“It’s finally finished.”
The gear was finally complete.
The exoskeleton I had commissioned from Seven.
It was based on U.S. military equipnt and an Israeli model, modified to et three specific objectives.
The design philosophy was lightweight and simplified, but with emphasis on delivering a single, powerful burst of destructive force.
Of course, reusability was a basic prerequisite.
I put it on.
The fit wasn’t bad.
The weight was acceptable.
My new custom gear was composed of two parts.
One was a lower-body exoskeleton, covering from the soles up to the knees and pelvis. It absorbed shock from high-altitude landings and enabled one-ti hydraulic-assisted jumps.
The weight was just over 8 kg.
Compared to the original Israeli model, which weighed 12 kg, it had shed around 4 kg.
All unnecessary armor plating and electronic systems had been stripped out. Only the bare minimum remained—just the functions I needed.
That’s why it looked like a few tal rods strapped together and overlaid on my legs.
This ti, I tested it like in actual combat—jumping down from a 10-ter height while holding a rifle.
“Here we go!”
A mont of tension.
Honestly, this kind of test pilot stunt wasn’t my style.
But it was gear made only for .
A little risk was acceptable.
I gritted my teeth and jumped.
Thud!
A hard impact.
But—
Creak—creeaak—
The shock-absorbing gear that wrapped around the soles, the artificial joints at the knees connected to the shock system, the harness that ran organically along my thighs and wrapped around my waist, all distributed the force evenly. It mitigated what would otherwise have been a catastrophic impact that could have broken my legs, knees, or lower back.
“How is it?”
Seven and the engineer ca over to ask.
I nodded.
“It’s excellent.”
I operated the console attached to the pipe running along my left thigh.
Whirrr—
The hoof-shaped shock absorbers retracted into the interior, and I could feel the soles of my boots making direct contact with the ground.
Exactly.
The shock-absorption system could be deployed only when needed.
You could walk or run with the system extended, but it dulled ground feedback and made balance worse compared to using my bare soles.
It was a difficult request, but Seven and his team had matched it perfectly.
Next was the jump test.
This ti, I placed a large fire departnt mattress up front for safety.
The console was mounted on the left thigh, positioned so I could operate it anyti with my left hand.
I pressed the button.
Click—
From inside, ca a tallic shriek like a crying heron.
Click—
This was a sound-based feedback chanism, informing of the machine’s state instead of electronics.
Click—
After the third sound—
Thud!
The retracted hoof-shaped shock absorbers shot out like blades and struck the ground, while the built-in hydraulic pistons exploded upward, launching my body into the air.
Boom!
Even before the tallic echo faded, I realized—
The scenery around had changed in an instant.
I was up in the sky.
Flying through the air.
About 7 ters high.
Compared to the masterpieces of mankind, it might seem modest.
But this height let do a lot more.
Especially when it ca to killing monsters.
Of course, for this leap to be fully effective, another piece of gear was required.
“Next item.”
Seven smacked his lips.
“Ah, U.S. military gear. That was a masterpiece in itself. Honestly, I feel a bit guilty. Breaking that beauty apart just to make this pile of bones.”
The demand for lightweight and simplified design spared no part of the system.
5 kilograms.
That was my maximum allowed weight.
No more.
I’d be carrying a lot.
Even if I wasn’t, weapons needed to be light.
Heavy weapons like machine guns were heavy by chanical necessity—but not my weapons. Mine needed to feel light as a feather.
So friends complain that if a weapon doesn’t have weight, it doesn’t feel like a weapon—but weight increases the chance of failure at critical monts.
I tried on the new weapon.
More like a brace than a weapon.
The key was—
Bang!
An explosive force from a pneumatic cylinder.
The mont I activated it, my right arm tore through the air with such force that the rest of my body couldn’t keep up.
In that instant, I understood.
The potential of this device.
A monster’s outer shell is like tree bark.
It can be destroyed or severed with brute force—but human strength has limits. And on the first strike, the hide tends to absorb part of the blow.
Especially for mid-sized monsters and larger, their durability far exceeds that of smaller ones. You have to strike the sa spot multiple tis.
Among small monsters, the Executioner-type, for example, is as tough as a mid-sized or larger monster, in my experience.
They’re not unbeatable with my axe—but ideally, I want to kill them with minimal strikes.
That’s what this gear is for.
The original U.S. and Israeli military exoskeletons had high-performance A.I., adaptive function based on biotric vitals, armor plating for hand-to-hand combat, and even firepower support like mini-rockets.
Mine stripped all that away—no defense systems, no fluff.
What I wanted was one perfect strike.
That’s it.
To achieve that, I made extre sacrifices in design and function.
The arm gear worn on my right arm, and the lower-body brace that functioned like a dical walking support system.
These two pieces of equipnt would be what I relied on for survival if everything else fell apart.
Seven scratched his chin as he stared at my rather bare-looking gear and asked flatly,
“What should we call it? I can laser-etch a na in as a freebie.”
I thought for a mont.
Not for long.
“Jang Ki-young Mark II.”
Yeah.
This futuristic gear was exactly the kind of thing my ntor Jang Ki-young might have dread up.
If not for him, I, being a pretty conservative and rigid thinker, would never have considered using sothing like this.
It was a tribute to him.
But the reaction was lukewarm.
“...Huh?”
Seven and the engineers stared blankly at .
“That’s my ntor’s na.”
“Oh, okay. But why ‘Mark II’?”
“Because there was a Mark I.”
“You don’t an...”
Seven glanced at sideways and asked carefully,
“That rocket axe?”
“Yeah.”
And so, my new gear—Jang Ki-young Mark II—was now officially added to my weapons list.
Seven said he’d handle the final tweaks and inspections and have the gear delivered to my office.
I gladly accepted and left the workshop, intending to head back.
Screee—
A familiar noise grated in my ears.
I turned my head.
Wearing a white coat even in the middle of a heatwave, looking even thinner because of it, my junior was staring at with that usual far-off gaze.
“Senpai. Can we talk?”
My junior, Woo Min-hee, spoke while staring at the tip of her sharp, hook-like finger.
As always, her face was expressionless, but the hesitation in her eyes didn’t give a good feeling.
She must have a purpose.
One that benefits her, not .
Even so.
“...”
I nodded.
*
The place Woo Min-hee led to was unexpected.
[Heavenly Oracle]
A fortune-teller’s shop.
A sign under so bamboo and paper lanterns of dubious origin stood out.
[Served the President, Pri Minister, mbers of Parliant, and Chaebols]
[Predicted World War III]
[Predicted the Fall of Wonju]
[Helped many shelters by predicting ideal evacuation sites]
[Predicted Seoul’s capital transfer and re-transfer]
[Predicted the closure of Jeju’s Rift]
[Currently predicting Paju Rift’s closure!]
Predicted this, predicted that.
I’d never heard of “Heavenly Oracle” before.
More importantly, how could a shop like this still exist in this era?
Still, seeing the shop situated right in the middle of a residential area with a well-decorated exterior suggested they had real clients.
“She’s supposedly a pretty skilled shaman. Said to have read fortunes for presidents and conglorates before the war.”
“It’s written right there.”
I held my tongue, but honestly, I could do this too.
I could log onto the ssage board right now under my Skelton handle and say the reason I fight so well, crack jokes, and am genetically hilarious is because I received divine revelation.
I have no religion and don’t believe in superstition.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say I hate it, but I consider it worthless.
But Woo Min-hee is different.
She lives by emotion rather than logic—by impulse rather than structure—making her the type to easily fall for this kind of low-grade superstition.
At least in this regard, Kim Daram is superior to Woo Min-hee.
Still, this place must be reputable. There’s a line.
“Please wait a mont.”
They even had a staff mber.
We stood under the sumr eaves for thirty minutes without speaking.
Every ti a breeze blew, Woo Min-hee’s hair fluttered, giving a glimpse of her profile—but her expression remained sealed in blankness.
I could’ve cracked a joke, but didn’t.
Dragging out ti under heavy silence suited in a way.
As Professor, I was popular professionally, not personally.
“Next, please.”
It was our turn.
The door opened, and the previous clients—a bright young couple—stepped out.
They looked five to ten years younger than us. Holding hands and smiling during the apocalypse—it was a beautiful sight.
Our turn ca.
The sll of incense was the first sensory confirmation of where we were.
Then ca the vivid folk paintings, shamanic images, mysterious Chinese characters, and illegible symbols that filled the room.
The person who would read our fortunes sat at a small floor desk, waiting.
Rainbow hanbok.
Black hat adorned with two pheasant feathers.
A textbook shaman.
Her eyes were fierce, and her lips looked stiff, as if numbed with a dermatology cream.
I disrespected superstition, but this woman—
She definitely had presence.
The kind of aura that could deceive the ignorant.
Woo Min-hee laid out two cushions.
Uncharacteristic of her.
I sat silently.
She was the one who booked this session.
I just watched quietly.
Woo Min-hee whispered sothing in the shaman’s ear.
The shaman nodded.
Then her gaze snapped to my face like a flash of lightning.
I t her eyes calmly.
I acknowledged her unique vibe and that it was her sales gimmick—but that didn’t an I believed in fortune-telling, face reading, or any of this pseudoscientific garbage.
I still considered it all worthless.
The shaman said curtly,
“You’re going on a journey, aren’t you?”
She must’ve overheard sothing.
I {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} nodded.
“Yes.”
The shaman shook her head.
“No. No.”
I didn’t reply. Didn’t even feign interest.
My cold reaction made the shaman stare harder, waiting for a response—but she was barking up the wrong tree.
Even I knew I wasn’t exactly polite.
I held back from storming out, only because Woo Min-hee had brought here.
She was the first to speak, trying to ease the mood.
“Why not? What’s the reason?”
The shaman replied, rolling only her eyes toward her.
“There’s a curse. A bad on. Danger is everywhere. Enemies are plenty. Spirits are rampant. The timing is wrong.”
Still, I didn’t react.
There was no need.
What convinces are facts and rational argunts based on facts.
I’m stubborn and opinionated, but if soone presents a more logical view, I’ll follow it.
But this wasn’t that.
This was a complete waste of ti.
That said, people in this line of work do have so real-world skills.
Like reading expressions and tone statistically.
They know how to deal with hostile custors like .
I call it “fortune-teller statistics.”
The shaman stared down and said,
“You’re going to lose sothing big.”
That was my limit.
I’d tolerated this long only because Woo Min-hee had asked.
I stood up.
She looked at like she wanted to protest, but I didn’t stop.
I left the room of the Heavenly Disciple without another word.
We walked for a while afterward.
More precisely, I led and she followed.
“Senpai.”
She eventually called out.
“What.”
I stopped walking but didn’t turn around.
“I know you’re upset, but wasn’t that too much?”
“Sorry. But I really hate that stuff.”
“I spent good money to bring you there.”
“I appreciate the gesture, but...”
I sighed and looked at her.
And felt surprised.
There were intense emotions on Woo Min-hee’s pale face—ones I hadn’t seen in a long ti.
Anxiety. Frustration. Irritation.
Emotions from her girlhood that hadn’t shown since she beca “Director Woo.”
Did she really expect sothing from that fortune-teller?
“...”
I had a guess.
Was it that?
She must’ve known.
Then why now?
As that question swelled inside , she finally spoke—not with her usual brightness, but with a hollow tone.
“I heard... you’re going into the Rift.”
I didn’t ask from whom.
No need.
She was one of the few who knew everything about my situation in Gyeongju.
That knowledge was likely what led her to bring to the fortune-teller.
Before she could ask, I confird.
“Yeah. I am.”
I looked at her directly.
With a faint trace of desperation she rarely showed, she pleaded.
“Can’t you... not go?”
If human relationships were roads, so would be smooth, so rough, so dead ends, and so would be mist-shrouded cliffs you couldn’t return from.
Fortune-tellers and horoscopes call those things bad ons.
I call it sothing else.
“Sorry. I have to go.”
Destiny.
Sothing inevitable. Sothing that eventually arrives.
Reviews
All reviews (0)