The bustle of the year-end holiday season filled every corner.

Christmas trees still twinkled in a few places where people clung to the holiday spirit, while events welcoming the new year sprang up here and there.

It was peaceful.

But it was a peculiar kind of peace.

Ho-jong spoke of it.

At a yakitori restaurant near the hotel, a place that had recently become their regular spot.

“What a fascinating country. If this were Korea, there’d be a riot in front of the Association by now.”

“It’s a country with a strong central government. The superhuman community falls under government agencies here.”

“True enough. Korea might have managed the same back when the Management Bureau was in power.”

Jormungandr continued its southward advance.

However, the media had stopped reporting on the danger, and the atmosphere of fear had subsided.

It was, of course, turning a blind eye.

Japan was still melting its national treasury to defend the exchange rate.

Police forces had been deployed at several times their previous capacity to catch the recent surge in crime.

Above all, superhuman crime had worsened.

Korea had been virtually free of it thanks to Jin Ho-jong serving as an absolute deterrent, but conditions abroad were quite different.

In times like these, superhuman crime would typically surge to a boiling point.

The citizens simply didn’t know.

Those who would leave had already left, and the ones who remained were gripped by a fanatical belief that things would somehow work out.

The fact that Korea’s elite had come to support them only amplified the effect.

Kwon-seung was one of the heroes of the Izanami War.

Even during the Christmas holidays, he appeared at official functions to speak of the subjugation’s success, working to calm the public. The Japanese government and media made extraordinary investments in him, further pacifying the populace.

Ho-jong personally took to the field to handle the superhuman crime problem.

A hunter who hunted hunters. His aptitude had always lent itself to that role, and now he had reached S-Rank.

The rampaging hunter cartels and the 318 superhuman criminals he had apprehended were all locked away in prison.

He had spent a mere two days on the task.

Jung-woo, who carried the greatest expectations, had been shuttling between the operations room and the training facility, dedicating himself to optimization.

As a result, the situation had actually turned out to be not so bad after all.

“How’s our Rudolph’s friend?”

“We’re starting to see results. She’s at a level where field deployment is somewhat feasible.”

“That rabbit must really be something.”

“Indeed. An S-Rank Buffer doesn’t earn that rank for nothing.”

December 27th.

Three days remained before the estimated southward arrival.

This period had served as a process for Jung-woo to realize just how exceptional a summon the Snow Rabbit Saint was.

“It’s deeply intertwined with my aptitude. It feels like something is being completed. Weakening enemies and strengthening allies within my Domain, closing the gap in ranks…”

“With no Out-of-Rank entity likely to appear, you’re practically invincible, aren’t you?”

“Well, you never know what life brings.”

“Don’t give me that.”

Ho-jong downed his beer.

“Even a fool can tell you’re already looking ahead, Jung-woo. You’re not exactly subtle about it.”

Jung-woo couldn’t answer immediately.

But it wasn’t that he was dodging the question.

Ho-jong was the person who best understood his interest in Zero Gate exploration.

They simply never brought it up as a topic.

Even a conversation like this was, in a sense, unfamiliar territory.

Of course, this wasn’t something that would sow seeds of conflict.

“Don’t go too far. I’d hate to watch someone I care about walk into the jaws of death a second time.”

“As long as it’s not death, it’s fine, right?”

“You’re young, Jung-woo. You have plenty of opportunities to grow stronger. I just want you to think it through carefully.”

It was genuine concern.

Ho-jong had been through a similar experience himself, and this was his way of expressing worry.

Jung-woo understood that sentiment well.

And he was genuinely grateful for it.

“You know I don’t take on low-probability ventures. I’m nothing if not methodical.”

“I know that. You’re a calculating one, Jung-woo.”

“That’s a hurtful way to put it.”

“I’ve got plenty of grievances with you too. Let’s call it even.”

“Honestly, if you can’t even—”

Jung-woo chuckled and took a swig of his beer.

Another night was drawing to a close.

So far, everything had been going smoothly.

The government training facility.

Hikaru had been living there for the past few days, virtually confined.

But she never felt stifled or gloomy about it.

Quite the opposite.

Lately, she had been devoted to each day, earnest and hungry.

With Jung-woo’s help, she had begun bringing her power under control, and she was spending the most rewarding days she had ever known.

Though, to anyone peeking in, the scenes might have appeared rather sinister.

Ppok!

Chwak!

The rabbit lashed its whip across Hikaru’s back.

Each time, Hikaru raised the density of the Eternal Imprisonment sphere she had formed on her palm—about the size of a baseball.

Hikaru’s power was an ocean.

Bringing that power under control was the process of learning just how much seawater she could scoop up and to what extent she could use it.

If she scooped only a small cup’s worth, she could keep her Domain fully under control.

A bucket’s worth allowed her to form the Domain.

A water tank’s worth, and control slipped away. That was her limit when working alone.

Now, things were different.

“Output stability is solid. Let’s push it further.”

“Yes!”

Jung-woo was supervising from beside her.

The rabbit’s buff reduced the strain Hikaru felt in maintaining control, etching the experience of handling greater power into her body.

Since this was conducted in a safe environment, there was no psychological burden either.

The result:

On the morning of December 28th, she hit a turning point.

Kiiiiiiing—!

A storm took residence within the Domain she had shaped into a basketball-sized sphere above her palm.

The initial goal.

She had reached the level of creating and operating a desired environment within Eternal Imprisonment.

A radiant smile bloomed across Hikaru’s face.

A thrill that sent tingles down her spine brought tears to the corners of her eyes.

The power she had always feared was, for the first time, completely her own.

Hikaru sprang to her feet and turned to Jung-woo with a beaming face.

“I—I did it! I succeeded!”

Jung-woo smiled back warmly.

“I knew you could. That was impressive.”

It was a conventional compliment, but to Hikaru, it carried special meaning.

It was praise from the first person who had ever looked at her properly. Of course it meant more.

Jung-woo had never berated Hikaru for her failures. He had encouraged her.

During the stretches where progress stalled, rather than growing frustrated, he had demonstrated a belief in her potential that surpassed even her own.

Not once in these past few days had he wavered.

That was why the days spent together were treasure to Hikaru.

It was a first.

She had never before responded to expectations out of a sense of crushing responsibility.

This was the first time she had genuinely wanted to meet someone’s expectations of her own free will.

“Perfect. At this level, I can craft a few of the weapons I had in mind.”

“Can we catch it? That snake.”

“Ninety-five percent. That’s the highest probability I can assign before commencing operations.”

Jung-woo approached, the curve of a smile on his lips, and the image seared itself into Hikaru’s memory.

He gazed at the Domain she had formed on her palm with unmistakable satisfaction.

When he looked up, their eyes met.

For an instant, her heart seemed to flutter.

Her face flushed for no reason.

She was only making eye contact, yet she felt as though she were doing something terribly embarrassing, and she gradually averted her gaze.

Then, she finally managed to speak.

“I—I’ve only been receiving help… I don’t know how to thank you…”

The words came out in a barely audible whisper.

Even as she thought to herself:

‘Why won’t the corners of my mouth stay down…!’

She had become able to smile.

This would have been a fine moment to be a bit more serious.

She was still processing.

“I’m just doing what needs to be done. We’re colleagues, and Ms. Ichijomodori has always had plenty of potential.”

“U-uh…”

“And personally, I really wanted things to go well for you. I was concerned. About you, Ms. Ichijomodori.”

Those words made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end.

She looked at Jung-woo in surprise, and he was smiling with genuine warmth.

“I was reminded a lot of my daughter. Whenever I see young girls, I can’t help but wonder if Se-gi, once she’s grown, would be like that. So I just want everyone to have a smile on their face.”

“Oh…”

“Hmm?”

“N-no, I was just thinking that could be true…!”

She had no idea why her stomach felt so hollow.

“…You’re amazing. You’re only five years older than me.”

Only five years apart.

Those words carried an unusual weight.

Seventeen wasn’t so young as to be compared to him like that.

She couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud, but she found herself grumbling inwardly.

A brief chuckle escaped Jung-woo’s lips.

His outward age might suggest as much, but factoring in his pre-regression years, the gap in mental age was twice that.

Even without that, Jung-woo felt the same way.

“We’ve had different life experiences. I became a father at your age, Ms. Ichijomodori.”

“That’s…”

“I’m an old man now. My mindset has already become that of one.”

No, you’re not.

She denied it inwardly.

In reality, Jung-woo was far too young to be called an old man, and his appearance was quite striking.

Besides, hunters aged slowly.

The higher the rank, the slower the aging. At S-Rank, the body’s magical response could actually rejuvenate one’s physical age back to its prime.

Kwon-seung, for instance, was in his seventies, yet his body’s vitality rivaled that of someone in his thirties.

That meant Jung-woo’s face would not age any further for decades to come.

She wanted, somehow, to contradict him.

But the only words that found their way out were:

“…You’re not an old man.”

She found herself absently rubbing the Eternal Imprisonment sphere on her hand with her index finger.

Her control over her ability had improved so much that she could perform such actions unconsciously, but her mind was elsewhere, and she didn’t even notice.

Jung-woo, utterly oblivious to her inner thoughts, responded.

“Um, thank you?”

Shin Jung-woo, mental age: thirty-two.

It was simply a wonderful age at which young people still regarded him as young.

And so, their emotions ran on parallel tracks.

Piiiiiiii—!

A siren wailed without warning.

It was a device installed outside the training facility to summon personnel inside in emergencies.

Jung-woo’s expression hardened.

So did Hikaru’s.

“Let’s go.”

“Yes!”

They quickly wrapped up and moved to the command center.

Moments later, unwelcome news descended upon them.

“…Jormungandr has simultaneously bombarded the reconnaissance aircraft.”

Jormungandr, which had been quietly focused on its movement, had begun exhibiting abnormal behavior.

“And its movement speed has more than doubled.”

A deep shadow fell over the reporter’s face.

Drones, reconnaissance aircraft, and even the Aegis destroyer that had been standing by at a distance in nearby waters.

All of them vanished in an instant.

Jung-woo stared at the screen, watching the last footage the recording equipment had transmitted.

A shadow, as if an entire continent were moving, stretched across the sea.

It was as though the glaciers of the Arctic Sea had come alive.

The grand and oppressive movement was undeniably silent.

It went only its own way, as if it had no interest in anything around it.

Then, without warning, it released mana.

Before anyone could comprehend what had happened, all connections to the equipment were severed.

Annihilation, in the literal sense of the word.

“Our estimated observation distance was approximately 100 kilometers. Until now, it hadn’t shown the slightest concern for anything beyond that range, but…”

“It must have launched the attack suddenly. You miscalculated. That thing is an intelligent creature. It can shift its stance on a whim.”

“…I apologize.”

“Apologies won’t cut it now. I believe I mentioned this from the start. I asked you to observe from the maximum distance at which the route could be tracked, not from near the attack range. To put it simply: you provoked it unnecessarily.”

“…I apologize.”

He had nothing else to say.

It wasn’t that Jung-woo didn’t understand the man’s position.

Frontline workers and commanders occupied different worlds.

Sometimes, incompetent superiors were more terrifying than the enemy.

“It seems the Japanese government officials considered subjugation contribution points more important. At a moment when the nation’s very survival hangs in the balance.”

“…”

“The Ministry of Foreign Affairs? That’s the suspect my mind arrives at. Add the Ministry of Defense? Ah, that would be the core of it.”

He had deliberately used strong words like “suspect.”

It was a blatant reprimand, and Jung-woo was, in a rare departure from his usual demeanor, genuinely furious.

“Taking command of the subjugation was conditional. I stated that everything had to proceed under my control. I made that explicitly clear. I also said I wouldn’t quibble over contribution credits. Was saving face that important to them?”

The subjugation preparation phase was like a row of dominoes.

If one pillar fell, everything they had built would collapse, and every piece played a critical enough role to require replanning from scratch.

They had wrecked all of it.

This was precisely why commanders far from the field shouldn’t sit at the top.

“No, not face—post-subjugation compensation? Yes, that must be what they were after. With Jormungandr’s southward advance causing this much damage, they probably wanted to sell off materials to plug the hole in the national treasury.”

The official’s head dropped toward the floor.

His trembling body betrayed his terror.

Jung-woo didn’t tell him it was okay.

Because it wasn’t okay.

He didn’t tell him to stand up.

Because these people had forfeited that right.

“Estimated time of landfall?”

“…Twenty hours.”

“Impressive. You’ve pulled the battle forward by thirty hours. The original operation’s success rate has dropped to eighty percent. You Japanese certainly are impatient. I thought Korea held the crown in that department.”

The words bordered on mockery.

Jung-woo closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

“Bring everyone who gave the orders. I’ll hold them accountable publicly. No—I’ll go to them myself. We don’t have time.”

It was an order.

But there was no room for argument.

“Understood.”

A thought occurred to Jung-woo anew.

‘Ah, right. This was normal.’

Since his regression, nothing like this had happened.

His power and standing were irreplaceable, and he had always conducted subjugations in environments where he had cleared away every potential obstacle in advance.

But before his regression, it had been different.

This had been the everyday reality.

There were people who cared more about the profits to be gained during the process than the success of the subjugation itself.

Such people, wielding their seniority, would often complicate matters beyond recognition.

Jung-woo humbly acknowledged it.

‘I was being too generous with them.’

He had tried to resolve things amicably.

After all, what mattered were the subjugation of Jormungandr and Hikaru’s awakening.

Both were progressing well, so he had assumed there was no crisis to speak of.

He changed his mind.

He changed his mindset.

As Jung-woo exited the command center, his mind was already racing.

He reviewed the plans.

Plans B, C, and D existed in case Plan A failed.

He assembled them in his mind.

He sought ways to pull the success rate back up.

His mood was utterly foul.

‘Ninety-one percent.’

No matter how much he racked his brain, that was the ceiling with what they had prepared so far.

Jung-woo was an extreme perfectionist.

That tendency had elevated him, despite being a mere C-Rank, to the position of subjugation commander for critical operations. After his regression, it had consistently guided him to victory in the face of S-Rank Champion subjugations.

So it was a beneficial trait.

But a trait pushed to its extreme was always a double-edged sword.

There was always a recoil.

Perfectionists were, by and large, control freaks.

They were people plagued by a compulsion for cleanliness, who felt profound revulsion toward unplanned deviations.

“Let’s go.”

Jung-woo said as he climbed into the car.

As the car sped down the road, he reined in his seething emotions.

Even so, his thoughts chained together, link after link.

In moments like these, Jung-woo constantly checked the corner of his vision.

【Skill: The lock on [■■■■] is being released!】

【Connecting to the world!】

【Re-evaluation has begun!】

A notification that had appeared that morning.

It had been stuck in evaluation without progressing.

‘I have to assume it doesn’t exist.’

There was no telling when that evaluation would conclude.

He couldn’t lean on uncertainty.

His gaze grew a touch colder.

In that moment, Hikaru spoke.

“…I’m sorry.”

“Ms. Ichijomodori, you have nothing to apologize for.”

“No, I’m still sorry.”

Her expression was deeply somber.

Anger and shame were visible in her features.

And she was watching his mood.

A sense of responsibility.

What Hikaru felt was infinitely close to that.

But unlike before, it didn’t crush her.

A flicker of anger was there, lighting the way.

Telling him that this girl would no longer be pushed around by whatever came her way.

That, at least, was reassuring.

Jung-woo steadied his breath and spoke.

“I’ll say it again: you have nothing to apologize for, Ms. Ichijomodori.”

“But…”

“It’s fine. I’m not like this just because I’m angry.”

He had no intention of venting his emotional fury.

Unless it served to raise the subjugation success rate, it was meaningless.

Even so, there was another reason he was rushing to the Ministry of Defense.

“I will make this subjugation succeed. This is part of that process.”

He would hold them accountable for the four-percent gap, in whatever form the odds demanded.

There was a great deal he needed to tear away.

Hearing the news of Jormungandr’s acceleration, Kwon-seung and Ho-jong had rushed to the Ministry of Defense.

They arrived just as Jung-woo stepped out of his car and strode toward the building entrance.

Having heard the same reports, they couldn’t possibly be unaware of what had happened.

A murderous aura emanated from Jung-woo.

Kwon-seung and Ho-jong knew Jung-woo.

By and large, in almost every circumstance, he was gentlemanly and courteous.

He was well-disposed toward others and accustomed to showing humility.

For a man like that to wear such an expression…

Both men, with their years of experience, understood the texture of reading people.

A person like Jung-woo was the most terrifying when angry.

Ho-jong said with a sigh of admiration:

“We’re fucked, desu.”

“Mr. Chairman, what kind of flippant and indecorous remark is that?”

“It’s because I don’t know how to say ‘we’re fucked’ in Japanese.”

“Maintain your dignity.”

“Ah, right. Yes, sir.”

At the scolding, Ho-jong smacked his lips.