After arriving at Ground Zero.
Kang-hoo only met K after following paths even he didn’t know and going far inside.
Even Kang-hoo, who usually remembered travel routes well, had been so thoroughly led around in circles that he lost track midway.
And even after moving like that and meeting K, they still had to wind in even more intricately.
At some point, Kang-hoo gave up trying to recall the way they’d come.
Unless you’d memorized the internal layout, it felt like a maze you couldn’t escape.
Of course, Kang-hoo did have a simple escape method: teleportation.
But since K wasn’t an enemy, it didn’t seem like he’d need to get out that way here.
When they finally reached their destination, the area was surrounded on all sides by a barrier realized through magic stones.
A hemispherical, opaque something was overlaid around the perimeter, and it wasn’t a structure they’d built by hand.
It was the barrier’s own semicircular frame. It seemed like a force field that interfered using the magic stones’ mana.
“……Hic!”
Ju Haemi, spotting Kang-hoo, ran from afar in a sprint and threw herself into his arms, crying.
It wasn’t simple tears—she buried her face and sobbed loudly, closer to wailing.
It was the first time he’d ever seen her cry like this. She hadn’t even been like this when watching Celestial Assassin’s suffering.
“You must have suffered a lot.”
Kang-hoo held her tightly. In moments like this, there was no need to force words. Comfort came first.
Ju Haemi’s sobbing didn’t stop.
Kang-hoo’s emotions churned too, but he held them down as much as he could, waiting for her to calm.
K stayed silent.
It looked like he planned to speak only after the wave that had swept through the room passed.
Thirty minutes later.
Ju Haemi, having regained some composure, bowed her head deeply at Kang-hoo.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to stay strong, but I couldn’t stop thinking my father might end up wrong.”
“I understand. I’m thinking the same thing. But if you look at this situation coldly, that won’t happen. If that were the goal, they would’ve found a more efficient way to assassinate him.”
At Kang-hoo’s words, Ju Haemi seemed to understand, and nodded.
In the meantime, K brought tea and seated Kang-hoo and Ju Haemi on separate sofas.
Kang-hoo and K, who would do most of the talking, sat facing each other, while Ju Haemi stayed at the side.
Kang-hoo opened first.
“Tell me everything about Shinwol. There can’t be anything I don’t know.”
“That’s what I planned to do anyway. You really haven’t heard a single thing? Can I assume you’re a blank slate?”
“Yes. Completely clean.”
There was no reason to pretend he knew, so he admitted it plainly.
K cleared his throat several times, then forced his trembling voice to settle as he began.
“The reason I’m telling you about Shinwol is this: you’re Hyungnim’s most cherished disciple, and I trust you enough that it’s safe to tell you.”
“I understand. I won’t take the weight of that trust lightly.”
“I’ll start with why Shinwol exists. Do you remember what I told you before about an elite organization?”
“Of course.”
“Shinwol is like that too. But the purpose is different. Shinwol was created from the beginning to root out organizations hiding in the dark.”
“So it’s an organization that hunts the hidden hand?”
“In an intuitive sense, yes. If you divide the world into good and evil, it’s closer to good. Though judgment of good and evil is something each person decides for themselves.”
His vague guess had been right.
They were probably hunting The Thirteen Stars, or the veiled entity known as “Eyes.”
Given that K had previously talked about Jang Si-hwan, he must have known about The Thirteen Stars’ existence.
But the fact that there was “no” information about Shinwol in the media or the public sphere suggested conflicts—blood feuds, clashes, collisions—were unfolding in secret between organizations.
In other words, both sides concealed their identities while waging a fierce covert war.
An invisible war.
“Shinwol’s motto is simple. The Day of Judgment didn’t just ‘happen’ for no reason—it’s a seed of misfortune, inherently connected to the Cataclysms.”
“Then you believe that seed of disaster—the ‘hidden hand,’ the evil organization behind the veil—possesses it?”
“Right. If you go to Shinwol’s headquarters, there’s a preserved corpse of the shrine maiden Sperma in the basement. In front of it is a book of prophecy that you can open one page of on a fixed day each year.”
“What happens if you open two pages instead of one?”
“I’ve heard it gets annihilated without leaving even a single grain behind. No one has ever opened two pages.”
“What a nasty prophecy book. If it’s going to help, it should just tell you the future completely.”
“Well, Shinwol believes ‘it must have its reasons.’ And so you don’t misunderstand—I’m not part of Shinwol. I never was.”
Kang-hoo nodded.
Now he understood what Shinwol existed for.
There was no need to force a classification of whether they were good or evil.
Time would pass, he’d inevitably cross paths with them, and his understanding would organize itself—whether he wanted it to or not.
“What was my master’s role in Shinwol?”
Kang-hoo steered the topic to what he was truly curious about. He needed to grasp the core of the situation.
“An evil man Shinwol deliberately sculpted. He wasn’t evil from the start—he was meticulously staged as an evil man.”
“…….”
An unexpected answer.
Kang-hoo had thought Celestial Assassin was originally closer to evil, but became good because of Ju Haemi.
It was the classic redemption arc you sometimes saw in novels, dramas, and films.
But if he was an evil man deliberately manufactured, the premise itself changed completely.
A thought flashed through Kang-hoo’s mind, and he asked back.
“Then… you were hoping the ‘seed’ of misfortune you mentioned would see my master and feel a sense of kinship, and approach him. Is that it?”
“Exactly. They set a trap they could turn around on the enemy. The method worked pretty well. They caught a lot.”
“But it sounds like the core was lacking.”
“That’s true too. They didn’t find the ringleader. Still, they got solid results.”
“Maybe it was solid from Shinwol’s perspective, but it’s regrettable that the cost was sacrificing my master. Talking about conviction like that is disgusting.”
Kang-hoo showed his feelings without filtering them. He could say it because he had no emotional attachment to Shinwol itself.
In the end, it meant they used Celestial Assassin as bait—and then went further, kidnapping a retiree.
“Hyungnim’s illness was completely cured, so they let him retire so he could close out his life. And now they’ve overturned even that.”
“Do you only get out by dying?”
“No. It just proves Hyungnim’s strategic value is still huge to Shinwol.”
“I’m certain my master won’t die. But this is selfish to the point of being outrageous.”
“No need to say it twice. Hoo.”
K let out a long sigh.
Ju Haemi, who had calmed down, began to cry again, as if imagining it might take a long time before she could see Celestial Assassin.
If Celestial Assassin refused to bend and cooperate with Shinwol to the end— then she might truly not be able to see him for a very long time. Long enough for him to die naturally, not from illness.
“There’s something I want to know. Is there no way for me to go find Shinwol?”
“You? Why?”
“Answer the question first.”
“It’s not that there’s no way. I know where Shinwol’s headquarters is. But for an outsider without an invitation to enter the headquarters, you must pass O-wol.”
“O-wol.”
“Yeah. Five moons—meaning five trials. Shinwol’s handpicked forces preside over each trial.”
“If I pass, can I meet someone from Shinwol?”
“Not just ‘someone.’ You can meet ‘Shinwol.’”
“So Shinwol isn’t just the organization’s name—it’s the leader’s name?”
“More precisely, it’s a title given to Shinwol’s supreme head. The only one qualified to use that name.”
“…….”
No matter the reason, since they kidnapped his master, Kang-hoo had no desire to think positively of Shinwol.
But if they were truly people capable of rational judgment, there was room to talk.
To do that, he would have to go to Shinwol. The story could only begin from that point.
Worrying here for a hundred days wouldn’t change a single thing.
“Think coldly. In the big picture, Shinwol must never become an enemy. We’re looking in the same direction.”
He made his thoughts clear.
His anger flared because of how they treated Celestial Assassin, but that was where it ended.
Kang-hoo saw Shinwol’s value.
He’d lived believing that, so far, he was the only one opposing The Thirteen Stars.
That perception shifted.
Shinwol was far closer to an ally than an enemy. Their strategic value was enormous.
“If they can become my backing…”
Even the mind he always had to run in complex loops could become a little simpler.
After Ju Haemi left for separate quarters under Hwang Bo-hye’s guidance,
Kang-hoo spoke with K a bit more.
He’d already grasped the entire link between Celestial Assassin and Shinwol. Now the remaining puzzle was K.
As if K could guess what Kang-hoo was about to ask, he spoke first.
“I’m not part of Shinwol, but I might as well have been half-Shinwol. I got a lot of information through Hyungnim, and I sympathized with the cause.”
“Is that why you keep your distance from the Jeonghwa Guild?”
“Right. Of course, if they pay a high enough price, there’s nothing I can’t sell. I just won’t force it.”
“Now I understand the strange distance I felt between the Jeonghwa Guild and Master K.”
“I genuinely hope an alternative power rises. And The Abyss is a very good counterweight. It’s enough to sap the Jeonghwa Guild’s power. Smart, too.”
“Hmm.”
“I’ve also increased my network with The Abyss a fair bit lately. Lee Hyun-seok understands Ground Zero’s terrain quite well. There are many covert trade routes.”
“So you’re trading freely, outside the Jeonghwa Guild’s gaze?”
“Exactly. Jang Si-hwan is probably still suspicious of me. No matter how you look at it, The Abyss’s supply of drugs shouldn’t be running smoothly, yet not once has there been a problem.”
Thinking of Jang Si-hwan clutching his head alone, staring at a pile of question marks, almost made Kang-hoo laugh.
He believed he controlled everything according to his will—so when it didn’t flow by that script, it must feel unsettling.
“Even if he has suspicions, he has no proof. So for the time being, you’re comfortable.”
“Right. And even if he finds proof, they can’t really do anything to me. To reach me, they’d have to get past The Abyss first. Hahaha.”
K’s bold composure was palpable. Kang-hoo felt the same way.
Then— as if K suddenly remembered something he’d overlooked, he brought up a new topic.
News Kang-hoo had forgotten amid the busy recent days.
“Taking the last failure as a lesson, I tried making a new talisman again. Want to test it?”
It was about K’s talisman—something he’d been researching repeatedly to suppress congenital Mana Hyper-Sensitivity.
