Second Child (2)

Lee Jun was caught off guard for a moment.

A failed promotion.

And not just any promotion — a D-rank to C-rank promotion, of all things.

"There shouldn't be anything blocking a D-rank from moving up to C unless they've got some serious disqualifying issue."

"Then I'd say she has one, wouldn't you?"

"Tch…."

Promotion failures at the D-rank were genuinely rare. Fewer than ten a year, if that.

Granted, the Association had only existed for a year itself, but so far, that had held true.

"Do you know how many D-ranks have been promoted to C so far in total?"

"Huh? Hold on, let me look it up."

"1,873. That was the count right up until I retired, so I'd guess it's a little over 1,900 by now."

"…How do you even remember that?"

"Compiling statistics like that and fighting the government with them was literally my job."

But none of that was the point right now.

"And do you know how many people were rejected while those 1,873 made it through?"

"Oh, I know that one. Nine, right?"

"That's right."

Those nine had each failed their promotions for their own reasons — everything from a simple lack of skill to outright personality problems. But they all shared one thing in common:

"That was all you, vetoing them into oblivion."

"It was."

Lee Jun had opposed them to his dying breath. Every single D-rank who'd failed a promotion had done so because Lee Jun stood in their way.

Looking back, he'd opposed them for good reason. The ones with rotten character most of all.

But one thing struck him as odd.

Choi Jeong-hyeon's detailed report was five pages long.

There was no way a simply failed D-rank promotion would generate this much paperwork.

"Don't tell me — it's not an outright fail. It's a hold?"

"Bingo. You really are a former vice-chairman."

"Not anymore."

"Well, the vice-chairman seat is still vacant, you know. There's talk inside the Association of just leaving it as an honorary position and never filling it again."

"Speaking in all sincerity — you should appoint a new vice-chairman."

Seriously, making that seat permanently retired?

Who could live under that kind of pressure?

"Anyway. So what's the actual reason for the hold?"

"Class-type incompatibility."

"Class-type incompatibility?"

What on earth was that supposed to mean?

"It's… a pretty unusual case, honestly."

"Incompatible class-type… don't tell me. Dual awakening?"

Dual awakening meant awakening a second class simultaneously with, or sometime after, the first.

Awaken both a martial class and a magic class, and you could swing a greatsword while casting ninth-circle spells. Awaken a support class alongside a martial one, and you'd birth a mad berserker who abandoned defense entirely and simply out-healed the damage.

For starters, dual awakening at all was basically winning the lottery.

If Choi Jeong-hyeon was a dual awakener…!

But the Technology Bureau Director crushed that hope without ceremony.

"Sadly, no."

"Right. It'd never be that convenient."

Dual awakeners cropped up maybe once in a hundred thousand people.

And even that ratio skewed toward the Initial Awakeners.

Not that "skewed" amounted to much — only seventeen out of the original thousand.

So hoping Choi Jeong-hyeon was a dual awakener was about on par with hoping to find a first-prize lottery ticket lying on the sidewalk.

"Then what is it? Not a dual awakener but class-incompatible? She's been active as a hunter for seven months already — what reason could there be for her class to come up incompatible only now?"

"…You could just read the report, you know."

"There's a person right here to explain it. No need to read."

And the moment he actually read it, it really would be illegal.

Not that anyone would report him… but it just felt dirty, you know?

Whether or not the thing sensed his thoughts, it let out a long sigh and continued.

"The thing is… her class doesn't look like a martial type. It looks like a support type."

"Support? You mean healer or buffer?"

"Yeah."

No matter how he turned it over, that made no sense.

People did occasionally shift from martial classes into special classes, but a case like this was an honest first.

Support classes came in exactly two flavors: those responsible ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for their allies' survival, and those responsible for their allies' offense.

The former were healers; the latter, buffers. Anyone primarily handling barriers or debuffs got filed under the special classes — so support-class hunters split neatly into those two and nothing else.

"What kind of job could look like a warrior right up until it turns out to be a support class?"

"Mm… honestly, we don't know that either. Not precisely."

"You don't know?"

"The Talent Stone threw out something none of us have ever seen before…."

The Talent Stone was a legendary-grade artifact that could reveal an awakener's advanced class path.

Classes sometimes changed as levels climbed, and the stone showed you that future in advance.

You had to read the patterns and hues that surfaced ambiguously on its surface, but with all the accumulated data on hand, most results could be sorted reliably enough.

Red meant martial arts, blue meant cold weapons, violet meant magic, green meant shamanism — something along those lines.

And if someone had no talent beyond their current class, the stone showed nothing at all when touched.

But now something entirely unclassifiable had appeared?

Tens of thousands of hunters had passed through that stone by now.

"…Is that even possible?"

"That's exactly why we issued a hold! We genuinely have no idea what we're looking at…."

At that, Lee Jun flipped straight to the detailed report.

Illegal?

So what. Report me, then.

She'd satisfied the promotion criteria without a hitch, and her test scores were average.

Accurately speaking, a touch above average, if anything.

So the problem really was the Talent Stone test.

"What in the world did it show…."

Flutter—

He skimmed past the test's detailed measurements and the assorted miscellaneous data.

At last, on the final page, Lee Jun studied the record of Choi Jeong-hyeon's Talent Stone test.

It said pale yellow, but….

Looking at the photograph… how should he put this.

"Holy power…?"

A pale golden glow that edged toward white — the kind that typically manifested in the priest class family. And layered on top of it, a shield pattern.

That combination left exactly one thing to think of.

The only problem was….

"…There's no such thing as a paladin."

"Exactly! No matter how I look at it, in any fantasy setting that combination screams holy knight, right? But there's no recorded case of it. None!"

Countless awakeners had existed in this world, and not one of them had ever been a holy knight.

Seen this way, the Association's decision made perfect sense.

He'd have issued a hold too.

"And if this really is the first-ever discovery of a holy knight–type class…."

"Probably worth even more than a dual awakening."

A class that could stand on the front line while simultaneously casting buffs or healing? That was a full-blown storm in the making.

Granted, a class like that would be devilishly difficult to raise properly….

"But if anyone could raise her, it'd be you."

"……."

"You were planning to recruit her into your management company, weren't you?"

He was. That had been the plan.

"Whether she gets recruited or not isn't up to me."

"What? If she says she's retiring ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠like the others, you'd just let her go? What a waste."

"I say this every time — the other person's will comes first."

Recruiting Choi Jeong-hyeon into his management was his top priority, yes.

But as he'd said, he had no intention of forcing her.

Persuasion… well, considering the sheer rarity of whatever class that Talent Stone had hinted at, he did intend to make the case once.

But exactly once, and no further.

Anything past that, he wouldn't do.

"Hmmm. If you insist, I suppose…."

The Technology Bureau Director sounded genuinely regretful.

Well, of course it did — this was potentially the discovery of a world-first class.

If Choi Jeong-hyeon chose to retire, Lee Jun would be disappointed too.

But you couldn't chain someone who wanted to quit to the hunter's life against her will.

The thing knew that as well as he did, which was why all it could do was smack its lips.

"Anyway, you've worked hard on this one too. Go get some rest."

"Oh, I definitely worked hard."

" ♪(^∇^*) "

"……."

Hm. A little self-congratulation out of nowhere there.

But he had no particular reason to argue — and no way to argue, really — so he just let it be.

At that, the robot spun in place, arms whirring as they retracted. Was it… doing that under its own control?

A moment later, the robot stopped spinning and settled at Lee Jun's eye level.

"Mm… hold out your hand."

"My hand?"

When Lee Jun extended one hand, the robot snapped its propellers shut with a whoosh and dropped straight down.

It landed precisely in his palm, propellers and arms all folded away, now a perfect sphere.

"This one… pushed itself way too hard this time. The battery's nearly dead."

"Can it recharge?"

"If you just leave it be, it'll drink mana right out of the air and charge itself. Still, restoring everything I burned this time is going to take a while."

"Well, at least it happens on its own."

"Small mercies. Until I'm fully charged, this is the only way we can talk, after all."

" ( ╯︿╰ ) "

A expression flickered to life across her shimmering display.

Seeing that, he had to admit the battery really was on its last legs.

Then, at last, she spoke in a small voice, as if creeping away to hide.

"You've worked hard too, so… you'll come by and visit sometime, won't you…?"

"…Yeah."

Something about the sight was a little too pitiful, and Lee Jun found himself nodding before he could think otherwise.

"And answer your phone when I call."

"……."

"It's because you never pick up that we have to talk like this…!"

"F-fine, fine, I get it."

Wait, didn't you just say your battery was dead?

When exactly is this call cutting off?

He'd blinked, and somehow he was already getting lectured.

"Hmph. As it happens, I was about to hang up."

"I didn't say anything like that."

"It's written all over your face!"

" ┗|｀O′|┛ "

With that emoticon as her final word, she shut the display screen off completely.

Then, one last thing:

"Stay healthy until we meet again. Please."

A clear voice, without a trace of mechanical distortion.

He moved to answer — but the robot's power cut out before he could.

"……."

He found himself absently stroking the sphere in his hand.

Hm. Anyone watching would think he'd lost his mind.

…That's enough of that.

Lee Jun slipped the sphere into his Pocket.

Creeeak—

He leaned back against the caregiver's chair.

In his view, Choi Jeong-hyeon still lay with her eyes closed.

"……."

Lee Jun watched her in silence.

Come to think of it… he'd never heard Choi Jeong-hyeon's name in any previous timeline.

If a person like her had existed, he should remember reviewing her promotion. That much, at least, he was sure of.

So had she retired before her review ever came up in the last timeline?

Or….

No. Stop.

Don't go digging up ugly thoughts.

{Was she dead?}

….

Yeah. Odds were, that was it.

For whatever reason, the butterfly wings of his regression seemed to have kept Choi Jeong-hyeon alive.

Thanks to that, she was breathing, and had even been able to file for her promotion review.

And so, whether ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠by chance or by fate, the threads had tangled themselves together to bring her here — lying unconscious before Lee Jun, just like this.

"Whew…."

When would she wake up?

What should he say when she did?

What should he explain first?

Or should he ask her first instead?

Why she'd been inside the Ant Nest. Whether she'd heard the results of her review. Whether she knew just how rare a talent she carried.

"Well… none of that matters unless she actually wakes up."

Lee Jun found his gaze drifting to the edge of the blanket he'd draped over her. It was hard not to ache, knowing what lay beneath it — that one of her arms was gone.

Covered up to her chest like this, she looked like anyone else. Like nothing was wrong at all.

"Will she… want to keep being a hunter?"

She carried a talent still far from bloomed, and he hoped — really hoped — she wouldn't give up here.

Then again… after what she'd been through, he'd understand if she quit.

"……."

Lee Jun glanced, without quite meaning to, at his own arm.

Right before his regression, mine was cut off too.

His right arm, same as hers.

Not that he'd had the luxury back then of wondering how to live without an arm — he'd been too busy dying.

"…Maybe I should ask Lady Freya to fit her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with a prosthetic."

Watching Choi Jeong-hyeon, still with her eyes closed, Lee Jun murmured the words under his breath.

The fact that he was talking to himself more and more lately probably meant he was worried. Clearly.

"Ugh… what's the point of worrying. When she wakes up, I'll just encourage her. That's all."

Right. These were things she'd have to overcome herself, in the end.

Once she'd shaken off what she could and opened her eyes… all that remained was to lend her some strength.

A hunter had to be strong on the inside as much as the body. That was something no one could train for you; it only grew from weathering hardship after hardship on your own.

"……."

Lee Jun settled wordlessly into the caregiver's chair and watched over Choi Jeong-hyeon.

Somehow, old memories came rising up.

He pushed them away and, with effort, tried to sleep.