* * *
“I’ll head inside. Once I get close, contact them to open the entrance for me.”
“Understood! Stay safe out there.”
Although Kim Miri responded, he couldn’t help but feel uneasy.
Isn’t he wearing a communicator too?
Why couldn’t teammates talk directly instead of relying on intermediaries?
It was baffling.
Still, he knew better than to argue.
Accommodating this request was the quickest way to ensure smooth operations for now.
Kim Miri connected his communicator to Elliott Hooper and notified him of Ye Eunsoo’s involvement.
But when he looked up again, the atmosphere inside the tent had shifted strangely.
The tension that had buzzed moments ago was now replaced by a curious lightness, almost as if the danger had already passed.
“Phew.”
“Finally wrapping things up.”
“Great work, everyone.”
“For us, it’s just the beginning. Time to prep for cleanup.”
“As soon as we’re back, we’ll need to start analyzing the data.”
“Seems like it’s rough all around these days. Why are gate appearances increasing so much…?”
Everyone in the tent, not just one or two, had loosened up.
Some casually chatted, others grabbed coffee, rushed to the restroom, or began preparing for post-mission tasks.
It was as if the gate had already vanished.
Kim Miri’s face betrayed his discomfort.
“Isn’t the situation still unresolved?”
“Miri, you’re such a stickler. Has there ever been a case where that Ye Eunsoo couldn’t resolve things within 30 minutes once he got involved?”
“Besides, the gate’s already been cleared out. All that’s left is finding the core, so it won’t take long.”
“Exactly. This kind of flexibility comes from experience.”
“Still…”
Kim Miri was about to argue.
Following protocol until the end was crucial; even a small lapse in vigilance could lead to disaster.
But before he could speak—
Bzzzzt.
The artifact monitoring the gate at the center of the tent began to vibrate and emit light.
It signaled that the gate’s collapse was imminent.
A colleague sipping coffee nonchalantly beside him chuckled.
“Told you.”
The man returned to his station and spoke into his mic.
“The gate is about to collapse. Everyone, evacuate immediately.”
On the monitor, the espers inside the gate were shown retreating swiftly.
Once all of them exited, the artifact stopped vibrating.
“All personnel have evacuated. The gate collapse has been confirmed. Mission complete.”
“Great work, everyone!”
“Thanks for your efforts!”
“Man, what a grind… You’ve all worked so hard…”
Amid the chorus of greetings from Elliott Hooper and the rest of Attack Team C, Kim Miri received a personal communication.
It was Ye Eunsoo.
“Kim Miri. You can head back now. Thanks for your hard work.”
His tone was indifferent, almost emotionless.
“Yes, you too, Eunsoo. Great work.”
Kim Miri knew, though. Missions like these weren’t as easy as Ye Eunsoo’s casual tone suggested.
And while the tent’s staff seemed lax, they were all seasoned veterans.
Their relaxed demeanor the moment Ye Eunsoo joined wasn’t without reason.
Ye Eunsoo had earned their trust.
It had been about half a year since Ye Eunsoo officially joined Special Team A at the end of last year.
A relatively short yet significant period in which the world had changed more than anyone could have predicted.
For starters, gate patterns had shifted.
Previously, gates—those catastrophic rifts tearing through space—had opened randomly.
They’d spit out monsters to wreak havoc and then closed automatically once enough of those monsters were defeated.
But that changed.
Killing the monsters alone no longer closed the gates.
Instead, the gates expanded, growing larger over time.
Amid the escalating chaos, it was Ye Eunsoo who proposed a solution.
“How long are we going to waste time outside? Get inside the gate.”
“The only difference with these new gates is this: they have a core. Pay attention to how the energy flows. When monsters die, their energy returns to the gate. Sure, not all of it, but enough that if you keep killing them, the gate will eventually close. But that’s inefficient. Entering is faster.”
At the time, his idea sounded absurd.
They called it a “gate,” but no one knew what lay beyond it.
Could people survive inside?
Could they even return?
And yet, Ye Eunsoo insisted there was a “heart” within that needed to be destroyed for the gate to disappear.
Naturally, his proposal faced opposition.
Espers were valuable assets, the backbone of national defense.
There was no need to risk their lives when there was already a working—albeit inefficient—method.
“Relying on killing monsters will only take us so far. We need to explore new options before we hit a dead end.”
“This dangerous mission is exactly what Special Team A is for. I’m the best suited for it—I’m tough enough to handle it.”
Eventually, a bold red-haired esper stepped forward, defying the opposition, and supported Ye Eunsoo’s plan.
He proved Ye Eunsoo right.
The strategy to destroy the core within the gates didn’t just save Korea; it revolutionized gate management worldwide.
Looking up at the now-clear sky, Kim Miri thought of a familiar face.
If Heewoon were still alive, he’d be proud…
He recalled Yang Heewoon, who had handed him his guide-exclusive terminal and ID after completing his retirement process.
The last time Kim Miri saw him, Yang Heewoon looked healthier than ever, no longer strained by overexertion as a guide.
But Kim Miri also remembered the medical report Yang Heewoon had submitted to the agency—undeniable proof of his impending death.
A bitter smile tugged at Kim Miri’s lips.
“…Honestly, God always takes the good ones too soon.”
Though he didn’t believe in things like gods or heaven, for Yang Heewoon, he wanted to.
Someone who gave so selflessly, even at the cost of his own life, deserved a reward in the afterlife.
“We could’ve handled it ourselves!”
As soon as Elliott Hooper removed his gear, designed to mitigate the shock of gate entry, he ruffled his own hair in frustration.
“I was dead certain about the core’s location! It wasn’t ‘hidden under a lamp’—I predicted it would be there!”
“…”
“I triple-checked it! The core’s energy signature was almost identical to the residual energy from the monsters’ cores. If not for that overlap, I’d have found it in no time!”
Nearby, Ye Eunsoo, who was logging his ammunition and cleaning his gun before returning his gear, briefly glanced at Elliott.
Then he looked away, his expression clearly saying, ‘And why should I care?’
Though frustration bubbled up again, Elliott swallowed his feelings.
He pulled out his ultimate coping mechanism.
“Ugh… I just need to go home and see my sweet Heesu’s face to heal…”
The phone’s screen displayed a photo of a baby smiling brightly.
A foolish grin spread across his face, as if it had never been clouded with displeasure.
But the unsettling feeling of being watched pulled his gaze away from the photo.
Ye Eunsoo was staring at him intently.
“What? Do you want to see Heesu too?”
“…No. I’m not into kids.”
“Of course not.”
Elliot smirked.
It was the answer he had expected.
Ye Eunsoo, who treated Yang Heewoon with utmost care, didn’t extend that kindness to anyone else—not even to the child Yang Heewoon cherished.
And for Elliot, that part of Ye Eunsoo was a relief.
If Eunsoo had seen the child as “Yang Heewoon’s legacy” and tried to claim custody, one side would surely have met a disastrous end.
Ye Eunsoo was, quite simply, the worst possible guardian.
Even if it meant sending the child to an orphanage, Elliot couldn’t bring himself to entrust the baby to Eunsoo.
He couldn’t recognize anyone who would fail to love his precious child for who they were—seeing them instead as merely someone’s “legacy” or “accessory”—as a proper protector.
“I’ve always been curious… Why name the baby ‘Heesu’ of all things?”
“What, you think I named them after you?”
“……”
“Dream on. It’s not.”
Elliot’s expression held a hint of amusement, as though hiding something—perhaps even boasting—as if he knew a significant secret about Yang Heewoon.
For some reason, that look irritated Ye Eunsoo.
“Then…”
“Kyahhh!”
The ear-splitting sound that interrupted wasn’t a scream—it was a cheer.
* * *
