Chapter 71

The anonymous woman spoke earnestly, confessing her story.

She had been a high-ranking officer in Division 3—someone who had fought desperately to save her comrades when her life was hanging by a thread. Just as she prepared to swing her sword for the last time, she was seized by a strange power.

At first, she thought she had reached the Upper Level of awakening. But the hatred boiling deep inside her chest, and the uncontrollable movements that followed, were not signs of ordinary awakening. Half out of her mind, she continued fighting—until she came face-to-face with a shocking truth.

The black mage she had been fighting had suddenly taken the form of a comrade who couldn’t possibly be there.

Whether it had been an illusion or some vile spell, she didn’t know. When she came to, the enemy was gone, and she was being carried to safety along with her team.

She received treatment and returned to her routine, but the blurred memories of that moment wouldn’t fade.

“Sometimes, the regret hits me so hard I can’t focus on work. If only I’d been a little stronger…”

“I see. But it’s best not to blame yourself too much.”

Judging it as a clear case of post-traumatic stress, Moon Ah-rin approached carefully.

What the woman needed was understanding and empathy. It was important not to focus solely on the act of healing, but to make sure the patient didn’t feel judged. That alone could become the first step toward facing one’s wounds.

Ah-rin folded her hands and spread her wings of light. Soft rays escaped through the wooden slats, filling the confessional with a warm glow.

“You did your best under the circumstances. Even if someone else had been there, the outcome wouldn’t have been any better.”

“But I hesitated. I had chances—so many chances—to control my emotions, but I ran away every time. Even though the answer was always right in my hand.”

In her hand?

She must have meant her sword. If she was a skilled swordswoman, her regret would be even greater. And if guilt over failing to protect her comrades grew too deep, she might never again be able to pick up her blade.

Ah-rin knew Division 3 had faced similar cases before. She spoke softly, hoping to reassure her.

“That doesn’t make you a coward. Humans are creatures that always regret the past.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Even when we think it’s too late, we still have control. What matters most is the present—how we choose to live this moment. Sometimes, when you look carefully, you’ll find a small path hidden between the trees.”

“But…”

“For now, why not do some of the things you couldn’t before? That way, when you face a similar moment again, you’ll be able to handle it more calmly.”

The woman hesitated for a while, then spoke quietly.

“Would that really be okay? People might hate me for it.”

“No one’s going to hate you.”

“No one?”

“Of course not. I promise.”

“Huh… that actually helps. Yeah, I feel lighter already!”

Perhaps her words had truly reached her—the woman’s voice sounded brighter now, steadier.

Though Ah-rin had been dragged into this task, she felt peaceful knowing she’d managed to help someone. Truthfully, she preferred these small acts of kindness far more than being praised as the Saint of Salvation.

“I’ve decided. I’m not going to repeat the same mistake again.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’ll always support your choices.”

“Thanks. I’ll go right now and put a leash on Hayan—no, that guy!”

“…Sorry, what?”

Just as Ah-rin was about to close the session, she froze. Did she hear that right?

“…A leash?” she asked the wall, her voice trembling. “What do you mean by that?”

“You said it yourself—now’s the time to do the things I’ve only ever hesitated to do.”

Wait—when did the conversation veer off like this?

Wasn’t she here because of post-battle trauma?

Ah-rin’s wings flickered out, and the holy light that filled the booth vanished. In its place crept the suffocating darkness of a woman’s twisted obsession—an immature mix of attachment and possessiveness.

“Then your ‘regret’ was…”

“If I’d put the leash on him back during the Tower of Proof—even by force—I wouldn’t have fallen for that black mage’s illusion.”

“And when you said you had something in your hand to control your emotions…?”

“Oh, this thing? It’s better than it looks. It even has a real-time tracker, so next time, I’ll know for sure it’s really him.”

The woman on the other side stood up from her seat. Unlike when she first entered, she now radiated confidence.

“You said no one would hate me no matter what I did. Just hearing that cleared away all the heaviness I’d been carrying!”

“No, wait—I never said it was okay to do whatever you want—!”

“Then I’ll go put the collar on him! Thanks for the talk!”

“W-wait—!”

The booth door slammed shut.

Maybe what she had been shouting at the end—those desperate, cracking words—had come from the last remnants of morality and conscience still clinging to her heart.

By the time Moon Ah-rin rushed outside, all she could see was the creaking wooden door of the next booth and a few strands of black hair caught in the air.

“Ah, w-welcome.”

“There’s been some idiot scribbling weird stuff on our division’s bathroom wall lately. Any idea how we can catch them?”

“Scribbling? Could you be more specific?”

“They write nonsense like ‘Who would win in a fight between humans before firearms and dinosaurs?’ or ‘₩100 million vs swapping height with Commander Ha Yeri.’ Real crap like that.”

“H-ha… whoever it is sounds… uh, creative.”

“I’d call it mean-spirited. You can tell they’re trying to give everyone hemorrhoids by keeping us stuck on the toilet reading it. I’ve got a rookie in mind already—should I rough him up a little?”

“Maybe rather than hunting for the culprit right away, it’d be better to issue a warning first—to discourage anyone from doing it again?”

“You mean group discipline. Got it.”

And so, the confessions continued.

But perhaps because the earlier session had ended with such a shocking twist—one that could ruin not one but two lives—Ah-rin found herself barely remembering what came next.

“The demons have been acting strange lately. For some reason, they come charging at me on sight. I can’t even rest properly anymore.”

“It might be paranoia from battle fatigue. Have you been losing sleep or feeling restless since your last mission?”

“I’ve been sleeping fine. Sometimes I just dream of the things they said to me.”

“What things?”

“They kept calling me someone’s lover. I figured it was just auditory hallucinations, so I ignored them and kept chopping away with my axe.”

One thing was certain: the members of Division 3 all carried very peculiar problems.

Ah-rin couldn’t be sure she was giving the right advice—half the time, she couldn’t even understand the issues properly. She wasn’t strong enough to become a great Awakened herself, but she’d always believed she was at least good at helping others. Now even that felt like it was slipping away.

Her sigh came out heavier than expected.

Late in the afternoon, when no more penitents came, Ah-rin finally stepped outside.

She planned to take the bus north to Gangbuk, feed Tartaruga, and call it a day—
but then she noticed something that hadn’t been there before.

It was a small booth made of warped, purplish planks—crooked, eerie, and faintly shimmering.

Was that thing always there?

Unlike the neatly aligned confessionals along the training hall wall, this one stood a little apart, tucked into a shadowy corner.

No prayer marks or tower emblems were engraved on it. Curiosity prickled, and Ah-rin reached for the door.

She peeked inside carefully—then froze as a voice came from the other side.

“You’ve come at last.”

“Eek! S-sorry! I didn’t know anyone was in here!”

“It’s all right. You came to confess, didn’t you?”

“Oh, um, not exactly, I just—”

“Please, come in. And close the door.”

The voice was calm and clearly male.

After a brief hesitation, Moon Ah-rin stepped inside.

The interior was dark, built like the others—two sides divided by a lattice wall for conversation.

As she sat down on the provided chair, a strange warmth spread beneath her, as if something alive were touching her from below.

Feeling a strange unease, Moon Ah-rin began to open up about what was weighing on her mind.

“Actually, I’ve been worried about something lately.”

“Oh? Please, go on.”

“I… I’m not a remarkable person. But at some point…”

Ah-rin cautiously confessed how the world’s sudden shift in how it saw her had become overwhelming.

Despite only being a Lower-Mid Rank mage, she had somehow ended up commanding a Familiar from the Demon Realm. Now, she held the position of Deputy Commander of the Firepower Support Unit—a post far above what she deserved—and carried the crushing weight of everyone’s expectations.

Every day felt like walking across thin ice. And before she knew it, she’d even gained the absurd title of “humanity’s hope.” She admitted honestly that she sometimes feared her heart might give out from the pressure.

From the other side of the booth, the man muttered something under his breath.

“Must be nice.”

“…Pardon?”

“Some of us don’t even get a nickname, and you’re here complaining about that. Tch… No, forget I said anything.”

After a moment of silence, he spoke again—this time sounding as if he’d just come up with a brilliant idea.

“If you’re afraid of disappointing people, why not just lower their expectations?”

“Lower them… how?”

“Well, I’m not exactly an expert in that area, but I happen to know someone who could help you.”

Clack, clack.

The wooden lattice suddenly shifted open—and something slipped through. A dark purple, glistening finger-like appendage poked out and placed a crumpled sheet of paper in front of her. The words “Introduction Letter” were scrawled across it in wobbly handwriting.

Then, with a slick shriik! sound, the appendage withdrew back into the shadows.

Ah-rin gingerly picked up the slimy paper using a handkerchief, but before she could open it, the man spoke again.

“Take that to Ground Zero. You’ll meet him there. Just do as he says, and I’m sure your worries will be solved, Moon Ah-rin.”

“…How do you know my name?”

“Ah, slip of the tongue. Let’s pretend you didn’t hear that.”

Now you realize?

By this point, she already had a pretty good guess about who he was. A fake confessional booth, that bored, drawling tone—it all fit together.

There were plenty of things she wanted to call him out on, but she let it slide for now. He clearly didn’t realize that Yoo Se-byeol was looking for her.

It was nearly quitting time anyway; she decided to humor him a bit—just to be polite.

Then the not-so-mysterious man, or rather Hayan, spoke again in a suddenly serious tone.

“One more thing you need to remember.”

“What is it?”

For once, his voice was calm and deliberate.

“When you meet him, make sure to buy him a Hambugi Set as payment. It must include the children’s toy.”

“…Excuse me?”