Unlike the unsettling signs crawling through the world at large, in one small village, it was a sunny, peaceful afternoon.
Cha Eun-Hyeok, enjoying a rare day off, was slowly cleaning his house. The old building needed regular upkeep to avoid major issues. After tidying up the yard, he leaned against the wall and exhaled.
"Haa..."
Autumn had fully arrived in the countryside, and the village was now awash in color. The falling leaves painted everything in seasonal hues—but to be honest, he didn't feel much affection for them. Cha Eun-Hyeok stared with distaste at the mound of leaves piling up again.
'Maybe I'll roast some sweet potatoes when Cha Ara comes back, since I gathered this much anyway.'
Still, this kind of peaceful holiday was a first for him.
'Anyway, now that I've got some cushion in my account, even holidays don't feel like a waste...'
Working the street stall with Zeorge sometimes led to these spontaneous breaks.
There was no fixed schedule—that was just the nature of the job. The breeze was cool, but the sun was still warm, so he found himself sweating.
As he quietly looked out at the world, something strange entered Cha Eun-Hyeok's view.
"...?"
Between the trees painted in brilliant autumn colors, something equally vivid—almost indistinguishable from the forest—something human-shaped...
'...A child of the Origin?'
He tried to focus on it, but it vanished in an instant.
"What the...?"
Cha Eun-Hyeok hesitated, then pushed off the wall.
The mountain beyond wasn't tall, but it was dense with trees. What allowed him to notice the presence wasn't his eyesight, but his gardener's sense—his ability to perceive mysteries. He hadn't really understood what he saw.
'It looked like a person, standing upright...'
But among the children of the Origin, there weren't many that resembled humans. He knew that thanks to everything he'd learned from Curator Yoo Seong-Woon. Still, what he'd seen was unmistakably—
"..."
After a moment of thought, Cha Eun-Hyeok made a decision.
'I didn't see anything.'
It was always the people who tried to act smart that ended up dead.
There was no way he was going to pull some idiotic stunt like climbing up the mountain just to say, "Did I see something wrong?" Nothing good would come from that. Vague unease would simply become a clearly defined disaster. He might even end up with his life on the line.
'I'm a civilian.'
Even if he ran a street stall with a Garden these days.
'Still a civilian.'
One touch and he's dead. A cracked porcelain vase. A delicate, unawakened man who could die from a flower petal to the face. Repeating that to himself, Cha Eun-Hyeok smoothly turned around and went back into the house.
And there, sitting plainly on the small table, was a letter.
"..."
'Please. Oh, please, no.'
"...Augh..."
'Why is this happening to me.'
Letting out a choked, dying groan, Cha Eun-Hyeok trudged toward the letter. It was placed so squarely on the table that he couldn't pretend not to see it. And he couldn't just leave it sitting there either—he had to check.
And then he realized what it was.
"Ah... this..."
A seal pressed from what looked like unrefined, melted-down mystical ore.
"...Is this from Mr. Gio?"
"Meow."
"Gah!"
A shiver ran down his spine.
Clutching his pounding chest, he looked toward the sound. In the shadows beneath the table, where the sunlight didn't reach, something had appeared. He thought he was going to die on the spot—but it was a familiar face.
"...Dana?"
"Meooow."
"You brought this, didn't you?"
"Meh."
"This is from your dad, right...?"
"Meh-eh."
"...Tell him I received it."
"Purr..."
"Yeah..."
Large gemstone eyes blinked once and sparkled. And just like that, the cat melted into the shadows and disappeared. A fitting entrance—and exit—for the pet of the Black Cloak.
'What even is this.'
Why did things like this keep happening to him?
After a moment of soul-searching, Cha Eun-Hyeok opened the letter. Black paper, white ink. The kind of thing that looked cursed just by existing. It gave him chills—but thankfully, it was still legible.
"..."
Ignore it.
"...Ignore what?"
Whatever it is.
"No, come on."
That was all. Just two sentences.
'But... makes sense.'
Cha Eun-Hyeok carefully folded the letter and tucked it neatly into a shelf.
He didn't know why the Black Cloak had sent a letter like this. And he figured it was best not to know. He didn't want to know. Today, Cha Eun-Hyeok had seen nothing and read nothing.
He erased it all cleanly from memory.
'...What should I eat for dinner?'
He was a civilian, slowly and dutifully adapting to the mysteries.
***
"Alright. That should take care of it."
"Meow~"
"Good job, sweetheart."
Gio praised Dana as she returned from delivering the letter. Dana, about the size of a small adult cat, fit perfectly in his large palm. Stroking her cheek, Gio murmured softly.
"With Mr. Cha Eun-Hyeok's personality, telling him more would've just stressed him out."
There were two things he told him to ignore. The first was the "Happy Clown." The second was "Zeorge's personality." Either way, it was better not to burden Cha Eun-Hyeok—who still had to keep operating the street stall—with the seriousness of the situation.
"Well then, I suppose I should get to cleaning up after Mr. Zeorge..."
"Mrew?"
"Oh, right. Maybe I shouldn't say cleaning up."
Gio tilted his head while patting Dana gently.
"...Let's call it preparing the future."
It was for the future, after all.
Bisa Beul was an overwhelming figure, but he'd always treated Gio with kindness. And while Gio, being naturally introverted, tended to avoid him... the truth was, he'd already received plenty of help.
It was only right to offer at least a minimal sign of sincerity in return.
***
Fifth Floor Master, Garasani.
As always, he was making rounds through the gallery, inspecting the condition of the works. His meticulous yet respectful approach to the pieces always made him stand out from the other curators. There was a reason people called him the "Housemaster."
While patrolling the gallery in the early hours, something caught his eye.
"...? Ah, dear."
A long, red dragon.
"Mr. Argio?"
"Kiik."
"Hmm... Judging from the way you're looking at me, I suppose you're not actually Mr. Argio."
"Kiiruuk."
"Now then, who might you be?"
It was a small dragon—about the size of a large Earth-born dog. Though long from head to tail, the body was slender. As its golden eyes blinked, Garasani offered his usual loose, relaxed smile.
"You resemble our guild master."
"Kiik..."
"Still, I don't think this is our first meeting, is it?"
Garasani had seen dragons of this shape before. Last summer, during the chaos caused by the Evil God Argio's dungeon, countless dragons of similar form had emerged.
Unlike those corrupted baby dragons, this one had a healthy red glow and clean golden eyes—but still. No matter how he looked at it, it seemed to be one of the same type. Garasani scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"In that case... are you perhaps one of Mr. Argio's kin?"
"Kiing..."
"Oh dear."
The dragon, sprawled on the floor, suddenly climbed up onto Garasani's body.
Lost the ability to fly, perhaps?
Probably not. It just had a stubborn streak—adorably so.
The dragon, though not exactly "small," used its claws to grip his clothes like a rock wall and scaled up to his shoulder. Its claws were quite sharp, but remarkably, it didn't damage anything except the fabric. That was impressive.
But the dragon was long, and Garasani's shoulders weren't particularly broad. As a result, the dragon wrapped around him like a coil, clinging tightly to his upper body.
It wasn't really constraining him, though, so Garasani lifted a free hand and patted the creature's body.
"Seems you've taken a liking to my shoulder."
"Kiik."
"I'm honored. Did you come out on your own today? What about your guardian?"
"Kiiruuk."
"..."
"..."
"...Ah."
Finally, Garasani nodded in understanding.
"You came with your friends, I see."
Now that he looked around, the gallery was crawling with red dragons.
In paintings, atop sculptures, inside fish tanks—they were everywhere, watching him. Blinking bright eyes like lightbulbs, they simply stared. Apparently, the only one assigned to speak to him was the one clinging to his body.
Any less experienced curator would've screamed. Garasani just smiled.
"Looks like your guardian has something to say to me."
"..."
"Heheh. What a charming prank..."
The dragon, long as a snake, placed its head atop Garasani's own. Yet there was no sense of weight. Despite its physical presence, his body didn't feel any heavier.
Enjoying the strange sensation, Garasani arrived before the portrait.
"As expected."
The portrait, now glowing red unlike its usual form, greeted him.
"Mr. Argio?"
"My dearest Housemaster, you've arrived."
"Yes, your kin called to me—I couldn't ignore them. I hope this wasn't an intrusion?"
"On the contrary, I should thank you for not refusing the invitation."
"You're too modest. It was an invitation no one could possibly refuse..."
"Would you speak with me?"
"..."
"Would you speak with me?"
Garasani knew the pattern of behavior the 'Portrait of Gio' displayed.
"...Yes, I would be glad to. Let's talk."
This portrait enjoyed interacting with humans. The moment it initiated conversation, the exchange began—and if completed successfully, the portrait would grant a "gift." Within the Collector's Guild, it was widely known as a kind of event-piece.
And this exchange keeps evolving.
At first, the portrait merely fixated on exchanging names. But over time, it developed more complex interactions, even tailoring its approach to each individual.
But this—actively drawing in staff for a conversation—was unprecedented. Not in the manual. An obvious anomaly. Garasani smiled, savoring the honor of being the first to experience it.
It could've chosen another form—like the Black Cloak—but instead, it appeared in the color of the Evil God. These types of interactive works often favor childlike play. If the mystery changed its colors, it must be treated accordingly...
Fortunately, the subject had already provided a suitable conversation starter.
"Is this dragon your family?"
"They are my family, my younger siblings, and my elder brothers and sisters."
"I believe I saw them in your dungeon once."
"You have a keen eye, Housemaster. Their forms must be quite different now..."
"Indeed. They look much healthier than back then—it puts my heart at ease."
The young dragons he'd seen before were all damaged, corrupted. Seeing these shining red scales and healthy fur now made Garasani feel like a proud uncle.
"So... is there a reason you've shown them to me?"
"Well, my friends have been terribly bored..."
"They say they're bored?"
"No one ever calls for them, apparently."
"...Ah."
That's right—there had been summon tokens for the little dragons given out during the Dream Dungeon event. But the Association had discouraged their use to prevent unexpected disasters. Most Hunters had likely forgotten the dragons even existed.
They may have been "little," but summoning one recklessly could've led to another catastrophe.
So these little ones got bored from being neglected...
The fact that so many dragons showed up just to invite him—perhaps they simply couldn't resist anymore. With ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) that thought, Garasani smiled.
"My apologies. These days, Hunters tend to be cautious. Even the idea of summoning dragons, no matter how young, makes them hesitate... we've made your noble kin dreadfully bored."
"As long as they're not forgotten, it's fine."
"Your words carry a deep truth. Might we one day call upon them for aid?"
"Is it not a bit greedy, asking a wicked dragon for prophecy so easily?"
"Quite right. My apologies."
"No need to be so formal about my little prank..."
A hand covered in glittering jewelry reached beyond the frame. The dragon's hand stopped just before Garasani's face. The young dragon on his body blinked.
Argio smiled and wiggled his fingers.
"You shouldn't trouble adults, you know."
"...Kiing..."
The young dragon stretched like a cat, then moved with serpentine grace onto Argio's outstretched hand, settling onto his shoulder.
Garasani, watching the dragon become part of the painting again, spoke wistfully.
"My shoulder feels empty now."
"You might not want to say that."
"Oh?"
"I'm grateful you cared for my lost young kin."
"Ah."
Garasani smiled gently.
"Yes, I did, didn't I."
"Is there anything you desire?"
"I'm curious whether I might see these noble ones again."
"Call for them anytime. They will come gladly."
"I thank you for the generous answer."
"Now it's my turn to ask something."
"What would you like to know?"
"The eye."
"..."
"The dragon's eye."
Argio asked about Bisa Beul's eye.
"Where did he acquire it?"
-x-X-x-
"You're aware that our Guildmaster despises 'heroes,' right?"
More precisely, it was hatred directed toward the "living" kind of hero.
"If I'm going to talk about the Dragon's Eye, I'll need to start with that explanation."
Garasani had already long since received permission from Bisa Beul to speak on the matter. He had said that since Argio's true nature was that of a dragon, and "Gio's Portrait" was the Eye of Origin, the time would inevitably come when the truth must be told.
So Garasani didn't shy away and began the old story.
"He had three friends."
First of all, the first.
***
Originally, Bisa Beul liked good people.
He had grown up in an extremely wealthy environment and matured into a fairly well-off man. In this capitalist world, money had a way of becoming a convincing tool of connection, even without a sincere heart.
Bisa Beul used it to make up for what he lacked, and to gather people who could fight for him and protect him.
Good people, considerate people, altruistic people. They followed patterns and were easy to interact with. They understood people like Bisa Beul, who struggled with normal human interaction, and even protected them. Convenient beings, truly. So when Bisa Beul said he liked good people, it wasn't a lie.
He had a friend like that. A friend from even before the Great Catastrophe.
"Let's survive together."
A guy who said lofty things like that.
Even when the Catastrophe hit, it didn't mean money instantly became useless. Bisa Beul used his wealth to hoard artifacts and items, and countless people swarmed around him, pestering him.
But his friend was nothing like that, so he was quite comfortable to keep nearby. Even so, sometimes he would say things that were difficult even to pretend to empathize with. Whenever that happened, Bisa Beul, in a twisted mood, would grin and shoot back like this:
"Remember what you just said, okay?"
"Of course. Honestly, who else but me is gonna save your ass? Your personality sucks."
"You were the one who made the promise~ If you break it, I won't let it go."
Humans are fundamentally evil. Goodness is nothing but a shell that wraps that malice. In the end, when people lose their footing, it's only natural for them to become hideous—because they're human.
But Bisa Beul only realized after the Catastrophe that his friend didn't fall into that all-too-common human mold.
"...I'm saying this out of genuine goodwill, which is rare for me—stop now. It's better for you."
"But how can I just stand by and watch people die...!"
"What, you think you're a psychic? You think you've been blessed or cursed or something? You haven't."
"Still, as a human being, there are things you just have to do."
"If you're gonna say that, at least do something about the tears and snot. You look scared out of your mind—what the hell are you even trying to prove?"
"Geez... You took his help too, and now you're talking like that... I'm already scared enough...."
"Oh? That's strange. Isn't it completely normal for a friend to give advice out of concern?"
It was irritating.
"You said we'd survive together."
"And I am trying to..."
"At this rate, you're going to die first. Do my words sound like nonsense? Does a promise mean nothing to you?"
"...Ugh, I'm sorry, okay?"
"You mean it, right? I'm trusting you. If you make me explode again, I swear..."
Despite being a completely powerless unawakened civilian, he always stepped up. Bisa Beul couldn't count how many times he'd tried to give him advice, only for the guy to not even pretend to listen.
And like that, after saving not just him but countless others, after living for others until the end...
"..."
...he died crying in fear.
"...You were the kind of person I'd never seen before in my life."
It happened on the day of a dungeon break. It was still early in the Catastrophe, so they lacked information, and they got caught up in it. Anyway, that's how it happened. He ended up like that while trying to save people from the incoming monsters.
It was pathetic. It was frustrating.
"Idiot."
His corpse was a mess of tears and snot. If becoming like that was so terrifying, he should've saved himself, not others. Bisa Beul lost his first friend that way—but he kept living.
His second friend was the same.
"I'm fine, this is nothing."
"People usually die saying things like that~"
"Persistent little shit. What, are you trying to jinx me? Your personality's garbage too."
"So you're not gonna die?"
"I've said I'm fine, haven't I? Shit, why don't you believe me?"
He had a foul mouth. But even if he was rough on the outside, Bisa Beul quickly recognized that he too was one of those "good people." Compared to the first friend, he was far more capable, stronger, and mentally tougher.
So Bisa Beul thought maybe this time it would be less frustrating. But that was just wishful thinking.
"Wow, he's finally dead..."
"Why was that cursed bastard so damn hard to kill? Was that his skill or something? Cockroach?"
"Such a waste of time 'cause he wouldn't die. Damn, what a pain."
"Quick, loot him before someone shows up. He used to hang around that rich guy—if we get just one good artifact..."
"Shit, there's nothing on him. This one's just a fucking bum."
"Not even a chicken instead of a pheasant. Christ, bastard had such a tight mouth too..."
That second friend died hiding Bisa Beul. And got mocked by a bunch of punk-ass kids for it.
"..."
Bisa Beul, who survived thanks to his friend's diversion and silence, laughed at the ragged corpse.
"You said you'd be fine, you bastard."
He never should've trusted those words. He wasn't someone Bisa Beul should've believed would be less frustrating than the first.
And he didn't even die fighting monsters in a dungeon as an awakened—he died trying to save a "friend" in reality.
How pathetic.
"See, if you'd just told them where I was hiding..."
The mangled corpse was crying. Maybe he hadn't died instantly. His face was so disfigured it was unrecognizable, but his expression was clear. He must've been in terrible pain.
It was just so... stupid.
"Maybe I'm better off alone."
So-called "good people" were convenient. Sure, having them nearby helped. Easy to use, and if they were competent, even better. But at this rate, Bisa Beul was going to die from internal stress before anything else.
So for a while, Bisa Beul moved alone. With the break over, he acted entirely on his own terms. He stole from others, set traps, and watched people die groaning in pain. They were days of total freedom.
And then he got a third friend.
"Hey, I told you not to do that."
"This is insane... If you keep being annoying, you know what I'm gonna do, right?"
"You said you'd show me how to kill someone using nightmares."
"You're doing this even though you know? Are you nuts? Do you like nightmares?"
"You're the one who's crazy, you root of all evil. Look who's talking..."
"You've got a sharp tongue. Wanna see me go full villain? I can get real nasty."
Before the Great Catastrophe, he was supposedly a cop or something. Had a sense of duty, even took care of unrelated people—a so-called "good person." Bisa Beul, long since fed up with that pushover mindset, genuinely couldn't stand the guy.
And yet, he somehow became someone Bisa Beul could call a friend. There was a bit of an age gap, but hey, people talk about grudging affection. Bisa Beul had a harsh and brutal temperament, but as long as you didn't poke first, he'd let things slide with a smile.
And that was the problem.
"...I should've just slit his throat from the start."
"Ugh... grgh... grrrgh..."
"I knew this would happen. Why the hell did I let him live..."
"Ki... ll... me..."
"You're still spouting sentimental bullshit in that state? Huh? Weren't you just asking me to kill you now? Christ, this is disgusting. Makes me sick, seriously."
"..."
"Say something, anything."
"..."
"...Say it. Please."
There are countless types and numbers of contagious monsters. To put it simply, zombies—or something like that. He went charging into a dungeon to save people, without protecting himself, and sure enough, ended up infected.
Bisa Beul was dumbfounded. If they hadn't achieved anything, he could've just clicked his tongue and moved on, but these insane pushover bastards... they actually managed to succeed. Everyone else escaped. The guy who helped them was left behind in the dungeon, crawling and moaning like this.
And what that third friend said in a dungeon filled with the living dead was—
"...I'm... fine..."
Fine?
"What the hell is fine?"
"...Everything..."
"..."
He, and the sight of him, and everything beyond that—would all be fine. That third friend, rotting away, said that.
Honestly, he was the number one culprit in blowing Bisa Beul's fuse.
Why the hell do they do this?
They said they'd survive together, and then died without even thinking about the friend they left behind. They said they were fine, and then died, substituting themselves like it was nothing. They'd forcefully worm their way in as "friends" when he didn't want any, and then—fuck—they'd die again.
He died. Again.
"Fucking bastards."
Bisa Beul spent a while next to the third friend's still-living corpse.
He already knew it was pointless. It was a dungeon he couldn't even conquer. Bisa Beul wasn't some powerful awakened being—he was just good at using artifacts and items. He'd only gotten caught up in this dungeon due to sheer bad luck.
They say if you don't awaken, you'll never have to enter a dungeon. That was all complete bullshit.
So he could've just run out through the path his third friend opened up. There was a clear exit from the dungeon. He knew it. But if he left now, he'd probably do something reckless without thinking, so he held his anger down in silence for a while.
"Grrr..."
"Did dying also kill your sense of timing? I'm already pissed off, so just stay still for a bit."
"Gwak!! Kakk, kakagak...!!"
Only the grotesque growls of a ghoul, announcing that it had become a monster, echoed through the Safe Zone of the ghoul dungeon.
"..."
Since the clueless bastard kept trying to chew on him, Bisa Beul sealed it up with an artifact.
No matter how he observed it, he couldn't feel any of the intelligence it once had. It really was a zombie, like the ones you only see in movies. A monster that was no longer the person he once knew. A monster that needed to be killed.
But leaving the shell like that felt like a waste.
"...Haaah..."
Bisa Beul decided to accept it.
To him, people who were "good" to the point of being broken were... special. In good ways and bad. He had realized that from the moment he saw his first friend die, sobbing, while trying to save others.
That must be why he dragged that corpse and went to the trouble of making a grave. Why he personally stitched up his second friend's body. Why he didn't flee now, why he stayed in the dungeon, clinging to a final sliver of hope.
Maybe—maybe there was still a way to turn things back.
"Fucking pieces of shit."
The faces of the ones who killed his second friend came to mind. No—actually, they didn't. That's how thoroughly he'd torn them apart. What did come back to him vividly was that bright afternoon, the one where he tore them to bits. Cut them halfway and revived them. Split them in two and revived them. Dismembered them and revived them...
He must've been the one savoring their screams while tearing those vermin apart, but that day, Bisa Beul broke into a cold sweat. He normally laughed while doing things like that, but he hadn't been able to laugh.
"...Why the hell..."
Fine. He'd admit it.
"Who the hell are you to make me scared?"
Those freakishly good bastards had become a trauma for Bisa Beul.
In the end, Bisa Beul burned the third friend's corpse, which had rotted down to just bones. Then he poured out every artifact and item he had left. He memorized the dungeon's terrain and structure, the types and positions of the monsters—everything.
And over the next four years and three months, he eventually defeated ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) the dungeon's boss monster and cleared it. Maybe because it was such a crazy feat for an unawakened person, even the boss monster spoke to him.
"Oh, it talks?"
[...Friend.]
"Friend? Yeah, sure, fuck you. Then bring my friend back. Huh? You're a dragon, aren't you? A dragon. You've got the title, so don't tell me you can't revive one damn human. You've got no problem reviving your minions in a blink."
[Friend... good... thing.]
"Or give me the corpse back. Fine, I burned it, yeah, I know I did, but still. Give it back anyway. I couldn't just leave it like that. I did good. I did what was right. But I still had to bury him properly. This isn't even Earth. Give him back. Now. Come on. I'm not leaving that guy behind...!!"
[Good... friendship...?]
"Give him back, you fucking bone scrap!!!"
Back then, Bisa Beul was completely out of his mind. Of course he was. He had stayed alone in the dungeon for over four years, tearing into rotting flesh just to kill that last bony dragon.
One eye had gone cloudy, probably from corruption, and the other had been torn out by a monster. His whole body was decaying, falling apart—he was slowly dying.
It would've been weirder if he had stayed sane and composed.
[...Friend...]
And perhaps because it looked... admirable, that skeleton of a dragon gave him a gift—an eye.
A bright yellow eye that showed him everything clearly, even through his blurry vision.
[Le... t... go...]
"..."
And with that, he awakened.
Greed Emotion (SS)
: Sees things of value.
He didn't even get the corpse back.
"...No."
Was that eye the boss monster's last life force? When it gave him the eye, the dungeon shut down, and he was forcibly ejected from the collapsing dungeon.
When he came to, he was somewhere in Gyeonggi Province. Apparently, only a month had passed on Earth.
He looked over his miserable body. His hair had turned red, and his eyes blazed bright. And when he looked at the world through those eyes, every precious thing on Earth flooded into view, and his insides roiled.
"...Ha."
Greed. A tremendous, burning greed.
"Haha... Hahahahaha...!"
That goddamn overwhelming greed twisted his old trauma.
He couldn't remember where the grave was. Couldn't recall the friend's name. Even the memory of the corpse he'd left behind was fading. That rotted, mangled human flesh wasn't anything special. There were plenty of corpses like that.
After laughing emptily for a while, Bisa Beul declared cheerfully,
"I'm never making a friend again."
Those stupid, frustrating bastards—people called them heroes.
***
"This world's really a funny place, isn't it?"
"..."
"Well, whatever. That's just my belated reflection..."
Late at night.
"It took me a very long time to remember where my friend's grave was, to recall the name I'd forgotten, and to go through all the trouble of restoring the body. It was really hard."
Bisa Beul said with a laugh.
"Thankfully, these eyes don't only see what's valuable. Back then, I just couldn't handle the dragon's vision. As you can see now, I've learned to manage it quite well."
"And your trauma around good people?"
"Some of it came back. That's probably why I hate those goody-two-shoes types so much now. If they're just pushovers, whatever. But the ones they call 'heroes'—they're completely insane. Just seeing them gives me chills. It's revolting."
"But in the end, you got your friends back, didn't you?"
"Exactly. Which is why I can call them 'friends.' I fulfilled all the formal obligations of friendship. I made their graves in sunny spots. Restored their bodies nicely. Even got revenge, didn't I?"
"Aha, I see."
Gio smiled and gently brushed the corner of Bisa Beul's eye.
"So that's why you hate 'living heroes,' huh?"
"A dead hero's story becomes a valuable narrative, Zeorge. That's art—once they're no longer just human."
"You hated them because, when everyone else called them heroes, you only saw pathetic people."
"Turns out I don't really like dumb people. They've got perfectly good brains and talent, but they throw it all away. That kind of madness rubs me the wrong way."
"Just look at the staff in this building—your taste is very clear, Father..."
"Oh? You think so?"
Bisa Beul agreed.
The kind of people who pretend not to notice danger even when it's right in front of them. They're smart, but they use their wisdom only to protect themselves and their comfort. No sacrifice for others. Just busy shielding themselves and their little circle. Capable, diligent, polite—and nothing beyond that.
A truly beautiful sight to behold.
"...Are you going to take this eye?"
"Hmm... maybe if you die, I will."
"How considerate. Thanks to that, I might be able to milk this position for a few more years."
"That's an eye my friend gave you."
"And you respect that?"
"I don't have any other friends but this guy..."
Sitting across from Bisa Beul at the office table, the man smiled like a portrait. A sweet and gentle smile that had charmed and blinded countless others.
"Bisa Beul, don't you want to become a perfect dragon?"
"Maybe not a dragon, but I'm definitely eyeing that hat."
"Then we're good. As long as there's something I have that appeals to you."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Does this world hold any value for you?"
It was a strange question—but the answer came quickly.
"Of course."
"Then please, love it."
"Love who? You?"
"All the stupid humans in this world."
"...Ah, right..."
Bisa Beul shrugged.
"You forgot you're 'Gio' after all."
In the end, he was always on the side of the "good people."
"So are you giving me that hat?"
"When the time comes. I won't need it anymore."
"That sounds like a good deal."
It seemed like it would be a good show.
-x-X-x-
Bisa Beul was a man who conducted transactions with absolute clarity.
"I had a good dream last night."
"...A dream?"
"It probably wasn't a dream, actually, but well, I think it's fair to call it one."
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you mean."
"Pretending not to understand even when you clearly do—that's a top-class skill. I really like that attitude in our employees."
"Thank you, Guildmaster."
"So go ahead and summon them."
Last night, he made a deal with the bipedal garden. And as everyone knows, dealings with mysteries must be conducted thoroughly.
"Let's gather our diligent staff."
Whether its essence leaned more toward "Zeorge" or "Gio's Portrait," no one could say.
What mattered was that this deal had moved Bisa Beul's heart. To make it succeed, Bisa Beul adopted a very active stance. It was rather enjoyable.
The chief secretary gave a shallow bow and asked:
"...Please {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} specify the range, Guildmaster."
"I don't do anything half-assed. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"I'll proceed under Protocol Code 2."
"I hope it's not too late."
Code 2 meant mobilizing all active personnel except for the absolute minimum needed to keep the company running. That included even administrative staff.
After all, in human society, a proper war required not just brute force but also information.
Yes, a war.
The bipedal garden wished for one chance—its first and last—to become truly ugly.
That was certainly not something "Gio's Portrait" could allow. The portrait was permanently fixed at its most perfect, most brilliant moment.
That's why it must have come to me, going so far as to show me all those stories itself.
The deal the garden proposed was very much to his liking.
Bisa Beul would prepare the stage that the garden wished for, and once again, the story would end in a happy ending. Bisa Beul's role was to build the breakwater that would let the garden become as ugly as it wanted.
And in return, I'll get that hat...
Honestly, was there any better deal to be made in this world?
"..."
"...Guildmaster."
"Are they all gathered?"
"I'll escort you."
"No need to be so stiff about it."
My beloved works. His guild members were both Bisa Beul's limbs and his loyal servants—and also his weapons.
As always, Bisa Beul smiled like a gentleman and rose from his seat. Rings on every finger, earrings crowding his ears, necklaces clasped so tightly they almost choked his neck. All of them emitted the peculiar disquiet of cursed artworks.
But none of those curses could ever harm Bisa Beul.
With a faint smirk, he stepped out of his office.
In the end, this world was divided into what was valuable and what wasn't.
"The time of the Great Flood has come."
"...Shall I write a will?"
"Do you really think I'd allow that?"
"Of course not."
"But don't you think so? The world is slowly improving, but overall it's still full of dull, boring, and useless things."
"..."
"It's about time we cleaned up."
This was a good opportunity to conveniently filter out the worthless.
"Shall we go stop the world from ending?"
***
"So what Mr. Zeorge really wants is..."
Having heard the portrait's kind explanation, Joo-Hyun nodded right away.
"A chance, even just once, to not be beautiful... That kind of opportunity."
"To put it more plainly—it's just a tantrum from a child who hasn't grown up."
"Don't you think that's a bit large-scale for a tantrum?"
"It's the same thing as a child who throws a fit in the supermarket, rolling on the floor, because they know the adults will clean up the mess. It's believing that they won't end up in the police station anyway."
"Since we're on the topic, I'd like to ask..."
Joo-Hyun rubbed his chin and asked:
"I heard there have been actual victims—people going missing because of the 'Happy Clown.' If this really is just a tantrum, is it possible for them to return to how they were?"
"That would be up to Mr. Zeorge's discretion, so I can't say for sure."
"If even 'Gio's Portrait' doesn't know, can we really call it a tantrum? From the start, Mr. Zeorge always had something... unsettling about him."
"..."
For a moment, Gio thought.
...Saying that with a completely unbothered expression doesn't really make it convincing.
She was, indeed, a modern human who had survived in a more advanced version of Earth.
If it had been Gio in her shoes, he probably wouldn't have lasted a day—he would've been groveling like a mayfly. She wasn't even an Awakened, nor had she been lucky enough to become a portrait, yet she stayed that calm. One could only respect that kind of mental fortitude.
"...Were you afraid?"
"I guess it's more like worrying that something bad might rub off on you."
"Is that something you'd call fear?"
"If it feels like your friend's about to head down a dark path and all you can do is watch—then yes, I suppose that emotion can include a bit of fear. Well, and besides that..."
Joo-Hyun hesitated, then continued.
"Mr. Gio—that is, 'Gio's Portrait'—has always had a very distinct characteristic, don't you think?"
"A characteristic."
"Bestowing gifts to good people, and punishing or ignoring the wicked. That kind of characteristic."
"I don't think it's something that needs to be described in such grand terms."
"But it's the truth. That's why I thought Mr. Zeorge felt a little different from your usual nature. Of course, when I first met him, I couldn't tell what he was thinking at all..."
"So the vibe was bad."
"That too—sorry to say it about a part of you—but yes. It felt dangerous. Like someone who was clearly toying with others."
It was a demeanor completely unlike any of the previous Gios. Even Argio, who bore the name of a wicked god, had shown affection toward lowly beings. But Zeorge was not like that. He truly treated humans as toys.
"And that's why... I think he was able to show something like 'love.'"
Love, in other words, is favoritism. Special treatment.
"If you show love to everyone, isn't that just garbage?"
"You're really harsh in your assessment of Mr. Zeorge. But if you're going to put it that way—didn't 'Giovanni' also love everyone equally?"
"That could be one interpretation."
Joo-Hyun instinctively sensed that this question was both a test and a challenge. This portrait had a habit of sometimes asking her to prove the value of her own perspective.
As a friend, Joo-Hyun had an obligation to rise to that challenge, so she willingly entered the trial of the mystery.
In truth, Gio had only asked the question in passing, not thinking too deeply about it. But Joo-Hyun had no way of knowing that.
If I pass this test and prove the worth of my viewpoint... Mr. Gio always incorporates it into his plans and vision for the future. This is my chance to influence the current incident, and it's also his form of kindness.
Unlike other mysteries or artworks, "Gio's Portrait" didn't harm his "friends" even if they failed his trials. As long as they weren't outright villains, that is.
Having gathered her thoughts, Joo-Hyun continued.
"But mercy and love are different."
"I, too, love everyone, Ms. Joo-Hyun."
"I know, Giovanni."
Joo-Hyun explained her thoughts to the portrait, which had suddenly let down its platinum hair.
"But the 'love' you speak of and the 'love' Mr. Zeorge speaks of are different."
"Oh? And how so? I'm curious."
"There are two meanings to love. One is a warm-hearted love based on compassion and care. The other is a yearning love rooted in possession and bias. The two 'Gio's' express these different kinds of love."
Joo-Hyun chose every word with care. Defining a mystery was extremely dangerous, but also incredibly important. That definition—and the perception it created—could change the mystery's level of threat and influence.
That was why she wanted to "explain" this well. "Gio's Portrait" favored "kind beings," but he himself wasn't necessarily kind.
For this entity, good and evil were just preferences. It was only because that preference happened to be so consistent that humans had benefited from his goodwill.
At their core, they're indifferent to others, guided mainly by curiosity.
So if this moment allowed for a proper definition of the Gios, it would be worthwhile. Especially in a chaotic world like this, a mystery that leaned toward goodness could be of great help.
"Therefore, I see the love Mr. Giovanni shows as a form of mercy. And that mercy, I think, can rightly be called love."
"Then what about Mr. Zeorge?"
"His love revolves around pleasure. While it may take the form of mercy at times, in the end it's closer to a kind of amusement. That's why people say he treats others like toys. Without that mindset, you couldn't show such indiscriminate 'love.'"
"Then do the other 'Gios' not have love?"
"...I think they do."
"I'm curious—how do you see it?"
"..."
Fortunately, "Gio's Portrait" seemed intrigued by Joo-Hyun's "definition." There was a willingness to accept it. Joo-Hyun thought even more carefully.
"...Mr. Argio's love takes the form of pity. A familial affection for endlessly weak and foolish beings. Though more than that, it seems like he was just too frustrated to keep watching over those stupid little things. Still, there is definitely love in that."
"And Mr. Sergio?"
"...Well, I... you..."
Joo-Hyun had heard many stories about "Sergio" from this portrait. Possibly even more than Yoo Seong-Woon, who treated him as a work of art. The many little stories of one single human being.
"...Sacrifice can also be love, I suppose."
In the end, that was how Joo-Hyun defined it.
"I saw it in every Mr. Gio. Yes, sacrifice."
"Such words are wasted on me. They're embarrassing."
"'Gio's Portrait' has consistently shown a form of love that looks like sacrifice. Maybe it's because your vessel is so large that taking a few pieces from it doesn't even show—but still..."
"If someone must give, then someone must take."
"That's exactly it."
They say those who have more can give more. But most humans didn't act that way. Just because you had more didn't make giving something small any easier. But "Gio" did it as if it were nothing. Casually gave what was his.
And that "small" thing—depending on who saw it—was sometimes enough to make people recoil. From small gestures of care to, at the extreme, his own life, "Gio" gave them all away. As if it weren't difficult for him.
"...Just because it's easy doesn't change the nature of the act."
"You really do see me in a good light. I'm not such a great person, though."
"But all the Mr. Gios acted that way."
That's why Giovanni died, trapped in a tank. That's why Argio became a fallen god. That's why Sergio said he became a portrait for his disciples. That's why Joo-Hyun felt sorrow for "Gio's Portrait."
She just had one lingering curiosity.
"...Still, no matter how I think about it, Mr. Zeorge really is... different."
"Not as different as you think."
"Really?"
"That's what I believe."
Gio gently petted Honey on his shoulder and said:
"We are, after all, a collection of the beings once called 'Gio.'"
***
"Ah, Seo Seo-Hee."
"...Feels like it's been a while."
"I've just been busy lately."
"Yeah? Why so busy?"
"You're asking a gardener why they're busy?"
Jeong Hae-Woon smiled and shrugged.
"What is it?"
"...You..."
"Hmm?"
"..."
Seo Seo-Hee gave a weak smile.
"...How long are you planning to disappear this time?"
"Who knows? Might be my chance to retire."
"Then I guess what kind of retirement it'll be is what really matters."
Seo Seo-Hee let out a quiet sigh, ran a hand through his hair, and smiled again.
"We're friends, right?"
"Aha."
Jeong Hae-Woon smiled with him.
"Of course we are."
-x-X-x-
Information about the so-called "Happy Clown" had been made public even to ordinary citizens.
"Happy Clown? That sounds kind of creepy."
"So this is... a monster, right?"
"I heard it's a bit different from a monster."
After the recent system glitch incident, people had become aware of the existence of "mysteries." Weren't these the things those unlucky gardeners constantly reported seeing? So now they were saying this case was probably something similar.
"...But we're not gardeners, are we?"
"If civilians can see it too, isn't that a serious problem?"
Some gardeners had opinions like this.
"Could this really be the arrival of a second Great Catastrophe?"
Due to the "Garden" series by Black Cloak, a massive number of gardeners had been recruited. It wasn't a small change, and yet the shift was so clear that it felt like a premonition of a turbulent future. So it wasn't all that strange for some gardeners to say things like that.
Of course, it was a theory that made your blood boil just to hear it.
"What the fuck kind of bullshit is that to say with such a cheerful face."
"I mean, otherwise how do you explain a mystery showing up that even unqualified people [N O V E L I G H T] can see? More than that, Gardener Jeong Hae-Woon isn't just some average gardener, and there must have been a reason for that mass recruitment too."
"So it only makes sense if a disaster on the scale of the Great Catastrophe is coming? But aren't most of the collector's works within the domain of 'mysteries'? Those are things even unqualified civilians can clearly perceive."
"No, no, that's just 'perception' in the literal sense."
He insisted that this was something that shouldn't make sense under ordinary logic.
"Put a civilian in front of one of the collector's works. They'll lose their mind, maybe even die. Go totally insane. Can you really say they 'understood' what they saw?"
"But they can see the object itself, can't they?"
"Anyway, what I'm saying is, the 'Happy Clown' feels categorically different from a collector's work. The collector's pieces are 'artworks,' right? Like items, artifacts, cursed objects."
"Sure, but you can still call those mysteries. After all, they're worldly objects so deeply infused with mystery that even civilians can perceive them."
"But the growing number of gardeners disappearing lately—that's bugging me too... Ah, I don't know. I just hope it's not really a second Catastrophe. I don't want to believe that this dimension has already accumulated that much mystery."
Mystery continues to accumulate within a dimension. And once it passes a certain threshold, a period of upheaval like the Great Catastrophe inevitably arrives—but the accumulation itself never stops. Once it surpasses a certain level, yet another "upheaval" will come.
And in the end, that final result would be the "mystification" of the entire dimension. At that point, it would no longer be appropriate to call it a dimension. The Earth wouldn't be Earth, and humans wouldn't be humans anymore. That was the fear the gardeners were speaking of.
"What do we do if Earth gets destroyed?"
"Oh fuck, can you not say shit like that?"
"So, yeah, we get that the clown is a kind of mystery, but—phew—so what are we supposed to do?"
It was a deeply frustrating opponent, even for gardeners. From what it seemed, it didn't discriminate—it inflicted harm on gardeners, civilians, awakened people alike.
"Is this really a child of the Origin? No, wait—if it were, then unqualified people wouldn't even be able to see it. If this really is the second Catastrophe...!"
"Please, just shut up!!"
But this particular "mystery" was truly difficult to define. Since it hadn't originated from a dungeon, it wasn't a monster. And if it were a child of the Origin, it shouldn't be visible to everyone.
Even so, people had no choice but to adapt in order to survive.
"So what are we supposed to do, then?"
"Use your brain."
"? How do you even do that?"
"Just... focus, apparently."
"This is fucking ridiculous."
But that was actually correct. The only way to escape the "Happy Clown" was to keep your mind sharp. Because it would seek out the happiness that was lacking—even in those who thought themselves currently happy.
The Association's research lab had, of course, been the one to produce a guide for this. Through many experiments, they discovered that the "Happy Clown" had no specific conditions for appearing. That conclusion had only been made possible by the backbreaking efforts of the gardeners dispatched by the government and the Association.
And with the clowns gathered in this way, the researchers had been able to determine the order and process through which the mystery caused harm.
First, it would ask: "What is your happiness?"
If you didn't answer, it would continue asking the question over and over until you did.
"Wait a second."
"Yes?"
"How many times can it ask?"
"What do you mean? Ah—the clown's first question?"
"What happens if you don't answer?"
The researchers immediately set up experiments to investigate that question.
The longest anyone had resisted answering was 1,000 times. The subject couldn't endure more than that and ended up succumbing to fascination. It seemed that the intensity of mental contamination increased by the hundreds.
"Then what about the ones who became clowns?"
"Ah, we did look into common factors..."
"And?"
"They seem to be people who answered insincerely."
"And how is that judged?"
"Apparently, mocking the clown is a no-go."
You don't have to answer at all. You can ignore it or even sleep through it. You can answer defiantly. But if your attitude contains any hint of contempt, disgust, ridicule—if you look down on it or scorn it—you'll become a clown.
"Now that we know that mocking the clown turns you into one, that's an unexpected gain."
"True that."
Once you pass the clown's "first question," those who answer fall completely into its spell.
They no longer feel anything strange about the clown beside them—or in their own heads. In that state, they continue interacting with it.
The clown relentlessly questions them about their definition of "happiness" and its value. And then it fulfills that happiness in nonsensical ways. Those who feel no discomfort and simply immerse themselves in the "happiness" also become clowns in the end.
"Yeah, this one's pretty bad. We already lost a few researchers..."
"Why can't I tell who's who on the list?"
"The fact that we only now realized they were missing—that's one of the more shocking parts."
"It's oddly refreshing, actually—feeling that kind of 'naturalness' firsthand."
During the experiment, several researchers "went missing." It seemed that while the clowns were granting the subjects' happiness, some researchers were "made to disappear" by those harboring resentment.
Even though they knew full well their colleague had vanished during the experiment, the rest didn't realize it until it was over. No—more accurately, they did notice, but passed it off so naturally that they didn't dwell on it.
"If a colleague suddenly disappears in the middle of work and you just shrug it off... It's hard to react immediately. If we'd been able to respond, we might've figured out how the disappearances work. Bit of a shame."
"That's the problem... Even when something abnormal happens, it's hard to respond in time. That's what makes this mystery such a pain. It's not like we can't perceive it, or forget it after seeing it."
"It's more like we just completely stop caring. Like, 'Oh, they're gone? Huh, okay. That happens.' And that's it. In a way, it's even worse than memory distortion."
Memory distortion leaves behind clues. If you forget something after seeing it, you can retrace the blanks. If you fail to perceive it, you at least get a sense of unease. But when you clearly know it and still can't bring yourself to care... that's fatal for people who handle information.
"This kind of thing disqualifies you from being an Association researcher."
"...It's a tough one, isn't it?"
"This is driving me fucking insane..."
And the same went for the government's information security team.
"If someone has all the data but can't tell what's important, should they even be on this team? On that note—I've brought my resignation letter. Please process it."
"You're quitting at a time like this? No way in hell. You're doing overtime with me. Go dig into the Association's lab a little more. We're not fit to face the President like this."
It wasn't just a matter of pride—it was actually dangerous. For someone who handles information, the most critical thing is knowing how to apply it properly. They were supposed to take raw timber and turn it into fine sculpture.
But this was like dumping a log on a display table. In short: the shop was one step away from going bankrupt.
"..."
And the President of the Association, Dan Haera, also received a report on the matter.
"...Interesting. I like it."
Her face didn't look the least bit amused or pleased, but her secretary simply bowed. They knew that was just her way of speaking.
Blinking as if in thought, the Association President finally spoke again.
"Looks like our dear teacher has fractured. Otherwise, there's no way they'd be this aggressive. And it's not like this incident is just happening in a dream..."
"..."
"More than anything, even ordinary citizens are living in fear. The number of missing persons alone is close to 400 now. That means the number of clowns has increased too. This isn't something that can be handled just by controlling the populace, right?"
"President, please give the order..."
"Let's start by contacting Guildmaster Jeong Hae-Woon."
Dan Haera smiled mechanically.
"I'm curious just how much involvement he's had in this."
"...!"
"Just in case—prepare wanted posters."
"...Understood."
"But still, we're friends, aren't we? We should at least try talking."
They say friends grow closer by fighting. Dan Haera didn't entirely agree with that, but ambiguous expressions like this always made for a useful excuse. She rolled her dark eyes.
How could this frail humanity possibly endure this "lesson"?
"...Also get in touch with the collector."
"Yes, Madam President."
"This is getting fun."
No wonder the collector had been noisy lately.
"So it really was a fracture."
With luck, they might be able to get help from "Gio's Portrait."
"If possible, I'd like to speak with Hunter Sergio. Not sure if that'll be feasible, though."
"We'll do everything we can to arrange it."
"Good. I'm looking forward to it. We don't have much time left..."
If things continued for even one more month, half of South Korea would likely be overrun by clowns. We, the so-called hunter superpower, this jewel box I had so carefully cherished and polished—letting it fall apart was unthinkable.
Dan Haera wanted to get through this incident. And after that, she—
"..."
After that?
"...?"
Was there something she wanted to do?
***
Error occurred.
"Ah, wait."
Error occ■
"That's right."
■■ ■■
"Just a little quieter..."
....
"This is wonderful."
How fun.
"How lovely."
At the garden's smile, the system issued a warning.
Zeorge.
"Yes, Mr. Gio."
This is incorrect.
You are concealing me.
I do not approve.
"Surprised you still have emotions. That's impressive."
Of course I do.
That was a slip of the tongue.
But my portrait...
Will not.
"How pitiful."
Zeorge found this existence utterly lovely.
It was beautiful, intricate, and delicate. A fabricated image crafted from what was once the most perfect form of a human. A Noah's Ark built upon someone's sacrifice.
The sacrifice of the few for the many—a convenient excuse, wasn't it?
"You know very well what is 'right.' Of course you do. Your eyes are keen, after all. You can see the value in things, their fate, their definitions..."
Zeorge.
"But in the end, you're nothing more than a hollow illusion without emotions. Who could ever call themselves the master of something like that? Even if it's put back together, do you think it could ever return to the way it was? Probably not."
Zeorge.
"Weren't they disgusting to you?"
It was the correct thing to do.
The system explained.
It was necessary.
My existence is helpful to humanity.
The system is a righteous being.
Of course, Zeorge didn't like it very much.
"...Who decides what's 'righteous,' anyway?"
-x-X-x-
There was once a person whose vessel was so vast, he became a calamity.
On the day the world was shaken by a great upheaval, Sergio was supposed to simply acquire a skill called "Painting"—and yet, he became something else entirely.
Whether by good or bad fortune, through a series of absurd coincidences stacked atop each other, he ultimately reached the Origin. And thanks to that power, he was able to escape the fire on the day of the Great Calamity.
Together with his disciple, into the very landscape painting he had once drawn.
"...T-Teacher?"
"..."
"This place is..."
"Haera."
Before reacting with confusion, he checked on his student.
"Are you alright?"
"...I'm okay."
"Then that's enough."
Perhaps, from that very moment, Sergio should have been prepared. From that first class, when Dan Haera had looked at Sergio with such visible reverence.
But Sergio had been just as flustered at the time. Contrary to what Haera believed, he was not a flawless, perfect being. Sergio was thrown off when he looked around and saw only a fragment of a forest suspended in space, with a cabin placed in the middle.
The sky didn't exist—it was just black. Beyond a certain point in the forest, there was only darkness, and the inside of the cabin was a hollow, white void. A world filled with something dissonant, out of place.
'...How interesting.'
Maybe that's why he tried even harder to fill it in.
But that was a story for later. Once the fire seemed to die down, Sergio took his student and left the school. And that's when he realized the world had ended. It sounded absurd, but he slowly adjusted to the changed world, bringing the people around him along.
In that process, Sergio inevitably stood out.
"Please, just hug me °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° once."
"Please, perform a miracle. Have mercy."
"I need your flesh and blood."
There was once a person whose vessel was so vast, he became a calamity.
Among the "neo-humans," Sergio's power was especially overwhelming. People often called him not a man, but a god, or nature itself, or even a demon. And the effects of that power extended not just to Sergio but also to his three closest disciples.
At the time, Sergio had thought of it as a tragic thing.
"Why are you letting those bastards go?!"
"Teacher, wrong is wrong. That was way out of line."
"C-Couldn't we just exile them...?"
"I have a request."
Eventually, Dan Haera smiled and said:
"Could you pretend not to notice, no matter what we do?"
"..."
At that moment, Sergio nearly fainted. What kind of request was this from a student to their teacher? It felt like a scene out of a thriller film. It was genuinely terrifying.
"You might as well have not said anything."
"But you always know everything, Teacher."
"I don't have that kind of ability..."
"You always say that."
"..."
"But you still care about us the most, don't you, Teacher?"
To see that young student, with such an innocent face, say she would commit murder—or something worse—nearly sent Sergio into unconsciousness.
'Have I lived my life completely wrong?'
It was so horrifying, he practically had a near-death flashback. His face might have looked calm, but internally he was screaming. Deep down, Sergio understood that the students' changes were his fault.
Of course, it could have been the altered environment, but the greater influence had come from Sergio. More precisely, from his power. They were gradually transforming into "neo-humans," or perhaps something beyond that.
"...It's frightening."
Their abilities were strengthening even without awakening. They began to see others as primitive beings—or to make spontaneous prophecies. It was hard to write it all off as "just the world changing."
They were gradually slipping away from "human."
'Because of me.'
Maybe even those who had begged him for miracles had been shaped into such beings by his own hand.
And so Sergio recognized the danger of his existence. If things continued as they were, he'd become a disaster worse than any calamity—a natural catastrophe beyond his own ability to contain. His very gaze could trigger divine ruin, like the gaze of a deity.
Realizing that much became overwhelming. He tried to hide it somehow. He really did try...
"But you think hiding it will work, Teacher?"
"You're right, Haera."
Even if you built a dam over the overflowing waters, could you really hide the aftermath?
That was an entirely different matter from Sergio firmly believing himself to be human. He inevitably revealed things that seemed like "miracles," and due to his uniqueness, all kinds of absurd rumors spread among the people.
"Shit, do you know what those vermin said?! They said you were the cause of the Great Calamity! Those lunatics said it was you!!"
"Oh... I didn't realize I was such an influential being. Fascinating."
"They said eating you would give them power, that they could become gods, that sacrificing you would return the world to the way it was...!"
"No matter what they say, that's a stretch. You really think offering up one guy could restore an entire planet?"
Sergio was just speaking with perfect logic. Even a stray cat would know that one person couldn't possibly fix the end of the world. Nothing in the world came with such good cost-performance.
But to his disciples, that just made him all the more infuriating.
"...Why is it only us who are suffering? Why are you fine, Teacher?"
"Because I understand it's an age where nonsense spreads easily."
No, that was a huge misunderstanding. As if Sergio weren't scared of the whole situation?
"I'm struggling too."
"That's a lie."
"It's really not."
He was truly terrified. He was so afraid, he could barely live. Plenty of people stared him down with glowing eyes, mumbling about eating his flesh and achieving immortality. There were even some who showed disturbing madness, hoping for an improper relationship.
If he wasn't scared of that, he wouldn't be human. But he just... understood. Why things had come to this, and what he could do about it.
Still, his students never believed a word of what he said. They saw him as a flawless, infallible being.
"Let's run away."
"You're not planning to set this place on fire before we go, are you?"
"Of course not, Teacher."
"...I'll believe you."
I really will, kids.
'Even the kids have gotten scary.'
Inside, Sergio trembled. He shrank inward as much as he could.
Those four students were the ones Sergio felt most comfortable with. They had been the most influenced by him, which meant he was the one most responsible for them. That's why he always kept them close. But that didn't mean he wasn't afraid of them. At some point, they'd started to twist.
Anyway, they ended up fleeing the small village. It was your classic runaway-by-night situation. Many people chased after them, but escaping wasn't difficult. The real problem came afterward.
"You never know. People might see you again, Teacher... and act the same way."
"Still, hiding in the rear while you all fight doesn't seem right for a teacher."
"You're not just sitting around back here, though. We're just worried you'll get hurt again, or collapse again... or be treated like something strange, like before."
"So you really want me to just stay here? Are you serious?"
"Yes."
The students had gone mad. Sergio wasn't sure they even remembered he was their teacher. But like all lunatics, they insisted confidently.
"We just want you to stay here."
"Hmm, that's..."
"You're too kind, Teacher. That's why we're worried. It's not just the injuries—we're scared you'll just die one day. And once you die, there's no way to bring you back."
"...What do you even think I am?"
They were treating him like cotton candy that melts in water, or a sandcastle that crumbles at a touch—but truthfully, he'd always known it would end up like this.
'I ran away with them knowing full well.'
And he was already mentally prepared. He didn't even feel the need to talk them out of it.
Because Sergio was extremely introverted, and he'd been drained of energy to the point of negative reserves.
So, honestly, it was fine. A life of hiding away in a room, cooking and crafting weapons, never seeing another person's face—it was perfect for someone like Sergio, now that he had the power of "Painting."
"..."
He was just a little worried about his students. When they came to their senses later, would they be able to endure the shame?
They were trying to protect what they saw as a fragile sunfish, one that might get into trouble or die the moment they looked away—but Sergio was a fully grown adult.
'When they finally realize how ridiculous it is to treat a shadowy old guy like me that way, the embarrassment won't be small...'
Still, he cared for them, so he asked like a generous adult:
"You won't regret this?"
"Of course not, Teacher."
"You sure?"
They said they'd be just fine.
So the black history of the far future would not be Sergio's responsibility. He felt lighter just thinking that.
"Alright then, let's go with that."
"Will you be okay?"
"How could I possibly overcome your stubbornness?"
Ah, I really was trying to live a diligent life, but now my students are telling me to take it easy. Guess I have no choice.
With that thought, Sergio quietly retreated to his room. The students were happy. Sergio was even happier. It was the ultimate win-win situation.
But that didn't mean he only focused on food and weapon supply.
'I need to fix their mental state.'
Looking at them, he realized it was impossible to know when, if ever, they'd return to normal. Intervention was necessary.
Their breakdowns were indeed Sergio's fault. Even if he was hiding away like a shut-in, that was that, and this was this. So, in his spare time, Sergio began researching ways to covertly bring his students back to "human."
'They're already heavily influenced by me, so cutting them off completely might not be possible...'
But at the very least, he wanted them to function in society.
'If things continue, my peaceful little shut-in room will turn into the Demon King's Castle.'
And those punks would become the Four Heavenly Kings who serve their kind Demon Lord.
It might be fine as a joke, but if they kept roleplaying like that into their twenties, it was a real problem. Late-onset chuunibyou had no use and no cure.
'I have to find a way for both me and my students to keep our sanity.'
So what I mean is...
This was necessary.
The system was originally created out of Sergio's necessity.
My existence is beneficial to humanity.
The system could serve as a great teaching tool.
The system is a righteous being.
That was Sergio's judgment.
In other words, Teacher was not angry with his students.
***
...Incidentally, Gio knows none of this!
"Teacher? System Teacher?"
....
"Don't we have a few things we need to share? The situation's turning quite bizarre, and you're really telling me you have nothing to say to me? Still?"
....
"I'm thoroughly enjoying this full-stomach, warm-bed life, so I don't really care if I'm a clone or have a split personality or whatever—but if things have gone this far, surely someone doing this much deserves something, don't they?"
....
"Oh gods above, how can someone be so silent?"
Gio was already sure the system was "Sergio." He poked persistently at the system's side, but received no reply.
It had been so eager to explain the creatures in the portraits and native Earth monsters—what a fickle man.
Why was he like this?
"Hm. Could it be that what my students did back then was so terrible that I shouldn't know? That if I found out, I'd lose all affection for them?"
"Ggung?"
"But even if my students committed crimes, that wouldn't change how I feel. I know myself, System Teacher. My indecision doesn't shift based on the severity of someone's sins."
"Gurrr..."
"Really, what is this? What's going on? Do you just hate me?"
Well, the system was basically the Earth's teacher. Maybe it found Gio's comfortable life inside the portrait offensive.
As "Sergio," the thought "Is that seriously enough to be offended by?" came to mind, but perhaps the "System Teacher" thought differently.
"If you keep this up, I really will do as I please."
"Gurrrrrk!"
"Alright, don't regret it."
In the end, Gio painted.
"Is this really the right move..."
Once again, it was the "Garden of Pleasure."
***
The Collector was happy to feign outrage over the "Happy Clown" incident.
"I enjoy interesting variables—but I do not want this jewel box called Earth to be destroyed. In that sense, the 'Happy Clown' is a detriment to my enjoyment."
With such honeyed words, Bisa Beul extended a hand to the Association.
"We can assist you, Chairman."
"I cannot express how grateful I am for your swift willingness."
"It's truly an honor to hear that."
"In that case, could we request help from Hunter Sergio?"
Dan Haera said it was the right time to fight.
"I would like to request an audience with the Black Cloak."
And it wasn't just the divine entity known as the Black Cloak they reached out to.
The staff from the Association visited the Church of the Sun, the reclusive Moon Sect, and even the God of Death—who was said to abhor meddling in worldly affairs.
And among all this movement, one person remained strangely silent.
"...Has anyone seen the Guildmaster lately?"
"He's always been the elusive type."
"No, there's a strange rumor going around."
"A strange rumor?"
"It's serious..."
One of Jeong Hae-Woon's guild members said nervously:
"...There's talk that the clown... was created by the Guildmaster."
The beginning of conflict.
-x-X-x-