Chapter 136

Baldur’s Tears would surely suffice to heal Josephian’s child. The mystical item did not merely roll back the body’s clock to a previous state; true to its description, it mended the target entirely.

“If money isn’t enough, name your terms,” Josephian said, her voice tight but unwavering. “I’ll do anything.”

Her gaze remained locked onto his. The sheer resolve to follow through on that promise was written plainly in her eyes, leaving no room to doubt her sincerity. Listening to her recount her desperate struggle and brutal past was agonizing, a narrative harrowing enough to compel anyone to offer aid.

Had the Nam Shin-hoo of his past life been confronted with this dilemma, even that selfish iteration of himself might have surrendered the artifact. Josephian was genuinely that broken by grief, and a decade was a long, cruel time to endure such torment.

Yet, the present Nam Shin-hoo hesitated.

From the moment he first acquired Baldur’s Tears, he had never intended to use it for his own benefit. He had silently sworn that if a true crisis ever manifested, he would save the artifact for Kwon Haeju. It had never even crossed his mind to surrender an item capable of granting Kwon Haeju a second lease on life, regardless of the stakes or the petitioner.

Stepping closer, Shin-hoo peered into the depths of the incubator.

Inside lay a fragile, tiny life. Her heart beat with a visible, labored effort, and her erratic breathing was maintained solely through a complex web of medical tubing.

He still lacked a clear explanation for why the quest’s success rate had suddenly spiked. Perhaps this infant was a vital piece required to resolve the overall scenario, or maybe securing Josephian’s absolute cooperation was an unspoken prerequisite for completion. Ultimately, the exact nature of her connection did not matter. At the very least, it was certain that this current crisis was intimately linked to the savior prophesied in the quest.

After a protracted silence, Shin-hoo reached a decision. “If I administer Baldur’s Tears, is her recovery guaranteed?”

“I don’t know,” Josephian admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “But right now, that item is my absolute last hope.”

Shin-hoo mentally traversed his inventory to inspect the artifact. He had deliberately secured it in the deepest, most obscured slot, so far down that he rarely glimpsed it. Today, however, the item practically flaunted its presence, its magnificent petals radiating a soft, brilliant gleam.

Reflecting on his journey, he realized that none of the occurrences he had chalked up to chance were truly coincidences. From the very instant he was thrown back in time, to rescuing Kwon Shinju, and eventually encountering the Nuckelavee via the Sand King title, every milestone had unfolded as though it were meticulously orchestrated. This encounter was undoubtedly another path dictated by the overarching fate of the quest. Accepting that premise meant he had to make a choice.

And yet, a heavy thought lingered.

He’s going to absolutely hate this.

Baldur’s Tears was a safeguard that Kwon Haeju had secured specifically for him. Unlike Shin-hoo, Haeju viewed the artifact as Shin-hoo’s ultimate lifeline. If he ever discovered that the item had been surrendered for a completely strange child, his disappointment would be profound.

Just as Shin-hoo prioritized Haeju’s survival, Haeju desired nothing more than for Shin-hoo to live. Haeju, entirely oblivious to the parameters of the quest, would inevitably misinterpret the gesture. He would assume that Shin-hoo had once again defaulted to self-sacrifice, failing to place any value on his own existence. Even so, the ten percent increase in the quest’s success rate was an incredibly alluring prospect. That metric, which could easily plummet depending on his next move, seemed to flash tauntingly before his eyes.

It was a choice where the ultimate outcome had been decided from the very beginning.

“Can you swear to keep my involvement an absolute secret?” Shin-hoo asked. “The knowledge that this child was saved by Baldur’s Tears must never leave this room.”

Josephian nodded fiercely. “I swear it on my life.”

“Good. Then we have a deal. I’ll collect my compensation at a later date.”

With a subtle mental command, Shin-hoo retrieved Baldur’s Tears from his inventory.

When Shin-hoo finally emerged into the open air, the pitch-black sky allowed him to gauge how late the hour had grown. Josephian, bound by necessity to the subterranean facility, had remained at her daughter’s side while seeing him off. By now, she was likely already administering the remedy to Milia.

Shin-hoo had purposefully chosen not to stay and watch.

He knew that witnessing the near-omnipotent efficacy of the medicine might trigger a wave of intense regret. In a future where Kwon Haeju’s life might hang in the balance, he would inevitably look back on this moment and question his choice.

He shook the thought away. He had been backed into a corner. The fact that the quest success rate remained stable and elevated proved his decision had not compromised the objective. At the bare minimum, it indicated that Haeju would not meet an untimely demise simply because the artifact was gone.

Shin-hoo desperately needed to believe that logic.

“You’re finally out,” a voice called out.

The first individual to greet him on the surface was Glys Roban. Strands of brilliant blond hair caught the faint ambient light, and the man appeared vastly more relaxed than he had during their tense stint inside the dungeon.

“I want to formally apologize for my hostility when we first crossed paths down there,” Glys Roban said, stepping forward. “You proved to be an invaluable asset to us throughout this entire ordeal.”

“Let it go,” Shin-hoo replied evenly. “Our side didn’t exactly extend much trust to yours either.”

When the dust settled, the treacherous factions embedded within the Cradle of Genesis had proved to be completely disconnected from Glys Roban’s immediate circle. Roban had chosen to place unwavering faith in his core guild members, and that gamble had paid off. On that specific front, Shin-hoo felt the man deserved respect.

“What’s the status of the traitors?” Shin-hoo inquired.

“They’ve all committed suicide,” Glys Roban answered, his expression darkening slightly. “It appears some manner of psychological or magical restriction was placed upon them to ensure their silence.”

Shin-hoo remained silent, digesting the grim update.

It was an unsatisfying, abrupt conclusion that yielded virtually no actionable intelligence. Despite the lack of answers, Roban’s countenance remained surprisingly buoyant.

“The United States has a specialized Hunter capable of extracting residual memories from corpses,” Glys Roban continued. “We’ve already transferred the remains to their jurisdiction, so we should receive a comprehensive report shortly. More importantly, how are you feeling physically?”

Before Shin-hoo could formulate a response, Roban waved his hand dismissively.

“Actually, don’t answer that. It’s a foolish question; there’s no possible way you’re fine. For the duration of your stay in the States, I’ll personally guarantee that you face no discomfort whatsoever. Furthermore, we will arrange a private jet for your return journey. Simply inform us of your ideal itinerary.”

“On that note, I had a discussion with Bale and ended up destroying one of your private vessels,” Shin-hoo countered. “Is that going to be an issue?”

“Not in the slightest,” Glys Roban replied smoothly. “I was fully briefed on the circumstances. That sacrifice constituted Bale’s personal restitution, and our guild will prepare our own distinct compensation package for you.”

Roban’s demeanor was remarkably warm, bordering on overly familiar. Shin-hoo wondered if this sudden hospitality stemmed solely from the fact that he had preserved the life of a guild member. Even taking that into account, the level of deference felt remarkably disproportionate.

Changing the subject, Shin-hoo asked, “What condition is Kwon Haeju in?”

“Ah…” Glys Roban rubbed the back of his neck, his voice trailing off as he carefully weighed his words. ” Does he typically exhibit that kind of behavior back in Korea? It was… rather intense.”

Shin-hoo did not require an elaboration. Fragile, erratic, and utterly volatile—that was the standard. It was actually a minor miracle that Haeju wasn’t pacing the surface alongside them at this very moment. Based on the fleeting lapses of consciousness Shin-hoo had experienced during his own recovery, Haeju’s mental state had been severely deteriorating.

“He refused to stand down until the situation resolved entirely, and he only just succumbed to exhaustion a short while ago,” Glys Roban explained. “I’ll notify you the moment he stirs.”

According to Josephian’s timeline, Shin-hoo had taken three full days to awaken after undergoing treatment. Accounting for the logistically complex transfer from the depths of the dungeon to this medical wing, it meant Kwon Haeju had willfully endured at least four consecutive days without a single moment of sleep.

“Don’t bother waiting,” Shin-hoo said, his tone sharpening. “Take me to him now. Where is he?”

Haeju needed to see Shin-hoo standing entirely whole the exact moment his eyes opened. Understanding the urgency, Glys Roban nodded and immediately took the lead. As they navigated the corridors, Roban maintained a steady stream of conversation, recounting the final moments of the raid, the progression of Haeju’s deterioration, and the frantic decision to seek out Josephian to stabilize Shin-hoo.

He’s completely dropped his usual persona, Shin-hoo noted silently.

In the past, Glys Roban had been an individual hyper-fixated on public perception, always striving to present an imposing, flawless image to the world. Currently, he seemed entirely re-engineered. Regardless of the personality shift, the man’s talkative nature provided an excellent source of raw information.

Following Shin-hoo’s collapse, Haeju had immediately engaged the primary dungeon boss in a brutal, isolated duel. The entity had manifested as a colossal jellyfish, and the endless onslaught of autonomous tentacles they had fought throughout the lower levels were merely extensions controlled by that singular, massive core. It perfectly aligned with the deductions Shin-hoo had made the moment Haeju forcibly wrested control of those appendages.

“What ultimately happened to the boss?”

“Havirain successfully tamed it mere moments before Hunter Kwon Haeju could deliver the killing blow,” Glys Roban revealed. “The feat is entirely unprecedented. No one has ever brought a dungeon boss under submission like that.”

Shin-hoo’s eyebrows knit together, but he remained quiet.

“Havirain claims he could hear the creature’s consciousness plain as day,” Glys Roban continued. “According to his assessment, the boss naturally developed a distinct sense of self a few years after the gate initially stabilized. He noted that from the moment it achieved true self-awareness, it existed in absolute isolation. It’s difficult to gauge how literally we should take his interpretation.”

I don’t want to die. The loneliness is suffocating. Why am I left here entirely alone?

According to Havirain’s testimony, those specific, harrowing sentiments were the thoughts radiating from the dungeon boss as it drifted blindly through the abyssal dark during its final moments.

Surrounding environmental surveys indicated that the deep-sea dungeon had manifested over a decade ago. For more than ten years, without ever triggering a dungeon break or structural collapse, the entity had existed in total solitude within the ocean depths. In a barren domain where every other lesser monster had long since expired, the sentient creature had cried out in desperation to the very first humans it encountered.

It was a plea born of agonizing loneliness.

Hearing that profound despair, Havirain had deployed his specific taming metrics to bind the entity. Given the vast, undeniable disparity in raw power between them, the attempt would have resulted in catastrophic failure without the boss’s absolute, willing compliance.

Exactly as Havirain deduced, the creature had found its prolonged isolation so utterly unbearable that it actively chose a lifetime of servitude to a human over another moment of solitude.

“Furthermore, during our post-raid sweep, the entire dungeon architecture dissolved,” Glys Roban added. “Our current working theory is that the taming of the core entity broke the structural integrity of the pocket dimension.”

Shin-hoo simply nodded.

The sequence perfectly mirrored the events surrounding the Sand King’s domain. Ancient, displaced deities discovering their own identities, followed by the immediate collapse of the dungeon as though the space itself had been waiting for that exact resolution. It was a recurring phenomenon unique to the specific gates Shin-hoo entered.

Shin-hoo understood the true lineage of those anomalous domains and their respective keepers. They were remnants of the civilization that had populated the original planet alongside the Nuckelavee, forced to flee across the cosmos in search of a sustainable sanctuary.

In the current timeline, they had long since perished. The encounters were merely echoes, memories meticulously reconstructed on Earth through the residual authority of the Nuckelavee.

And one by one, those lingering echoes were fading from existence.

“Would you care to speak with Havirain directly?” Glys Roban offered, breaking his train of thought. “He expressed a strong desire to thank you face-to-face for keeping the team alive.”

“Postpone it for later,” Shin-hoo replied, his focus unwavering.

While he harbored a distinct professional curiosity regarding the nature of the tamed boss, Kwon Haeju remained his immediate and absolute priority. Anticipating the refusal, Glys Roban simply nodded and accelerated his pace down the corridor.