The Last Clock-Out
The morning commute. I gripped the wheel and pressed the accelerator out of long habit. Even the streets I'd grown sick of traveling felt strangely different now that I knew I was leaving them behind.
"Guess I won't even finish out my contract."
My contract as a dispatched guard still had a month left to run. I was walking away without seeing the term through. Finishing it would have been the courteous thing — a proper way to close the book — but I didn't particularly feel sorry about it, or regret it.
"Anything more would just be wasting time."
Putting more hours into a bank security post was meaningless now. I'd learned how precious time was. I'd already told the branch manager, separately, that I was quitting.
"…He even gave me a hard time for not quitting sooner."
A laugh slipped out of me unbidden. A steadfast supporter. There had even been moments throughout the main tournament when I'd found myself missing his backing.
More than that—
"So we really are the home of archery."
The articles I'd looked up last night came back to me. When the talent Archery updated, I'd received all the foundational knowledge, but the system hadn't told me a thing about actual competition results. So I'd gone looking myself.
Recurve — the mother discipline of the sport. The basic bow-and-arrow event everyone knows. The Olympics. The World Championships. The Asian Games. Korea had monopolized the medals at all three of the most prestigious competitions. Team events, mixed team, and the women's division were especially overwhelming.
The men's individual at the Asian Games, though, hadn't produced a gold in over a decade. And of the seven Olympics held since the 2000s, Korea had taken men's individual gold three times. World-class, without question. But absolute dominance was never guaranteed forever.
"There's no such thing as an absolute in competition. The rest of the world's gotten stronger."
The global current of archery was shifting. The system Korea had built — training methods, physical conditioning, mental management and reinforcement — overseas athletes were now learning it and growing fast. Famous Korean archers had retired, become coaches, and gone abroad, spreading that know-how without reservation. In the end, a system that had been Korea's exclusive advantage had diffused across the world. And that had raised the level of the entire field.
Especially—
"…Our compound game is weak. In men's individual, across both the World Championships and the Asian Games, all we have is a single bronze. Not a single athlete in the world top twenty."
Compound. A precision bow developed for hunting. If a regular bow was about drawing with raw strength and shooting by feel, compound was a fusion of human and machine. Pulleys at the limb tips. A telescopic sight. You didn't loose a string — you pulled a trigger, like firing a gun. A completely different genre from the archery everyone knew.
"We're even losing to India. That's the reality."
The United States was the undisputed superpower. India, the Netherlands, and Denmark chased them. Korea had been adding medals recently and showing some competitiveness, but it was hard to say we'd seized the initiative on the world stage. Still the pursuer. Closer to a latecomer.
"The interesting part is, it's been adopted as an official Olympic event next time around…"
Korea had recently started investing in and developing the compound discipline in earnest. With such an excellent talent pool, given enough time, results would surely come. But it wasn't something that would change overnight. The entire foundational system was built around recurve — the training methods, the support structures, even the way people thought. A new event. A new method. Changing that would take time.
"…It's tempting, though."
A branch of archery as we knew it, but in practice an entirely different sport. Distance. Precision. The feeling of firing a high-performance sniper rifle. A perfect composite game that only came together when machine and human were both complete.
And a domain Korea had never even touched a gold medal in. A path no one had walked. The national team. The first gold.
My fingers tightened on the wheel.
"I'd better start building the body first."
The sense was talent — but if I built the body to match, it would only support that talent further. Archery was founded on full-body strength and balance, after all. And I had plenty of time. Today, I would be quitting the bank security job.
Besides, compound received mechanical assistance. Accurate form mattered more than raw strength. Fine sensation. A formidable mental game. An unshakable core. And backing all of that were the bodily sense, the sensitivity, the acuity and sharpness that had risen when I'd acquired the S-Rank talent, Archery.
My last day of work. And yet — it meant a new beginning.
"Aigoo! Well, look who it is — if it isn't our very own Ipshin, Master Kim!"
The branch manager, in earlier than usual, broke into a huge grin at the sight of me. Ipshin. Master Kim. He tossed out even those awkward, embarrassing titles as if they were nothing, and looked genuinely glad to see me.
"Good morning, sir."
"Do you have any idea how much I was sweating watching Game Two? And then you went and won it! Don't just stand there — come in and have a cup of tea. We've got a lot to talk about."
I smiled quietly and nodded. I turned as the manager walked off, his face still lit up.
"I'm going to step away for a bit. That's all right?"
"Huh? Y-yes. Of course, that's fine."
My successor answered awkwardly, shifting on his feet. A job he'd landed right out of college — his first. Like me, he was planning to work and study at the same time.
I was the same.
I remembered my own first day. The unfamiliar uniform. The strange environment. He'd looked tense, careful. He kept glancing at me, hesitating, his lips moving without a sound.
"Is there something you wanted to say?"
I asked it quietly.
"Well — later, would it be all right if I asked you for an autograph? And maybe a photo?"
And here I'd been wondering what it was. So that was what he'd been working up the nerve to ask. I smiled and nodded.
"Of course. I'll do it before I leave today."
"Thank you! Actually, I… I applied to this branch specifically. Because I wanted to become like you, Mr. Kim."
"Like me?"
I was a little surprised. I hadn't expected that answer. But the successor nodded, his face bright.
"You're the talk of the town these days. Winning a world Go championship as a bank security guard! I'm going to work here until I succeed too — soak up some of your luck."
I could only smile, awkwardly. Bank security guard. A job that had always been looked down on. And that was still true now. And yet someone standing in the same post, wearing the same uniform, was looking at me and dreaming. A strange feeling. I was silent for a moment, then spoke quietly.
"I'll be rooting for you."
His face lit up. I looked at him a moment longer, then added:
"But never put up with unfair orders, or people looking down on you."
His eyes went round. Unexpected, perhaps. But I went on, firmly.
"Enduring it doesn't fix anything. Say what you need to say, and hold the line on what you have to protect."
Because I hadn't. I'd wanted to tell him at least this much. He hesitated a beat, then nodded carefully.
"Yes, sir. I understand."
I smiled lightly. You couldn't explain it all in words. But just knowing it — and being ready to handle it — meant you got hurt a little less.
"Get to work."
I left him with that and turned toward the manager's office. I could feel it: a gaze behind me, watching carefully.
…Well. Not a bad feeling.
I knocked, and went in. The manager was pouring tea himself from a proper set.
"Come in. Sit down."
I sat across from him, smiling.
"This is really the last time I'll be sitting like this with you."
Regret dripped from his expression.
"You can always come watch from the outside."
He snorted a laugh at that.
"So we'll still see each other, then?"
"Of course. It's you, after all — not just anybody."
It was a pleasant little joke. We looked at each other and smiled.
"That's right — In-ha. Remember that Go gathering I mentioned? It's set for the weekend after next. Think you'll have time?"
"Absolutely. Even if I didn't, I'd make it. Whose request do you think this is?"
An invitation to a Go gathering of the high-income, privileged class. Being invited at all was the greatest gift the manager could give me. And it was a way of honoring the man who had stood behind me. There was no reason to decline.
"Thank you. And here — take this."
He opened a drawer and held out a luxury leather-wrapped case. Deep dark-brown leather. A logo stamped in gold foil. Beneath it, the words Ciel Bank engraved in a matte finish, sharp and clear. I opened the case quietly. A dark-colored premium card. Even at a glance, it looked expensive. The manager smiled at me, thoroughly pleased.
"Congratulations, In-ha. You're a Ciel Bank VIP now."
I looked down at the card for a long moment. I'd heard about it from Jeong Soo-yeon. A special VIP review had been underway. My deposit balance and annual financial assets hadn't met the criteria, but they'd been reviewing in light of special circumstances — and I'd passed.
Until recently, I'd been the one out in that lobby, pulling number tickets for customers.
"I knew you'd make it. You're the kind of person who'll shine brighter tomorrow than today."
He let out a hearty laugh.
"You've been getting quite a few extra commercial offers too, haven't you? TV appearances and the like."
"Yes."
"VIP management will be handled by the PB Center. Their returns are pretty solid. Don't put everything with them — but try trusting them with a portion."
The PB Center. Private banking, dedicated to VIP clients. I'd been wondering how to grow the money anyway, before I acquired an investing talent.
My balance is already over five hundred million won.
If the manager said so, trusting them with a portion couldn't hurt. Or I could move, and put my parents in a better house.
"Come to think of it, there's one thing I'm the only one who hasn't gotten from you."
He stood and went to fetch something. A hanji folding fan. He spread it wide, and the front was packed densely with the autographs of professional Go players — Yuzuha, Kim Min-ho, even the Chinese player I'd run into at the main-draw lottery.
"Yours isn't on here."
I looked the fan over.
"Doesn't look like there's any room left for my signature."
"No room? Of course there is."
He carefully turned the opened fan around. A clean face. Blank as unused paper.
"I left it empty so I could get yours."
He held out the fan and a permanent marker. Empty space. I wrote my three-character name in large, bold Chinese characters. The pen whispered across the paper. Whether it was the aftereffect of the Chinese-language talent, I couldn't say, but the characters looked convincing. No — they looked rather impressive. And beside them, I carefully added two more.
Ipshin.
I set the pen down, and the manager took the fan. He spread it wide, admired the handsome signature, and nodded, thoroughly satisfied.
"I'll treasure this as a family heirloom, In-ha. No — Master Kim."
He folded the fan with care and put it in his desk drawer. I said my goodbyes and left the manager's office.
The bank lobby. My eyes met Yeon-hui's as she prepared for the day's work at her window. A brief exchange of glances.
Sunbae, you have to buy me something delicious!
She was sorry to see my last day, and she'd cheered me on every bit as much as the manager had. I was grateful for that. I answered with a short smile and walked on.
I was crossing the lobby when my eyes locked with Assistant Section Chief Ha and Section Chief Park, standing off at a distance, drinking coffee and chatting.
Their gazes snapped to the leather case in my hand. The VIP card.
As if they wouldn't recognize it.
These were people who spent all day looking at customers' assets and status grades. I felt their eyes harden a little. No congratulations. No smiles. They just watched from a distance.
Until recently we'd occupied the same bank, the same space. And they'd been the ones looking down on me. Not anymore. The distance had changed. A gap that had been crossed. The me they knew was no longer standing in that place.
Now I was the one who had climbed. The one looking down was me.
I gave them a short nod of greeting. Confusion flickered across their faces. I quietly turned my head and walked toward the desk.
The handover. The last shift. It was the last clock-out of the longest chapter of my life.