That evening.
Yoon Jihee was hunched over in the broadcasting van, diligently reviewing footage.
She’d been poring over the videos for three hours, eyes burning.
She had gathered CCTV footage from around the 3rd Hunter Academy and near Kim Seojoon’s house, trying to map out exactly where Kim Seojoon had gone on the day the 57th Rift Raid began.
But nothing seemed amiss.
In the footage, Kim Seojoon took the subway home immediately after classes and definitely returned to his house.
“Damn it! There’s no way… How can this be?!”
Yoon Jihee pounded her fist on the video equipment in frustration.
“Reporter Yoon. Why don’t you give it a rest and come back?”
The cameraman, dragged out against his will by Yoon Jihee, spoke up beside her, sounding exasperated.
“No. I’m staking out here till the end tonight. I’ll find proof no matter what. The drone’s ready, right?”
“It’s ready, but… this thing is expensive. It’s got ultra-high-definition video and long-distance eavesdropping. If you break it, I’m done for.”
“Don’t worry, just send up the drone.”
At Yoon Jihee’s command, the cameraman opened the car door and launched the drone.
They were inside the apartment complex where Kim Seojoon’s home was located.
The drone shot up to the 18th floor in an instant and began filming what looked like an ordinary family.
A living room, neither big nor small.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Beyond the living room, a middle-aged woman was washing dishes in the kitchen—nothing special.
As she washed, she hummed a tune, and her youthful appearance was remarkable, completely belying her age.
Her skin was flawless, her complexion vibrant.
Watching her through the drone’s screen, Yoon Jihee felt an inexplicable irritation.
‘Hmph! Bet she spends all her husband’s money on skin care.’
Everything looked unpleasant in her eyes—the peaceful-looking middle-aged woman, the warm and cozy atmosphere of the house.
“Send it up to the roof.”
Yoon Jihee moved the drone toward the apartment’s rooftop.
She already knew everything about Kim Seojoon, and at this hour, she knew he’d be on the rooftop training.
She thought that, by observing his training, maybe she’d uncover some secret, so she aimed to record it with the drone.
With its high-end features, there was no need to get close.
It could film nearly silently from thirty meters away—no chance of being discovered.
When the drone rose above the rooftop, someone appeared on the screen.
Kim Seojoon.
He was skipping rope, drenched in sweat.
He stopped skipping, wiped off his sweat, and left the rooftop.
Of all times, his training ended just as they began recording, and Yoon Jihee’s temper flared up again.
“Tch! Nothing goes my way!”
The cameraman shook his head at her outburst.
“There’s nothing here, so maybe—”
Just then—
“Ah!”
Yoon Jihee screamed, staring at the screen.
Suddenly, the drone feed went dead, and a moment later, the expensive drone plummeted to the ground and shattered.
*****
About an hour earlier.
After his Friday afternoon class, Kim Seojoon made another promise to meet Joo Gwangsik tomorrow, then went straight home.
He had dinner and watched the news with Madam Baek Yeonji.
Ironically, the main news was an interview with Kim Joohyuk and Kim Seojoon.
Two days ago, the interview recorded at home was now being broadcast nationwide, and SBC Broadcasting and Reporter Yoon Jihee were receiving scathing criticism from the public.
The public accused Yoon Jihee of being a parasite leeching off taxpayer money, and there was even a petition demanding SBC’s public broadcaster status be revoked for harboring such parasites.
Was it because of that atmosphere?
Other stations began to feature the victims as protagonists, just as Kim Seojoon had suggested at the end of his interview, appealing for help from the public.
The victims’ stories were heart-wrenching.
A young man in his twenties, who had just landed a job at a big company and was saving every penny in a tiny one-room apartment so he could bring his parents up from the countryside—now dead.
A deliveryman, the breadwinner for his family, working day and night for their happiness—found shattered, body and motorcycle alike.
Watching these news stories, Kim Seojoon felt deep pity, then quietly stood and went up to the rooftop.
The sun had already set, and the sky was painted with the deep hues of dusk.
As he climbed the rooftop, he replayed in his mind the conversation he’d had with his father earlier that day.
‘The Rift Management Bureau contacted me. They said a bounty of 35 million won will be paid out for defeating the monsters.’
‘That seems awfully little for what you and I risked our lives for, doesn’t it?’
‘An E-rank monster corpse isn’t worth much, so it’s expected. The only reason it’s that high is because you defeated the Elite Monster—so there’s an extra 15 million added.’
‘Then the other hunters got, at most, about 10 million?’
‘Even that is a godsend for the lower-ranked hunters.’
‘What about the ones who died? Do they get any compensation?’
Although Seojoon still held the memories from his childhood, this was the first time he’d fought in a battle caused by a Rift, so he didn’t know the details.
‘Fifty million won per person. That’s the compensation the government gives the dead hunters.’
In a time when life insurance payouts ran in the hundreds of millions, a mere fifty million for hunters who died saving civilians was appalling.
Low-ranked hunters in Korea were treated shamefully.
You had to be at least C-rank to be treated like a proper hunter.
Below D-rank, you were a disposable tool, but above C-rank, the government managed you thoroughly and you received all kinds of benefits.
In any case, Kim Seojoon couldn’t help but be deeply dissatisfied with these unfair hunter laws.
It wasn’t because he was an FA-grade.
His true level was actually B-rank; if he took the regular mana assessment, his rank would automatically upgrade.
Of course, he had no intention of drawing public attention by being measured as a B-rank, so he planned to suppress his mana down to D-rank during the test, no matter what.
‘Phew… Maybe I should get chummy with a well-known assemblyman?’
Unless he joined hands with an assemblyman and reformed the hunter laws from the ground up, there was no hope for fair treatment of lower-ranked hunters.
As he mused, the sunset blazed beautifully across the sky.
In his previous world, sunsets reminded him of his dying parents’ blood—he couldn’t bear to look at them. But now, it was different.
Kim Seojoon’s heart had become stable enough to appreciate the pure beauty of a sunset.
‘I need to awaken Celestial Bow Arts and Lightning Step as Mysteries soon…’
To do that, he had to leap into danger.
It had to be unintentional.
For someone other than himself.
A martial art used to protect another’s life.
Fulfilling all these keywords was never easy.
But right now, there was a more pressing issue.
‘To lower my mana during the assessment, I’ll probably need to learn that technique.’
The martial art Kim Seojoon aimed to learn was Dual Intent Mind Art.
By mastering this, one could split their mind in two.
It allowed you to circulate internal energy while thinking of something else, and move the left and right hands independently.
In other words, he could spar against himself, acting as two people, with each hand performing a different martial art.
Most importantly, this technique allowed one to transfer a portion of their power to another.
The transferred power would recover over time, and the recipient, although temporarily, would become stronger by the amount received.
Kim Seojoon intended to master Dual Intent Mind Art to disperse his power during the mana assessment.
‘That should let me lower my mana to D-rank.’
With that conviction, he began training in Dual Intent Mind Art.
Kim Seojoon sat cross-legged on a mat spread out on the rooftop.
He recalled the reclusive master from his previous world who had taught him this art, and immediately began circulating his inner energy according to the incantation.
The core of Dual Intent Mind Art was concentration.
No matter how great your internal energy, you could never master this art without extreme focus.
In that sense, Kim Seojoon was perfectly suited for this technique.
After practicing for quite a while and absorbing about forty percent of the art, he stopped training.
He wiped off the sweat pouring down like rain and stood up.
‘No need to overdo it.’
Another day or two of practice would lay the foundation to use Dual Intent Mind Art.
Just then—
Vrrrrrrr—
A faint mechanical noise reached him.
It was very quiet, but it couldn’t escape Kim Seojoon’s senses.
He approached the rooftop railing and scanned his surroundings.
‘A drone?’
Below, an unidentified drone was flying.
Judging by the location, it was near his home on the 18th floor. On the side of the drone, he could make out the letters ‘SBC.’
‘SBC again?’
The same station where the repugnant Reporter Yoon Jihee worked.
Clearly, unsatisfied with their previous encounter at the academy, she was now brazenly flying a drone to spy on his home.
‘Thanks for not being unpredictable.’
With a smirk, Kim Seojoon pulled out his jump rope and pretended to exercise as the drone began to ascend.
He was glad he always carried the jump rope just in case, so his martial arts training wouldn’t be discovered.
The drone appeared above the rooftop.
It was dim all around, almost silent, and thirty meters away—an ordinary person would never notice.
But Kim Seojoon tracked its movements perfectly.
After skipping rope for a while, he packed up his mat and left.
Disappearing as if heading downstairs, Kim Seojoon slipped inside the rooftop entrance, rummaged through his spatial pouch, and pulled out a small glass bead, pinching it between his right index and middle fingers.
He formed a finger-gun with that hand and supported it with his left.
Drawing on his Solar Divine Art and extending his senses, he pinpointed the drone’s location.
‘Now!’
Kim Seojoon unleashed internal energy into the bead, using the Celestial Bow’s intercept technique.
At that instant—
Pew—
A faint sound rang out as the glass bead shot out like a bullet into the darkness beyond the entrance.
Flying in a straight line, the bead abruptly changed direction at a twitch of his finger.
It made a sharp turn in midair and struck the drone dead-on just as it was about to leave.
Crunch.
The drone was hit dead center, shattered, and plummeted forty meters to the ground.
Kim Seojoon leaned over the railing, looking down at the scattered remains of the destroyed drone. He blew on his finger-gun.
‘Mess with me, and you’re the one who’ll lose out.’
With both hands thrust deep into his pockets, Kim Seojoon descended the rooftop with light steps.
*****
“AAAH!”
Yoon Jihee grabbed her hair and screamed.
The expensive drone had suddenly gone dead and crashed to the ground in pieces.
It was a high-end model worth over ten million won, complete with basic self-defense features—her rage was only growing.
Beside her, the cameraman, who had warned her to be careful with the drone, started huffing and puffing with a bright red face.
“Reporter Yoon! What are you going to do now? I barely managed to borrow this after begging, and now it’s totally wrecked! I told you, let’s forget about Kim Seojoon’s house and look for another story!”
As cameraman Oh Jungseop ranted, Yoon Jihee glared fiercely back.
“After the humiliation I suffered the other day, you want me to just sit back? With the whole world insulting me—and SBC—you can still say that? I’m not letting this go. Especially that Kim Seojoon brat—I’ll make sure he can’t survive in this field, no matter what!”
Clutching the broken drone, Yoon Jihee climbed into the news van, her eyes gleaming coldly.
“He should’ve just been a hunter after awakening—why bother being a reporter and causing this mess….”
“What did you say? You never helped me become a reporter, so who are you to lecture me? If you’ve got time to talk nonsense, start driving, Mr. Oh Jungseop. You just got the address for Hunter Go Taejun from the Information Management Division, right? Let’s go there, now.”
“Reporter Yoon—no, Ms. Yoon Jihee. Do you really have to go this far? If you just stay quiet for a while, people will forget. Your reputation will recover, too. Do you really have to drag Hunter Go Taejun into this?”
Yoon Jihee planned to find Go Taejun of the Hyeonmu Guild and join forces, then completely bury Kim Seojoon and his family.
Oh Jungseop was anxious about Yoon Jihee’s reckless behavior.
“Mr. Oh Jungseop, can’t you think at all? The unconscious student is Hunter Go Taejun’s son. I know for a fact that Go Taejun is insanely protective of his child. If we use this opportunity, we can send that damned Kim family straight to ruin.”
“Why do you keep talking about sending them to ruin? Did they do you some unforgivable wrong?”
“You saw what that brat did to me, and you still say that? I’m not letting this go. I’ll return every bit of what I got!”
Yoon Jihee was certainly not an ordinary woman.
Far too emotional, individualistic, and prejudiced to call herself a proper reporter.
Oh Jungseop could only sigh at his fate, stuck in a team with someone like her.
As Oh Jungseop moved to take the driver’s seat—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Someone pounded hard on the side door of the news van.
Feeling a chill, Yoon Jihee hesitated about opening the door.
Just then, the side door was yanked open, and five burly men in black appeared.
Standing at their center, a man in his mid-thirties flashed a badge. It displayed a photo of him in police uniform and an ID card.
“Detective Choi Kyungmun, Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency. Are you Hunter Yoon Jihee?”
A detective from the Central Police Agency.
These were special officers who captured villain hunters who had awakened Mysteries, not ordinary criminals.
Since awakened criminals possessed extraordinary abilities, only detectives with Mysteries could apprehend them.
These were the hunter-detectives of the Central Police Agency.
From the fact that the hunter-detectives addressed her as ‘Hunter,’ not reporter, Yoon Jihee sensed something was wrong.
“That’s me. What’s going on?”
“You are under arrest for illegal filming, murder threats, impersonating a public official, sexual harassment, and defamation. You have the right to remain silent, the right to an attorney, and anything you say may be used against you in court. Arrest her.”
At his signal, two detectives cuffed Yoon Jihee’s hands.
“W-what are you doing?! Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea what kind of family I come from, pulling a stunt like this?!”
As Yoon Jihee struggled, Detective Choi Kyungmun produced a special taser and a white document.
“Here is the arrest warrant. If you want to add obstruction of justice to your charges, go right ahead.”
“How can you pin such outrageous charges on me?! Aaaah! Let go! Get lost!”
As soon as Yoon Jihee was dragged out of the van, she started kicking at the detectives and swinging her hands wildly. She even tried to use her Mystery, turning her eyes golden. But Choi Kyungmun was merciless.
Thunk.
The taser fired, and two sharp darts lodged in Yoon Jihee’s body.
Bzzzzzzzzzt.
A massive high-voltage current, calibrated for a hunter, surged through her, and Yoon Jihee instantly lost consciousness.
Her eyes rolled back completely as she foamed at the mouth and convulsed.
“Collect all equipment. And, you there, driver?”
Oh Jungseop, still frozen in the driver’s seat, blinked in shock.
“…Yes? I-I didn’t do anything wrong… I just did what Yoon Jihee told me to!”
“That’s fine. If you testify about what this woman told you to do and what she said, you’ll likely get off with a fine.”
“I’ll tell you everything! I won’t leave out a single thing!”
“Take care of him.”
Choi Kyungmun had Oh Jungseop escorted to the Central Police Agency as well. He and another officer proceeded to film the scene and gather evidence.
At that moment, something inside the smashed drone glinted strangely.
Rummaging through it, he pulled out a small chip.
“A video chip. Comb through it and report everything you find inside.”
His partner answered promptly and carefully bagged the chip as evidence.