DPGR 131

So it wasn’t just a rumor.

Jiho’s eyes widened at the news of the Esper Director’s retirement. Dojin, though he looked a little weary, explained in his usual calm tone.

“His injuries were serious. And there’s a sense of responsibility too.”

“Responsibility…? But the dungeon break wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

Strictly speaking, it had been God’s doing. He had involved himself in a pointless bet, staked an entire dimension on it, and then rewound time twice to try and undo his choice.

But the god who had caused it all was nowhere to be found, and only innocent people had died. The Esper Director had simply been one more victim, yet now he had lost an arm and was about to lose his position.

“People don’t see it that way. And… the Esper Director himself seems to be welcoming his retirement.”

“He’s… welcoming it? Why?”

“Well, he was pretty much pushed into the role by my teacher. Maybe he wants to finally step down and rest.”

As Dojin said this, he gently cupped Jiho’s cheek. He planted kisses on Jiho’s forehead, the corners of his eyes, his cheekbones, and the bridge of his nose.

Jiho wrinkled his face like it tickled, then stuck out his lips in a pout.

Suppressing a laugh, Dojin kissed those lips too.

“Think you’ll be okay alone for a bit?”

“Yes. Are you going to the funeral?”

By “funeral,” Jiho meant the joint memorial for the people who had died in the recent dungeon break incident.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“I want to go too…”

“You’re a patient.”

“But the doctor said there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. Even the little scrapes have all healed!”

It had been about five days since the incident.

After exhausting all his guiding energy, Jiho had slept for nearly a full day. But he recovered quickly and regained his strength at an alarming rate.

The Center’s physician had looked at Dojin, who was fussing anxiously, with a disapproving expression. Aside from a few falls and minor scratches, Jiho’s body showed no problems.

Even those scrapes had only needed some disinfectant and band-aids. None were deep enough to leave a scar.

But later, researchers from the lab examined Jiho’s guiding signal levels and advised him to rest. It turned out his inability to control his guiding at the end had been a kind of overload.

Because of that, Jiho was now hospitalized in the Center’s VIP room, though not by choice.

With the Center overflowing with patients after the incident, Jiho felt like his stay was a burden.

“Your body may be fine, but your guiding signals still need to stabilize. Just rest.”

“It’s already been five days. Can’t I just go home and rest? What if I get discharged today, attend the funeral, and then go home to sleep?”

“Nope. What if something happens while I’m not around?”

“When have I ever caused trouble?”

“You guided a bunch of people without permission, that is trouble.”

As Dojin said that, he gave Jiho’s nose a gentle flick. Jiho puffed up his cheeks in protest.

“I saved everyone. That should be something to praise me for, but you’re the only one scolding me.”

“How can I praise you for putting yourself in danger?”

Jiho furrowed his brow in a pout, but didn’t argue further.

He knew, after all, that what he had done was reckless. It had practically been a guide’s version of an overload.

While an Esper’s overload endangered others, a guide’s overload put themselves in danger.

If Dojin hadn’t absorbed Jiho’s guiding signals and knocked him out when he did, Jiho would’ve suffered intense pain until his energy was completely depleted.

“If I could, I’d lock you up somewhere no one could find you.”

Dojin sighed and pressed a kiss to Jiho’s temple.

“…Break your wings and keep you in a cage.”

His voice was so low and his words so slurred that Jiho barely caught any of it.

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

Dojin chuckled softly, but something about that smile felt sharp.

Even if it had been radiated guiding, the fact remained: his guide had shared his guiding with others. That alone had nearly put Jiho in danger.

A dark possessiveness stirred in Dojin’s chest. Honestly, if he could, he would’ve bound Jiho up and hidden him somewhere far away, someplace no one else could reach.

Then again… Jiho probably wouldn’t even need to be tied down.

His innocent guide would surely follow after him, just from a single whine or a gentle word.

Dojin nipped at Jiho’s nape with his teeth, as if marking him with a bite.

“Hyung? That tickles.”

Unaware of what was going through Dojin’s mind, Jiho giggled and pulled his neck in. Dojin reluctantly withdrew with a smacking of his lips.

“I’ll be back soon. While I’m gone, Heendung will watch over your room.”

“Wait, am I being watched?”

“Of course. Can’t leave a troublemaker alone.”

He ruffled Jiho’s hair with one large hand, the touch brimming with affection.

“Just five more days. Stay here five more days, and I’ll discharge you after that.”

Jiho’s eyes lit up at Dojin’s promise.

“Really? You mean it? Don’t go back on your word.”

“Promise.”

Dojin held out his pinky. Jiho laughed with a soft hee and hooked his pinky around it.

***

The Esper Director’s retirement was handled quietly and swiftly behind the scenes.

The Esper Director’s Retirement and the Guide Director’s Death.

With those two seats left vacant, the Center was thrown into an unprecedented state of emergency.

“What do you mean, you’re retiring like this, Esper Director? Huh?!”

“I’m a patient.”

“What kind of patient—!”

“Oof, my arm really aches…”

Yoon Changwook, no longer the Esper Director, now the former one, waved his left arm.

Or rather, he waved what was left of it. His sleeve hung limp where his arm had been severed below the elbow.

The board members who had come to talk him out of retiring nearly leapt out of their seats.

“Okay, yes, you’re a patient, fine! But still! Isn’t this all too sudden?!”

“Exactly! It’s not like the Esper Director needs to head out to the field anymore. This incident was an exception!”

“That’s right. Wouldn’t it be better to keep the position? It’ll keep your later years from getting too lonely!”

As the board pleaded with him, Changwook let out a dry, hollow chuckle.

“With this body, I went out into the field, led Espers, even held a press conference to clean up the mess… What more do you want me to do?”

He raised an eyebrow sharply. In a voice devoid of any warmth, he offered a warning.

“And Director Choi.”

“W-what…?”

“How about you stop speaking informally to me? Unless… you’d rather drop honorifics entirely and be friends?”

“……!”

Director Choi, who had long since slipped into informal speech with Changwook, turned beet red. Changwook gave him a bright smile and lightly patted his stiff shoulder.

“Come on, I’m joking.”

“Y-yes, of course… haha…”

“See how nice it is when we all keep things respectful? Even if I’m retiring, it’s not like we’ll never see each other again. Let’s part on good terms, yeah? You understand, right?”

“Ah, of course, of course… But still… maybe you could just… give it a little more thought? Couldn’t you?”

“Why? Because of what’s coming next? That Final Dungeon?”

Changwook’s voice dropped. The door to the Center Director’s office was securely shut, and there wasn’t a soul in the hallway outside, but he still made sure not a word leaked.

The board members instinctively sucked in a breath and recoiled at the mention of classified matters.

Changwook completely understood their fearful reactions.

They were civilians, after all, people who had now witnessed the frontline for the first time.

So even these guys, who used to just sit in safe offices and read reports, finally realized how dangerous monsters are.

It was a good thing they now understood that the “Final Dungeon” wasn’t something that could be leveraged for political gain.

But being too scared and falling into panic was just as dangerous.

Changwook decided it was time to calm them down.

“Don’t worry. The Guide Director’s seat is vacant, sure, but do I look like the kind of guy who’d leave the Esper Director’s seat empty too?”

“……! Then…?”

Their eyes lit up. Changwook smiled wide, showing all his teeth.

“I know someone perfect for the job.”

“Nnngh… Still, we can’t just put anyone in right now…”

Several of the board members murmured in worry. Understandably so. Dungeons were popping up everywhere, even dual dungeons had appeared, it was chaos.

On top of that, the Center was half-destroyed, and its systems were in shambles. Appointing a greenhorn as Esper Director would only make things worse.

But Changwook simply shrugged, his expression bright as ever.

“They’re experienced.”

“…What? Experienced?”

“Yes. I’m sure you’re all familiar with him. Esper Kwak Jiheon.”

“……!”

The board’s jaws dropped. Some of them visibly flinched, as if recalling some very unpleasant memories.

Changwook continued speaking as he finished packing his desk.

“You remember, don’t you? He was the Esper Director before me. There’s no better leader. During his tenure, there wasn’t a single internal political scandal or faction dispute at the Center. Am I wrong?”

To Dojin and Jiho, Kwak Jiheon might have seemed like a kindly old grandpa, always chuckling and smiling, but during his time in charge, he had been strict and formidable.

He held himself and everyone else to the highest standards, keeping a tight grip on power within the Center.

Even after his retirement, the current board members had all heard more than enough about his fearsome reputation.

As their faces turned ashen, Changwook smiled in satisfaction.

“Times like these, we need unity more than ever. Anyway, I’ll be going now. Take care.”

He picked up his neatly packed box with one hand and strolled out of the director’s office with a cheerful smile.

A beat too late, the board members snapped out of it and cried out, rushing after him in a flurry.

They trailed behind him, whining and begging him to reconsider, but Changwook ignored them easily, brushing off their pleas like a man brushing lint from his coat.