Is there any word as radiant as “youth”?

I’m not that old myself.

I’m in my early thirties—on the younger side, even.

But the friends from Jeju are five years younger than me, sometimes even more than ten years apart.

And those are the ones currently playing the biggest roles in New Seoul.

I haven’t measured the exact gap between Jeon Si-hoon and myself, but it’s probably about ten years.

Ten years is enough time for the world to change completely, multiple times over.

Among middle-aged folks, a ten-year difference doesn’t seem like much, but for younger groups, a single year can feel massive.

The foundational culture of what you played, saw, and heard in childhood is different, and peer interests shift drastically even between school years.

The generation that spent their youth in billiard halls can’t understand the generation that wasted theirs in PC cafés. And those who spent time in PC cafés likewise can’t relate to the generation addicted to smartphones.

That these Jeju friends are from a different generation than me is something I’ve come to feel acutely through carrying out missions with the ones who came to Seoul first—like Moon Yang-gyeong or Kim Han-na.

Now, they’re at the center of the world.

Jeon Si-hoon’s hideout was unlike any other office or command center of power I’d seen before.

He had renovated a destroyed factory into his base of operations.

Exposed walls of scrap wood, old steel, and bare concrete. Tangled wires strewn about. A rugged, wide-ceilinged interior.

The so-called industrial aesthetic.

It wasn’t decorated intentionally—it was just barely patched up and made usable after the war—but it still exuded a sleek, modern atmosphere. That probably came less from the interior itself and more from the fact that it was filled with handsome young men and women in their early twenties.

The vibe was extremely casual and informal.

There were no forced titles like “Mr.” or “Sir” as in typical Korean companies, and you could feel the horizontal atmosphere in the way people acted, spoke, and carried themselves.

Jeon Si-hoon’s group had been formed mostly of people from the Kang Han-min faction who had little actual religious conviction but had stuck around out of necessity.

In short—they were free spirits.

Another thing I noticed at Jeon Si-hoon’s base: the proportion of foreigners was surprisingly high, and a significant number of Awakened were walking around armed with firearms or blades.

Regular Awakened usually carry only light pistols, but here, people openly carried rifles as standard, and shotguns, grenade launchers—even jungle knives and other cold weapons weren’t uncommon.

It was obvious at a glance that Jeon Si-hoon’s group was composed of combat-specialized Awakened.

It’s said there are about thirty Awakened under Jeon Si-hoon.

Considering Kang Han-min’s faction—both Korean and foreign members, new and veteran—numbers around 100 total, that means nearly 30% broke off.

But still, this many foreigners?

More than half were from Southeast Asia. Some even chattered away in Chinese.

I’d once heard a rumor that Korea had sent Old School Hunters to China in exchange for bringing in Chinese Awakened.

A mutually beneficial deal, I guess.

Old School Hunters and Awakened were both people their respective countries didn’t have use for.

“Welcome.”

Jeon Si-hoon had a modest office set up in a prefab second-floor space overlooking the entire factory.

Maybe the construction had been shoddy—every time I walked the hallway made of plywood and thin steel panels, it creaked and swayed uncomfortably.

It was technically a second floor, but the ceiling was fifteen meters high.

Anyone with even slight acrophobia would’ve turned back after a few steps.

Jeon Si-hoon’s room was sparse.

No bed—just a worn-out mattress. A lightweight, Scandinavian-style chair and table were the only furniture.

There was no desk, no computer, but a corner of the wall was lined with a tangle of electronic charging devices. It gave off a sense of generational difference.

“Thanks for coming all this way.”

Jeon Si-hoon greeted me with a calm smile, his hair slicked back neatly.

“I wish I could receive you in a more proper location, but as you can see, our base barely has any private spaces. I don’t like staying here either, but my friends insisted I have at least one room of my own, so I’ve been stuck here. Well, it’s also a good place for confidential discussions.”

“Nice room,” I said.

I didn’t mean it.

No way in hell I’d ever live in a creaky room like this.

Just going to the bathroom would require climbing down stairs that were basically a ladder.

I’d rather live somewhere with a toilet smack in the center than deal with that.

Anyway, I came here today for one reason.

“You said you wanted to enter the Rupture?”

Jeon Si-hoon asked, still wearing that serene smile.

I nodded.

“Forgive me, but can I ask what your purpose is? I know someone like me doesn’t have the right to question Hunter Park Gyu, but this is a delicate issue. If Yoo Yang-seo asks, I need to have something to say.”

The stubble dotting Jeon Si-hoon’s pale face stood out more than usual.

His face wouldn’t objectively be called handsome, but his facial hair had that bold, Western flair.

It wasn’t shaved completely clean—just neatly trimmed, which gave him a more masculine impression.

“I’m going to meet Kang Han-min.”

As always, I had no qualms sharing classified information if it helped me achieve my goal.

Maybe it’s because I’m too good at detecting lies.

Anyone can tell a lie, but actually deceiving someone with it? That’s hard.

To succeed in lying to someone who’s suspicious and on guard—without having a burning body, a blank mind, or a dumb face to help you—that’s harder than killing a monster with a spoon.

“Kang Han-min?”

I knew Jeon Si-hoon would react negatively.

He doesn’t like Kang Han-min.

Even when they met again in Sejong, he had a prickly attitude.

I brought it up anyway.

“There’s something I want to confirm with him.”

“What exactly do you want to confirm?”

“Whether that guy—whether my cohort—has any will to protect Seoul, or even humanity at all.”

A cold gaze settled on me.

Jeon Si-hoon said flatly, without blinking:

“Let’s set aside whether that’s even a meaningful question. What if he says he does want to protect Seoul—what then?”

“I’ll stay in Seoul.”

Jeon Si-hoon’s smile vanished.

For a brief moment, I felt a ripple in the air, as if the entire space had distorted slightly.

A wave of intense displeasure.

“And if he doesn’t?”

Jeon Si-hoon asked.

He knew too.

The power dynamic in this space.

The person in charge here was ten years younger than me.

No need to deny it.

It’s just a fact.

“I’ll leave Seoul.”

“Why?”

Jeon Si-hoon asked again.

But this time, a different kind of suspicion laced the question.

I silently withstood the sharp gaze of the younger man.

For a moment, I felt a flicker of regret.

If I hadn’t come at this so bluntly—if I’d lied with the usual honeyed words—maybe this conversation could’ve gone more smoothly.

But—

“......”

Just because I’m lower doesn’t mean I have to be a coward.

I stared him down and answered.

“Because you don’t hate the monsters as much as we do.”

Jeon Si-hoon’s face hardened terrifyingly.

But only for a moment.

The man who would become king of Seoul let out a soft chuckle.

“...That’s the same thing he said.”

His gaze drifted to the past, but it didn’t turn into a recollection.

He looked back at me.

“Alright.”

He nodded.

“We’ll definitely get you into the Rupture, Hunter Park Gyu. I owe you one anyway.”

Jeon Si-hoon excused himself and took out his phone to make a call.

“Yeah, it’s me. Mm. The Rupture. How is it lately? Still holding position? Mm. That woman, really... Try to make up a pretext. Huh? Yeah. There’s someone I absolutely have to get inside.”

He met my eyes and nodded.

“......”

I admit—it’s not a good look.

But I care more about the result than the process.

I got what I wanted.

The Rupture, which had been firmly shut, would now open once more for me.

Kang Han-min had stepped into view.

 Even though things had gone well, I couldn’t deny that I felt sour.

I—a prestigious Hunter with the Golden Fleece—had to grovel for crumbs of favor from some scrappy no-name punk. That wounded my pride in subtle ways.

“......”

I needed a psychological reward.

Surprisingly, I still had one way to get it.

Stel.

Skeleton Monster Battle.

Unlike Seoulgrad, whose ratings were tanking by the day, Stel was steadily trending upward.

According to an anonymous source, the daily average user count had already surpassed Seoulgrad.

And now, Stel stood at a critical crossroads.

“How’s it looking? Think it’ll go well?”

On a remote video call, my business partner—Foxgames—asked.

He knew today was important too.

What he wanted to achieve through the game—

Was it profitable?

That question would now be tested.

According to earlier announcements, Stel would open its main content, “Monster Battle,” today, and launch its first unique character—its mascot—Skeleton.

Skeleton’s appearance was a hybrid: a sleeveless combat outfit like before, but with the head of a celebrity collab character photoshopped on per my request.

Hong Da-jeong had a fit, said it looked grotesque, but personally I thought it resembled me.

On the forums, most reactions were surprised at how much Skeleton resembled a certain celebrity—or they said he looked good.

Anyway, Skeleton was about to officially launch.

Time: 8 PM.

Countless users stared at the paid shop window.

When the padlock icon finally opened and the store became accessible—

Foxgames broke into a triumphant grin.

“Watch closely, Skeleton. I’m gonna show you exactly what a money-making game looks like.”

Ding~

A message popped up on a laptop in the corner.

An in-game message.

Foxgames had sent me a gift using his admin account.

It was a character gift.

Skeleton, no less.

I selected the avatar that resembled me—modeled after me.

The crudely rendered character nodded its head and muttered something.

“You know what? I like you...”

A baritone voice.

Not my voice.

But the voice actor’s performance was good. Deep and pleasant.

I didn’t quite get the line, but it sounded nice.

Now I checked the forums.

There’s no better place to gauge Stel’s success and raise my name.

But—

“......”

Something felt off.

Miljy323: What the fuck is this gacha? I went in thinking 50 credits was decent, but I rolled 100 times and still didn’t get it?

FlourAddict: Are you kidding me? Why make it a gacha? Can’t you just let us buy it outright?

SixRaisins: So greedy. You make a trash dog-meat game and now you’re blatantly trying to cash-grab?

DaechiMom: Yum yum... lol

YeonwooDad: Haha, got shafted on the rolls, I’m out~

DuckStirFry: What the fuck. After all that effort, it’s time-limited?

...

...

Most of the reactions were terrible.

The first problem was how the character was sold.

Foxgames had made the OP character Skeleton obtainable only through a probability-based gacha system—and on top of that, it was time-limited. A nightmare for paying users.

Public opinion was awful, but Foxgames stayed calm.

“It’s an OP character, right? Why would you get to keep it forever? Of course it’s time-limited. And expensive? If you want to use a broken character, you should pay for it, no?”

The moment I saw his shameless face, I remembered something I’d forgotten.

Right—this bastard.

He was always a goddamn scumbag.

But that wasn’t the only complaint.

To make it clearer, here are more forum posts:

Diablo323: What the hell is Monster Battle? They hyped it up as the core feature, but it’s half-assed trash.

NachoNo.1: Absolute garbage. They advertised it like it was the main dish, and this is what we get?

Simpo: The monsters are just pale-painted goblin and orc models I’ve seen before...

MorningOfAngels: Fucked. Dead. Game.

KorosEyeglassCleaner: If you don’t pull Skeleton, you literally can’t play. What kind of game is that?

Eclipse: Straight-up dog meat game.

...

...

I don’t know much about games, but I do know how to read a room.

This... wasn’t it.

This really wasn’t it.

 It didn’t take long for our game to crash and burn.

Two fatal issues hit at the same time.

One was user backlash over the dog-meat monetization and slapdash game content.

The other was Seoulgrad’s shockingly fast improvement patch.

Either one would’ve sunk the game alone, but both happened at once.

Stel had only risen because of a balloon effect—people fleeing Seoulgrad’s bugs.

If you lack ability, you return to your place. That’s just how it goes.

“...Haa.”

In our final video call, Foxgames appeared, clearly drunk.

“I’m sorry, Skeleton. I even borrowed your name... and it flopped.”

In the past, I would’ve ignored him or cursed him out.

But I didn’t even have the energy for that now.

I was headed into the Rupture anyway.

The success or failure of the game was just a way to soothe my bruised pride.

How should I put it?

I think I always knew this would happen.

A premonition, or resignation.

Like it was bound to happen.

“To be honest...”

Foxgames let out a long sigh.

“We’re just has-beens. You and me both.”

“......”

I didn’t argue.

I felt something stir inside, but it wasn’t strong enough to move me.

Maybe I really was a has-been.

That’s one way to think of it.

But what does being a has-been even mean?

A person’s role changes over time.

Just because someone can’t do what they once could doesn’t mean they’re worthless.

So—

“...I think your worth is something you define yourself.”

That’s the answer I arrived at after all this.

Foxgames, who had been staring blankly into space, looked at the screen.

And said:

“If someone who’s been pushed out of a field finds a new path of their own... can you still call them a has-been?”

It’s the same for pro soccer players.

Just because a former star leaves the pitch—does that make them a has-been?

There are plenty of other ways to succeed.

That’s what I wanted to say.

“Let’s do well.”

I never thought I’d give this guy a pep talk.

But I guess I was saying it to myself too.

Foxgames looked at the screen, chuckled softly, and rubbed his eyes with one palm.

“Hah. Took a hit from this guy. Tch.”

He lowered his hand.

And for just a moment, I saw the face of a young developer—one who hadn’t yet lost his old passion.

“Yeah. I’ll do it again.”

“Do what?”

“In the end, I’ve got nothing but games.”

“Again?”

“There’s all kinds of games. RPGs, action, puzzles... There are still plenty of genres I haven’t tried. Which means I haven’t fully discovered my own talents yet.”

I nodded.

“Yeah.”

It was a good thought.

I’m about ready to put ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) down the axe, but... who knows.

Maybe there’s still a path I haven’t found. One that’s mine alone.

The Rupture is—as always—impossible to understand or explain. Within that incomprehensible infinity, maybe there’s something that only I, Skeleton, can do.

At the very least, I want to believe there is.

“Hey.”

Our conversation had ended—but one question remained.

“Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“That Skeleton character. He says, ‘You know, I like you.’”

“Yeah, right. That’s Steamray’s line.”

“What did he like?”

Foxgames rolled his eyes, then let out a dry laugh and answered:

“No one knows.”