“Are you saying that my parents were the prosecutors in charge of that case?”
“Yeah, that’s what the records show.”
It felt like finding a missing puzzle piece.
At last, a connection had been made. The more information he gathered, the stronger his suspicions became.
Even within his faint childhood memories, Taeseong clearly remembered that his parents had been people of great integrity.
They couldn’t stand injustice and always stood on the side of the weak—a textbook example of strong against the strong, kind to the weak.
Knowing their nature, it was certain that they wouldn’t have hesitated to go after a corporate heir, no matter how powerful.
As if confirming his reasoning, Choi Harin spoke.
“And I hate to say this, but it seems like your parents were pretty relentless in their investigation. Even after the not-guilty verdict, the prosecution filed an appeal. Of course, the court dismissed it.”
Considering the opponent was the heir to a trillion-dollar conglomerate, the chances of the court accepting the appeal were nonexistent, even if the sky fell.
The outline of the situation was starting to take shape.
“…….”
“I think I know what you’re thinking, but like I said earlier, Ilseong isn’t just a major corporation—it’s a megacorporation. Their influence extends far beyond South Korea; they have a global reach. Do you get what I mean? Taking on a company of that scale as an individual is…”
Harin trailed off. She didn’t need to finish the sentence—Taeseong already understood what she was trying to say.
“I’ll handle it myself.”
After another moment of hesitation, Harin let out a small sigh and spoke in a low voice.
If she was going to offer goodwill, she might as well do it properly.
“There’s likely a connection with Tree as well.”
“…Ilseong, you mean?”
“As far as I know, yes. Most likely, other companies in M10 are involved too. Running an organization of that scale requires enormous funding. In fact, Ilseong Group has even sent administrators to our branch as part of their security force before. In return, they probably received massive financial support. If a company like Ilseong is involved, they almost certainly know exactly what kind of organization ‘Tree’ is.”
So it was a kind of partnership.
Ilseong provided funding, and Namu provided… assistance.
A certain joke suddenly came to mind. People often joke about highly advanced technology, saying things like, “Did they abduct and torture aliens to develop this? Let them go already.”
But maybe it wasn’t just a joke.
Countless entities locked away in containment facilities. Tree’s researchers studying their power, origins, properties, and principles. If they made any breakthroughs, wouldn’t it be possible to incorporate them into some form of technology?
‘It looks like he’s made up his mind after hearing what I said. It must not have been easy for Choi Harin to hand over this kind of information so readily.’
“If you want, I can look into this side of things too. What do you think?”
“I’d be grateful if you did. And I won’t forget this favour, Team Leader.”
At that, Choi Harin finally smiled in satisfaction.
She was a sharp, quick-thinking person who understood the balance of gains and losses. It made conversations with her easy.
“By the way, Team Leader Taesan asked me to say hello. He said that once you’re back, you should have a sparring match—said it’s been a while. Apparently, he’s preparing for the Beta-rank promotion exam soon.”
“Beta-rank… He really is exceptional, as expected.”
“Well… yeah, he is. To be honest, he should’ve been promoted to Beta-rank a long time ago. But he kept refusing the promotion exams, so he’s stayed at Gamma-rank until now. The higher-ups finally started pressuring him, so now he doesn’t have much of a choice. That guy’s a real oddball.”
“Why did Team Leader Taesan refuse the promotion exams? Wouldn’t a higher rank ultimately be beneficial for him?”
“Exactly. Gamma-rank is already a high managerial level, but Beta-rank is on an entirely different level. The salary increase goes without saying, and within the government, Beta-ranks are treated like high-ranking officials. But he still refused. When I asked him why… it was because of his team members. If he got promoted to Beta-rank, he’d most likely be reassigned to a different position.”
“He refused the exam just because he didn’t want to be separated from his team?”
Taeseong found it hard to understand.
“Yeah. He may not look like it, but he’s incredibly loyal. He probably wanted to protect his subordinates himself, no matter what. Back when he first became a team leader, there was a new recruit. That rookie died during entity management duty.
To be blunt, deaths among Tree’s administrators weren’t uncommon. But Taesan wasn’t like the others.
I remember the first thing he said.”
—”I am Taesan, the leader of Management Team 4. My rank is Gamma, and as you saw earlier, I am a Murim returnee. If you ever have any concerns, don’t hesitate to talk to me. As long as I have the power, I’ll do everything I can to help.”
Thinking back, it was Taesan who had pulled the strings to get Taeseong dispatched to Japan. A man who had shown him kindness without hesitation from the very first meeting.
“The next day, he went after that entity and tore it apart with his bare hands. Then, he personally paid for the deceased administrator’s funeral. On top of that, he took care of the remaining family members. I heard he drank every day for a week after that. He’s really something else.”
In Tree, administrators eventually became insensitive to the deaths of their colleagues. Even after just a year or two, most people did.
But Taesan, despite being a veteran administrator for much longer, had genuinely grieved.
‘A rare kind of person. Someone like him should be the one leading others.’
At that moment, a voice interrupted.
“You have one minute left.”
The enforcer’s voice was dry and mechanical.
In the hologram, Choi Harin muttered, “Time’s up already,” before moving to wrap things up.
Then, as if she had suddenly remembered something, she spoke again.
“Oh, and just so you don’t get the wrong idea—the disciplinary ruling changed, but the punishment itself wasn’t canceled.”
“What do you mean?”
“Salary reduction for six months. Three months of probation. There’s nothing we can do about this. The disciplinary committee on their side refused to budge on this part. So, just hang in there for now, Taeseong. See you next time.”
Click.
With those final words, the holographic projection ended, and the enforcer left the isolation room without a word.
“Damn it. Nothing ever comes easy, does it?”
Cursing under his breath, Taeseong lay down on the floor. He had heard too much, and he didn’t want to think anymore.
For now…
Yeah.
He just wanted to rest.
Two weeks passed.
During that time, Taeseong was moved from the special containment room to a general isolation room. Though it was called an isolation room, it was practically a dormitory for administrators, equipped with everything he needed.
Thanks to the reduced severity of his punishment, “Tree” was now treating him as an administrator rather than a “subject.” They even allowed visitors, which was a considerable accommodation.
If he wanted, he could escape from this so-called isolation room at any time. But there was no need to stir up trouble. He had barely managed to get his disciplinary measures reduced—causing another incident now could mean turning all of “Tree” against him.
Taeseong spent his time training his body and assessing the new abilities he had gained. He was gradually adjusting to life in the isolation room.
Occasionally, Sooah visited to talk about things they hadn’t had the chance to discuss, untangling the web of emotions between them. The Yato-Ito siblings also dropped by with ramen or soba, filling the room with idle chatter.
— Hehe, Captain! I only got a two-month salary reduction. They said they’d be lenient because of my past efforts.
— …Idiot. If you pull that stunt again, I swear I’ll kill you.
Most of their conversations were pointless banter, but one piece of information stuck with him: soon, a large-scale operation involving managers from multiple countries would take place.
Fortunately, Sooah wasn’t included in the mission. Given her recent rampage, the risks were deemed too high for her participation.
Xiao Yun visited only once.
— Just thinking about that day still makes my whole body ache, you crazy bastard.
With a grin, he tossed Taeseong a bottle of his favourite liquor before leaving without another word.
The last visitors were the Korean administrators.
Lee Eunha nagged endlessly with a distressed expression before finally saying, “I’m sorry we couldn’t help you.”
Taeseong hadn’t expected their help in the first place, nor did he blame them, knowing they had been locked in a sealed lounge.
But it seemed they felt differently.
— Captain, I have no excuse. I should have stayed by your side no matter what… But we were trapped in a damn lounge, utterly useless.
— I’m sorry, Taeseong. We weren’t there when you needed us the most. And honestly, I keep thinking… even if I had been there, wouldn’t I have just been a burden?
Yu Gi-jun and Oh Haeyoung were practically drowning in self-reproach. They must have known logically that it was beyond their control, but there seemed to be a deeper reason behind their guilt.
Powerlessness.
Their remorse likely stemmed from the helplessness they had felt. If they had been stronger, they might have broken out of the lounge themselves and found a way to help.
Taeseong understood.
But there was no need for them to dwell on guilt. Instead, they should take this as a lesson and use it to grow stronger.
While they talked, Go Yeonghui kept grinning to herself. At first, Taeseong’s face hardened at the sight, but then he recalled that she was under a curse and forced himself to stay calm.
After all, if she was smiling like that, it meant she was grieving in her own way.
.
.
.
A month had passed since he began living in the isolation room.
For the past two weeks, aside from Sooah, no one had visited. Most personnel had been deployed for the large-scale operation.
In the first place, the reason administrators from other countries had been summoned was for this mission. Taeseong, of course, had been excluded due to his probation.
“Mental sparring is starting to get boring.”
To fight off boredom, he had spent most of his time meditating. He engaged in endless imaginary duels in his mind and revisited past memories to strengthen his sense of self.
Just then—
The door to the isolation room opened, and the now-familiar enforcer entered.
By now, neither of them needed words to greet each other; a simple exchange of glances was enough.
“Are you aware that most of the branch’s administrators are currently deployed on a mission?”
The enforcer, unusually, spoke first.
Taeseong nodded.
“A Beta-class administrator died during the mission.”
The words that followed were enough to shake even Taeseong, who had maintained an impassive expression until now.
Yukina.
Sooah’s mentor and the head of Japan’s administrative division.
She was dead.
