Episode 29 – Grind Never Ends
The hallway was still. Too still. The kind of silence that doesn't soothe it weighs on your chest. Han Jin-woo leaned on the guardrail overlooking the lower floor of the Hunter Center, arms crossed like he needed something solid to hold him up. Mana hung in the air like invisible dust, glowing lines in the ceiling pulsing just faintly, like tired stars.
It wasn't peaceful. It was hollow.
He turned slightly, looking at the boy beside him. Not with suspicion now something softer. Something more human. Curiosity, maybe. A hint of wariness that came from too many years of being disappointed by people who wore promises like masks.
"Tell me, kid," Han said, his voice quiet but heavy. "Why'd you choose WN Agency?"
It wasn't small talk. It wasn't casual. He wanted the truth, or at least something close. Maybe he just needed to hear something that didn't sound like a sales pitch.
Do-hyun didn't answer right away. His gaze stayed still. Calm. He looked like he was thinking it over, but the way he kept his hand buried in his jacket pocket told a different story. He already knew what he'd say. He just waited for the right moment to speak.
"Eight-to-two split," he finally said. "Best offer I've seen."
Han didn't flinch, but his eyebrows lifted. Barely. Not surprised at the words. Surprised at how sure the boy sounded.
Then he laughed, the kind of laugh that tasted bitter.
"Eight-to-two. Sounds clean, doesn't it?" he said, voice low. "That's the poster number. The truth's underneath. Hidden in the fine print. Operational costs, gate taxes, injury levies... half of it's already gone before you ever see it."
He looked at Do-hyun again. Hard.
"You still think we're worth it?"
Do-hyun shrugged. Not careless. Not naive. Just honest.
"I've seen worse," he said. "At least here, you're upfront about the lies."
Han stared at him. Just for a moment. Then something cracked at the corner of his mouth. A smile that wasn't really a smile. Something sadder. Something like respect.
"Damn kid…" he muttered. "You might actually survive this."
Meanwhile, across the city, in a gym that had long stopped caring about appearances, another storm was unfolding.
The place was old. Broken-in. Floor mats curled at the edges, sweat embedded into the benches like scars. Machines creaked when they moved. But tonight, none of that mattered.
Because Number 2 Do-hyun's clone was lifting like the world depended on it.
This wasn't working out. It wasn't training. It was punishment.
Blood ran down his forearms, soaked into the white chalk dust clinging to the barbell. The squat rack groaned beneath the weight as if it might break. Veins bulged under his skin, every muscle straining with purpose. Each breath came sharp, like he was pulling air through broken glass.
He didn't wince. He didn't cry out. He just kept going. One rep after another.
Ma Dong-sik, a retired Tanker turned trainer, stood frozen by the front desk. His mouth was half open, like he wanted to say something but couldn't figure out what.
"This is crazy," he whispered. "That boy's legs aren't human."
Nam Tae-joon, the gym's pride and ego, looked like he'd seen a ghost.
"I think he just repped my personal best," he mumbled. "Not matched. Repped."
Even Hye-jin had stopped, dumbbells dropped at her feet.
"He's bleeding through the bandages," she said. "He's gonna blow his knees."
Dong-sik didn't respond right away. Then he said, quietly, "I tried to stop him."
She turned to him. "And?"
"He didn't say anything. Didn't even look at me."
The room went silent again.
"He just kept going."
Eventually, the clone racked the bar. Didn't collapse. Didn't even look tired. Just reached for his phone.
One message.
From: 0
Shower. Be out front by 4PM. Don't be late.
No greeting. No emotion. Just instructions.
He read it, pocketed the phone, and walked toward the lockers. Left a trail of blood behind him.
Someone in the back muttered, "That wasn't a workout. That was war."
And elsewhere still, under the dripping, moss-soaked roof of the Slime Field Dungeon, the real Kim Do-hyun was knee-deep in filth.
Slime splashed against his boots, soaked into his clothes. Every step squelched. The air stank of rot and mana and things best left unnamed.
He didn't care.
One hand held a cheap mace. Dented. Basic. Ugly. But it did the job.
He wasn't fighting. He was working.
Pop. Splat. Swing. Collect. Repeat.
It was gross. It was slow. It was tiring.
But it was his.
The grind wasn't pretty. It wasn't glorious. But it was progress. Inch by inch. Hit by hit.
Do-hyun didn't run from it. He leaned in.
And kept swinging.