Unmeasurable

The evaluation chamber fell dead silent.

Stationed before the console, the researcher refreshed his monitor three times in rapid succession, frowning at the static readout.

"...Is this thing busted?"

"We ran diagnostics yesterday," another technician answered ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from the rack.

"Then there's something seriously wrong with this guy."

Beyond the reinforced observation window, standing smack in the middle of the isolation pad, Seo Yuhan rested one casual palm against the measurement sphere and yawned.

In truth, the apparatus was in pristine condition. A measurement device worked by reading mana, and to read mana, the subject had to project it outward. Consequently, if one simply refused to emit even a single trace, there was nothing to gauge.

Driving the mana circulating through his vessels deep into the marrow of his bones, burying it beneath sheets of dense muscle, and compressing it until it clung flat against his very breath—it was an art that had taken him twelve grueling years to master. Originally, he had developed the trick merely to slip past the demonic vanguard's scout divinations, but...

Well, turns out it has its uses.

Yuhan let out a quiet smirk inward.

"Mr. Seo Yuhan."

As soon as he stepped through the decompression lock, the investigator from the previous day stepped up to greet him. The plastic badge pinned over her lapel read:

"Your assessment came back as F-Rank."

"Oh, really?"

"...For someone expressing surprise, your expression is remarkably serene."

"I've always been a little dull in the emotional department," he replied smoothly.

Oh Sejeong turned a page on her clipboard. "An F-Rank returnee is formally excluded from active surveillance rosters. You will not be issued permits for dungeon incursions, nor are you eligible to register as an active hunter."

"Oh."

"...What does 'oh' mean?"

"Nothing, just sounds great."

Sejeong tapped the corner of her documents with the brass tip of her ballpoint pen. "Mr. Seo Yuhan. You have returned after twelve entire years, which means you possess zero formal qualifications in this society. Gaining employment will be virtually impossible given that you have a twelve-year gap on your resume."

"Understood."

"...Are you not even slightly concerned?"

Yuhan tilted his head, giving her a mild, puzzled look. "Is there something to be worried about?"

"...Pardon?"

"I'm alive."

Oh Sejeong lost her words for a moment. The sentence had dropped from his lips in such an airy, nonchalant drawl, yet somehow it didn't feel like a joke in the slightest.

"Allow me to explain your Returnee Settlement Subsidy," she said after clearing her throat, thrusting a fresh form forward. "It amounts to eight hundred and twenty thousand won per month, paid out over ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the course of three years."

For the very first time, a sharp gleam flickered in Yuhan's eyes.

"Eight hundred and twenty thousand?"

"Yes."

"For free?"

"It is funded by taxpayer revenue."

"Whoa." Taking the paperwork into his hands, Yuhan marveled in genuine, unfiltered admiration. "Has our country always been this wonderful?"

"...There are stipulations attached. You must attend a mandatory monthly consultation at the bureau, file a formal change-of-address notification whenever you relocate, and seek advance approval before leaving national borders. Furthermore—" Sejeong pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, her gaze turning stern. "You are required to submit an independence plan within three years."

"An independence plan."

"Correct. Employment, starting a business, academic enrollment—anything acceptable under the guidelines."

Yuhan folded the document twice and slid it into his pocket. "Hmm. I'll mull it over."

"...You need to start considering it now, not three years from today."

"I've got three whole years, don't I?"

"Mr. Seo Yuhan."

"Manager Oh Sejeong," Yuhan chimed in with an impeccably shameless grin. "I literally just got back from spending twelve straight years in another world. Don't you think I've earned the right to bum around for three?"

Exasperated, Oh Sejeong pressed the thick sheaf of folders against her forehead with an exhausted sigh.

By the time he stepped out of the National Awakened Administration Bureau, it was two in the afternoon. Although March had arrived, the lingering winter wind still carried a bitter bite. Dressed in the plain black tracksuit issued to him by the resettlement unit, Yuhan wandered the bustling streets of Jongno.

There were so many neon signs.

So many pedestrians.

So much incessant sound.

Where he had spent the last twelve years, the days were dead quiet, and the nights felt as still as a tomb.

...It's noisy as hell.

Yet strangely enough, he didn't find the racket unpleasant at all.

He stopped by three different real estate agencies before settling on one.

"Three million won deposit, three hundred and fifty thousand a month. It's a semi-basement unit, mind you."

"I'll take it."

"...You haven't even looked at the room yet."

"Does it have a window?"

"Well... yes, technically."

"Then that's plenty."

The realtor eyed him sideways, clearly convinced this prospective tenant was missing a screw or two.

The semi-basement studio spanned barely twenty square meters. The stale musk of mold hung in the air, and because the solitary window was tucked tight against the ceiling, looking through it offered nothing more than a view of strangers' ankles passing along the asphalt above. With no luggage to unpack, Yuhan stood dead center in the barren room, then slowly laid himself down onto the cold yellow linoleum.

...There's a floor.

He closed his eyes. For twelve years, the places where he fell asleep had rarely ever been an actual floor. The saddle of a moving steed, the bed of a cart, a branch high up an ancient tree, a crumbling battle parapet, or a pile of fresh corpses. A night where he could lie flat on a proper surface and sleep had been an unthinkable luxury.

Yuhan draped an arm over his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eyes.

"...Man, this is nice."

He meant it from the bottom of his heart. And precisely because he meant it with every fiber of his being, a sudden tightness seized his throat.

That night, sleep eluded him completely. Whenever he shut his eyelids, he saw the raging flames. He heard the thunderous crash of collapsing fortress ramparts, the frantic cries of comrades screaming out his name, and the hollow, suffocating realization that by the time he had finally fought his way to the inner keep, there had been nobody left alive.

...Knock it off.

Yuhan forced his eyes back open. Streetlight filtered dimly through the high, grimy pane near the ceiling. This was Seoul. There were no demonic beasts here, no bastions under siege, and no fallen kingdom left to defend. Having nothing left to protect simply meant there was nothing left to lose. He found great comfort in that.

The following day, Yuhan set out on a quest to locate the ideal spot for an afternoon nap. The semi-basement room reeked too sharply of mildew, the pigeons in the neighborhood park were far too loud, and the public library made him feel too conscious of lingering glares. That was when his wandering brought him to his destination—the Tower.

Or more precisely, the subterranean annex beneath the monument facility. Swiping his returnee bureau pass across the automated turnstile, the security barrier clicked open with a chime. His F-Rank status legally prohibited him from stepping foot inside actual dungeons, but auxiliary training grounds were completely open to him.

Basement Level 1: packed with people. Basement Level 2: packed with people. Basement Level 3.

When the elevator doors parted, a dim hallway greeted him, two of its overhead fluorescent tubes blown out and dead. The smell of settled dust drifted through the air, accompanied by absolute, unbroken silence. At the far end of the corridor stood a rusted iron door, bearing a faded, weathered acrylic plate above its handle.

Yuhan leaned his shoulder against the iron slab and shoved it forward. The door let out a prolonged, squeaking groan as it swung open.

The interior was vast, roughly the size of two full basketball courts with a cavernous ceiling towering overhead. Cracks spiderwebbed across the poured concrete floor, and more than half of the full-length mirrors lining the far wall were fractured or shattered. In one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠corner stood a solitary vending machine, flanked by a weathered wooden bench. And directly behind that bench, jarringly out of place, was a small, soil-filled planter bed.

A solitary young tree, planted by someone long forgotten, still clung stubbornly to a spray of green leaves under the artificial wash of the remaining fluorescent lights. Yuhan eased himself down onto the bench. The ambient temperature was just right.

...Found it.

Stretching out across the slats, he crossed his legs and tossed an arm over his eyes. Sleep claimed him in less than ten seconds. It was the first time in twelve years he had sunk into a rest that was utterly, miraculously soundless.

Then came five in the morning.

Whoosh.

Yuhan's eyelids twitched open.

Whoosh. Whoosh.

It was the crisp, repetitive friction of wood cleaving through still air. Raising his head just enough to peek over his forearm, he looked toward the far end of the subterranean hall. There, submerged in the shadows beneath the single flickering lightbulb that remained operational, a young girl was swinging a practice sword.

She was petite, her arms slender and deceptively frail. Clamping both hands tightly around the grip of a worn wooden waster, she repeated the exact same stroke over and over without pausing.

Whoosh.

Whoosh.

Whoosh.

Yuhan lay there watching her in silence. He watched for three minutes, then for ten. Slowly, very slowly, the space between his brows began to pinch together.

...Her shoulders are completely dead.

Whoosh.

No snap in the wrists either.

Whoosh.

Pushing from that angle... no, you can't load your weight there.

Whoosh.

If she swings it a thousand times with that form...

Whoosh.

...she's going to blow her arm out.

Yuhan shut his eyes tight, willing himself to look away.

Bite your tongue.

Whoosh.

Just hold it in. You're an unemployed bum now. None of your business.

Whoosh.

Doesn't matter to me. Has nothing to do with—

Whoosh.

"Oi."

The syllable tumbled past his lips before he could stop it.

The girl's wooden blade froze instantly in mid-swing. Only then did Yuhan realize he had actually opened his mouth aloud.

...Ah, dammit.

It was already too late to swallow the words back down. Sighing as he levered his upper body off the wooden bench, he let the rest of the unsolicited critique spill freely into the quiet hall.

"Hey. Keep swinging it like that, and you're going to wreck your arm."