The Proctor's voice, flat and devoid of emotion, sliced through the lingering buzz in the hall. "The Awakening Ceremony is concluded. Your results have been registered with the National Hunter Bureau. Your new lives begin now. Dismissed."
The words were a starting pistol. For Kang-Dae and the other high-ranking Awakeners, it was a race towards fame and fortune. For Muyeong, it was a signal to disappear. He turned, pulling the collar of his worn uniform jacket up, intending to melt into the departing crowd like a ghost.
He didn't get two steps before a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.
"And where do you think you're going, Chef?"
Muyeong froze, his entire body tensing. He didn't need to turn to know it was Kang-Dae. He could feel the arrogant smirk in the voice. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder. The newly Awakened Crimson Lancer stood there, flanked by the sycophantic Shield Bearer, Cheol, and a few other new followers who had quickly attached themselves to his rising star.
Muyeong immediately let his shoulders slump, his eyes widening in a passable imitation of fear. "I-I was just leaving," he stammered, his voice weak and reedy. He made sure to keep his eyes fixed on the floor.
"Not so fast," Kang-Dae said, his grip tightening. It was a display of dominance for his new audience. "I just wanted to offer some friendly advice. My family has a stake in a few high-end restaurants. They're always looking for dishwashers. With your 'talent,' you might even work your way up to peeling monster-yams. It's a better fate than ending up as a smear in a dungeon, right?"
The group snickered. Cheol added, "You should be grateful, traitor. Lord Kang-Dae is showing you mercy."
Muyeong forced himself to flinch, to look pathetic. "Thank you," he mumbled, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "Thank you for your consideration."
"Good. Know your place," Kang-Dae said, finally shoving him forward. "Now get out of my sight. The sight of you is ruining my big day."
Muyeong stumbled away, not daring to look back. He kept his head down, his pace hurried, the very picture of a humiliated boy fleeing his tormentors. He didn't see the woman in the grey Bureau uniform pause by the exit, her gaze lingering on the interaction for a fraction of a second before she, too, disappeared into the city.
The moment Muyeong was out of the hall and swallowed by the bustling city streets, his entire demeanor shifted. The fear vanished, replaced by a chilling stillness. The slumped shoulders straightened. His downcast eyes lifted, no longer weak and watery, but sharp and analytical. His mind replayed the confrontation, not as an insult, but as an intelligence gathering mission.
Kang-Dae: Arrogant, relies on physical intimidation. Leaves his left side slightly exposed when posturing. Cheol: A follower, no independent thought. The others: Opportunists. All of them are liabilities to be avoided... for now.
He navigated the pristine, gleaming avenues of the city's central district, where mag-lev vehicles hummed silently past glittering towers. Here, people looked at his cheap academy uniform and averted their gaze with disdain. He was a piece of trash marring their perfect view. He ignored them, his focus already miles away. As he moved towards the outer districts, the city began to decay. The gleaming towers gave way to rust-stained apartment blocks, the silent mag-levs to rattling, fume-belching buses. The clean air became thick with the smell of industrial waste and cheap, greasy food.
This was his world.
He arrived at a crumbling brick tenement, climbed four flights of rickety stairs, and entered his room. It was little more than a closet: a thin mattress on the floor, a single flickering light bulb, and a small desk covered with old, hand-drawn maps of the city center.
He locked the door, and the mask of Muyeong, the pathetic failure, fell away completely. His eyes, now cold and utterly ruthless, stared at the map. His finger traced the heavily fortified district that housed the Hunter Bureau headquarters.
"Hana," he whispered the name he had glimpsed on her ID when she'd briefly interacted with a proctor. "Bureau of Surveillance, Section 7."
Touching a trained agent from a top-secret intelligence division was borderline suicide. A direct approach was impossible. He couldn't just walk up to her; she would sense his intent a mile away. Following her was just as risky. He was Muyeong, the city's most recognizable pariah. His presence anywhere near the Bureau headquarters would trigger immediate alarms.
He needed to find a vulnerability. A gap in her armor. A place where she dropped her guard, even for a moment.
For the next three days, Muyeong lived a double life. By day, he was a ghost, haunting the edges of the central district. He used public library terminals to pull up any non-classified information on Bureau personnel transit routes—which was almost nothing. He spent hours watching the main entrance of the Bureau headquarters from the roof of a building three blocks away, using a pair of cheap, low-grade binoculars. He tracked shift changes, vehicle movements, and patrol patterns.
Hana was a professional. She never took the same route home twice. She never lingered. She moved with an efficient, almost paranoid purpose that made a tail impossible. He saw other agents stop for coffee or chat with street vendors. Not Hana. She was a machine.
But on the fourth day, Muyeung found it.
It wasn't a grand mistake. It was a tiny, human detail. For twelve minutes every day, between 12:30 and 12:42, Hana would leave the fortress-like Bureau building, not from the main entrance, but from a small, unmarked side door. She would then walk four blocks into a crowded, chaotic market district and slip into a tiny, grimy noodle stall.
The place was a hive of activity. Steam billowed from boiling pots, the owner screamed orders, and patrons were crammed elbow-to-elbow at greasy tables. It was loud, chaotic, and dirty—the last place one would expect to find a disciplined agent. It was the perfect urban camouflage. In a place where everyone was bumping into everyone else, an accidental touch was not just possible; it was inevitable.
That evening, Muyeong did not look at his map. He stood before the noodle stall, hidden in the shadows of the alley across from it, the evening crowd bustling around him. He watched the busboys, harried and overworked, rushing in and out with tubs of dirty dishes.
His eyes narrowed. A plan, cold, precise, and incredibly dangerous, began to crystallize in his mind. He wasn't just going to get a new skill. He was going to earn it. The price of admission would be immersing himself in the very filth everyone believed he belonged in.
He turned away from the stall, a predatory glint in his eyes. The hunt had officially begun.