The hospital smelled of antiseptic and ozone.
Kang Jae-Hyun sat in the ICU waiting area, clothes still streaked with ash and blood that wasn't his.
The little girl he had carried out had been taken by social services hours ago; she hadn't spoken a word.
His parents were in surgery. Shattered ribs, internal bleeding, severe mana shock from proximity to the rift. The doctors, some of the best in the country, courtesy of Apex priority, gave guarded optimism. "They're stable for now."
Stable wasn't enough.
He hadn't slept. Hadn't eaten. Just sat, staring at the floor, replaying the night in fragments.
The girl's silent scream.
His mother's hand reaching for him as the chopper lifted.
The bodies on the expressway.
The monsters that normal steel couldn't touch.
Morning came gray and cold.
The news feeds in the waiting room ran nonstop coverage.
"Red Gate catastrophe in Han River district. Final civilian death toll: 120. Thirty survivors evacuated. Thirty-seven Hunters and Players confirmed dead, including A-rank Hunter Kim Soo-Jin and Player squad leader Park Min-Ho. The rift was closed after six hours by combined forces led by S-rank Hunter Lee Hyun-Woo…"
Faces scrolled across the screen: official portraits of the fallen Players and Hunters.
Proud. Determined. Unyielding.
Jae-Hyun watched every one.
He attended three funerals that week.
The first was for the Player who had covered his escape, the one who had shot the razor-wolf. His photo showed a young man in his twenties, grinning in exo-armor, rifle raised. The eulogy spoke of duty, of charging into hell so others wouldn't have to.
The second was a joint service for an entire Apex Player squad wiped out holding a choke point. Row upon row of coffins draped in company colors.
The third was quiet, almost private: the mother of the little girl he had saved. He stood in the back, anonymous among mourners, as a small casket was lowered into the ground.
Each time, he looked at the photos of the dead protectors and felt the same burn in his chest.
They had power.
They had chosen to use it.
And because of them, thirty people, including his parents, including that girl, and lastly him were still breathing.
He returned to the hospital every day. His parents remained in induced comas, machines breathing for them, mana-infused IVs keeping their bodies from rejecting the trauma.
He sat between their beds, holding their hands in turns.
On the seventh day, his mother's fingers twitched. The doctors called it a good sign.
That night, alone in the dim room, Jae-Hyun spoke for the first time in days.
"I was wrong."
His voice was hoarse.
"I thought staying out of it was strength. That being happy in my own world was enough. But when the sky broke… I couldn't do anything. I couldn't protect you. I couldn't protect her."
He looked at his father's still face.
"I ran into fire with nothing but my body and luck. And luck almost wasn't enough."
He stood, walked to the window. Seoul glittered below, peaceful again, as if the city had already moved on.
But he hadn't.
"I don't want to be helpless again."
The decision crystallized, cold and absolute.
The next morning, he walked into Apex Dynamics headquarters without calling ahead.
Security recognized him immediately.
Wordlessly, they escorted him to the executive floor.
Chairman Park Tae-Woo was waiting in his office, as if he had known this moment would come.
The old man studied Jae-Hyun's face: the dark circles, the set jaw, the eyes that had changed overnight.
"You're sure?" the Chairman asked quietly. No grandfatherly warmth this time. Just gravity.
Jae-Hyun nodded once.
"Make me a Player."
Chairman Park leaned back. "The process is irreversible. Painful. And once you start, there's no going back to tournaments, to normal life."
"I know."
"The serum compatibility test could fail. You might end up mid-tier. Or worse."
"I know."
A long silence.
Then the Chairman pressed a button on his desk. "Send word to sub-level seven. Prepare the injection chamber. "
He looked at Jae-Hyun again.
"Anything else?"
Jae-Hyun met his gaze.
"The sword... bring it"
Half an hour later, he stood in the same testing chamber where he had first heard the sword speak but different room.
Researchers bustled. Monitors glowed. Vortex floated inside its containment field, crimson veins pulsing lazily.
His parents' colleagues, people who had known him since childhood, looked at him with a mix of pride and worry.
The lead doctor approached with the serum injector: a sleek device loaded with shimmering violet fluid.
"Compatibility test first. Then, if you pass threshold, full infusion."
Jae-Hyun removed his shirt and sat in the reinforced chair. Restraints locked gently around his wrists and ankles. Needles pricked his arm. Blood was drawn, mixed, analyzed in real time.
Numbers climbed on the main screen.
60%…
70%…
75%…
78%…
Researchers whispered. Elite already.
80%…
Gasps.
81%.
The highest recorded in the country. One of only three.
The doctor stared. "Perfect synchronization. We've never seen integration this clean."
Chairman Park allowed himself a small smile.
"Proceed with full infusion."
The restraints tightened. A larger needle extended from the device, poised over the vein in Jae-Hyun's neck.
"This will hurt," the doctor warned. "A lot. The artificial mana rewrites your cells from the inside. Most candidates scream. Some pass out."
Jae-Hyun nodded. "Do it."
The needle pierced.
Fire exploded through his body.
It wasn't pain like a wound or a burn. It was deeper: every muscle seizing, every nerve igniting, bones feeling like they were cracking and reforming.
His vision tunneled. Veins bulged beneath his skin, glowing faint violet as the serum spread.
He clenched his teeth so hard he tasted blood.
Sweat poured. His back arched against the restraints. A low groan escaped, then another, louder.
The researchers watched monitors spike: heart rate, neural activity, mana saturation all red-lining.
Minutes stretched into eternity.
Then, slowly, the fire cooled into something else: raw power flooding his limbs, sharpening his senses, strengthening every fiber.
The restraints released.
Jae-Hyun stood on unsteady legs, breathing hard. His shirt was soaked. But he was whole. More than whole.
The containment field around Vortex dropped.
The sword floated forward on its own, crimson veins pulsing brighter than before.
Its voice filled the chamber: low, amused, almost approving.
"Well, well. The pretty boy came back bleeding after all."
Jae-Hyun lifted his head.
Across the room, through the haze of lingering pain, he met the sword's crimson glow.
Vortex hung motionless in the air, studying him.
And Jae-Hyun stared back.
Neither moved.
Neither spoke.
Only the soft hum of machinery and the quiet pulse of the blade.
Then Vortex spoke again, voice quieter this time, laced with something new.
"Interesting," it murmured, almost to itself. "Very… interesting."