Should I Go to Kim Myeong-jun Even Now?
“Hey! The aggro broke! Can't you even hold it?!”
“Second party's DPS line! Stall! Support tanks, stick to the main tank! Focus fire!”
An eleven-man small-scale strike team.
Normal hunts usually grouped five or six into a party, but in the Makyung, a minimum of ten in a small-scale strike team had become the baseline.
The Makyung itself was a hotbed of variables, and the monsters inhabiting it were on average higher-ranked than the same species in other hunting grounds.
Occasionally, regular-sized parties did venture out, but those were either highly skilled teams intimately familiar with the Makyung or hunters from the north.
The former trusted their skills; the latter had few northern hunters available to form a full party anyway.
Those ignorant of Makyung realities might suggest mixing in hunters from elsewhere, but in practice, such mixed parties were rare.
The reason? Mutual distrust.
Most hunters drew a sharp line between south and north.
Northern hunters dismissed southerners as cowardly shirkers; southerners branded northerners as backstabbing traitors who could turn at any moment.
Occasionally, northerners were hired as guides, but those parties were usually greenhorns exploring the Makyung for the first time. Even then, skimping on the guide's cut often sparked trouble.
That fueled even worse rumors on both sides, gradually eroding any exchange.
And the fallout hit rookies challenging the Makyung hardest.
“Oof, my back! Barely got it. Hey! Who pulled?”
“Who else? Our almighty main tank did.”
“Hey, you blaming me now? The guide should've done better. Who guides a pack that clings like glue? No basic scouting. Tsk! If I hadn't held properly, we'd have wiped just now.”
“That's why we should use northern kids as guides. What were we rookies thinking, coming here?”
“How can we trust northerners? Get backstabbed in the Makyung, and you're done before you react. Better to map it ourselves.”
“When we get out, let's buy a map from a Makyung team. We'll die lost at this rate.”
“Makyung maps only cover well-trodden paths. Big scores are kept in-house. And they're pricey? Better to scout ourselves the hard way. Get lucky, strike it rich.”
“Shh!”
The ranger handling long-range scouting suddenly pressed a finger to his lips.
The party fell silent. The ranger pressed one ear and both hands to the ground.
After focusing on the vibrations and sounds through his palms, his face paled.
“Fuck! Over a hundred, whatever they are! Run!”
“Which way?!”
“Northwest! Shit, they're fast!”
The other hunters belatedly felt the ground shaking. Distant explosive booms echoed.
Without a word, they spun and bolted the opposite way.
“Loot...”
“Ditch it!”
They abandoned even the monster byproducts from the successful hunt. All expedition gear for Makyung exploration was tossed. In hunting, survival trumped all.
Boom! Roooar!
“They're on us—!”
Towering Makyung trees snapped as massive horns burst through. One impaled the ranger's waist. It punched through his gut, shredding his torso in half.
The ranger flew skyward in two pieces before crashing down. Dozens of iron-hoofed legs trampled him into unrecognizable pulp.
“Three-Horned Buffalos!”
“Up the trees!”
Bull-like monsters stretching four meters long.
Their tough hides and bulging muscles delivered lethal blows to any hunter below a certain rank on raw collision alone.
Where the Three-Horned Buffalos passed, not a blade of grass remained.
The hunters climbed trees to dodge the initial charge, but even mighty trunks crumbled before the trio of horns. Thick boughs toppled helplessly.
Those atop leaped to other trees, but ill luck struck—one landed branch snapped too.
Those who hit the ground were swept away by the stampede.
Three survivors clung to an unbroken branch, sighing in relief. Their dead comrades were tragic, but gratitude for their own lives came first.
“Weren't those deep in the Makyung? Why here...?”
“Think later. Get out first. Alert the Tumen River defense line, then bail.”
“Fuck! Lent that Two-Chil bastard money for loot...”
“You idiot! Who cares about loans now?”
“A shit ton!”
“How much?”
Amid the carnage, one hunter's curiosity about the debt went unanswered.
“Eek!”
A bizarre cry answered instead. The questioner turned—to a massive hand engulfing his face.
'Human-Faced Monkey!'
The monster, infamous for peeling human faces and wearing them as masks, ripped off his comrade's—not enough; it seized his too.
The hunter swung his axe at its arm. Green blood sprayed. The blade bit red muscle to yellow bone but didn't sever.
'Shit! Mana didn't infuse right.'
Panic's mistake sealed his fate.
Crunch!
His skull shattered.
The last party member roared, leaping with greatsword raised. Mana-charged blade split the monkey's head.
“Hah!”
Another from the adjacent tree pounced. He cleaved its waist too.
“How's it taste, you monkey bast—.”
Cold fingers gripped his nape before the curse finished.
Snap!
His head dangled like ripe fruit from a branch, blood dripping from his toes.
The once-noisy forest fell silent.
Kang Moo-hyuk checked his smartphone after leaving the chairman's room. It had buzzed before the meeting; notifications piled up throughout.
The sender was Tae Su-man.
“Doesn't budge even hearing Father's collapsed. But potential losses, and calls flood in. Impressive family.”
Tae Jin-seong's hospitalization was publicly blamed on overwork, not assassination threats.
His other children inquired with the hospital—not out of worry, but prepping legal reviews for the inheritance war upon his death.
Once Tae Jin-seong announced he was fine, they swarmed to visit, only to be turned away.
With the chairman in seclusion-not-seclusion, his kids held their breath, watching his moves.
Taeseong Machinery news amid this? No wonder Tae Su-man panicked.
Kang Moo-hyuk itched to ignore him but dialed, deeming him still useful.
—Finally calling. How kind.
“Just saw the chairman.”
—What?! The chairman? Why?!
“Nothing major. I was hospitalized here anyway. Wanted to catch up.”
—A collapsed man wants to see you? And you're conveniently admitted? Think I'm a fool? At least make it plausible.
“If you won't believe it, nothing I can say. Trust is prerequisite between us. Hanging up then.”
—Wait!
“Yes?”
—Really doing this?
“You don't believe me.”
—From your side... Hoo! Fine. I believe you. Happy?
“Glad we've rebuilt trust. You're pleased too, Planning Director?”
—Grit. Thrilled!
The grinding echoed through the receiver, but Kang Moo-hyuk pressed on.
“Whatever I discussed with the chairman, this much is true: Joo Se-ah will never sit as group chairman. Left with that clear.”
—Believe everything from your mouth?
“If not, no need for this call...”
—Fine. I'll believe. Try it. What else did he say? Taeseong Machinery?
“Nothing special. Oh, right—he knew about it.”
—Then my secret stake?
“He doesn't know that. Only Hanju Group's.”
—Phew, silver lining.
“Still, play quiet for now. Mood's tense.”
—What? Why?
“Figure it out yourself. Sparks could fly anywhere; even I'm watching my back.”
—Hey. You know something...
“Gotta go. Busy.”
Kang Moo-hyuk hung up mid-sentence.
Tae Su-man called back instantly—ignored. Persistent texts? Unread, unanswered.
Texts stopped once he gripped the wheel in the underground lot.
'That should bait him into digging himself. Bribe guards, whatever—he'll probe the chairman's security. Bait cast; wait for the fish.'
Kang Moo-hyuk wanted Tae Su-man and siblings to learn of the chairman's near-assassination naturally.
'And suspect each other.'
They'd spot who benefited from the chairman's absence.
Tae Su-man couldn't fight alone.
'Anti-Tae Su-cheol faction forms naturally. Buy time while they clash; I handle my business.'
Park Cheol-i leaned against the empty room's corner wall, staring blankly at the ceiling all day.
His butt ached on the hard floor now and then; shifting made his left sleeve flap in the air.
Neighborhood kids visited a few times, but he hid his face. Wanted to see no one.
Couldn't see those he longed for anymore.
Click! Clack!
The locked knob rattled, then crunch—door splintered open.
“Hey, kid. Locking doors for what? Not even eating the neighbor lady's food?”
“No... Uncle?”
“'No Uncle'? What's that? Just call me uncle—or bro? Nah. No Song-rin Uncle? Ugh, all weird. That's why foreign kids use names. Korea's too complicated.”
“Just 'Uncle' then.”
“Whatever suits you.”
Silence fell as Park Cheol-i clammed up. No Song-rin just stared. Feeling the gaze, the boy spoke first.
“But why here...?”
“That Gil-young kid said you've holed up since discharge? Arm hurting?”
“No. Treatment fixed it. And this isn't home. House burned...”
“Home's gotta be yours? Roof and walls make a home. Better than before. Took it from Chinese bastards, but hunters kept it clean. Score.”
“It's temporary.”
“Temporary, squatter—it's home now.”
“So?”
“So? Honor the deal.”
“Deal?”
No Song-rin pulled a paper from his coat. Scrawled “Contract” at top. Signatures: his and No Song-rin's below.
Tears streamed at the sight.
“Hey, don't cry... Hah. Fine, cry. Cry it out, kid.”
No Song-rin set the contract down. The boy crawled one-handed, clutched it, and sobbed.
“Daddyyy... Hic... Sob... Waaah...”
Only then did No Song-rin get it.
'Right, said Dad taught him contracts.'
Park Cheol-i was from a single-parent home. Mom died weakened after birth. Lost Dad to Chinese hunters. Lost an arm himself—brutal for a kid under ten, mentally and physically.
No Song-rin recalled the boy's story from other kids, overlaying his own youth.
His family fled the Great War south, died as vagrants; no kin left.
Always alone post-childhood. No hunter awakening in teens? Likely died a beggar.
'Better with a caretaker? Or me, with both arms?'
Tactless No Song-rin held back comfort. Instead, scooted close to the crawling boy. The kid gripped his armored coat, bawling. Snot and tears soaked the hem—No Song-rin stayed put.
Eventually, sobs quieted.
“S-sorry, Uncle. Coat's soaked.”
“Hey, expensive stuff. Guild master's gonna chew me.”
“A-a lot?”
“Waterproof though.”
“Phew...”
“All cried out?”
“Yeah... But I'll cry again. Keeps happening.”
“Prefer you cry when I'm gone. This uncle...”
“Hates kids crying?”
“Uh? Yeah.”
“Got it. Cry when you're gone.”
“Not nonstop without me. Parents died young too. Cried tons. But crying fixes nothing. Food doesn't fall from sky; cold doesn't warm. So, moderate tears.”
“Okay.”
Silence again.
Out of words, No Song-rin blinked.
“Oh, right. Contract.”
“Huh?”
No Song-rin dialed someone.
Soon—
Ding-dong!
No Song-rin opened the front door from the living room. Workers hauled boxes in.
“Where to?”
“Anywhere. Stack against that wall.”
Boxes piled as directed.
Soon filled the living room. Barely a path left, yet more came.
Master room, small room, balcony—then Park Cheol-i's room. No space? Overflow to hall.
“Wh-what is this?”
“Contract. Snacks. Fill the house.”
No Song-rin tore one open, dumping bagged treats. Next: crackers. Then: chocolate mounds.
Mountains of snacks Park Cheol-i had never seen.
“Did my part. Eat with friends. Gil-young and visitors worried.”
“Uncle...”
No Song-rin exited without turning.
“See ya.”
Park Cheol-i chased.
“Uncle!”
No Song-rin itched at his nape.
Without facing the boy, he leaped out the window. Fifth floor? Trivial for him.
Park Cheol-i hung from the hall window, yelling down.
“See you!!”
No Song-rin awkwardly waved, fleeing.
'Did something unfitting. Heh.'
That evening.
“This is the mission No Song-rin suits best.”
No Song-rin gaped at Kang Moo-hyuk's words.
Why dump this crap on me?!
'Damn. Should I go to Kim Myeong-jun now?'