"I… don't know?"
Seung-hoo shrugged as he answered the reporter's question.
His voice came out flat, tired, and completely unheroic. The words echoed through the loudspeakers behind him, bouncing across the crowd and into the night air.
For a moment, there was silence.
The reporters stared at him as if they had expected something profound—some grand speech about courage or sacrifice. Instead, they got three weak syllables and a shrug.
"…That's it?" one of them muttered.
Seung-hoo didn't wait for another question.
He turned and walked forward, passing so close to the reporter that their shoulders nearly brushed. The reporter instinctively stepped back, surprised by how casually he moved through them, as if cameras and microphones were nothing more than trees in a forest.
Seo-yeon guided Byung-chul after him, her arm still supporting his weight. Byung-chul winced with every step, but forced himself forward anyway.
Around them, the rest of the hunters began moving too.
Some limped heavily. Some leaned on their teammates. Some stared blankly at the ground, their minds still trapped inside the Rift.
No one spoke.
Their boots echoed against the metal floor of the ferry ramp as they boarded. The reporters shouted more questions, but none of the hunters turned back.
The ferry horn blasted once—long and hollow.
Then it pulled away from Gongbaek Island, cutting across the dark water.
The island grew smaller behind them, swallowed by mist and moonlight.
An hour later, inside a quiet van, Seung-hoo sat beside Seo-yeon.
Neither of them spoke.
The city lights passed outside the window in long streaks of white and yellow. Seo-yeon stared at her hands. Seung-hoo leaned his head back against the seat, eyes half-closed, his body finally realizing how exhausted it was.
No system messages. No jokes. No quests.
Just silence.
At exactly 9:32 p.m., the van stopped in front of Seung-hoo's apartment complex.
"Here," the driver said softly.
Seung-hoo stepped out.
The night air was cool. The building stood dark and quiet, most windows unlit. People were already asleep. Normal people. People who had no idea a giant bird had almost erased a group of hunters from existence just hours ago.
He walked slowly up the stairs, each step heavier than the last.
When he reached his door, he fumbled with his keys for a second before finding the right one.
Click.
The door opened.
The apartment smelled faintly of dust and cold air. The lights were off. Everything looked exactly as he had left it.
Seung-hoo stepped inside.
The moment his back passed the doorway, his legs gave out.
He dropped onto the couch without even taking off his shoes.
No dramatic collapse. No thoughts. No words.
Just sleep.
His breathing slowed almost immediately.
Back on Gongbaek Island, the ground trembled.
At first, it was barely noticeable—just a faint vibration beneath the broken trees and scorched earth where the Rift had once stood.
Then it grew stronger.
Pebbles rolled. Cracks formed in the soil.
A thin black line appeared in the air, exactly where the Rift had closed.
The line widened.
A sound like tearing fabric filled the night.
Wind rushed outward as the crack stretched longer and longer, splitting the air itself. The Rift began to reopen.
Something moved inside.
A massive wing forced its way through the opening, scattering dust and debris. The air roared as the shape pushed forward.
The crack expanded into a full-sized Rift once more.
And from it stepped a figure.
Not a bird.
Not entirely human.
It had the outline of a man—two arms, two legs, a torso—but from its back spread enormous wings made of pale, glowing feathers. Its skin looked as though it had been rebuilt from dust and light, uneven and unfamiliar.
Hours ago, the gray remains of the defeated monster had scattered across the island.
Now those atoms had gathered again.
Reformed.
Chosen a new shape.
The figure touched the ground gently, almost respectfully, its wings folding behind it.
It lifted its head and looked toward the sky, then toward the forest, then toward the distant direction of the city.
Where Seung-hoo had gone.
The wind stirred around it, carrying the scent of mana and ash.
And in the empty space where the Rift had once closed, something new now stood, breathing for the first time.
The next morning, Seung-hoo walked across the bridge with his hood pulled low over his face.
The air was cold, the kind that slipped through the gaps in his jacket and made his shoulders tense. He kept his hands in his pockets, head down, trying to look like just another tired commuter on his way somewhere unimportant.
Cars were lined up ahead of him.
Not moving.
At first, he thought it was just traffic. Then he noticed something strange—no horns, no shouting, no impatient drivers leaning out their windows. Everyone was quiet.
Too quiet.
People had stepped out of their cars and gathered in a loose cluster near the center of the bridge.
Seung-hoo slowed.
"…What now," he muttered under his breath.
He pushed gently through the crowd, brushing past shoulders and coats.
"Excuse me." "Sorry." "Let me through."
Someone snapped, "Don't get too close!" but Seung-hoo ignored them.
He expected twisted metal. A collision. Maybe a fallen barrier.
Instead, what he saw made him stop cold.
A footprint.
Not a human footprint.
It was enormous—deeply pressed into the concrete, shaped like a humanoid foot but far too large to belong to any normal being. The cracks radiating outward looked like spiderwebs frozen in stone.
It was as if something had landed there with overwhelming force.
Not walked.
Landed.
Seung-hoo crouched slightly, staring at the fractured surface. The imprint was so deep that rainwater had already begun to pool inside it, reflecting the gray sky above.
"…It leaped, " he whispered.
The pattern of the cracks told the story clearly.
Whatever had made this footprint hadn't been standing here—it had launched itself away. The concrete had buckled under the impact, then split when the force pushed upward.
People around him murmured nervously.
"What kind of truck does that?" "That's not a truck…" "Did something fall from the sky?"
A woman clutched her phone with shaking hands, recording the damage. A man held his child close, whispering for them not to look.
Then—
The bridge trembled.
Not violently.
Just enough to be felt.
A low groan echoed through the metal supports beneath their feet.
Seung-hoo straightened slowly.
His eyes moved from the footprint to the long crack stretching across the bridge like a wound.
The weight of the stopped cars… The crowd standing in one place… The weakened structure…
This wasn't just damage.
It was unstable.
Someone screamed, "The bridge is shaking!"
Another voice shouted, "Everyone get back! Move back!"
Cars began honking now, panicked and sharp.
Engines revved as drivers tried to reverse, but there wasn't enough space. People stumbled as the bridge shifted slightly again, dust falling from the cracked concrete.
Seung-hoo felt it through his boots.
A deeper vibration.
Like the bridge was breathing in… and struggling to breathe out.
He looked up and down the line of vehicles and people trapped together in one narrow stretch.
Too much weight. Too much fear. Too much pressure.
And somewhere out there, something massive had already leaped away.
His jaw tightened beneath the hood.
"…You've got to be kidding me," he murmured.
The crack widened with a sharp sound, like stone tearing itself apart.
Pebbles dropped into the river below.
People screamed again, this time louder.
A car door slammed. Someone fell. Someone cried for help.