A Gift on the Eve

Woooooong—!

The generator Jaewoo had purchased from the VIP Auction hummed to life inside the World of Dream Souls. A thousand mid-grade magic stones had been a painful expense, but it had worked all the same.

“Whoa. It really does work.”

He connected the power supply to the pavilion his master had built him and brought in all manner of home appliances. Naturally, most of the actual labor had been handled by Chilmyo and Jeokmyo.

Chilmyo is surprisingly good at wiring.

That aside—

“What should I name the pavilion?”

It was nearly the size of a building. Surely it deserved a name of its own?

Jaewoo Pavilion? Jaewoo Palace? Jaewoo Hall?

Ugh. I'll think about it some more.

He set a recliner in the room on the pavilion's seventh floor, leaned back, and stretched out. Then he opened the awakener community.

“Whoof. They're really pulling no punches.”

Politicians had been the hottest topic on the community and the news lately.

And it wasn't just politicians. Senior civil servants were behaving strangely — that is to say, confession after confession, apology after apology, kept pouring out about everything they'd ever enjoyed through the abuse of power.

He immediately pulled up the news on YouTube.

“So once the social climate ripens, he moves in for the kill.”

The standing and trust the team leader had built over the years lent the Association its momentum, and by pledging to manage not only public officials but the awakeners themselves far more rigorously, he won over the public.

“Doesn't take much to change things after all.”

Just then, his phone rang.

Oh. Already?

She's basically a speedboat.

He fired back a reply at once.

Jaewoo had moved into Seoul Forest Galleria Foret.

He'd said goodbye to his cramped little studio and arrived at a spacious, comfortable, luxuriously finished apartment worth over 20 billion won. And not just any apartment — a full 110 pyeong.

“Might as well call it a mansion.”

And so, at a café in front of his new home, he met with Section Chief Jeon Sua.

“Hello there.”

“Yes. Mr. Jaewoo. It's been a while.”

Jeon Sua ordered a peppermint tea; Jaewoo ordered a chamomile.

“I take it you're not fond of coffee, Mr. Jaewoo.”

“I like it fine. I'm in training these days, that's all.”

“Ah... training.”

Jeon Sua spoke with her eyes. Just how strong are you planning to get? Jaewoo answered with his own. I'm still hungry.

Spreading out a map, Jeon Sua continued. “Songdo, Yeongjongdo, or Ganghwa — all close to your family. In any of these areas we can secure over 1,000 pyeong of land and fit in everything you've asked for.”

“What about Seoul?”

“Seoul... Pyeongchang-dong would be about the limit, I'm afraid.”

“Like where Mr. So-and-so's mansion used to be?”

“Precisely.”

Jaewoo gave it some thought.

I can get from Incheon to Seoul in one second these days. Living in Seoul or not doesn't really mean anything anymore. All that matters is square footage.

“Then let's go with Yeongjongdo. I'd like to watch the planes go by.”

“Understood. We'll purchase 1,000 pyeong near this area of Yeongjongdo, then I'll arrange another meeting with Ms. Jae-gyeong.”

“Yes, please do.”

Jeon Sua nodded, then added, “Well then. We'll be in touch again. Oh — and, Mr. Jaewoo? Good things keep coming our way thanks to you.”

“Good things... such as?”

“May I share a story with you?”

“Of course.”

What kind of story could it be, that she'd smile like that?

December 21st. A parent-teacher conference room at Changyeong High School in Incheon.

Today's meeting concerned school violence.

Creeeak—

The door opened, and student Jo Yeongjin entered with his father, Jo Sanghwa. Behind them came student Jang Wonjin, escorted by his homeroom teacher, Choi Narae.

“Please, have a seat.”

Jo Yeongjin and Jo Sanghwa took the sofa. Across from them sat Jang Wonjin — and his homeroom teacher, Choi Narae, sat down beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Jo Sanghwa wasn't so naive that he missed why: the boy's father was a member of the National Assembly.

So the laborer's kid doesn't even count as a student, is that it?

Both father and son wore dark expressions, and the reason was simple: the injustice of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it all.

Jo Yeongjin, a first-year high schooler, had been tormented by his classmate Jang Wonjin for an entire year. Slugged on the back of the head the moment he walked through the door each morning. Sent on errands to the school store every break. Slapped on the cheek the instant an “accident” happened, spat on, his bag defiled. The cruelty never stopped.

Crushed under the weight of it, Jo Yeongjin had finally attempted to take his own life — and when Jo Sanghwa realized too late and rushed his son to the hospital, the whole affair had come to light.

Jo Sanghwa had only ever wanted to raise his boy right. After his wife passed, the child had grown noticeably darker, and it broke his heart.

So he worked construction by day and delivered food by night to put his son through school. He'd wanted to give the boy everything he lacked, as much as he could.

And then, one day, his son had been standing at death's door.

“Teacher, when exactly are that kid's parents getting here?”

“Ah, my apologies, sir. The appointment is at one, and it's only twelve forty-five.”

“...Right.”

Jo Sanghwa's head was about to split open. The victims — his own family — were so wronged and so furious that they could barely function, clinging to the hope of an apology and the chance to overcome their trauma, while the perpetrators carried on with their daily lives like clockwork.

Son of a bitch.

Jang Wonjin snickered into his phone, apparently having the time of his life, while the woman who called herself his homeroom teacher looked right through it all and pretended not to see.

Jo Sanghwa turned his gaze to his son.

The boy trembled, shaking and shaking with fear, as if he'd fallen into a cold, dark corner of the deep sea.

A thousand fires are boiling in my chest.

Jo Sanghwa wanted nothing more than to strangle Jang Wonjin and Choi Narae right then and there. To tear to ribbons the people who had shoved his life and his son's down a sewer drain.

But.

Then who would take responsibility for his son's life?

His chest tightened; his anger curdled and set.

Just then—

Bang!

The door flew open, and Jang Wonjin's father, Assemblyman Jang Seongtae, strode in.

Given what a mess his son was, the man's neck would no doubt be just as stiff — or so Jo Sanghwa assumed.

He squeezed his eyes shut. A lawsuit? The law, the school — they were all on the other side. All he wanted from this miserable fight, lost from the very start, was an apology. Even a hollow, formal one.

Then—

Thud.

Jang Seongtae dropped to his knees—

CRACK!

—and smashed his head against the floor.

“I am sorry. I failed to raise my son properly.”

Even with blood streaming down his face, Jang Seongtae crawled forward on his knees toward Jo Sanghwa and Jo Yeongjin and bowed again and again, groveling until his hands might as well have been feet.

“I'm sorry. I am truly, truly sorry.”

In that moment—

All four people in the room froze in shock.

Jang Wonjin scrambled to his feet. “F-Father, what are you doing—!”

CRACK—!

Jang Seongtae hauled off with a full swing and rocked his son's cheek, a tooth spinning away into the air.

“You filthy little mongrel. You bully your classmates at school?”

And that wasn't the end of it. He kicked the stunned boy square in the gut, then drove his fist down into his chest.

“Your head should be on the floor groveling right now, and instead you're sticking that stiff neck up like a rooster? Fine. Today, you die or I die.”

As Jang Seongtae rolled up his sleeve for more, the homeroom teacher, Choi Narae, finally intervened. “Sir! That's enough! He'll kill him at this rate!”

“Let go of me! Damn it — a rotten kid like this is headed straight for the grave either way!”

“Wh-what are you saying—”

“The same goes for you! When a student goes astray, the teacher is supposed to catch him! And instead you cover for him?”

Jo Sanghwa couldn't make sense of what he was witnessing.

Am I seeing things?

It was nothing like what he'd expected. That day, Jo Sanghwa assumed it was all an act — a lavish theatrical performance staged in hopes of leniency for his son.

And yet, in the days that followed, Jang Seongtae came to see Jo Sanghwa and Jo Yeongjin no fewer than twenty-seven times over three days.

Jang Wonjin, it seemed, had suffered a genuine psychological shock — his face had gone slack and vacant.

Father and son knelt each and every time, apologizing with unmistakable sincerity, promising continued atonement and financial restitution.

Afterward—

Steady psychiatric counseling. A tearful apology from the boy who had tormented him. A change in how the students around him treated him. And Jo ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Sanghwa's own tireless devotion.

At the end of all those small miracles, Jo Yeongjin, too, overcame his trauma and reclaimed his everyday life.

Jo Sanghwa believed this was the second chance heaven had granted him. And he was not so blind as to miss the presence of the Awakener Association standing behind it.

Thank you. Truly.

He looked up at the sky and said it once more, aloud.

“Thank you. Truly.”

“That's the story Mr. Jo Sanghwa shared when he visited the Association.”

“I see.”

Jaewoo's eyes had grown hot without his noticing.

Sheesh. What's wrong with me. Am I getting old?

Jeon Sua gave a soft smile. “Well then. We'll be in touch again soon.”

“Yep.”

Jeon Sua left the café, and Jaewoo stayed in his seat, savoring the lingering warmth of the story.

That was when he noticed it — a great, towering Christmas tree.

“Christmas is almost here.”

He rose and went over to admire it. The branches were hung thick with sock-shaped note cards, each one inscribed with somebody's wish.

“So the season of fluttering hearts is here.”

Some of the notes drew a chuckle. Apparently, wherever people lived, they all lived the same way.

“I should give out a gift of my own before Christmas.”

Jaewoo immediately called Team Leader Cho.

— Yes, I'm here.

“Team Leader, about the tower climb.”

— Yes, I was just about to set a date. I assumed you'd want the holidays off, so...

“No, no. Actually, if it's all right with you, Team Leader — how about Christmas Eve?”

— Excuse me? I'm fine with any day before the year turns, but will you truly be all right with that, Mr. Jaewoo?

“Merry Christmas for everyone, right? In exchange, we start in the morning.”

— Ah. Haha. Understood. Then we'll prepare for Christmas Eve.

Click.

He hung up, then picked up one of the sock-shaped note cards.

Scritch. Scritch.