The black pill felt like a lead weight in Han-Jun's stomach. It was a "Booster"—a cocktail of adrenaline and beta-blockers designed to override his heart's safety limits for exactly five minutes. Five minutes of god-like power, followed by a potential cardiac arrest.
And now, a message from a dead man told him not to take it.
"Han-Jun? What's wrong?" So-Mi asked, noticing his sudden stillness. Her eyes darted to the phone in his hand.
Han-Jun didn't answer. He stared at the screen. His brother, Kang Han-Seol, had died three years ago in the same "incident" that ended Han-Jun's professional career. The police called it an accident. The underground called it a warning.
"They are watching you."
He looked up at the dark corners of the alleyway. Somewhere, hidden in the urban jungle of neon signs and rusted fire escapes, there were cameras. Not police cameras. Aegis cameras.
"Change of plans," Han-Jun said, his voice dropping an octave. He reached into his throat with two fingers and forced himself to gag.
"What are you doing?!" So-Mi cried out, disgusted.
With a violent heave, Han-Jun spat the undigested pill onto the wet pavement. He crushed it under his boot. If the government was watching, and someone—possibly a ghost or a hacker—was warning him against their "medicine," he would trust the ghost.
"I'm going to the Daeshin High gymnasium," Han-Jun said, wiping his mouth. "But I'm not going through the front door."
"You're going to fight Min-Ho without the booster? That's suicide! His Power Level is 920, and he doesn't have a heart condition!"
Han-Jun turned, and for a second, So-Mi saw something in his eyes that terrified her. It wasn't anger. It was a cold, calculating void.
"Levels are just numbers," Han-Jun said. "In a real fight, the only level that matters is how much pain you can ignore."
The Infiltration
Daeshin High at 1:00 AM looked like a fortress. The gymnasium was a separate building, its high windows glowing with a sickly yellow light. Han-Jun could hear the faint sound of music—classical music—drifting through the air. It was a mockery of the violence happening inside.
He climbed the ventilation shaft with the grace of a panther. His ribs burned, but he suppressed the sensation. He had learned to "segment" his brain: putting the pain in a box and locking it away.
He reached the catwalks above the gym floor. Below him, the scene was worse than the video.
Twelve students were tied to basketball hoops, their faces unrecognizable from the beating. Ryu Min-Ho, the "Executioner," was sitting in a leather chair in the middle of the court, reading a book. He was wearing a pristine white school shirt, not a single drop of blood on it. Beside him stood four "Enforcers"—heavyweights from the wrestling team.
"He's late," Min-Ho said, closing his book. "Break the girl's pinky."
One of the wrestlers stepped toward a terrified freshman.
CRASH.
Han-Jun didn't use the stairs. He dropped ten meters from the catwalk, landing in a perfect three-point stance. The sound of his boots hitting the polished wood echoed like a gunshot.
The wrestlers jumped back. Min-Ho didn't move. He just smiled.
"The Ghost arrives," Min-Ho said. "I was starting to think you were just another government coward."
Han-Jun stood up slowly. His heart rate was steady: 75 BPM. He needed to keep it under 100 to avoid the Red Zone.
"Let them go," Han-Jun said.
"Give me a reason," Min-Ho replied, standing up. He was tall, thin, and moved with a strange, hypnotic fluidity. "Actually, don't. I'd rather see what a 1200 Power Level looks like when it's broken."
Technical Violence
The four wrestlers charged at once. This was a "Closing the Gap" tactic—using mass to pin a faster opponent.
Han-Jun moved. He didn't use flashy kicks. He used Dirty Boxing and Judo.
The first wrestler reached for his waist. Han-Jun grabbed the man's ears and slammed his forehead into the bridge of the wrestler's nose. Snap. The man dropped.
The second and third wrestlers tried to grab his arms. Han-Jun dropped his center of gravity, performed a double-leg sweep, and as they fell, he drove his knees into their sternums.
Pulse check: 95 BPM. Caution.
The fourth wrestler, a giant over 120kg, swung a massive fist. Han-Jun didn't block—blocking a heavyweight was a waste of energy. He slipped outside the punch, grabbed the man's thumb, and snapped it backward with a sickening pop. As the giant roared in pain, Han-Jun delivered a spinning back-elbow to the temple.
The giant went down like a felled oak tree.
In less than sixty seconds, the room was quiet again. Except for the classical music.
Min-Ho clapped slowly. "Impressive. Your economy of motion is perfect. You don't waste a single calorie. But those were just pawns."
Min-Ho took off his glasses and dropped them. "Let's see how you handle someone who knows how to kill."
Min-Ho moved. He was fast—faster than anything Han-Jun had seen in the underground. He used Systema, a Russian martial art focused on relaxed, devastating strikes.
Whack.
A palm strike hit Han-Jun's shoulder. It didn't feel like a punch; it felt like a vibration that traveled through his entire nervous system. Han-Jun's left arm went numb instantly.
"Nerve manipulation," Han-Jun hissed.
"Exactly," Min-Ho said, following up with a flurry of strikes. Each hit was aimed at a pressure point or a joint.
Han-Jun was forced into a defensive shell. He was losing. His heart rate was climbing. 105... 110... 120.
Red Zone approaching.
His vision began to blur. The edges of the room turned a deep, bloody crimson. The stabbing pain in his chest returned, sharper than ever.
"Your heart," Min-Ho whispered, leaning in close during a clinch. "It's a ticking bomb. I can hear it. It sounds... pathetic."
Min-Ho delivered a knee to Han-Jun's stomach, sending him skidding across the floor. Han-Jun coughed up blood. He looked at the tied-up students. They were looking at him with hope. That was their mistake.
Han-Jun stood up, but his legs were shaking.
"Is that it?" Min-Ho laughed. "The legendary Zero is just a broken toy?"
Han-Jun closed his eyes. He remembered the message. "They are watching you."
If they were watching, they were recording his bio-data. If he stayed within the "human" limits, he would die. To win, he had to do the one thing the Aegis Protocol feared.
He didn't need the pill. He needed to trigger the Adrenaline Dump manually.
He reached into his mind and unlocked the "Box" where he kept the memory of his brother's death. The rage, the guilt, the raw, unfiltered hatred.
BOOM-THUMP.
His heart didn't just speed up. It shifted gears.
System Warning: Power Level Rising... 1300... 1450... 1600!
WARNING: CRITICAL CARDIAC STRESS.
Han-Jun's eyes turned completely bloodshot. His skin went pale, and the veins in his neck bulged like thick cables.
He didn't move like a human anymore. He moved like a glitch in a video game.
Before Min-Ho could react, Han-Jun was in his face. A straight left—with the numb arm—smashed through Min-Ho's guard. A right hook shattered Min-Ho's jaw.
Min-Ho tried to use a nerve strike, but Han-Jun didn't even feel it. He grabbed Min-Ho's throat and lifted the "Executioner" off the ground with one hand.
"You like hearing hearts?" Han-Jun growled, his voice sounding like grinding stones. "Listen to yours. It's about to stop."
[CLIFFHANGER: THE SHADOW IN THE DOORWAY]
Just as Han-Jun was about to deliver the finishing blow, the massive double doors of the gymnasium slowly creaked open.
A figure stood there, framed by the moonlight. He wasn't wearing a uniform. He was wearing a black hoodie, and his face was covered by a digital mask that flickered with a single word: REDACTED.
The figure raised a small, high-tech device and pressed a button.
Instantly, the lights in the gym died. A high-frequency sound echoed through the room, making everyone—including Han-Jun—collapse in agony.
As Han-Jun lay on the floor, his heart racing at a lethal speed, the masked figure walked calmly toward him. He ignored Min-Ho. He ignored the students. He knelt beside Han-Jun and whispered into his ear.
"The pill was a tracker, Han-Jun. Good job spitting it out."
The voice was identical to his brother's.
"But now," the figure continued, "you have to choose. Save the students, or follow me to the truth about who really killed Han-Seol. You have ten seconds before the building explodes."
The figure pointed to a series of C4 charges attached to the support beams—charges that hadn't been there a minute ago.
Just as Han-Jun was about to deliver the finishing blow, the massive double doors of the gymnasium slowly creaked open.
A figure stood there, framed by the moonlight. He wasn't wearing a uniform. He was wearing a black hoodie, and his face was covered by a digital mask that flickered with a single word: REDACTED.
The figure raised a small, high-tech device and pressed a button.
Instantly, the lights in the gym died. A high-frequency sound echoed through the room, making everyone—including Han-Jun—collapse in agony.
As Han-Jun lay on the floor, his heart racing at a lethal speed, the masked figure walked calmly toward him. He ignored Min-Ho. He ignored the students. He knelt beside Han-Jun and whispered into his ear.
"The pill was a tracker, Han-Jun. Good job spitting it out."
The voice was identical to his brother's.
"But now," the figure continued, "you have to choose. Save the students, or follow me to the truth about who really killed Han-Seol. You have ten seconds before the building explodes."
The figure pointed to a series of C4 charges attached to the support beams—charges that hadn't been there a minute ago.