose to Hayul’s ears and she looked away. “Do we really have to do it like this?”
Chaewon scooped up rice and side dishes with a spoon and held it out quietly. “There’s no need to be embarrassed. Sick people need help. I know you find this uncomfortable, but you’ll have to get used to it. If only one side keeps giving, the relationship will tilt.”
More than that—“We want to see it too. The sight of you opening your mouth and saying ‘ah~’.”
Faced with Chaewon’s rare teasing smile, Hayul finally resigned herself and opened her mouth. Sumin and Chaewon took turns feeding her lunch and drinks. After a few bites Hayul felt her condition improve slightly and muttered, embarrassment and relief mixed in her expression, “Thank you.”
Sumin shrugged theatrically. “You can say it more. And next time, if you’re hurt, say so first.”
“Martial artists don’t usually get minor illnesses, but if you ever need to recuperate at home, just call. I’ll come take care of you anytime.”
“Wearing a miniskirt nurse cosplay, of course!”
Yu-jin, watching from a little distance, leaned against the window with complicated feelings she couldn’t sort out. The warm atmosphere the three of them created. The very reason Hayul had to return as whole as possible. It was a good thing, something Hayul needed. Yet the moment she realized where she stood within that good scene, her chest ached. She had been the first to wipe the blood from Hayul’s face as a colleague; she had dragged the collapsing woman out of the underground. But the center of the hospital room had already shifted to the other two. She understood. That didn’t make it any less uncomfortable. The discomfort was too complex to be explained by simple jealousy, which only made it more irritating.
At that moment Hayul’s gaze suddenly turned toward Yu-jin. The eyes that had been focused on receiving food paused, as if only now noticing the remaining person.
“Are you all right, Yu-jin? You used a lot of Blood Qi. Repeated use of mutation suppressants builds tolerance, doesn’t it?”
Yu-jin felt an almost embarrassingly simple satisfaction at finally receiving attention. At the same time, a complaint rose—why ask only now? The two emotions were contradictory, yet both functioned at once. She answered without changing her expression much.
“Nothing grows a martial artist like a fight where you stake your life. After that day I had a small realization, and thanks to it I stepped up another level. In the end, it was worth carrying you out.”
Hayul’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh. Congratulations on your achievement.”
The words were short, but sincere. Yu-jin smiled faintly. She had already reached the realm of Peak Expert. At that level, physical reinforcement through Blood Qi became far more refined, and she could regenerate wounds that weren’t fatal. Most importantly, she could partially control the threshold of mutation instead of forcibly suppressing it. In the murim, reaching Peak was not merely about strength—it was the stage where one seized the other possibilities boiling inside the body and made them one’s own. It was a position Yu-jin had long desired, yet strangely, in front of the person she most wanted to boast to, the achievement felt diminished.
A little later, Yu-jin signaled Se-a with her eyes to step outside. Se-a understood and quietly left the room. Once the door closed, the small laughter and voices inside became muffled. The corridor was colder than the room, the air drier. Yu-jin leaned against the vending machine while Se-a stood a short distance away. Se-a spoke first.
“It doesn’t seem like it was only because of the life-or-death fight. That ‘small realization’ wasn’t just about martial arts, was it? Have you become aware of your own feelings?”
Yu-jin didn’t look at Se-a. She stared at the light spilling from the vending machine onto the floor and said, “Women who dig too deep aren’t popular.”
Se-a shrugged. “I don’t need that kind of popularity either. I wasn’t asking to look pretty to anyone in the first place.”
Yu-jin let out a dry laugh. Listening to that tone, she could almost understand why Garam was still entangled with Se-a. Though it didn’t seem to be only Garam’s one-sided lingering attachment.
Se-a glanced toward the window at the end of the corridor and continued. “You’re not dull enough to miss the atmosphere among the three people inside. And you can’t be completely unaffected by it. But if you drag this out too long in that state, it’ll only get more complicated.”
Yu-jin finally looked at Se-a. “Is that advice based on experience?”
Se-a’s lips twitched. “If it sounds that way, then yes. Unspoken feelings don’t disappear—they only change shape. Sometimes missing the timing itself decides the relationship. So if you’re going to act, it’s better to start before it’s too late. Of course, I’m not saying you should charge in blindly. At the very least, it’s good to move past the stage of pretending not to know your own feelings. Something like that.”
It was clearly advice for Yu-jin, yet it also sounded like Se-a was repeating it once more to herself and Garam. Even without directly mentioning the past, warnings rooted in experience carried weight. Yu-jin remained silent for a while. Inside the room, Sumin’s laughter rang out again, followed by Hayul’s voice and Chaewon’s quiet words. Se-a didn’t push further. She nodded lightly, as if she had said her part, and left first.
Alone in the corridor, Yu-jin stood in front of the hospital room door for a long time. Laughter continued to drift from inside. Hearing those sounds from the outside made her own situation feel all the more ridiculous. Feelings realized too late, a heart she had kept buried too long under the name of colleague, and herself lingering before a place already filled by others. Still, Yu-jin did not take her eyes off the doorknob as she thought quietly to herself. So what if it was ridiculous? If she was late, she could simply catch up now. Just as she had dragged Hayul out of the underground, she could stand beside her in a different way this time. That resolve had not yet been spoken to anyone, but at least to Yu-jin herself, it had finally become clear.