The 30 million won was a pebble dropped into the ocean of their debt. It bought them two weeks of operating capital—rent, food, basic mana-replenishing supplements for Yuri—and nothing more. The second nodal repair, targeting the critical point near her kidney, remained a distant, 50-million-won dream.
But something had changed. In Yuri. In the air between them.
The instinctive activation of 'Vengeful Earth' was a seismic event. It proved Seong-Jin's system wasn't just a repair tool; it was a blueprint for evolution. Yuri's training shifted. No longer just physical therapy to manage pain, it became targeted conditioning. Seong-Jin, using the System's precise feedback, designed exercises to strengthen the pathways around her fractured nodes, to make her body a more efficient conduit for the trickle of mana she could safely channel.
They turned their shabby office into a makeshift gym. Yuri lifted customized weights, her movements careful, her face a mask of concentration as she listened for the warning twinges from her left side. Seong-Jin watched, his eyes seeing not just her muscles straining, but the flow of energy the System highlighted in muted, clinical colors.
"Stop," he said, not raising his voice. She was attempting a twisting lunge. "Your mana is pooling two centimeters south of the second fracture. You're creating a pressure point. Straighten the angle by five degrees."
She adjusted, sweat dripping from her chin. The strain eased. She completed the movement smoothly. "How do you see that?" she asked later, gulping water.
"I just do," he replied, offering no further explanation. Mystery was a manager's currency. He was not a healer, not a trainer in the traditional sense. He was an architect, and her body was his schematics.
Her trust in him was now absolute, forged in the fire of that first repair and tempered in the Crucible. It was a fearsome responsibility. He felt it every time he made a correction, every time he pushed her to a new limit. He was literally rebuilding her, and one misstep could shatter her forever.
The debt to Madam Song was a sword hanging over them, but it was this—Yuri's complete, fragile faith—that was the heavier weight.
His phone buzzed. An unknown number, but the area code was for the affluent Gangnam-gu district. He answered.
"Lee Seong-Jin." It was Madam Song's smooth, unmistakable voice. No greeting. "My sources tell me your investment made some noise at a local pit. A flash of something interesting. Followed by radio silence."
Seong-Jin's blood ran cold. She was watching. Of course she was. "Diagnostic testing, Madam Song. We're calibrating."
"Calibrations don't pay interest. The first payment is due in three months. A modest 85 million won. I trust you have a plan to generate more than… pit fighter chump change?"
He could hear the disdain. "We're scouting additional assets," he said, the managerial lie coming easily.
"Scout faster. And while you do, I have a… proposition. A referral. Consider it a test of your vaunted eye for talent."
A referral? From her? It was a trap. It had to be.
"I'm listening."
"There's a girl. A singer. Or she was. Now she's a problem. Her contract is a toxic asset her agency is desperate to offload. They've come to me for liquidity. I'm considering it, but I'd like a second opinion. From someone who sees 'value in damage.' Meet me at the M-Star Entertainment building. Tomorrow, 10 AM."
The line went dead.
A singer. A toxic asset. Seong-Jin's mind raced. In this world, Hunter idols and celebrity singers often occupied the same stratosphere. But what could make a singer's contract a problem Madam Song herself was wary of?
M-Star Entertainment was a glass-and-steel spire piercing the Seoul skyline, home to one of the country's largest idol conglomerates. The lobby was a temple to manufactured beauty, full of breathtaking young trainees who moved with practiced grace. The air smelled of ambition and expensive perfume.
Seong-Jin, in his one good suit, felt like a janitor who'd wandered into a royal ball.
He was escorted to a soundproof conference room on a high floor. Madam Song was already there, sipping tea with a man in a perfectly tailored suit who looked like he had a permanent headache—Director Kwon of M-Star's Talent Management division.
"Ah, our specialist in rehabilitation," Madam Song said, a faint, mocking smile on her lips. "Director Kwon, this is Lee Seong-Jin. He believes in lost causes."
Director Kwon didn't bother to stand. He assessed Seong-Jin with a tired, cynical gaze. "I don't know what Madam Song sees in this, but fine. You get five minutes with the asset. Then we talk numbers with Madam Song." He pushed a tablet across the table. On it was a profile.
Stage Name: RINA.
Legal Name: Ha Rin.
Age: 21.
Former Position: Lead Vocalist, Aria (Disbanded).
Status: Contract Suspension. Indefinite.
The photo showed a girl of startling, ethereal beauty. Pale skin, hair like midnight, large eyes that seemed to hold entire galaxies of melancholy. But it was the attached notes that were chilling.
[Incident Report 12/03:] During live broadcast of 'Music Core,' subject's high note triggered a feedback loop in the studio's mana-amplification array. Result: 47 cases of acute aural hemorrhage in audience, 3 cases of permanent hearing loss. All broadcasting equipment within 50 meters rendered inoperable.
[Diagnosis:] Latent, unstable Sonic-Type Hunter talent. Designated 'Siren's Cry.' Rating: B-Rank (Hazardous, Non-compliant).
[Recommendation:] Permanent vocal cord dampening surgery. Or termination of contract.
A Singer. A Hunter. A weapon masquerading as an idol, who had broken her own stage.
"She's not a fighter," Director Kwon said, rubbing his temples. "She's a liability. Her talent activates under emotional stress, tied to her singing. We can't market her, we can't train her, we can't insure her. We've kept her in a dampened studio for a year. Madam Song is… uniquely equipped to handle problematic assets. But she wanted your… perspective."
"I want to see her," Seong-Jin said, his voice calm.
Director Kwon sighed and gestured to an aide.
They were led to a recording studio deep in the building. Not a state-of-the-art one. This was an older, isolated room. The door had multiple mana-sealing glyphs on it. Inside, the lights were low.
Ha Rin sat on a stool in the center of the room, wearing a simple white dress. She was smaller in person, fragile-looking. She held a tablet, scrolling through what looked like news articles about her former group's success without her. She didn't look up as they entered.
"Rina. You have visitors," Director Kwon said, his voice carefully neutral.
She looked up. Her eyes, those galaxy-deep eyes, passed over Director Kwon and Madam Song with vacant disinterest. Then they landed on Seong-Jin. They paused. There was a flicker of something. Not hope. Curiosity. Like a prisoner seeing a new face in the interrogation room.
Seong-Jin ignored everyone else. He walked forward, stopping a few meters from her. The System flared to life.
[Scanning Subject: Ha Rin…]
[Subject: Ha Rin]
[Public Designation: B-Rank Sonic-Type Hunter (Hazardous). Idol (Inactive).]
[True Assessment: CONCEALED]
[Analyzing…]
[Talent Core Found: 'World's End Symphony' – S-Rank Potential.]
[Status: WILDLING. Talent has awakened violently, without guidance. User possesses zero control.]
[Foundation: PRISTINE. Mana channels are exceptionally pure and wide.]
[Hidden Trait Available: 'Crescendo of the Soul' – Emotional synchronization allows for targeted, harmonious, or destructive sonic emission. Activation Condition: Unmet.]
[Psychological State: Profound trauma. Guilt complex associated with talent. Self-silencing instinct is strong.]
[Management Options Available:]
1. Talent Control Imposition (Cost: 800,000,000 Won for customized suppression artifact.)
2. Guided Awakening & Control Therapy (Cost: 120,000,000 Won per month for specialized environment and tutor.)
3. Contract Offer: Standard Manager-Client Agreement. (System-assisted terms.)
S-Rank. Again. Another world-ending power trapped in a terrified, broken vessel. 'World's End Symphony.' Not a 'Siren's Cry.' They had named her after a minor warning, not understanding they had a cataclysm in a cage.
Her potential was even higher than Yuri's, and her control was zero. The cost of managing her was astronomical. But the raw, pristine power…
"She can't speak," Director Kwon said quietly. "Not since the incident. Psychosomatic mutism. The doctors say it's her own mind trying to protect people from her."
Ha Rin looked down at her hands, confirming the statement.
Seong-Jin knelt down, putting himself at her eye level. He didn't smile. He didn't offer empty pity. He spoke softly, but clearly.
"They're wrong, you know," he said.
Her eyes snapped back to his.
"They think your voice is a weapon that misfires." He held her gaze. "It's not. A weapon is simple. Point and destroy. Your voice… it's an instrument. The most powerful one I've ever seen. But it has no musician. It's just… screaming on its own."
A tremor went through her slight frame.
"They want to cut your strings. Or sell you to someone who will put you in a box and only take you out to break things." He glanced briefly at Madam Song, whose expression was unreadable. "I don't deal in weapons, Ha Rin. I deal in talents. I find people the world has called broken, and I give them the keys to their own power."
He stood up and turned to Director Kwon and Madam Song. "I'll take her."
Director Kwon blinked. "Just like that? You understand the liabilities? The costs?"
"I do."
"And the contract?" Madam Song asked, her slate eyes sharp.
"You were going to buy it as a toxic asset. Sell it to me. At a 'toxic asset' price. Add it to my debt." He was playing a dangerous game, leveraging her own test against her.
Madam Song was silent for a long moment. Then, a slow, appreciative smile spread across her face. "You have nerve, Lee Seong-Jin. I'll have my lawyers draw it up. The contract price, plus a modest fee for my referral service. All added to your principal." She was deepening his debt, but also giving him the tool that might—might—be able to pay it.
Director Kwon just shook his head, already mentally washing his hands of the whole affair.
Seong-Jin turned back to Ha Rin. She was staring at him, her eyes wide, tears welling up but not falling. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Just a silent, desperate shape of a word.
Why?
He answered the unspoken question. "Because an instrument shouldn't be silenced. It should be mastered. And I am going to find you a conductor."
He offered her his hand.
After a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, her small, cold hand slipped into his.
He had just acquired a second client. A silent siren with a voice that could shatter worlds. And his mountain of debt had just grown taller and more terrifying.
But as he led her out of the sealed room, away from the glyphs and the despair, he felt it. The same spark he'd felt with Yuri. The beginning of something.
His agency was no longer a one-woman operation. The harem of broken stars was beginning to form.