The morning sun pushed its way through the dusty curtains, its soft light landing gently on the face of the boy who was no longer a boy.
Han Joon-seok opened his eyes slowly.
"Oh right... I'm a human."
He lifted his hand into the sunlight, flexing each finger slowly like he was seeing them for the first time again.
No black void. No tentacles. Just fingers. Human ones. Fragile but... functional.
He sat up on the thin mattress and glanced around the small, cluttered room. There was no powerful aura in the house. No comforting warmth.
She must've left early, he thought. Probably to prepare the shop.
He stood, stretched awkwardly, and walked barefoot into the living room. With the help of the boy's fragmented memories, he grabbed a rag, a mop, and an old broom.
Dust flew.
The floors creaked.
And the house slowly started to look like something lived in—rather than something waiting to be abandoned.
"Strange..." he muttered. "This feels... right."
The events from yesterday still echoed in his mind.
He remembered how she took the old phone with the cracked screen and held it like a sacred object. And then told him, clearly, confidently:
"Keep calling me mother."
Humans were strange.
But she was... stranger.
And he liked that.
He looked around again, eyes narrowing.
The house was worn. Dust in the corners. Cracked wallpaper. Mold creeping under the sink. She had been living like this while sick?
That's why the boy went into the Tower, he realized. To help her. His energy was weak, but his resolve was... real.
Joon-seok frowned.
Healing was not in his domain. His power was destruction. Consumption. Entropy.
But humans... humans had methods. Medicines. Systems.
And one thing those systems demanded was money.
He stepped out the back door and took a few slow steps into the alley behind the house. He raised his hand—and reality flickered.
The space shimmered and split open with a quiet tearing sound.
A doorway opened into a dimensional rift—a storage space only he could access. Something he had created eons ago and never once organized.
He stepped inside.
Weapons. Thousands of them.
Swords, axes, spears, staffs, broken relics, shattered crowns, forgotten shields, cursed daggers.
Glorious... useless... absolutely overpowered things.
All lying in chaotic piles, untouched for centuries.
"Junk," he muttered. "But valuable junk."
He picked up a dull iron blade. A chipped longsword with rust at the edges.
To the eye, it was worthless.
But he knew... this blade had cut a demi god in half once. Its soul still hummed with ancient spite.
He smiled slightly.
I can sell these. Get money. Pay her hospital bills.
He felt it now. A goal.
"Joon-seok!"
His head snapped up.
He stepped back into the real world, closing the dimensional gap with a thought, just as his mother came around the corner holding a plastic bag in one hand.
"Mother, I'm here."
She smiled brightly. "There you are! How was your night?"
"It was... fine, Mother."
Peaceful, he thought. Too peaceful. I didn't dream of teeth or screaming.
"I'm glad," she said. "I got you something."
He tilted his head. "Something?"
She pulled out a brand-new phone and handed it to him.
It was the same model as the one he remembered—the MK J9 Neo, an outdated mid-range device with a cracked screen, clunky UI, and embarrassingly poor battery life.
"It's the same..." he muttered.
"I know," she said softly. "I kept the old one... but this one's new. We'll make new memories with it, okay?"
He stared at it.
She wasn't just replacing it.
She was resetting it.
"Thank you, Mother," he said, managing a faint smile. "I love it."
"I'm glad you love it!" she beamed. "Now, help me open the shop."
"The shop?" he blinked.
Then it clicked—her food stall. The one she kept running even when she was too sick to stand straight.
"I'll come with you," he said. "I want to help."
And... I need to learn how humans sell things, he thought. Especially if I'm going to convince them to buy a god-killing butter knife.
She raised an eyebrow. "You want to come? Really?"
"Yes. Absolutely."
She laughed and waved him toward the door.
"Then get your shoes on, boy. Let's go feed some tired salarymen."
Han Joon-seok stepped back into the house to get ready. He stared down at the shoes by the door.
Shoes.
So these go on my feet? he thought.
He sat down awkwardly, shoved his feet into them, and frowned at how tight and strange they felt. Clothing was already confusing, but shoes? They were like padded traps for his toes.
Still, once they were on, he looked... normal.
I look like a human.
He stepped outside where his mother was already waiting, stretching in the morning sun.
She glanced around and smiled.
"How strange... I actually slept well last night. Didn't notice any mosquitos... not a single ant or rat."
He tilted his head. "Do you want them to be inside?"
She blinked at him, puzzled. "Of course not! They always disturb me."
"I see," he said simply. "Then they won't be around you anymore."
She furrowed her brow, mildly confused. "Silly. That's not how it works. Anyway, we're late. Let's get going to the shop."
They walked down the narrow residential road. The morning sun filtered through crooked power lines and leaning streetlamps. Neighbors were gathered near open windows and store entrances, murmuring in low voices.
Joon-seok's ears picked up every word.
"Did you hear? The first floor of the Tower—it was finally cleared!"
"Yeah, but they don't know who did it. Some say it was a high-rank hunter. Others say it might've been a team from overseas."
"Whatever it was, I'm just glad. Maybe this nightmare is finally ending."
Their voices were filled with relief, almost reverence. Their smiles came easy, casual—like people waking from a long, shared bad dream.
But Joon-seok felt... nothing.
Are they really that happy?
He glanced at his mother, who was walking a step ahead. She was humming lightly, smiling to herself.
"Mother," he asked, "are you happy the first floor was cleared?"
She slowed a little, looked up at the blue sky, then turned to him with a tired smile.
"The truth is, I am. I'm sure they don't know it was your doing. But the Tower... it's been tormenting people for years, Joon-seok. Ever since it appeared, it's been a symbol of fear. A wound we couldn't close."
He stayed quiet.
He didn't know that. No one had told him the truth. The System simply said:
"Stop the humans. Do not let them pass."
He thought it was a simple game. A role.
But now, hearing this... he realized he was never meant to understand. He was just a lock—never told what the door held behind him.
"But that's okay," she said, still smiling. "Because you... you brought smiles to people's faces now. Even if they don't know it was you."
He looked around.
The neighbors were smiling. Talking. Hopeful.
But he didn't feel any of it. It didn't move him. It didn't reach his core.
Only her voice did.
"Mother," he asked quietly, "are you happy?"
She paused.
Looked up at him.
"Yes," she said gently. "I'm happy."
But he could tell... it wasn't fully true.
Not with what she had lost. Not with what she was pretending not to feel.
And yet—her smile still satisfied him.
Maybe that was enough for now.