The doctor paused mid-page, taking a moment to collect himself. The tip of his pen stilled in the air. That brief hesitation seemed to say more than any words could.
“At most… you have one year left.”
I gave a small nod. I didn’t ask anything further. It was a number I’d already been expecting, so there was no real need to have it confirmed. The doctor seemed to take my reaction as resignation, or perhaps acceptance. He moved on, pulling out the explanation he’d prepared.
Organ damage. Neurological abnormalities. The nature of the pain I would come to experience.
His tone was calm. Excessively courteous. Like someone tidying up the loose ends of a story that had already reached its conclusion.
While he spoke, my mind drifted somewhere else entirely.
It’s raining.
Outside the window, rain fell in a steady, even rhythm. The trails of water sliding down the glass caught my eye for no particular reason. A day like this called for the smell of oil. Kimchi pancakes, maybe. Did I have kimchi? I probably still had some pancake mix left.
That was as far as the thought went.
Twelve years since I’d possessed a body in a fantasy world. Twelve years of living inside the body of a barely-functional C-rank Hunter.
I’d always fallen far short of being strong, yet somehow survived far too long to have given up. There had been countless moments where death seemed certain, and yet, strangely, there was always just one step left to take. That ambiguous position was what kept me tethered to this world.
No — to be more precise, it was the single possibility of returning home that made me stay.
And at last.
All quests have been cleared!
Clear Reward (1) – Pain Suppression
When the system window appeared, I said nothing. I felt neither joy nor emptiness. It was closer to the feeling of confirming an ending that had already been written.
Ah. It’s over.
The words saying the pain would disappear were plain. And because of that plainness, I could actually believe them.
The sensation that had scraped along the inside of my body with every breath. The pain that had cut my sleep apart night after night. All of it vanished quietly, as if it had never existed to begin with. So quietly that I briefly wondered whether I’d felt it wrong.
All the quests were finished. All that was left was to go home.
The one year the doctor mentioned was the grace period. The final stretch of time this body could remain alive — and simultaneously, the last window I had to stay in this world.
That’s enough.
That was what I thought, quietly. The pain was gone, and there was no longer any reason to fight. I didn’t need to save anyone. I didn’t need to prove myself — least of all to myself.
Live quietly, wrap things up, go back. That was all.
But then — the door to the examination room flew open.
“Cha Inhu!!”
My head snapped up on instinct. The man who’d barged through the door stood there with no sign of having caught his breath. His shoulders rose and fell in a faint, barely-there rhythm. The outer coat he wore over his Hunter gear hung open, not properly fastened.
Black hair. Dark eyes that reflected almost no light. Eyes the color of the night sky, transplanted whole — fixed directly on me.
The same way he always did it — dropping formalities and going straight for the name. Even that rudeness had become familiar by now.
The companion who had stayed with me through every quest until the very end. One of only three S-rank Hunters in all of South Korea.
I looked at his face for a moment, then opened my mouth in the same measured tone I always used.
“Park Taehan?”
He couldn’t seem to follow up with anything. Whether it was from being out of breath or from thoughts tangled up inside him, I couldn’t tell. His chest heaved visibly, and his eyes, fixed on me, wavered. As if the fact that I was here, like this, simply didn’t make sense.
A nurse who had rushed in after him grabbed his arm urgently.
“This is an examination room. Guardians must wait outside—”
Park Taehan didn’t move, as if the words hadn’t reached him at all. Even with his wrist held, his gaze never left me.
The flustered doctor stood up from his seat and added,
“Sir, if you could please wait outside for a moment.”
At that, I looked up.
“He’s not my guardian.”
I had spent eight years looking after Park Taehan. The wounds left behind after battles. The episodes that repeated themselves night after night. It had always been me, standing beside him so he wouldn’t fall apart.
If anyone was anyone’s guardian here, it was me — his. Not the other way around.
A brief silence settled between us.
Park Taehan broke it.
“Are you… sick?”
“…Would I be in a hospital if I weren’t?”
“No!!! That’s not what I—!”
His voice cracked loud without warning. He caught himself, visibly startled by his own outburst. He quickly swallowed the sound back down, then turned to glance at the doctor. There was something in his eyes — like he was trying to confirm something. No — closer to wanting to deny it.
He turned back to me and spoke in a low voice.
“…They said it’s incurable.”
“More precisely, it’s Hunter-onset multiple organ failure syndrome.”
At my reply, Park Taehan exhaled — a short, sharp sound. Not quite a laugh, not quite anger. Something in between. He stood there without a word, and his shoulders sank, just slightly.
A long silence followed.
Looking at him, I strangely had nothing I wanted to add. This wasn’t the kind of thing that would change by being explained.
Even then, I still thought this was where it would end.
