Role (2)

A low, insistent vibration hummed against the nightstand. Irritated at being dragged out of sleep, I answered the phone.

"Kang Yu-eul speaking."

"Hunter Kang Yu-eul. This is Park Geon-hui."

The faintly hoarse voice on the other end made me sit up straight.

"Yes, Mr. President."

Park Geon-hui. President of the Korean Hunter Association, and a retired A-class hunter. A man in his seventies — white hair, a face mapped in wrinkles, half-lidded eyes that made him look almost frail — until you noticed the powerfully built frame beneath. He was the one who had walked me through the results of my detailed examination on the day I received my rank, and who had given me no small amount of advice along with them.

"Hunter, could you come to the Association immediately?"

"Right now?"

A summons at this hour of the morning. I couldn't keep the question out of my voice.

"I take it you haven't heard yet. Please turn on the news."

I groped for the remote on the bed and switched on the television. A colossal rift filled the screen, torn open through the heart of the city. A small sound of shock escaped me.

"What in the world is that..."

"An S-class dungeon has appeared."

An S-class dungeon. A dungeon that poured out such immense mana ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that no meter on earth could measure it. Because the exact quantity of mana could not be read, the danger was incalculably higher, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠there was no predicting what might come out of it. A single entity of staggering power. Or a flood of monsters beyond counting. An unknown, high-risk dungeon in every sense of the word.

Once a dungeon formed, the hunters had seventy-two hours. After that, the monsters inside would pour out into the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠city and reduce it to ash — a Dungeon Break. The hunters had to enter within those seventy-two hours, take down the boss, and close the gate. Which meant we, too, had seventy-two hours to form a plan and prepare a raid.

In the upper-floor conference room of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Korean Hunter Association, the President and the Association executives had gathered, along with the members of the Taegeuk Guild — myself included — to discuss how the raid would be handled.

"Absolutely not."

A low, unyielding voice cut through the room. Yu Su-ho, representative of the Taegeuk Guild and the leader of my own party, spoke again.

"This is an S-class dungeon. Looking at the historical record, that means we need at least three S-class hunters."

In all of recorded history, an S-class dungeon had appeared only five times. Twice in the United States, once in Russia, once in China, once in France. Yu Su-ho seemed to be referring to the American raid from two years ago, when three S-class hunters had been enough to clear one.

"We should request aid from the United States. We'll lose a great deal — but we have no other choice."

The United States: the strongest hunter nation on earth, home to more S-class hunters than any other country, and to the strongest hunter in the world. The last time America had come to China's aid against an S-class dungeon, the price had been an artificial island built in the waters off the Chinese coast — Chinese territorial waters, claimed as their own. China had been forced to surrender enormous national interests in that negotiation. Yu Su-ho was saying we should accept the same kind of cost and ask for help anyway.

His argument was perfectly sound. Perfectly realistic. And yet—

"Shouldn't we at least attempt a raid ourselves first?"

I couldn't agree that waiting for outside help was the only path. I opened my mouth.

"Risking our lives to go into a dungeon and close the gate so that people don't get hurt — that's our job, isn't it? That's what people pay us so much money for. Sitting here without even trying, just waiting for someone else to save us — I don't think that's living up to the responsibility we've been given."

Before I came to this world, the protagonists of the novels I loved had never stopped at the edge of a battlefield, even knowing it might kill them. They had known the odds of surviving were vanishingly thin. They had gone anyway, because they understood that if they didn't, the sacrifices would only multiply. I had always believed that sense of responsibility was what it meant to be a hunter. That was the conviction I spoke from.

"Yu-eul. You only ever stay in the back, so you just don't get it. You ought to think about the people who actually go out there and fight."

Yu Su-ho looked at me as he answered, a note of grievance in his voice. It was the look you give a child who doesn't know how the world works. You only support from behind, so of course you can say things like that. You're not the one who suffers the way we do.

I had suffered too.

If the front line broke, I was just as dead as anyone else. That was why I had poured everything I had into supporting them. Every time, I had been left gasping, strength draining from my whole body — and every time, I had clenched my teeth and kept supporting my teammates. I had struggled right alongside them. But nobody in that room seemed to think so.

Before I knew it, they were all looking at me with the same eyes as Yu Su-ho. Under that gaze, that atmosphere, I felt something pressing down on me. It became hard to sit up straight. My mouth opened, but no voice came out — as if the room itself were rejecting me, pushing me out.

Forced into that silence, I heard Yu Su-ho start again.

"If you were at least a close-combat—"

He caught himself and shut his mouth, but I could finish the sentence for him.

The role I had wanted for myself. A hunter who stood at the front and annihilated monsters with overwhelming force. A hunter who commanded everyone's respect. A leader who commanded a party.

But to them, I was something else. Convenient to have, but fine to do without. A tool that always had to conform itself to everyone else. That was the role they wanted from me.

I wanted to deny it. But I could feel their will against my skin. Crushed beneath it, I had no choice but to stay silent until the meeting was over.

I came home from the meeting hollowed out and threw myself onto the bed, closing my eyes. The mattress was soft and cool — that comfortable feeling I loved — and the hollowness in my chest seemed to ease, little by little. When I opened my eyes again, I reached for my phone out of habit.

Hoping, the way I always did, for comments that were kind to me, I opened the news.

...

The first thing I saw was a headline I could not possibly call good news.

They must be so disappointed.

I told myself I would have to accept whatever ugly things people said. And yet, with a strange flicker of hope, I tapped the article that had just gone up.

Comments thick with suspicion and scorn for my abilities. The same public that had once been so kind to me had started throwing stones. A hunter who couldn't kill a monster herself. A hunter who had lucked into an ability and loafed around in the back. A hunter who wasn't combat-type, and so was no help at all.

The public's perception of me had become indistinguishable from my own party's. I closed the phone and buried my face in the pillow.

Am I useless?

I could not sleep easily that night.

The next morning at seven, the Association President and I boarded a plane for the United States. America had heard Korea's request for hunter aid and wanted both of us there to negotiate. Thanks to the private jet, we arrived early, and we hurried — the sooner the dungeon was closed, the better.

We were taken straight to the top floor of the US Hunter Bureau. When we opened the door to the Director's office, two men rose from their seats to greet us.

"Welcome. We've been expecting you. I'm Director Raymond."

"Park Geon-hui, President of the Korean Hunter Association."

"Kang Yu-eul."

Greetings were exchanged. Strangely enough, in this world Korean was the global common language, so there was no trouble making ourselves understood.

"Pleasure. Kyle Andre."

The enormous man standing behind the Director. I had noticed him the moment we entered the room, but I hadn't gotten a proper look while exchanging greetings with Raymond. Even with this body of mine — already over a hundred and seventy centimeters — I had to look a long way up. A giant of a man packed with muscle, bronze skin set against short white hair, black eyes looking down at me as he held out one hand.

"Korean hunter. Kang Yu-eul."

I took his enormous hand and offered the greeting again. He looked at me, grinned, and shook.

It was a wicked smile, I thought — the kind that was genuinely hard to meet. Following the Director's lead, I sat down.

Once the introductions were finished and we had taken our seats, Raymond's expression hardened.

"We understand Korea's request. And we believe we will be able to provide American hunters in support... However, there is something we want from Korea in return."

"Please, go on."

Park Geon-hui answered with a grave expression, as if he had known this was coming. I waited for their terms as well, guilt sitting heavy in my chest — the knowledge that my own inadequacy had brought us here.

"...What?"