Genius

Desk staff, driven out to die.

"I've been put on the second wave."

"You too?"

Even so, Headquarters was peaceful. On the surface, at least.

"Orders are orders... They even drove out the Core Appraiser."

"I saw a doctor heading out earlier, too."

"With the first wave? This place has lost its mind."

There was nothing to be done about it anyway. All anyone could do was hope the enormous storm that had swallowed Headquarters would blow itself out soon.

"Enough of the depressing talk. Let's talk about something else."

"Sure, whatever... Talking about it won't change a thing."

The only thing left to them was to live as if nothing had happened at all—as if the same ordinary days were still repeating themselves.

"Hey. Look at that guy over there."

"Hm?"

"The one pacing around in front of the survival training ground."

"The short one?"

"Shh! Keep your voice down, you idiot. He may not look like much, but he's a Hunter."

Modern-day knights. Out in the wider world, Hunters were objects of admiration—though that admiration never quite meant the same thing to everyone. Some people longed for a Hunter's overwhelming power. Others longed for the life of being treated as one.

"Hmph. What's so great about a Hunter?"

"You idiot—your mouth! Watch your mouth!"

Inside Headquarters, a Hunter's standing was a little different. Not many people looked up to them. Say what you liked, a Hunter's life was a precarious one; dangerous missions were simply the job.

Some found it strange that people inside Headquarters and people outside looked at Hunters so differently. Wasn't the outside world the place where survival itself was the whole point of living? So why did the people out there admire Hunters—the ones doing the dangerous work—even more?

The reason was simple. They had never lived anything that could be called a safe life. They only hungered for safety, with no idea what came after the dream came true. To people on the outside, who kept death at their side every day, a Hunter's life didn't look especially dangerous at all.

"So what kind of Hunter is that little runt supposed to be?"

"You haven't heard the rumor about the Hunter trainee?"

"What rumor?"

"This bastard... Doesn't he have anyone else to bother?"

"Oh, give me a break. If it were some incredible rumor, I'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠already know."

"Everyone knows except you."

"I'm asking what the hell that kid is!"

Even inside Headquarters, though, there were Hunters who drew the same admiration they did out in the world. Hunters among Hunters. Knights among knights. They all had one thing in common.

"What else? He's a genius."

The rumored Hunter trainee was one of them.

"A genius? He does look awfully young, even for a trainee."

"Fifteen, they say."

"Got in pretty early, then."

"He's a genius."

"Hmph. Plenty of them shine when they're young and burn out just as fast."

Another Hunter appeared from somewhere and cleared his throat, pointedly loud.

"Ah—sorry! We weren't trying to badmouth the Hunter trainee—"

"We? That was all you! Just you!"

"You cheap bastard. And you call yourself a friend."

"I'm not your friend."

"You little—"

Another pointed cough cut him off.

"S-sorry!"

"We'll just get out of here!"

Once every onlooker had been driven off, the veteran Hunter approached the short one.

"I told you not to loiter around here. You stand out too much."

"Ah, I'm waiting for someone."

"The survival instructor, I assume."

"Ahaha... So everyone knows."

"I'm telling you, you stand out too much."

Word had already spread that a genius had turned up in the latest class of Hunter trainees, and a face that caught the eye made him easy to pick out.

"What can I do? I was born this way. I'm still growing, though, so in a few years I'll be a reasonable height and I won't stand out anymore. Right?"

"It isn't the height. It's your face..."

"Yes?"

"Never mind."

"You think of me as a little kid too, don't you, senior?"

"N-no."

"Did you just stammer?"

"You're imagining it."

"Oh, right. What happened with the Postman?"

The kid Hunter had left the Postman—who had volunteered for the first wave—in the veteran's hands and walked away. In truth he had wanted to watch the Postman all the way to the end, but his appointment with the survival instructor was drawing near, and he'd had no choice. For whatever reason, though, the instructor showed no sign of appearing, even after the appointed time had come and gone.

"What do you think happened? The Postman left, just as he wanted."

"He went out on the mission?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't shove him out the door when he was about to quit, did you?"

"Me? Why would I do that?"

"So even with all those restrictions on him, he set off in high spirits? Taking a demented old man and a skinny doctor along?"

"That's what I said."

The veteran held out a recorder—the one he'd been given, along with a request to record the Postman if he announced he was giving up.

"So there was nothing to record. The guy was brimming with confidence."

"That's a shame. I really wanted a recording of him failing. Once the Postman comes back, I'll have to aim for the next chance."

"The next chance?"

"I don't give up easily."

The kid Hunter narrowed his eyes and grinned. That wasn't what the veteran had meant.

"No—you seem to think the Postman is obviously going to succeed. He was confident when he left, sure, but somebody could still end up dead. I heard that if a companion dies, it counts as mission failure and you take a penalty."

"That could happen."

"The Postman himself might not even make it back alive."

"Yes. That could happen too."

"What kind of reaction is that?"

"What do you think, senior?"

"About what?"

"Do you think the Postman will fail?"

The veteran had been face to face with the Postman right up until the end. Calling back the sharp impression the man had left was not difficult.

"Well... He was number one in performance, at least."

"Performance from a contest where every competitor was just another Postman?"

Out came the kid's trademark expression, the one that always got under the veteran's skin—the look that might as well have had pathetic written across it. The veteran carefully schooled his face and looked away.

"Fair point. An A+ mission with two companions who can't even fight. Delivery run or not, that won't be easy. If I had to bet, I'd put my money on failure."

It was a lie.

"I see."

"Not you, then."

"I'd bet on the Postman succeeding."

"Why?"

"Just... a feeling? That's what it feels like."

The kid was lying too. He did sincerely believe the Postman would succeed, but a feeling wasn't the reason. The reason was all that talk of that Postman, which the survival instructor had hammered into his ears until he was sick of hearing it. He simply didn't want to bring the instructor up again.

The veteran, for his part, had lied for a different reason.

"I see. You and I don't quite see things the same way."

"I bet my eyes are the ones that are right."

"Believe whatever you want."

He didn't want to be taken for a man with a discerning eye. He wanted the kid to believe he had already seen through him, and to believe that a person like him was not worth being wary of. For an ordinary man, he thought, that was the only way not to be toyed with in the palm of a genius.

"Anyway, you and the Postman don't seem to know each other. Why the obsession?"

"Did it look like I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was obsessed?"

"Plenty."

A soft breath of laughter, and this time the kid smiled, bright and clear.

"There's only one person I'm obsessed with."

"The survival instructor? Your taste is peculiar, too."

"How so?"

"What about her is supposed to be so wonderful?"

"All of it. Shall I explain, one thing at a time?"

"...Forget it."

In truth, there was a reason the kid had come to be obsessed with her. It was the sort of thing that would wound his pride to say out loud, so he had no choice but to keep it hidden.

"You didn't have to come find me just to return the recorder."

"I spotted you on my way past. I'm done here, so I'm going to get ready for training."

"Training? Isn't there still a good while left?"

"Better to prepare ahead."

"You always get moving early. Impressive."

That very diligence was how an ordinary man like the veteran held the place he did. Hearing it from a genius's mouth, though, sat wrong with him. The kid wasn't even diligent himself. Coming from someone like that, impressive didn't land as praise. Most days he let it slide. This time it twisted in his gut.

"If you think it's so impressive, why don't you try it yourself? You're late to just about everything."

"Hehe... I'm just slow by nature."

In that moment, the veteran remembered a joke the Postman had made.

He had said it like that, and yet the Postman had been moving fast—the Postman, who had already known the contents of an official notice that had not even been delivered.

And hadn't he snatched Heo Seong-chan on the spot, right as the man was being sent out on an operation? Quick on his feet, no question. Being first in performance would have been impossible without diligence to begin with.

So the joke, in the end, had not been mocking the early bird at all. It might be cold, but that was how you caught the worm—and if so, the cold was trivial. That was what he had meant.

On that point, the Postman was different from the kid. To the veteran, who held diligence as a virtue, the difference loomed especially large.

"You just don't feel any need to be early, do you."

"Come on. I'm just lazy."

He confessed the flaw without his confidence dipping in the slightest. His whole body said, It's fine if I'm lazy.

"There's that old saying. The early bird. You wouldn't agree, would you."

"The one that catches the worm? That one?"

"Yeah. That one."

"No. Getting up early would definitely give you an edge in catching the worm. Hmm, but—"

The irritating expression was back.

"Wouldn't it be cold? Flying around from the crack of dawn. I absolutely hate the cold. Hehe."

A snort. This time the sound came from the veteran.

"You're alike. But you're different where it counts. I think I know which of you would win."

"Yes?"

"No time to linger. I'm off. I happen to do well in the cold."

"Ah, yes. See you at training!"

A short while later, the woman he had waited for all this time appeared.

A hand closed hard around a wrist.

"Huh? Heo Seong— no, no. Master, you're awake?"

Elder Heo said nothing. Talking in his sleep, maybe. His eyes were certainly open. Had something gone wrong in his head?

"Master...?"

"You said it was a mild concussion. You didn't turn him into an idiot, did you?"

"Th-there's no way. I really did hit him lightly. Do you have any idea how many times I've done this?"

"Many times...? So the doctor's put a few people down."

"I have not! It's an advanced technique you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠need when the anesthetic runs short!"

"Ah. I know that one. Euthana... what was it called again?"

"Master! Say something!"

At last Elder Heo's lips began to move.

"You... You're..."

"Are you with us? Can you stand?"

"My Mi-hee..."

"Pardon?"

Here it was again. Elder Heo often talked about having a daughter—a daughter who existed only in the fantasy his dementia had made. For a moment it had seemed possible he really had hidden a daughter all this time, and the dementia had simply loosened his tongue. But Elder Heo truly had no daughter. On record, at least.

Dr. Myeong had said it straight to his face once.

And Elder Heo had admitted the truth.

Only that once, of course. A few days would pass, and he would start in about his daughter all over again.

"Mi-hee... Heo Mi-hee..."

"Is it too dark? It's me, Hwa-young! Your disciple, Master!"

"Heo Mi-hee..."

"Aah! Let go!"

Elder Heo yanked her wrist without a care. Of all times. Inside Headquarters she might have soothed him somehow, but there was no room for that now.

"Let go! I told you, I'm— huh?"

Myeong Hwa-young signaled Dr. Myeong ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with hands and gestures. She would get the gist.

"Huh? What do you want me to do? Hey, let go already!"

She didn't get it. Hwa-young even shaped the words large with her mouth.

"A-act...?"

Yes. That. If they wanted to keep the mission calm, it was the best they had.

"Ha..."

"That's how you stay alive."

"Mi-hee..."

Had Dr. Myeong's eyes ever gone this dark? In any case, she was quick to judge what was best.

"...Yes, Father. It's me."

At that—

"Heo Mi-hee...!"

Elder Heo lurched to his feet.

"Ack! Wh-what are you doing!"

He cracked Dr. Myeong across the head.

"You wretched girl! Leaving your old man all alone—where have you been gallivanting off to every single day!"

"What? Ah—aaack!"

"You rotten brat! Caught you good today!"

"Ack! Woo Jungkook, you—! Aaack!"

Hehe. Misjudgment.