The next evening, Kang Jae-Hyun pulled into the visitor parking of Apex Dynamics headquarters at exactly 5:58 p.m.
The building dominated the skyline of Seoul's tech district: a sleek tower of black glass and reinforced alloy, ringed by discreet mana barriers that shimmered faintly in the twilight.
Armed security Players in matte-gray exo-suits patrolled the perimeter, their monster-core rifles humming softly. To most citizens, this place was equal parts fortress and cathedral: the birthplace of humanity's manufactured heroes.
Jae-Hyun stepped out of his ride dressed simply: dark slacks, white shirt, light jacket. No armor, no enhancements, just the quiet confidence of someone who had never needed them.
At the gate, the guards snapped to attention.
"Champion Kang! Good evening, sir."
He nodded politely. They scanned his ID, waved him through without question. Being the son of two lead researchers had its perks, but tonight he was just here to pick up his parents for their anniversary dinner.
The lobby was vast and sterile: marble floors, holographic displays cycling through Apex recruitment ads and recent raid highlights.
A massive screen showed a team of Players clearing a blue Gate, their weapons glowing with artificial mana. Jae-Hyun glanced at it, then away.
He was about to message his mother when a familiar booming voice echoed across the space.
"Jae-Hyun, my boy!"
Chairman Park Tae-Woo strode toward him, arms wide. At seventy-two, the founder of Apex Dynamics still moved like the S-rank Hunter he had once been: broad shoulders, sharp eyes, gray hair cropped short.
He wore a tailored suit instead of armor these days, but the presence was the same.
Jae-Hyun bowed respectfully. "Chairman Park. Good evening."
The older man clapped him on the shoulder like a favorite grandson. "Four titles in a row! I watched the finals. Beautiful footwork. Absolutely beautiful."
"Thank you, sir."
"Your parents are wrapping up in the lab. Come, walk with me a minute. I want to show you something while we wait."
Jae-Hyun hesitated. He knew this tone. It always led to the same conversation.
But refusing the Chairman directly was difficult. The man had funded half the national swordsmanship federation and treated Jae-Hyun's family like his own for over a decade.
"Just a quick look," Chairman Park promised, already steering him toward the private elevators.
They descended deeper than Jae-Hyun had ever been: sub-level 7, restricted even for most employees. The air grew cooler, heavier, laced with the faint ozone scent of contained mana.
The doors opened onto a long corridor lined with reinforced glass. Beyond the glass, researchers in white coats moved between humming machines and containment fields.
At the end waited a sealed observation chamber.
Inside, his parents stood among a small team of scientists. They looked up in surprise as the Chairman entered with Jae-Hyun in tow.
"Dad? Mom?" Jae-Hyun frowned. "What's going on?"
His father adjusted his glasses nervously. "Chairman, we weren't expecting—"
"Nonsense," Park waved a hand. "It's fine. The boy's practically family."
His mother offered a small, apologetic smile. Jae-Hyun could read the unspoken message: We tried to stop him.
The Chairman turned to the containment field in the center of the room.
Suspended inside a lattice of blue energy floated a sword.
Not an ordinary weapon.
The blade was obsidian black, longer than most katana, single-edged with a subtle curve. Crimson veins pulsed slowly beneath the surface like living blood.
The hilt was wrapped in dark material that looked almost like scaled hide, ending in a guard shaped like twisted horns. Even motionless, it radiated pressure: heavy, ancient, dangerous.
The lead researcher cleared her throat. "Project Vortex. S-grade monster core, fully weaponized. Highest stability rating we've ever achieved from a living specimen."
"Living?" Jae-Hyun echoed.
The Chairman grinned. "That's the best part."
He gestured to a console. The containment field dimmed slightly, allowing sound to pass.
For a moment, nothing.
Then a deep, resonant voice filled the chamber: low, amused, edged with arrogance.
"Bringing me another reject, old man? This one smells like naivety."
Jae-Hyun's eyes widened. The sword had spoken.
The researchers didn't flinch; they were used to it. His parents exchanged uneasy glances.
The voice continued, dripping sarcasm. "Look at him. Pretty face. Does he even know what blood feels like on a real blade?"
Jae-Hyun stared, shock giving way to something else. Amusement. Despite the insult, there was an undeniable pull: intelligence, confidence, challenge.
He stepped closer to the glass. "You talk a lot for a sword."
A low chuckle rumbled from the weapon. "And you listen well for a child playing pretend. Tell me, swordsman, have you ever cut something that bleeds mana? Ever felt a strike that could end the world if you missed? "
"No," Jae-Hyun admitted calmly. "I haven't."
"Pity. You move like someone who could. But you won't. Not with that soft life."
The Chairman watched the exchange with keen interest. "We've tested hundreds of candidates. Vortex rejects them all. Refused full submission from the start. We made a deal: preserve its consciousness and speech in exchange for cooperation. But it will only bond with a wielder whose sword style matches its own. Extreme. Relentless. Perfect."
He turned to Jae-Hyun.
"You've turned me down every year, son. I respect that. But if you ever accept the program, if your compatibility is high enough, this blade is yours. A gift. Think of the lives you could save."
Vortex snorted. "He'd break in one swing. Or I would."
Jae-Hyun met the pulsing crimson glow where eyes might be.
"I'm not interested," he said, voice steady.
"But… you're interesting."
The sword fell silent for a beat.
Then: "Come back when you're ready to bleed, boy. I'll be waiting."
The Chairman sighed, almost fondly. "Think about it, Jae-Hyun. Offer stands forever."
He led Jae-Hyun out. Behind them, the containment field brightened again, sealing Vortex's voice away.
In the elevator ride up, his parents joined them. No one spoke until they reached the lobby.
His mother touched his arm. "Sorry about that. He's persistent."
Jae-Hyun smiled. "It's okay. A talking sword. That's new."
His father chuckled nervously. "It's one of a kind. Dangerous, too."
As they walked to the car, Jae-Hyun glanced back once at the towering building.
For the first time in years, a very small part of him wondered.
But only for a moment.
Dinner waited. Life was good.