Chapter 292: Chapter 292

President of the Association, Dan Haera, smiled as she reviewed the documents.

“So Hunter Sergio showed up at that school.”

Jeong Hae-Woon, summoned by her, asked,

“You’re sure the information is under control?”

“It’s being handled inside the Association. There’s no way this gets out.”

“Ha, I don’t want to say it but... this is seriously fucked...”

He let out a hollow breath.

“This way we really can’t even deny it anymore.”

“Weren’t we unable to deny it from the beginning?”

Dan Haera closed the file.

“Hunter Sergio is indeed the teacher we no longer remember.”

The time had come to acknowledge it in words.

“I don’t know exactly what happened. But maybe we’re not supposed to know. Still, we have brains—we can’t help but try to piece together how it might’ve all unfolded.”

“We had this damn good teacher who died, and from those memories, something—or someone—built Earth’s entire system. We lived on, clueless, stumbling around like idiots. And now the guy comes back, not even as a human, but as a painting. How’s that for a summary?”

“Yeah, well done. Whether it was even possible to build a system from just memories of Sergio—I still don’t know. But I’m at least glad one of the questions that’s haunted me is finally a little clearer.”

Even as she said that, her expression didn’t show the slightest joy. Her face, halted in its twenties, was always machine-like—precise, [N O V E L I G H T] refined, yet utterly devoid of emotion.

Jeong Hae-Woon looked at her and asked,

“...Do you remember? The day we found out we were tied to the Earth’s system.”

“I offered it up through a Promise.”

“How long ago did I tell you that, and you’re already pulling it back out?”

“The fact that something happened can be known just through cognitive ability.”

“You really never let up.”

They hadn’t understood what the “Promise of Eternity” was at first. They’d even forgotten they had ever known it. But some things they couldn’t help but learn—through a growing dissonance with everything around them.

Jeong Hae-Woon muttered,

“I knew this shitty life would bite us in the ass.”

“Are you talking about me?”

“Please. Obviously I mean us.”

He sprawled on the guest sofa and looked up at the ceiling.

“...Have we finally learned everything there is to know about the Promise?”

It had started with powers that exceeded human limits. Then came the realization their bodies no longer aged. Then came the horror—they couldn’t even die. Step by step, they had peeled back the truth of the Promise of Eternity.

Dan Haera smiled and said,

“It’s not a big deal.”

What mattered to them now was the present—and the future. There wasn’t enough room in their lives to dwell on the past. They were so busy looking forward, they had no time for regret.

“For that kind of thing, we figured it out pretty fast.”

If ‘Sergio’ hadn’t shown up, they might’ve stayed in the dark much longer. Their interest in the Promise had always stemmed from wanting to ensure they didn’t unknowingly threaten the Earth system.

And honestly, even without knowing about Sergio, they had learned enough not to disrupt the system. So maybe they didn’t need to know any more. What was the point? Jeong Hae-Woon stared up into the pale light.

His eyes didn’t hurt.

“...What do you think his goal is?”

“Hunter Sergio’s goal?”

“He first appeared last year. That painting stayed silent for over 30 years, then suddenly showed up at an auction. Sold to a collector who believed in the freedom of artworks.”

“You think he had a purpose?”

“Let’s not be naïve. We don’t even know if ‘Hunter Sergio’ is really the teacher we forgot. At the very least, he’s not human. And whether he is that person or not—either way, he’s dangerous.”

Curiosity began to sour into suspicion.

“Let’s say he’s not our teacher. Then he’s a really smart monster. One that’s somehow pieced together and reconstructed a figure we don’t even remember, and now he’s exploiting our blind spots. No matter how you look at it, you can’t say that comes from a good place.”

So what if he was the teacher?

“Even then, that’s a problem. How can we be sure he’s the same person he was as a human? Look at us—we changed this much just trying to remain human. The end result of that effort is what we are now. And people call us natural disasters.”

To put it nicely, they were S-Class—Symbols of Eternity.

“And now what, he’s a painting? I heard Yoo Seong-Woon the gardener is assigned as his personal curator. So that means he’s extremely close to the Origin, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe he was assigned because of Seong-Woon’s skills. He’s someone the Collector personally spent money to acquire. And a piece from the 5th Floor Gallery. The need for caution is obvious.”

“You just said it yourself—he’s someone we should be careful around. But what does he want? There have been rare cases of people becoming children of the Origin... but...”

Jeong Hae-Woon ran a hand over his face.

“None of those stories ever ended well.”

He was speaking as Earth’s first gardener.

“Humans are inevitably cruel. Because we have to preserve and advance ourselves, we’re inherently selfish. Why? Because preservation and advancement require resources—and resources are always limited. Which means we inevitably take away opportunities that others might’ve had...! A child of the Origin born from that kind of humanity? That’s horrifying. Don’t you agree?”

Dan Haera said to him,

“You’re getting worked up.”

He lowered his hand from his middle-aged face.

“Doing this job constantly reminds me... Damn it, aside from you guys, I’ve got no one on my side in this world. Everyone’s shit. Humans, gardeners, children of the Origin—everyone’s fucking shit.”

“You seem exhausted. Why not take a break? I heard there’s been a small increase in the number of gardeners. Isn’t that enough to cover your rest?”

“The new chicks can only handle one garden at a time. Two, at best—and that’s rare. Lately, there’s been some disturbance in the Origin itself, so everything’s on edge... No, I can’t. There’s no way I can rest.”

“How long are you going to keep that middle-aged face?”

“Until the world ends. I’m living forever.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I’m saying this because I care.”

But was that really “concern”?

Maybe it was the exhaustion talking, but his thoughts turned bitter. Dan Haera had forgotten countless emotions and memories—but she was still his friend. If she was worrying about him, then it was real concern.

No need to be sarcastic.

“...I should take a break soon, yeah.”

“My words must’ve offended you.”

“It’s fine. No need to apologize.”

“If I was wrong, I should say sorry...”

“I can’t help it. When you stay young for too long, people get scared. You have to show some kind of effort, some gesture, to make yourself approachable.”

His job required meeting many people and having deep conversations. If he looked too young, people wouldn’t trust him. If he didn’t age, it created a sense of unnatural dissonance.

That unease from the gap between inside and outside—it terrified people.

“So I’ve got to live hard, at least.”

“You’re working yourself to death.”

Tsk. Jeong Hae-Woon clicked his tongue and sat up straight on the sofa.

“...I know that ‘Hunter Sergio’ is doing a lot of good. I’ve heard things are improving because of him. He s personally, volunteers, steps in when problems arise.”

“But you’re still worried.”

“You can’t distinguish goodwill and malice in children of the Origin. You shouldn’t even try. Those are human standards. Beings born of the Origin are ticking time bombs. You don’t know how long until they explode. One wrong touch and they go off.”

“There could be duds too, you know.”

“The problem is you can’t tell. What even defines a dud? Doesn’t explode when touched? When thrown? When the wrong wire is cut? Some burn silently even in fire—others blow up just from a little humidity.”

In short, they were untrustworthy.

“There’s no basis for trust. None.”

Their emotions couldn’t be interpreted as “emotions.” Not by human standards. But humans had no choice—we could only understand from a human perspective.

It was a horrifying disconnect.

“Still, it’s comforting that he seems to be a relatively harmless type. If he can interact with people so well, he must understand humans deeply.”

“Because he was human once?”

“You know better than anyone not to expect high empathy just because someone used to be human. Fuck. What even happened to make someone like that exist? What’s the system’s exact link to him?”

“There’s nothing good that can come from knowing too much.”

“Which is why I’m the only one losing my mind over it.”

Jeong Hae-Woon muttered.

“It’s not certain yet, but... if the system was made from his memory—he must’ve been a really good person...”

Even if it brought convenience, the cost and reward had to be equal.

“If a memory of that caliber shaped us... that means we gave up a lot. Forgetting one person changed who I am. It’s disgusting. It makes me sick.”

“You’ve got a bad habit of swearing when you’re feeling guilty or worn out.”

“...I know nothing good comes from being curious.”

Digging too deep could damage the Promise. And the Earth was already on a knife’s edge. They had to always look away from the past, live the present, and look toward the future.

“Nothing good will come of this, but still...”

His insides were a mess.

“I’m sorry. What if he died because of us? I feel guilty. And I’m scared of what a being like that might do next. I wonder what kind of person he was, to come back from death and still act so kind. There’s basic goodwill too—for someone who must’ve once meant a lot to us.”

“That’s not a problem.”

“If only Hunter Sergio had appeared a hundred years later.”

“By then, Earth might’ve been a lot more stable.”

“Which means we need to keep grinding.”

Jeong Hae-Woon looked over at Dan Haera.

“What are you going to do about that school?”

“We need to restrict access.”

“That’s definitely the best move.”

“I’m thinking of making a Promise.”

“Restricted to authorized personnel only.”

“What will you forget?”

“Hunter Sergio’s memory?”

It was the most rational choice.

Information about one abandoned school disappeared.