Chapter 50

The silver sedan rolled to a stop at the edge of the parking lot, its tires brushing over the white lines.

From the driver’s seat stepped a middle-aged man in a clean suit and sunglasses—a badger Beast-Blooded. It was Yoon Sang-hak.

He smiled pleasantly as he approached Jeom-baek and Beomjin.

“Just one look and I can tell. You’re the one who called yesterday, right?”

His tone carried that low, easy confidence of a man who thought he owned the place. Even as he shook Jeom-baek’s hand, his eyes never left Beomjin.

“This the fighter you mentioned? Damn, look at that build. A real tiger, huh? Where’d you even find someone like this?”

“…Park Beom-su,” Beomjin replied, lowering his voice to sound curt and unassuming.

Thankfully, Sang-hak didn’t recognize him.

“There’s no rulebook where we’re going — only the best of the best get in. Think you can handle that?”

Beomjin gave a small nod.

“Good. Then how about we test you right now? One round, just to see what you’ve got.”

The unexpected proposal made Jeom-baek glance nervously at Beomjin. For a second, even Beomjin froze — but then, a slow calm spread across his face. This was perfect. A chance to learn more. Maybe even about the missing students.

“…Fine by me.”

Sang-hak clapped his hands in delight. “Good! Let’s go, it’s not far.”

He motioned toward his car.

Before leaving, he pulled an envelope from his jacket and handed it to Jeom-baek.

“Here. A little something for the trouble. From here on out, it’s fighter business — you’re done.”

Jeom-baek blinked, still dazed as Beomjin got into the car. Sang-hak’s sedan circled once and exited the parking lot.

When it finally disappeared from sight, Jeom-baek peeked into the envelope.

Inside were twenty crisp ₩50,000 bills.

“Oh, ho?!”

He grinned wide, his eyes sparkling — until a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“What are you doing? We’re following them. You took the job, so finish it.”

Jinyoung snatched the envelope and dragged him back to the car.

Through the car window, quiet alleys and old warehouse buildings of Seongsu-dong drifted by. Beomjin stared at his reflection in the glass — the unfamiliar face staring back looked slightly tense.

Sang-hak hummed an upbeat tune at the wheel, tapping to the rhythm. The car stopped in front of a faded two-story building — a real estate office and a claw machine shop below, a gym sign hanging above.

Still humming, Sang-hak led the way up the creaking stairs. No elevator. The rusted gym door screeched as it opened.

The air inside was thick and warm, heavy with dust and sweat. The floor mats were worn down, and in the middle stood a boxing ring with loose ropes and faded red corners.

“Not bad, huh? Perfect for a quick test.”

He rapped on a side door, and after some rustling, a man in his early forties stepped out — short hair, track pants, a body built like a tank. His broad traps and chest screamed years of training.

Sang-hak smacked him across the cheek.

“Customer’s here. Get ready for a test.”

The man blinked, his drowsy eyes snapping open. With a swollen face, he grabbed a pair of gloves.

“No headgear, that’s fine, right?”

Sang-hak looked at Beomjin expectantly. Beomjin eyed the man. Even without shifting, he could smell it — wolf.

“Let’s treat it like a real fight.”

“Oh?”

Sang-hak grinned, clearly entertained. The wolf, on the other hand, clicked his tongue.

“Then I guess I won’t be needing these either.”

He tossed the gloves aside. Sang-hak chuckled.

“Ha! The tension’s already heating up.”

He dragged over a chair, sat at ringside like a judge, and waved impatiently.

“Come on, start already!”

Beomjin removed his jacket and stepped into the ring. Each creak beneath his boots filled him with a familiar thrill — like the first time he’d climbed into a ring years ago.

He rolled his neck, stretched his arms, loosened his shoulders. His pulse quickened, body warming up in rhythm with his breath.

The wolf bounced lightly on his feet across from him, limbering up his own way.

“How many rounds you want?”

“In a real fight,” the wolf said with a smirk, “it goes until someone drops.”

Beomjin nodded. Both men took their stances in the center.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Tiger.”

Beomjin raised his guard.

They touched gloves, then immediately focused — the heartbeat in his ears faded into silence.

The first fight since the Ten-Story Pagoda. His entire body was itching to move.

He wanted to test himself — to see how much stronger he’d truly become.

Breathing steady, he watched the wolf’s rhythm.

Then, as the man grinned and rushed in half a beat faster than expected—

Beomjin moved.

He slipped sideways, closing the gap in one motion. As the wolf’s jab came flying, Beomjin twisted right and drove his fist forward.

The punch shot out in slow motion and landed squarely on the wolf’s cheek.

Thwack!

Thud, thud, thud—!

The man flew back like he’d been hit by a truck, tumbling across the floor before collapsing in a heap.

“…Huh?”

What was meant to be a light start had ended the test in a single blow. Beomjin crouched, slapped the foam from the man’s mouth, and brought him back to consciousness.

Clap, clap, clap, clap.

“Wow~, unbelievable! Not a bluff after all!”

Sang-hak burst into laughter, applauding like a proud investor who’d struck gold. He climbed into the ring, circling Beomjin as his eyes gleamed with greedy delight.

“This guy isn’t the type to go down easy… you’re the real deal. I like you! This’ll sell tickets for sure! Let’s get you signed right now!”

His excitement burned hotter than Beomjin’s own pulse. Behind them, the wolf man stirred, dazed, blinking as if waking from a dream—only for Sang-hak to smack the back of his head.

“Hey! Bring me the contract! And quit lying there like dead weight, useless bastard.”

The wolf stumbled into the office and came back with a stack of papers.

The contract was short and to the point.

At the top: spaces for name, contact info, fight record, and Beast-Blooded type. At the bottom: one bold disclaimer, “The organizer bears no responsibility for any injury or death occurring during the match.”

That was it.

“Here, write your name. And sign there.”

Sang-hak handed him a pen still stained with ink.

Without hesitation, Beomjin signed — Park Beom-su.

“Straightforward, just like your punches.”

Sang-hak chuckled, tucking the paper away.

“When can you fight?”

“I’m fine even today.”

Part bluff, part truth — Beomjin wanted in fast, both to uncover the truth and to test his own limits. His body felt sharper than ever. The thrill of the hunt stirred in his blood.

The desire to step into the Forest of Beasts — began to bloom.

“Love the enthusiasm, but not today. I’ll check the schedule and call you tonight if we can slot you in tomorrow.”

“Understood. I’ll wait for your call.”

As Beomjin turned to leave, Sang-hak muttered almost to himself,

“Let’s see if that guy’s usable tomorrow.”

“…What was that?”

Beomjin glanced back, but Sang-hak just waved it off.

“Nothing, nothing. One of our fighters caught a cold. Kid’s got no experience but plenty of strength, that’s all.”

Something about the tone didn’t sit right, but now wasn’t the time to pry.

Beomjin bowed lightly and stepped outside.

The moment he pulled out his phone to message Jinyoung, a faint scent rode the alley breeze.

Blood.

Stale and heavy, with that distinct tang of rotting flesh.

Too familiar to mistake for ordinary city stench. His instincts recognized it before his mind did.

Beomjin froze, then turned toward the source.

He typed a quick message to Jinyoung and crossed the street.

The scent grew thicker.

Beyond a low wall stood an old warehouse.

A rusted sign hung crookedly above the entrance:

[Miram Trading]

The name hit him like a spark — the very one Sun-ho had mentioned.

This was it.

Sang-hak’s offhand words finally clicked into place.

The old warehouse stood silent in the dark, lights dead and air still. The industrial zone around it reeked of rust and emptiness — the kind of stillness that made your ears ring.
Now and then, a gust of wind scattered dust and carried the faint clanging of metal from somewhere unseen.

Beomjin crouched beside the steel gate. No security cameras. From a glance, the place looked abandoned — just another dead factory.

The gate was rusted enough to give you tetanus just by touching it, but the padlock was brand new. The stench, the faint animal scent — this was it. This was where the kidnapped students were being held.

The lock snapped easily under Beomjin’s grip. He thought briefly about sneaking in quietly, but that would be pointless. Once the captives were rescued, the chaos would follow anyway. Better to go in head-on.

He crossed the littered yard of trash and scrap, then stepped inside. A lone CCTV camera hung from the ceiling — it was unclear if it was working, but caution never hurt.

Scanning the area, Beomjin grabbed a discarded tarp from the floor. It was damp, moldy, and reeked, but he pulled it over himself like a raincoat and followed the scent trail leading down the stairs.

Basement level one. A heavy iron door blocked the way, but like the one above, it wasn’t locked. When he pushed it open, humid air rushed out — the basement was divided into small, cell-like chambers.

By the entrance sat a small desk, and slumped over it, a fat man was snoring loudly.

Inside the bars beyond, faint shapes of people stirred.

Without hesitation, Beomjin pressed down hard on the man’s neck, jolting him awake.

“Kh—!”

“Quiet. You make a sound, I’ll snap your neck. Got it?”

The deep, cold tone made the man’s jowls quiver. He nodded frantically, choking on his own breath.

“Who’s running this place?”

“I—I don’t know. I just… watch the door and bring food—”

“Who told you to?”

“I, uh—”

“I’m not asking.”

Beomjin twisted the man’s arm and pressed down harder.

Crack!

The left elbow broke with a wet pop.

“Gahh!”

A faint glow flared beneath the tarp — his eyes flashing like a predator’s.

“Answer me.”

“I—I don’t know his name! They just call him… the Badger.”

The Badger?

Yoon Sang-hak. Of course. It was his doing.

A Special Beast Investigation Unit agent — involved in this filth. Beomjin ground his teeth.

“The keys. Hand them over.”

“Wh-what?”

Tears pooled under the man’s chin, dripping onto the desk.

“Unlock the cages. I’ll let them out.”

“If I do, they’ll kill me—”

“You’ll die faster if I do it.”

Beomjin pressed harder until the man’s neck bones creaked.

“Agh—! Okay! Okay!”

Snot and tears ran down his face as he fumbled across the desk, trembling. Beomjin hauled him upright, and the man grabbed a set of keys.

Without a word, Beomjin opened the nearest empty cell.

“Get in.”

When the man hesitated, Beomjin kicked him inside and locked the bars behind him. Clutching his broken arm, the man stared, terrified, at Beomjin’s shadow beneath the tarp.

Beomjin turned to the remaining cells. Shapes moved inside the farthest one. He opened the door on the right — a man lifted his head weakly.

“…Who are you?”

“Gwak Jeong-woo?”

Messy hair, bloodstained shirt, sunken eyes. The man’s face, caught in the dim light, was steeped in despair.

“…I’m Dong-jun.”

“Then Choi Dong-jun? Good. Where’s Gwak Jeong-woo?”

“Please—please get me out of here!”

Dong-jun clung to Beomjin’s tarp, sobbing like a child. His wrists were thin, shaking violently.

“Don’t worry. I’m here to save you — both you and Jeong-woo.”

Beomjin glanced at the opposite cell. A figure lay motionless, face turned away.

Was he too late?

His chest sank — but then Dong-jun sniffled and stammered,

“Jeong-woo hyung… he was taken somewhere else. A few days ago.”

Beomjin’s gaze hardened. The stillness in his eyes sharpened into steel.

“Then who the hell is that inside?”