Chapter 22

Whether such an ordeal could properly be called heartbreak was debatable; in any case, only those unburdened by the daily struggle for bread could afford the luxury of lingering shock and sentimentality.

With livelihood an unforgiving master, Myeong-joo hauled heavy gas cylinders through the freezing streets even while Yi-tan’s parting words replayed in his head like a stubborn habit. Though the marriage promised a substantial sum of money, his household remained in such dire straits that failing to earn today meant starving tomorrow. He could hardly afford to quit on the spot. Just that afternoon, spurred by the promise of an extra fifty won for every ten deliveries, he had skipped lunch and bolted down cold rice too quickly, bringing on a vicious bout of indigestion.

His stomach churned violently, his vision narrowing to a pinprick. On the return trip from a delivery, Myeong-joo had no choice but to pull his motorcycle onto the curb. Ghoulishly dizzy, his gaze caught on a discarded Bacchus tonic bottle lying in the gutter. He seized the glass by the neck, smashed the base against the concrete curb, and drove the jagged shard deep into the flesh beneath his thumb. As thick, dark blood welled and dripped onto the asphalt, the suffocating knot in his chest finally began to uncoil.

“Ugh, what a damned misery,” Myeong-joo muttered under his breath.

As the nauseating pressure subsided, a foul oath slipped past his lips. Cold sweat drenched his hairline. Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, he climbed back onto the motorcycle.

My mother and elder sister wish to meet you, Yi-tan had told him before leaving. Whenever you have a free day, Instructor, we shall arrange it.

Those were the words Yi-tan had left him with that night. Perhaps assuming Myeong-joo’s ashen complexion stemmed merely from physical exhaustion rather than the weight of those impossible revelations, Lee Yi-tan had told him to rest, polished off a hearty bowl of hand-torn noodle soup, and taken his leave.

“He wasn’t a terrible sort,” Myeong-in remarked quietly.

She spoke from behind Myeong-joo as he wiped down the low dinner table. With Myeong-hui begging for a piggyback ride like a sleepy kitten, Myeong-joo cleared the bowls with one hand, offering his sister a tired smile. With a sullen pout, she continued grudgingly, not even looking at him.

“They say sons-in-law are dog bastards,” she scoffed with a dismissive shrug, “but he certainly wags his tail well.”

“…Myeong-in! Where on earth did you learn such dreadful language?!”

It was a frightfully vulgar assessment for an unmarried young lady, yet even as her brother squawked in dismay, Myeong-in merely snorted and vanished into the kitchen to finish the washing up.

Still, it was a relief that her opinion of Yi-tan had softened. Though troubled by doubts after hearing Yi-tan’s confession that this was his third life, time marched steadily forward. Having exchanged their saju danja—the formal birth-data papers—and scheduled a meeting with the Lee family elders, breaking things off was out of the question.

Amid everything, the greatest solace was securing enough financial support to spare his sisters any worry over living expenses. Yet another anxiety gnawed at him. Yi-tan seemed to expect him to display formidable abilities as a Harmonizer. Had he truly possessed such talent, however, he would never have spent his youth hauling gas cylinders. That was precisely why he placed little faith in the clinic doctor’s advice to re-evaluate his harmonization rank.

“A visitor came by the house today,” Myeong-in announced as he stepped through the door.

She greeted him as he returned home, haggard from unresolved dread and lingering indigestion.

“A visitor?”

“He claimed to be from the Special Corps,” she said, studying his face. “He wore a uniform—didn’t seem like a fraud. He said you must report for training shortly. Have you heard anything?”

“Nothing at all. When did he arrive?”

“Around noon. He mentioned they would provide a living allowance during the training period.”

“They’re paying an allowance?” Myeong-joo’s eyes widened.

Nodding with an equally tense expression, Myeong-in retrieved an envelope from her apron pocket and held it out. “The particulars are written here, but I waited so we could read it together.”

Myeong-joo beckoned her over. “Good girl. Come here, Myeong-in, let’s see.”

Myeong-in huddled close against his side. Without bothering to hide their nervous anticipation, the siblings tore open the envelope. A living allowance! If he could secure military housing as before, he would have no greater wish in this world.

“…and therefore request that you participate in the training program. During the period of instruction, a monthly salary of ninety thousand won will be paid…”

“Ninety thousand won?!”

“Good lord, Myeong-in, read that again. It really says ninety thousand, doesn’t it?”

The siblings stared at each other in disbelief.

A sack of rice cost five thousand won; ninety thousand a month was enough to live comfortably and still put money aside. However hard Myeong-joo broke his back on deliveries, earning forty thousand won in a month was a struggle, forcing Myeong-in to toil at a nearby sewing factory just to keep them fed.

Her eyes began to shine. “They’re really giving you all this money?”

“That’s what it says… Even when I lived in military quarters, it was never this much…”

Yi-tan’s influence had to be behind it. Thanks to that single figure, Myeong-joo and Myeong-in spent the entire evening in giddy excitement. Even his stubborn indigestion seemed to recede. Smiling to himself, Myeong-joo dabbed red antiseptic over the ragged cut beneath his thumbnail where the broken glass had torn into the meat. For the moment, even the fact that Yi-tan had returned through time felt trivial. Ninety thousand won had wiped every other worry from his mind.

***

He bowed over and over to the gas-shop owner the following morning, apologizing for quitting so abruptly. The man docked a portion of the wages owed for work already done, but Myeong-joo walked away without arguing. According to the notice, the sooner he reported to the training program, the better.

Myeong-in smoothed his collar before he stepped out. “Today is the first day of your training, isn’t it? Do well, oppa.”

“I will,” Myeong-joo said with a warm smile. “And you should quit that factory soon. I’ll earn enough for all of us.”

“Hooray, we’re rich now!” Myeong-hui clapped her hands, practically dancing.

Laughing, he ruffled her hair fondly. Now that she was getting a little older, she made a great show of squirming whenever he tried to kiss her cheek, so he had to settle for a gentle pat on her head.

With the enthusiastic cheers of his two sisters sending him off, Myeong-joo embarked on his first day.

Yet once orientation began, he realized things would not be simple. For some inexplicable reason, a subtle hostility flickered in the eyes of the strangers greeting him.

“Let us begin by re-evaluating your rating,” the training instructor said curtly.

Nodding at the dismissive command, Myeong-joo endured the sidelong glances prickling from all sides. He had arrived early at Geumgang Hall, where Harmonizer training was conducted and Aberrants were strictly barred, but being scrutinized so coldly before even exchanging formal introductions set his teeth on edge.

“As for my rating,” Myeong-joo ventured politely, “surely the records from my prior enlistment remain on file?”

“Who has the time to go digging through old archives? Walking all the way to records would take half the day,” the man scoffed.

Intended merely as an opening pleasantry, the remark earned him an outright rebuke. The instructor held the rank of Sergeant, identical to Myeong-joo’s rank before his discharge, yet the man possessed an air of practical competence that marked him as someone not to be trifled with. The real trouble was that he seemed to harbor distinct displeasure toward Myeong-joo from their very first exchange.

Was I too visibly eager in my excitement over being paid to train? Sensing he was being treated as an easy mark, Myeong-joo silently squared his shoulders. Smiling meekly when provoked only invited contempt from men like this; maintaining a stoic, impassive silence seemed far wiser.

When Myeong-joo offered no further argument, the instructor glanced at him and flicked his fingers, gesturing for him to bare an arm. It appeared they intended to measure his harmonization conductivity by strapping a rubber cuff to his forearm and attaching metal clips to his fingertips.

Taking his seat obediently as directed, Myeong-joo asked, “Pardon me, Sergeant, but which class did you graduate from?”

Fastening the rubber strap around Myeong-joo’s chest to secure him to the chair, the instructor scowled with clear annoyance. “Why do you ask that?”

The Azalea Brigade—the Special Corps—marked its twenty-seventh year of establishment this year. Through the first five classes, excluding Lee Hui-eum, the son of an imperial prince, recruits had been treated almost like laboratory specimens. Fortunately, several prominent figures emerged from subsequent classes to establish internal discipline, and thereafter recruits were enlisted biannually, producing generations optimized for demonic fiend combat from the thirtieth class onward. Myeong-joo belonged to the thirty-fifth class, while recent recruits had surely surpassed the fiftieth.

“Well, you possess such fine bearing that you hardly look older than a youth, yet you are already an instructor, so I grew curious,” Myeong-joo bantered with an easy grin. “I couldn’t tell whether your ability was extraordinary or your looks were… or perhaps both?”

He leaned shamelessly into the flattery. Years ago, he might have held his chin stiffly as the eldest grandson of a prominent head house, but that dignity had long since rusted away. Before his regression, he had rubbed his palms together begging favors from every conceivable bureaucrat to revive his family, wearing his fingerprints smooth in the process. Coaxing a non-commissioned officer barely older than Lee Yi-tan was hardly a challenge. As Myeong-joo studied him with an admiring gaze, the instructor’s stern expression softened.

“Spare me the flattery. You’re my senior, Sunbae-nim,” the instructor retorted with a wry smirk.

Myeong-joo waved a self-deprecating hand. “Flattery? Not in the slightest. Besides, I have been discharged for ages and am only just reenlisting, so how could I presume to accept being addressed as a senior? I speak only from the heart.”

As Myeong-joo chuckled with sly affability, the instructor finally cracked an amused smile. It was then that the sharp gazes directed at him from the other Harmonizers in the testing hall underwent a subtle shift. Their quiet hostility had likely stemmed from viewing him as a patronage appointment. They had undoubtedly gossiped among themselves about how a lowly fifth-grade Harmonizer could suddenly secure reenlistment. Blindsided by the promise of money, Myeong-joo had failed to anticipate such petty scrutiny.

Indeed, what difficulty was there in sweet-talking greenhorns barely out of their twenties? Having pawned everything short of his own flesh to survive, swallowing this trivial pride was easier than picking his teeth after a meal.

“We will begin the examination now,” the instructor announced.

“Yes, of course,” Myeong-joo agreed with an obliging nod. “Please take good care of me, Instructor.”

Giving a playful half-salute against his brow, Myeong-joo leaned back against the chair. Metal plates clamped around his fingertips, followed by a brief warning that he would feel a mild sting.

Before his regression, he had been rated at the lowest grade, Grade 5. Having heard the physician’s remarks, he harbored a quiet glimmer of hope, yet strove not to dwell on it. A lifetime of dashed expectations had taught him bitter caution. Even so, he secretly wished he might achieve Grade 4. Though still hopelessly below Lee Yi-tan’s highest rank, a fourth-grade rating would at least allow him to introduce himself as a Harmonizer without hanging his head in shame.

“Applying current now,” the instructor warned.

That was the last warning Myeong-joo heard. Contrary to the reassurance of a mild sting, the moment electricity coursed through his veins, his head snapped limp like a marionette with severed strings.

Blackout was instantaneous.

A searing agony ripped through his chest, intense enough that his harmonization core seemed to convulse. The metallic tang of blood coated his tongue, wringing a pained groan from his throat.

***