Handpump: Phrophet Of uncertainty!!!
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[Part 1: Korea
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"In the world, every person is born with destiny.
God's final plan.
They run from it, curse it, manipulate fate itself, simply accept it.
It was truth that everything was already determined.
Ultimately, God's grace would be the judge when the time comes and the sky shatters.
Hell is not a place of ice and fire.
It's a land without God."
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The air inside Incheon International Airport is crowded and loud. Announcements play one after another in different languages. Suitcases roll across the polished floor. People move quickly, some stopping to check tickets, others arguing quietly, others just waiting.
When he enters, something changes.
It's not obvious. No one says anything. But a few people slow down. A man talking on his phone pauses mid-sentence and looks around like he forgot what he was saying. A woman pulls her child a little closer without thinking. Two students step aside to let him pass, even though there's enough space already.
No one looks at him directly.
Most of them don't look above his legs. Their eyes stop somewhere around his knees, then move away. It's not a decision. It just happens. Like their body doesn't want to check further.
If they did, they'd notice something else.
He isn't ugly.
But there's something about him that makes people uncomfortable. It's not visible, not something you can point at, but it's there. It makes people feel like they shouldn't look too long. Like they shouldn't get close.
So they don't.
By the time he reaches the counter, no one really knows what he looks like.
Near the large window facing the runway, he pauses for a second. His jacket hangs open on his thin frame. His hands stay in his pockets. He looks around without focusing on anything specific.
Families moving together. A tired man leaning against a pillar, staring at his phone. Students holding passports and checking details again and again.
Outside, Seoul stretches out under the evening light. Buildings, bridges, traffic moving steadily. The airport glass reflects some of it back inside.
"So much for a flight…"
He bends forward slightly, one hand pressing into his abdomen.
"Fuck—"
The word comes out strained. He stumbles into the reception counter and catches himself with his other hand. For a second, it looks like he might drop.
He quickly pulls out his documents and pushes them forward.
The receptionist looks up, startled.
At first, she feels it too—that same pressure that makes her hesitate. But now she has to look at him properly.
And she does.
His skin is tanned, or maybe that's just his natural tone. It doesn't look uneven. His eyebrows are well-defined. His nose is sharp and straight. His eyes are almond-shaped.
Brown.
Not dark enough to blend in. Light enough that you can tell the color immediately.
For a second, she thinks—Persian.
Then she looks again. No. South Asian. The coloring gives it away.
He looks good. That part is clear.
But it's hard to focus on that. The feeling around him makes it difficult to hold that thought for long.
She leans forward.
"Gwaenchanh-seyo? Are you okay?"
He looks at her, but doesn't respond. His expression is tight, like he's trying to process what she said and can't.
She switches to English.
"Sir, are you sick? Should I call a doctor?"
He grips the counter harder. The veins in his hand stand out. His breathing is uneven. Sweat forms along his temples.
Behind him, people keep moving, but they keep their distance. No one steps too close to the counter.
For a moment, it's just the two of them.
"…I'm fine," he says finally, his voice low and strained.
She doesn't want to be near him.
Standing this close feels wrong. Like standing too close to something dangerous, even if there's glass in between. The feeling doesn't match the situation, but it doesn't go away.
She keeps her posture steady.
It's her job.
Up close, the first thing she notices is his height. He's tall—around 6'3 or 6'4 by her estimate. He has to lean slightly toward the counter without meaning to.
The second thing is the sweat.
It's not normal. It's heavy, constant. His skin is damp, and he's trying to hide it. There's perfume on him—strong enough to notice immediately. Not cheap. The kind she has smelled on wealthy passengers before.
It doesn't fully cover anything.
She looks at him again, more carefully this time.
"Sir, your passport."
Her tone is controlled. Professional.
In 2023, everything is digital. No paper passports anymore. No stamps. No booklets. Just verification systems and data.
He doesn't argue. Doesn't ask anything.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card.
Carbon fiber.
He hands it over without a word, his fingers tightening slightly before letting go.
She hesitates for a moment after taking the card.
Then she looks up again.
For a second, she focuses on his face properly. The same thought comes back—he looks good. Clean features. Balanced. Nothing off.
And yet it still feels wrong.
She looks down again.
The card in her hand is gold. Not bright, not decorative. Just a flat, controlled gold finish.
There's a symbol on it. Four lions.
She recognizes it immediately. India.
But something about it is different. The detailing, the color of the emblem—red instead of the usual tone.
She narrows her eyes slightly.
This isn't standard.
There are only a few types she knows.
Maroon—diplomatic.
White—government officials.
Navy blue—regular citizens.
This isn't any of those.
Gold.
Her grip on the card tightens slightly.
Hunters.
She swallows.
That explains it. The feeling. The way people reacted without knowing why. The pressure around him.
She looks back at the card.
Her eyes move to the birthdate.
30.01.08.
She pauses.
Runs it again in her head.
Fifteen.
She looks up at him again, this time fully.
Not a man.
A boy.
Still a Hunter. The youngest she's ever seen.
She studies his face, expecting something—tension, damage, something in the eyes that explains it.
But there's nothing like that.
No visible trauma. No hesitation.
Just that same steady look.
And that same feeling that doesn't match what she's seeing.
His name.
She looks at the card again.
"Rudra."
That's it.
No middle name. No surname. Just one word.
She frowns slightly without meaning to. It feels incomplete, but everything else on the card checks out. No errors. No missing fields.
Still… just Rudra.
She glances up at him again.
There are questions in her head now. Too many. About the passport. About his age. About what kind of Hunter ends up here alone at fifteen.
But she doesn't ask.
She keeps it professional.
Her eyes move across the display, confirming details, matching data, clearing flags. Everything aligns. No restrictions. No delays required.
She hands the card back.
"Thank you… Loo-dra."
The name slips wrong.
She doesn't catch it in time.
There's a pause.
Then his expression changes immediately.
It's not subtle.
The tension is still there, that same presence around him, but his reaction is completely different from what she expected.
He straightens a little, frowning.
"Loo-dra?" he repeats, clearly annoyed. "Seriously?"
His tone isn't cold. It's sharp, but not in a threatening way. More like irritation.
"I just went through hell on that flight and now my name gets butchered too?"
He exhales, shaking his head slightly.
"Great. Amazing service."
There's a pause.
Then he adds, quieter but still audible, "At this rate I'm filing a complaint against the plane, the airport, and maybe with your parents"
The sarcasm is obvious.
It catches her off guard.
This isn't what she expected.
Not from him. Not from a Hunter.
She lets out a small laugh before she can stop herself.
Just a little.
Then she straightens again quickly, regaining her composure.
But the reaction stays with her.
Because whatever she thought he would be—
This wasn't it.
As he walks away from the counter, his expression drops.
The irritation stays, but the performance fades.
A voice cuts through his head.
Shut the fuck up.
He doesn't react outwardly. Just exhales through his nose and keeps walking.
Bhairava.
The voice doesn't repeat itself. It doesn't need to.
Rudra rolls his shoulders slightly, still annoyed, still in pain, and heads toward a vending machine in the distance. His steps are steady, but there's a slight stiffness in the way he moves.
He stops in front of it and stares at the options.
Fruit drinks.
Energy drinks.
Packaged juices.
He makes a face.
They all taste the same to him. Artificial. Too sweet. Too clean.
Cold drinks in general aren't great either, but at least some are tolerable.
He presses a button.
A can drops.
Coca-Cola.
He picks it up, opens it, and takes a long sip. The carbonation hits hard, but he doesn't react much. Just stands there for a second, letting it settle.
Next to him, someone is sitting on a bench.
A girl. Around his age.
She's watching something on her phone, fully focused. Bright visuals flash across the screen. Music leaks faintly through her earphones.
K-pop.
He glances once, then looks away.
Then looks again.
Biscuit T.
He watches for a few seconds, unimpressed.
That's a grown man acting like a kid, he thinks, taking another sip. How is this even popular?
The girl suddenly turns her head slightly.
He pauses.
For a second, he thinks she heard that.
But she just adjusts her phone and keeps watching.
Rudra looks away again.
Yeah… no way she understood that.
Rudra's eyes shift back to the child.
The toddler has wandered near a short set of steps. The parents are still close, but not close enough to react instantly.
The thought comes without warning.
Maybe I should just end his agony.
Because his parents won't.
He crushes the empty can slightly in his hand and drops it into the bin.
He takes a step forward.
Then stops.
His hand twitches. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but he feels it. A small, uneven tremor in his fingers.
Bhairava speaks.
Bad idea.
Rudra doesn't move.
Too many cameras. Too many people. Messy.
Rudra exhales slowly, jaw tightening.
He already knows that.
He wasn't going to do it.
Bhairava lets out a low, amused tone.
You're not thinking about mercy.
A pause.
You're jealous.
Rudra's fingers curl slightly.
Look at them, Bhairava continues. They stay close. They keep checking on him. Doesn't matter what he is. They still care.
Rudra looks at the parents again. The way they keep turning back. The way the child reaches toward them without hesitation.
His expression doesn't change.
That's what bothers you.
Silence.
Rudra looks away.
His hand steadies.
He doesn't take another step.
Bhairava doesn't stop.
Pathetic, the voice says, sharper now. Jealous of a toddler.
A pause. Then, colder—
Not just any toddler. One who can't even live properly.
Rudra doesn't react.
His grip tightens on the handle of his luggage.
Only a scum does that, Bhairava continues. Selfish. Small.
Silence.
No argument. No denial.
Rudra already knows.
His jaw sets slightly. That's it.
He pulls the handle up, the wheels clicking as they lock into place.
The noise of the airport fills back in around him—announcements, footsteps, distant conversations—but none of it touches him.
He turns and starts walking toward the exit.
No hesitation this time.
No looking back.
The automatic doors slide open.
He walks out.