Just a little while before Orien picked up Marin and returned to the village, he took one final step back into the cave where the lab once stood.
The monster had been defeated. The scientist, knocked out cold. And yet, Orien felt something pulling at him — unfinished business. So he walked back toward the site, where everything had begun.
But when he entered the cave, he found something disturbing.
The lab… was gone.
Vanished. As if it had never existed. There were no machines, no lights, no computers, no test tubes — just rock and cold silence. It was like the place had erased itself . Orien understood that this lab and everything here was a part of his genre injection.
But then, he heard something.
Crying.
Faint sobs. The kind that weren't loud, but pierced straight into the heart.
He turned toward the sound and saw them.
They were huddled together in the shadows, their bodies trembling, their skin pale and twisted in places. They looked… mutated. Their eyes were wide, but unfocused. And they cried nonstop, repeating the same words again and again.
"It hurts… it hurts… it hurts…"
Orien knelt down, trying to speak gently. "Kids… what's hurting? Can you tell me what's wrong?"
But they just shook their heads, weeping harder. Their mouths opened, but no more words came. Only the same phrase, again and again.
"It hurts… it hurts so much…"
Orien's heart sank. He could feel something was wrong — deeply wrong. Their bodies were slowly changing, just like the monstrous organisms he had fought earlier. Their minds… they were slipping away. Their hands twitched. Their teeth gritted randomly. The spark of human thought in their eyes was fading.
He clenched his fists.
The scientist… that madman had done something to their internal organs. Something irreversible. If left like this, they'd suffer for hours — maybe days — before their bodies completely lost control and they became monsters themselves.
Orien knew what was coming.
He had seen this before. The twisted spiral of irreversible transformation. The agony of a mind falling apart from the inside out. He couldn't let that happen to these children. Not to kids who hadn't even had a chance to live.
He looked at them for a long moment. Then, slowly, he moved forward.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
One by one, he reached out and gently knocked them unconscious.
He held each of them as they drifted off, whispering soft words they couldn't hear anymore.
Then… he placed his hand over their mouths. One at a time. Slowly, carefully, he cut off their oxygen.
There were no screams. No thrashing. Just a peaceful stillness as their pain faded — as their fragile souls were freed.
He gave them the only mercy he could.
When it was done, he stood still for a long time.
Then, wordlessly, he gritted his teeth and punched the stone wall of the cave with all his strength. The impact echoed through the empty space. Dust fell from the ceiling.
But no tears came.
Only his expression showed the pain. A deep, quiet sorrow buried beneath calm eyes.
---
Back in the present…
A sudden shift.
Out of nowhere, a man appeared directly in front of Orien and Marin. Reflexively, Orien threw a punch — swift and strong.
But the man caught it effortlessly.
His face was hidden by the sunlight streaming from behind him. All they could see was the silhouette — tall, calm, confident.
Marin squinted, confused.
Orien froze. Recognition sparked in his eyes.
"…You?" he muttered.
The man stepped forward, revealing his face.
It was the Author.
Orien stared at him, stunned. He had always believed the Author stayed in his office, far away from the real world, never interacting directly with characters. He had become myth more than anything as no one saw for years. Even he was seeing him after himself despite being a top enforcer.
And yet, here he was… standing before them.
"Oh," Orien thought. "So he's here… because of him." He glanced toward Marin.
The Author still held Orien's fist and said, with a dry voice, "Good work, Orien. You can stop trying to punch me now."
He released the hand.
Marin watched silently, thinking there was some grudge between the two. But he didn't comment.
Then the Author turned to Marin.
"Good work, kid," he said simply. "Now… will you join us?"
Before Marin could respond, Orien walked away to where the villagers were still gathered. They were cheering for him, calling his name. He smiled and waved to them, finally enjoying the warmth of their gratitude.
Marin looked back at the Author, who now held out a contract.
"Here," he said. "Just sign it."
Without giving him time to read it, he shoved a pen into Marin's hand and tapped the signature line.
Marin was about to sign when something clicked in his memory.
Wait… my arm. That scientist had kicked it hard. I remember it being fractured…
He stared at his hand. It felt fine. No pain. No bruises.
Out loud, he said, "My arm… it was fractured. How is it still okay?"
The Author gave him a flat look.
"Kid, were you living under a rock? Or meditating in a cave? Or sealed away for a thousand years? Or are you someone who transmigrated from another universe into mine ?"
"Huh? What are you talking about?" Marin asked, annoyed.
The Author sighed. "Do you even use social media?"
"No," Marin muttered. "I tried, but they only allowed 18+ IDs. My mom caught me using a fake ids and scolded me and what's the point here anyway ?."
"Figures," the Author grumbled. "What about YouTube? Netflix? Even the news?"
Then he took a deep breath and began explaining.
"Listen carefully. Plot armor… has a will of its own. Its purpose is not to attack — it's to protect the one who carries it. That's its core function. People get it wrong. They think it's just some flashy power-up to beat bad guys. But in truth, the first and most basic use of plot armor is defense. It protects the wielder from harm — injuries, death, anything."
Marin leaned in, listening.
"So when you're not actively using it to fight," the Author continued, "plot armor uses its energy to heal your body. It doesn't regenerate limbs like magic, but it can repair fractures, stop internal bleeding, mend muscles, and more. The healing follows a natural order — first it stops bleeding, then fixes broken bones, then organs, and finally minor stuff like fatigue."
"So that's why my arm is fine…" Marin realized.
"Exactly," the Author nodded. "But there's a tradeoff. You have a ton of plot armor. So yeah, you'll heal fast… but your body will also break down faster if it can't keep up. If you keep using plot armor without training your physical body, it'll destroy you from the inside."
"Then what should I do?" Marin asked.
"Simple," said the Author. "Train like the other enforcers do. Exercise. Build muscle. Let your body catch up to your armor. Got it?"
"Yeah… got it," Marin nodded.
"Good," said the Author. "Now sign this, and you'll officially become an enforcer."
Marin hesitated, trying to glance at the contract.
But the Author waved it off. "It's just standard employment stuff. Nothing shady. Sign it quickly."
Marin reluctantly signed.
The moment the pen touched the paper, the Author grabbed it, snapped his fingers, and the document vanished — teleported back to his office.
"Can I get a copy of it?" Marin asked.
"Nope," the Author said casually. "You won't need one."
Marin frowned. But then a thought hit him.
If this man… this Author… was really the creator of the world — an omnipotent god of sorts — then…
He asked, "Why don't you just revive the people who died? You're the creator, right? Can't you bring them back?"
The Author, who had been floating just above the ground this whole time, slowly descended and landed on the earth.
He looked Marin straight in the eyes.
And said, without emotion:
"…Why should I?"