Promotion announcements rarely stirred Yoo Minjae.
In his time as Valmyros, dragon of the high spires and last breath of the Elder Tongue, honors had meant little. Recognition had come with awe, with silence, with reverence. Not with a polite email and a brief congratulatory tap on the shoulder.
Still, when his supervisor called him into the meeting room—eyes thin with mirth and tone overly casual—Minjae could not fully suppress the flicker in his chest. Not pride. Something quieter. Like a tether snapping into place.
"Effective immediately, you'll be stepping up as a Senior Business Analyst," she said.
The others in the room—project leads, managers, even a few from HR—clapped lightly. He bowed with practiced humility, as if the gesture alone could deflect the attention.
The new title changed little on paper. Slightly larger scope. More visibility. More responsibility over cross-departmental insights. But Minjae understood the real change: expectation.
People would start looking closer, asking more.
And that, in itself, was a new kind of risk.
He nodded politely as someone offered him a slice of cake from a small paper plate. "Congratulations, Senior Analyst Yoo!" a junior said brightly, voice half-nervous.
"Thank you," he replied, taking the fork, pretending to eat. Sugar felt strange on his tongue—he still hadn't fully adjusted to the sweetness humans found comforting.
"Speech!" someone called.
Minjae looked up, eyes narrowing faintly, but with enough humor to disarm. "If I speak, it'll turn into a financial report," he said.
Laughter rippled through the small crowd. Relief disguised as amusement. The moment passed smoothly.
He endured the rest of the small celebration in silence, answering a few obligatory questions about "career path" and "work-life balance." Words that, to him, meant little. He had lived lifetimes without the need for either.
---
Later that afternoon, as he walked back to his desk, he passed Seori from HR, reviewing a report on her tablet.
"Congratulations, Senior Analyst Yoo," she said without looking up, lips curved just slightly. Her tone was even, but Minjae caught the warmth in her voice.
He nodded. "Thank you, Ms. Ha."
Her gaze lifted briefly, amusement flickering. "You can drop the 'Ms.' now. You outrank me on paper."
"I don't think that's how hierarchy works."
"Depends on who you ask," she murmured, scrolling through her screen. "Still, I'm glad. You've been doing senior-level work for a while. It's only fair they made it official."
Minjae offered a faint smile. "Fairness in corporate systems. That's rare."
"Don't ruin the mood," she said, but her grin was genuine.
He inclined his head in thanks and moved on.
---
Near the break area, Yura stood half-hidden behind a large stack of printed graphs, talking to a marketing lead. She noticed him mid-conversation and offered a grin that lingered half a second too long to be just friendly.
"Big title now," she called over the papers. "Does that mean we finally get full disclosure on your weekend hobbies?"
"No change there," he said, allowing a rare smirk.
She looked satisfied, leaning her hip against the counter. "Figures. Still mysterious."
"Predictability has its uses."
"Not in dating," she said lightly, and turned back to her colleague.
He continued walking, shaking his head faintly.
---
At his desk, Yuri was already there, adjusting parameters on a dashboard visualization he'd helped design months ago. Her focus was precise, movements mechanical but efficient.
She didn't look up when she spoke. "Heard the news."
"Rumors travel faster than official memos," he said.
"HR group chat," she replied simply. Then, without another word, she reached across and slid a USB into his palm.
"Model refinement, as promised," she said. "And… congrats."
"Thank you."
By the time he looked up again, she was gone.
---
The rest of the day passed with a pleasant monotony. He answered emails, reviewed forecasts, approved two mid-project pivots. On the surface, all was smooth. But beneath it, a new thread tugged.
The lab.
He hadn't returned since the promotion talks had begun. Distraction, he'd told himself. But deep down, he'd been waiting—waiting for the right moment to begin again.
Promotions brought attention. Attention brought scrutiny. And scrutiny could expose things not meant to be found.
Yet, the longer he stayed away from the lab, the more restless he became.
By six o'clock, most employees had already left. The office lights dimmed automatically, a signal for the overworked to go home. Minjae stayed until the last cluster of footsteps faded.
He powered down his system, collected his coat, and glanced once toward the reflection on his monitor. For a brief second, he caught a faint shimmer—gold beneath the human facade—before it disappeared.
---
That night, beneath the glow of streetlights and fading spring winds, Minjae slipped away.
Not to the bus stop. Not to his apartment.
But through a side alley leading to a nondescript building registered under Seojin Capital's auxiliary data center.
Few ever questioned its purpose. Even fewer had clearance to enter.
The keypad blinked red when he approached, then green, recognizing not just a code but a frequency—an echo of something older embedded in his blood.
Inside, the lab greeted him with its quiet hum.
Dustless. Ordered. Waiting.
He exhaled slowly, letting the stillness wrap around him like an old memory.
Consoles blinked awake. Monitors flared with data. Shelves brimmed with notes, files, samples, models—everything he had gathered under the guise of "anomalous pattern research."
On the far wall, faint lines glowed under blacklight—ancient diagrams, runes he had drawn from memory.
Runes no human could read.
No dragon should remember.
But he did.
He moved toward them slowly, fingertips tracing the curves. To any other eye, they were nothing more than decorative equations. To him, they were fragments of an older structure—one that once bound sky and flame.
He had once believed those inscriptions were merely art. Poetry made power. But now… perhaps there was more.
Perhaps the humans who bent spoons and claimed to see through matter, those who whispered about latent energy and "potential resonance," were scratching at the same mystery.
Not magic.
Not ki.
Something fundamental.
He powered up the secondary terminal, pulling up the folder labeled Anomalous Human Incidents – South Korea.
Dozens of reports blinked to life. Blurred CCTV captures. Interviews. Thermal distortions. Individuals demonstrating energy responses under emotional stress.
He leaned back, eyes scanning. "It's getting closer," he murmured.
Not louder. Not more visible. Just closer.
---
An hour passed. Two.
He moved between data sheets and recorded footage, cross-referencing frequency deviations with environmental metrics. Every once in a while, he paused—not to think, but to feel.
It wasn't human intuition. It was instinct older than speech. The world itself shifting, aligning toward something he couldn't yet name.
A soft tone interrupted his concentration.
Incoming message: Seori – HR.
"Still at the office?"
He hesitated, thumb hovering. Then replied:
"Just finishing up some reports."
A typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then returned.
"Don't overwork yourself. The others went out for drinks to celebrate your promotion."
"I'll join next time."
"You always say that."
He stared at the message for a few seconds before setting his phone down.
The truth was, he couldn't join them—not because he disliked company, but because blending too deeply meant slipping. And once the mask slipped, no amount of silence could put it back.
He stood, stretching slightly. The air in the lab was sterile, untouched by human presence. Yet, it was here he felt most alive.
Minjae walked to a sealed cabinet and entered another code. Inside lay a narrow cylinder—a metallic core with embedded circuits and glass veins. Within it pulsed a faint light, rhythm steady as breath.
The prototype.
Born from both human technology and draconic resonance. A bridge between language and matter.
He watched it for a moment, then closed the casing gently. Not yet. The world wasn't ready. Neither was he.
---
Outside, the night had deepened. A drizzle misted the air, catching faint reflections of streetlights. He stepped out, locking the door behind him, the faint hum of the lab fading into silence.
The city around him pulsed with noise—distant horns, laughter from late diners, neon glows. Ordinary life. Beautiful in its impermanence.
Minjae walked aimlessly for a few blocks, blending into the crowd. To them, he was another overworked analyst in a wrinkled shirt, expression unreadable. No one looked twice.
He preferred it that way.
At a crosswalk, he paused as a group of students passed by, talking excitedly about stock trends and AI models. Their words were fragments—"volatility," "market cycle," "unpredictable algorithms." He almost smiled.
Humans chasing understanding, always one step from something ancient. Always reaching.
He wondered if that curiosity was what kept him here.
His phone buzzed again. This time, a group message.
[Finance Team Chat]
Yura: "Where's the promotion party victim?"
Yuri: "Probably writing a risk assessment on happiness."
Seori: "He's at the office. Don't bully him."
Yura: "Bullying is love."
He typed slowly.
"Confirmed."
The typing indicators froze, then laughter emojis flooded in.
He pocketed the phone, faintly amused. For all their teasing, their warmth anchored him more than he cared to admit.
---
When he finally returned to his apartment, the city was quiet. He poured himself a cup of tea, the simple ritual grounding him back into stillness.
His reflection on the windowpane looked human enough—tired, expression neutral. But behind the eyes, something flickered. Gold, again. Ancient.
He sat down, closing his eyes.
Promotion. Attention. Patterns.
Each layer drawing him closer to exposure. Yet he couldn't turn away now. Not when he was this close to understanding why the runes still resonated.
The world was shifting. The boundaries between memory and invention were thinning.
And in the heart of Seoul, beneath fluorescent lights and boardroom laughter, the last dragon still searched for a language that could name what came next.