The sun hadn't even fully stretched its rays across the broken skyline of District 8 when Kim Eo-ra sprang out of bed with suspicious enthusiasm.
For reasons even she didn't fully understand—perhaps divine inspiration, perhaps a lingering dream where she was a Michelin chef—she had decided that today was the day she would cook breakfast for her beloved, overworked family.
She stood in the kitchen like a warrior. Hair tied back. Apron on (stolen from Bitna). Expression set.
"I've got this," she whispered. "It's just eggs. How hard can eggs be?"
It was very hard.
Step 1:
She lit the stove. Well, tried. The gas lighter made a sound that was either a spark or a squirrel having a stroke. She tried again. And again. Then accidentally summoned a mini fireball from her still-unstable powers.
The pan caught flame. She panicked and whacked it with a ladle.
Result: Pan was saved. Ladle was not.
Step 2:
She opened the "ingredient drawer" (also known as the box where Byeol-ha kept dry herbs and mysterious powders). She confidently grabbed what she thought was salt and pepper.
It was... not.
The labels had faded.
She may or may not have seasoned the eggs with mana powder, dried dream leaves, and whatever the hell 'Star Root' was.
Step 3:
The eggs, if you could still call them that, had turned a light purplish-gray. They emitted a soft hiss, followed by a burp. Eo-ra stared at the pan.
"…That's not normal."
She poked the omelet with a fork. The omelet poked back.
A bead of sweat rolled down her temple. She stared in horror as the abomination let out a tiny puff of smoke and slumped over like it had died.
"Oh no," she whispered. "I made a corpse."
In a panic, she dumped the pan into a plastic bag, double-tied it, stuffed it into another bag, and tiptoed to the door.
"I have to hide the body before anyone wakes up. Especially Bitna. She'll never forgive me if I poison her children."
She opened the door quietly.
And froze.
There, on the uneven sidewalk, stood Kim Byeol-ha, hunched over a telescope like a mad astronomer. He wore a long hoodie, slippers, and a serious expression like he was plotting to overthrow the solar system.
Next to him, a large notepad.
On it were phrases like:
"Green Moon still flickering. Suspicious."
"Blue Moon possibly shy."
"Orange Moon watching me. Send help."
"WHERE IS OUR OG MOON?!"
He muttered under his breath and scribbled something furiously.
Eo-ra stared at him.
Byeol-ha looked up from his scope.
They made eye contact.
There was silence.
A long one.
Byeol-ha slowly turned his notepad so she could read the words: "Moon kidnapped??"
Eo-ra raised her bag containing the corpse-omelet and froze mid-motion.
Neither said a word.
Internally, both were screaming.
Byeol-ha's thoughts:She's carrying a glowing suspicious bag. That's either laundry or dark magic. Should I be worried?
Eo-ra's thoughts:He's watching the sky like it owes him money. Is he talking to the moons?
Byeol-ha finally broke the silence. "...Rough morning?"
Eo-ra nodded solemnly. "I committed a culinary crime."
He looked down at her bag. "Is it… moving?"
"No. Just… leaking."
They stared some more.
He reached into his robe and handed her a small slip of paper.
She read it aloud: "Top five places in District 8 to hide suspicious waste?"
"I've used three of them," Byeol-ha said gravely.
"Thanks."
She turned and vanished around the corner with her bag of shame.
He went back to the telescope, adjusted the focus, and muttered, "That moon definitely blinked at me."
Bitna entered the kitchen half-asleep.
"Did someone cook something?" she sniffed.
Seo-jin walked in, paused mid-step, and whispered, "...Why does it smell like a burnt dream?"
Bitna opened the oven, peeked in, then immediately closed it.
"I don't know who did this," she said with a smile that promised violence, "but if I find them—"
A note was stuck to the fridge. In neat handwriting:
"Apologies. The breakfast is now part of the forest. - E."
--
Baek Ryeo-woon walked through the shimmering archway into District 7, and the difference was immediate.
Gone was the cracked concrete of District 8, the howling wind and broken souls. Here, sleek glass buildings stretched toward the sky like they had ambitions. The streets were clean, paved, and actually shined. Self-sweeping drones buzzed lazily down sidewalks. Flower beds lined every corner. People wore tailored coats, clean boots, and smiles that came with stable income and filtered water.
Ryeo-woon, in his battle-worn coat and dust-streaked gloves, didn't bother changing. He preferred his clothes with a bit of blood and ash.
As he passed through the streets, citizens stepped aside instinctively. He wasn't just the leader of Oblivion Guild, the dominant force in District 7—he was Baek Ryeo-woon, top-tier awakened, returnee, and the man whose resting face could curdle milk.
He entered the Oblivion Guild HQ, a black-and-silver tower glowing with high mana shielding and polished obsidian tiles. A receptionist immediately bowed, her voice smooth and practiced.
"Welcome back, Guildmaster."
He nodded once, curt, and headed for the elevators.
As the doors slid open to the top-floor combat chambers, he stepped out—into chaos.
Again.
Two women were locked in a spinning, midair martial arts duel, flipping off the pillars, landing with perfect grace… and hurling insults.
"She was flirting with Ryeo-woon-oppa while he was bleeding!"
"Oh please, I was healing him—unlike someone who poured a potion on his boot."
"It was holy water! His boot needed healing!"
He sighed.
Park Nari — a fiery redhead, hot-tempered and hot everything else — was currently throwing energy discs with the precision of a knife thrower in love.
Seo Yuri — elegant, icy, and dressed like a designer mage — parried each move while blowing glitter off her fingernails like they were arcane sigils.
Then, mid-spar, someone spotted Ryeo-woon entering.
"Oppa!"
Both women froze. Spines straightened. Hair was flipped.
Weapons vanished. Heels clicked toward him like predator signals.
"Guildmaster~" Yuri said, voice dripping like enchanted honey. "You're back~"
"You must be exhausted," Nari purred, stepping far too close, hand dangerously near his shoulder. "Let us help you unwind."
Their eyes sparkled. Their smiles gleamed.
Ryeo-woon blinked once.
And in the next breath—he wasn't there.
He moved six feet sideways in a literal blink, reappearing near a terminal screen like he had teleported out of discomfort.
"I can walk," he said dryly. "Please maintain a 2-meter radius."
"But oppa—!"
"No."
Both women deflated slightly but kept smiling, now pretending to be professional. Yuri adjusted her collar. Nari flipped her hair aggressively at nothing.
Ryeo-woon activated a hologram of the District 8 Dungeon logs, his eyes scanning fast.
"You're wasting your energy fighting over me," he muttered. "Go beat up a dungeon boss instead."
Nari huffed. "Dungeon bosses don't wear tight shirts and emotionally unavailable expressions!"
Ryeo-woon muttered under his breath, "That sounds like a you problem."
District 7 is clean, safe, and efficient. But it's also full of theatrics. Plastic smiles, regulated mana levels, and people who confuse power with perfume.
Then there's that guy in District 8...
His mind flicked to Byeol-ha, emerging from a sealed S-Class dungeon with half-dead kids and not a single injury on himself. No noise. No drama. Just terrifying silence.
A storm in a hoodie.
Ryeo-woon frowned.
I need to know what his deal is.