Han Joon-seong stood between the two men with his Muay Thai stance firm, while up above, Ervin's eyes darted between them.
The scarred man was on his left, favoring his injured arm but still dangerous. The muscular man was on his right, cracking his knuckles, a confident smirk on his face.
They attacked at the same time.
The muscular man threw a heavy punch aimed at Han Joon-seong's head. Han Joon-seong ducked under it, pivoting to the side. The scarred man followed with a kick aimed at his ribs. Han Joon-seong raised his leg to block and redirected the blow.
He countered with a punch of his own — a straight right aimed at the muscular man's jaw. The man tilted his head back, narrowly avoiding it. Han Joon-seong followed with a left hook, but the scarred man stepped in, throwing a wild haymaker that forced him to retreat.
'For street thugs, they're fairly competent. Their coordination isn't half bad.' They were attacking in sequence, covering each other's openings — although sloppily — but the gaps weren't big enough for Ervin to abuse. Yet.
Han Joon-seong weaved between their strikes, ducking and slipping, his body moving with the fluidity of a fly, as [Adaptation(Perfect)] fed [Auto Pilot(Perfect)] information. A punch from the left. A kick from the right. He dodged both, rolling his shoulders to avoid a follow-up swing.
But they were faster together than apart. They forced him backward, step by step.
The muscular man lunged forward with a straight punch aimed at his chest. Han Joon-seong sidestepped, pivoting to the right. The scarred man was already there — a punch aimed at his face. Han Joon-seong leaned back, feeling the wind brush his nose.
He threw a punch of his own. His fist connected with the scarred man's cheek — but the angle was awkward, reducing the force of the impact. The man's head snapped to the side, but he didn't fall.
Ervin clicked his tongue. 'Not enough.'
In the meantime, the muscular man had reached for a new weapon and grabbed a metal rod from a nearby table — a thick piece of iron, probably used to seal barrels. He swung it at Han Joon-seong's side.
*THWACK.*
Han Joon-seong grunted. The impact sent a shock through his ribs. He stumbled to the side, catching himself before he fell.
"Not so tough now, are you?" the muscular man sneered. "Debt collector my ass. You're just another punk for us to send to the hospital."
Han Joon-seong straightened up. His side ached. But as he refocused, Ervin noticed something.
The Muay Thai stance was absorbing some of the impact. The pain was there, but it was dulled, and there was no serious internal damage from that. The boost to Endurance was actually substantial.
He smiled.
"Is that all you've got?"
The two men exchanged glances. Then they attacked again — more coordinated this time.
The muscular man came in high, swinging the rod at Han Joon-seong's head. Han Joon-seong ducked. The scarred man came in low, a sweep aimed at his legs. Han Joon-seong jumped over it, landing off-balance.
The muscular man threw a punch. Han Joon-seong blocked with his forearm, absorbing the impact. The scarred man followed with a kick to his side — and this time, it connected.
*THUMP.*
Han Joon-seong stumbled backward, the wind knocked out of him.
"Ha!" the scarred man shouted, a confident grin spreading across his face. "We got him!"
He advanced, throwing another punch. But Ervin had anticipated his actions beforehand. Han Joon-seong tilted his head to the side, letting it slide past his ear. He was still smiling.
From above, Ervin watched with great amusement and satisfaction. 'That Muay Thai stance is really something. I'm taking hits that would have floored me before.'
The scarred man threw another punch, this time aimed at his nose. Han Joon-seong caught it. His hand wrapped around the man's fist, stopping it cold.
The scarred man's eyes went wide.
"What the—"
Han Joon-seong pulled him forward, using the momentum to spin him around. At the same time, [Adaptation(Perfect)] pulsed — a flash of insight, and his body passed through dozens of micro-adjustments.
He drove his elbow into the man's face.
*CRACK.*
The scarred man's head snapped back. His nose flattened. Blood sprayed across his face. He staggered backward, clutching his broken nose, groaning in pain.
The muscular man came charging in, swinging the metal rod with both hands. Han Joon-seong ducked under it, stepped forward, and threw a straight punch into the man's solar plexus.
The air left the man's lungs in a rush. His eyes bulged. He dropped the rod, clutching his stomach, gasping for breath.
Han Joon-seong stood between them, both men doubled over in pain.
He adjusted his collar. Brushed a speck of dust from his shoulder.
"Alright," he said calmly. "You had your fun. Now it's my turn."
He advanced on the muscular man, throwing a kick to his leg. The man tried to block, but the force sent him stumbling. Han Joon-seong followed with a knee to his ribs — *THWACK* — and the man collapsed to the ground, groaning.
The scarred man tried to rise. Han Joon-seong approached him and drove his foot into his chest, pinning him to the floor.
"Stay down."
He looked around the warehouse for a few long moments. It seemed to be it — all the other thugs were unconscious, and the entire warehouse was silent. He had taken all of them down.
He released the scarred man and walked toward the back of the warehouse — toward the office where the boss was hiding.
The door was locked, of course, so he kicked it open.
Inside, the boss was cowering behind his desk, trembling.
"P-please! Don't hurt me! I'll pay! I'll pay whatever you want!"
Han Joon-seong walked up to the desk and sat down across from him.
He spoke calmly, his voice flat:
"160 million won. Please. I've already wasted enough time."
He lifted his wrist to check his watch — but there was no watch there. He paused for a moment, then pulled out his phone instead. He glanced at the screen. Almost two hours had passed since he first arrived.
He set the phone down and looked at the boss.
"Your goons wasted my time — almost two hours. I don't want to waste any more of it here. Pay what you owe the Juhwang-pa, and I'll leave. Simple, right?"
The boss nodded frantically, scrambling to his feet. He moved to a wall in the corner of the office and pulled it off, revealing it was a false wall. He pressed against it until a hidden compartment slid open. Inside was a safe. He spun the dial with trembling fingers, unlocked it, and pulled out a thick duffel bag.
He began stuffing stacks of cash into the bag — bundles of won, neatly wrapped. When it was full, he zipped it up and handed it to Han Joon-seong with shaking hands.
Han Joon-seong took the bag without checking its contents. He simply slung it over his shoulder. He wasn't afraid the man would underpay the Juhwang-pa; after all, they could send someone worse than himself to deal with him.
"Thank you for your cooperation," he said.
He turned and walked out of the office.
As he passed through the main warehouse, he slowed. The operation was still there — the barrels of chemicals, the bottles of counterfeit alcohol, the packaging materials. The workers were knocked out. Some may even take days before they fully recover. But everything else here was intact.
He had to change that.
Han Joon-seong stopped in front of a stack of barrels. He looked at them for a moment, then lifted his foot and kicked the stack. The barrels toppled, crashing to the floor. Some of them cracked open, spilling their contents across the concrete.
A foul smell filled the air.
Han Joon-seong waved his face and walked away without looking back. He simply walked out of the warehouse, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
From above, Ervin watched with cold indifference. He gave a small snort, then moved Han Joon-seong away.
---
The bus ride was long. Han Joon-seong sat near the back, the duffel bag resting on his lap. The other passengers glanced at him nervously — a tall man with a large bag, still wearing the faint scent of chemicals from the warehouse. But no one said anything.
He got off at the familiar stop near the university, then walked the rest of the way to the Juhwang-pa loan office — the building with the cheerful orange signage advertising fast approvals and easy terms.
He pushed through the front door, past the clerk and the few customers filling out paperwork. He walked straight to the back room.
Inside, the room was the same as always — fluorescent lights, an ugly leather couch, a few men lounging around. But the faces were different. A new group of thugs, ones he hadn't seen before.
The man behind the desk looked up at him, his expression flat.
"Who are you?"
Han Joon-seong didn't answer. He simply lifted the duffel bag and tossed it onto the floor in front of the desk. It landed with a heavy thud.
"Money collected from Changsin-dong," he said flatly. "The counterfeit operation. The debt is paid."
He turned and walked out without waiting for a response.