Amidst the unconscious currents, Dung Beetle gazed at the waves crashing toward him.

A wave mixed with all sorts of emotions slapped against his body as it passed.

Heavy, sorrowful, and bitter, the wave soaked him entirely, and a single word floated into his mind.

Simjaejwamang (心齋坐忘).

Blocking out what you hear with your ears, forgetting what you perceive with your mind, and feeling the world with an empty heart—this is Simjae.

Sitting calmly, discarding all distractions, forgetting reality and forgetting oneself—this is Jwamang.

'…'

Once again, a wave surged forward, striking Dung Beetle's body as it passed.

With each wave that swept over him, his name was erased.

The name given to him by the Janitors' Guild as a joke, as if telling him to clean up the filth... Dung Beetle forgot that name.

Another wave came, and with it, his memories were wiped away. Angels, Miggnium, comrades, revenge—everything faded beyond the waves.

As the memories washed away, his emotions disappeared too.

Sadness, anger, joy, regret... once all of those were gone, his heart became empty.

Splash!

In that empty heart, only the waves surged.

Once, twice, three times...

Countless waves crashed into him, filling his heart, continuing until all the currents around him had vanished.

At some point, Dung Beetle could no longer distinguish between himself and the waves. He was the waves, and the waves were him.

'…!'

Yes, this was the true essence of Pahyanggyul.

Understanding Simjaejwamang, absorbing the waves in his heart, and becoming the waves themselves.

No further explanation was necessary. Techniques, formulas—all were superficial.

He was the waves. If he willed it, his fist would become Kyungpa (the force of a whale's wave) and his steps would become Pahyangbo (the wave step).

Dung Beetle shuddered at the depth of Pahyanggyul. Now, he understood why Seti had seen him as an ignorant fool. If he had known of such a martial art, he would have thought the same way.

He consolidated his realization, suppressing his joy and excitement, and prepared to return to reality.

But just then, a familiar voice echoed from the depths of his mind.

『You've learned something interesting.』

The unwanted guest sealed within his heart.

The benefactor who had revived his life and bestowed upon him his talents... yet also a great evil.

"...Miggnium."

Amidst the space where the waves of his mind ebbed and flowed, a shadow, cloaked in a black dress, appeared.

『My chosen one. To think it took you this long to master such a rudimentary martial art, even with your talent. You’ve found a proper technique, one no doubt created by a great master.』

"...A martial art?"

『Ah, I suppose in your world it has a different name.』

Miggnium laughed cryptically. On her shadowy face, a long crack appeared—her version of a smile.

『In any case, chosen one, I didn’t expect to see you so soon. I didn’t think you’d fall into Muah so quickly... Is this why lesser gods don’t grant talents to humans?』

“If you’re just going to spout nonsense, I’m leaving.”

Dung Beetle brushed himself off and stood up. Miggnium tilted her head.

『Already? Surely you have many questions for me.』

“If I ask, will you answer?”

『No. I will save the pleasure of your questions for another time. After all, this isn’t my dream; it’s your mind.』

“...I figured as much.”

If she had any intention of sharing information, she wouldn’t have silenced him last time.

『Next time, we’ll meet in your dreams, my chosen one.』

With Miggnium’s farewell behind him, Dung Beetle closed his eyes.

The stormy currents within his heart calmed, and his mind, once heavy, floated back to reality.

 

When he opened his eyes in the real world, a strange sight greeted him.

The clearing where Seti had demonstrated her martial art was nowhere to be seen, and a rough blanket was covering his view.

A quick glance revealed it wasn’t a blanket—it was a camping tent.

‘What the hell is this?’

Dung Beetle sat up and exited the tent. Outside, the clearing where Seti had displayed her martial arts remained unchanged.

‘Did she set up a tent for me while I was in Muah…?’

The answer came quickly. At the entrance of the tent, there were three notes written in delicate handwriting.

Dung Beetle slowly read through them. As expected, they were from Seti.

The first note explained that he hadn’t woken up for an entire day, so she set up the tent for him.

The second note mentioned that although she wanted to wait longer, her younger sister was in danger, so she went ahead to deliver the unicorn horn.

The final note stated that, no matter what, she would find a new identity and return within a week. She’d left her phone number, suggesting they meet at Jangman’s bar.

After reading all the notes, Dung Beetle stuffed them into his pocket and sat down on the tent floor.

‘…A day has passed?’

No, not just a day. Considering the time it took for her to write the notes and leave, at least two days must have passed.

‘Did I really spend that much time inside my mind?’

Dung Beetle shook his head. It was pointless to dwell on how long the waves of his mind had taken to accumulate within him. After all, time flies when you’re having fun, and it crawls when you're in pain.

What mattered now was… how deeply had he mastered Pahyanggyul during Muah?

With that thought, Dung Beetle stood up. He stood in the clearing in front of the tent and recalled the punch Seti had demonstrated at the end.

The punch he had unconsciously named Pahyangkwon during Muah.

Seti had allowed mana to flow like water and formed a wave with her fist. But Dung Beetle didn’t need such preparation.

The moment he clenched his fist, the mana flowed through his hand like a wave. That was the difference between someone who understood the essence and someone who didn’t.

But…

‘Have I not fully embodied what I realized?’

Dung Beetle frowned as he looked down at his fist. The wave of mana flowing through it felt different from the waves he had felt in his mind.

If he had to gauge it, the completion was about 30%... or less.

He tested his theory by striking the air.

!!!

The moment his mana struck the atmosphere, a ripple of power surged, toppling the tent and sending leaves fluttering to the ground.

It was an impressive result, but Dung Beetle sighed as he opened and closed his fist.

It wasn’t enough.

It would take considerable training and real-world combat to fully manifest the waves he had experienced in his mind.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—there were still plenty of opportunities for him to swing his fists, especially in Incheon.

‘Before Seti returns… I’ll finish everything I need to do in Incheon.’

His cold gaze turned toward the city, nestled beyond the mountains.

 

In a heavy van parked on the outskirts of Incheon, a man lit a cigarette.

Click, click.

It was hard to tell whether it was his nerves or the almost-empty lighter, but the flame wouldn’t catch.

After trying a few more times, he gave up, tossing the cigarette and the lighter to the floor.

“Damn it, how did I end up here…”

He sighed, opening the van door. Outside, a man with a pig-like face in a suit approached and bowed his head.

“Sir, is something wrong?”

“Stop calling me ‘sir,’ for fuck’s sake. Call me ‘agent.’”

Though officially he was the branch manager of the Incheon Janitors’ Guild, he never considered himself a mere branch manager.

Even a fake title has its limits. The Janitors’ Guild? He was only here to maintain his cover as a government secret agent.

“Hey, Shepherd.”

“Yes, Agent.”

“Do you know? I really fucking hate this city.”

“Is that so.”

The pig-faced man replied in a soulless voice, absorbing the agent’s complaints. The branch manager hadn’t always been such a pain, but the incidents of the past few days were enough to turn anyone into a terrible boss.

“This city is full of MacArthurs—MacArthur this, MacArthur that. Even the fucking street shamans worship MacArthur as a spirit. Is this America or Korea?”

“…”

“There's even a fucking park dedicated to MacArthur. I guess it’s more important than putting up a statue of Ahn Jung-geun, our actual hero.”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, you idiot. If you knew, you wouldn’t be a janitor, you’d be a goddamn professor.”

Spitting on the ground, the agent replayed the sequence of events that had led to this point.

It all started with the workshop manager's disappearance. The guy had been a competent subordinate.

He'd been just slick enough to handle the under-the-table jobs without causing too much trouble, and he got things done.

But ever since his sudden disappearance and the burning of the government’s corpse storage facility under his supervision, things had spiraled out of control.

First, the deal with the necromancers fell through.

The specifics of what happened were unclear, but the results were disastrous. A fourth-class public official was killed during negotiations, and they failed to recover the Awakening Potion.

By the time the Superhuman Bureau dispatched agents to the scene, everything was already over.

What remained were shattered potion bottles and traces of a mysterious Korean agent battling the necromancers.

As if that weren’t enough of a headache, a bigger problem emerged.

The agents sent to investigate the scene? Every single one was wiped out.

This wasn’t something they could easily sweep under the rug. Three Shepherd-class agents were brutally murdered, including one of the Bull-class rank.

They weren’t top-tier superhumans, but two pig-heads and a bull-head would normally be enough to escape from a superhuman. But all three had been killed?

The answer was clear: whoever did this was a superhuman of such caliber that they didn’t leave room for anyone to escape.

At this point, the government pulled back, suspecting the involvement of foreign superhumans or an unknown organization.

But they couldn’t abandon the investigation entirely. Face-saving measures and morale issues were at stake.

In the end, they left a convenient scapegoat—or rather, a figurehead—in charge of the case.

That figurehead turned out to be the branch manager himself.

There was no grand reason for it. He just happened to be the highest-ranking agent on site.

But even knowing all of this, who could be happy about being turned into a scapegoat?

Especially when, just a week ago, he had been overseeing the admission of young superhumans.

“How long until the others get here?”

The agent spat out another complaint, and the pig-headed Shepherd beside him hesitantly pulled out a phone.

“Fifteen minutes until the appointed time, sir. They should be arriving shortly.”

“Fuck. These new kids have no sense of urgency. Who shows up exactly on time when their boss is waiting?”

“…”

“When I was their age, I’d be here ten minutes early. Call them.”

“But sir, security—”

“Call. Them.”

“...Yes, sir.”

Reluctantly, the Shepherd dialed the number. The standard ringing tone sounded before the other party picked up.

[Who... is this?]

The connection was poor, and static crackled over the voice on the other end.

[This is Cuckoo 11. I'm calling to check on your location.]

[Can’t hear... well... Cuckoo 11, is that... you?]

[Cuckoo 11 here. I’ll ask again. Where are you? We’re waiting at the rendezvous point.]

[Rendezvous... sorry... we're lost...]

The moment the voice on the other end mentioned being lost, the agent snatched the phone from the Shepherd’s hand.

“Lost? The bridge from MacArthur 3rd Street to National Road 6—how the hell do you get lost there?”

[MacArthur... 3rd Street... bridge... coming...]

As soon as the answer came, a sense of unease crept into the agent.

What the hell was this feeling? Was it just the lack of a cigarette?

Shaking off the unease, he barked orders at the remaining subordinates, demanding they hurry.

After about five minutes of shouting, a sedan finally approached the van from the distance.

“Finally, one of them shows up.”

It was a familiar car, one of the rentals they had secured for the mission.

But the closer it got, the more the agent’s brow furrowed.

Something was wrong with the car. The windshield was smeared with blood, the body was dented, and...

It wasn’t slowing down.

“Shit, move!”

The agent bolted from the van. The pig-headed Shepherd standing next to him wasn’t so lucky and was caught between the sedan and the van as they collided head-on.

Crash! Both vehicles lifted off the ground and tumbled over the edge of the bridge.

Barely managing to survive, the agent staggered to his feet, pulling a handgun from his waistband.

“What the hell...?”

Peeking over the edge of the bridge, he saw the van, now crumpled like a smashed egg.

Thankfully, not everyone inside had died. A few Shepherds were crawling out of the wreckage.

But the sedan parked next to the van...

There was no sign of any bodies. No one was in the car.

There had definitely been someone driving it just before the crash.

Confusion washed over the agent as he felt a chilling gaze on the back of his neck. He tightened his grip on the gun and slowly turned around.

Standing there was a young man in a worn-out jacket, with a cap pulled low over his face.

“Who are you?”

The man lifted his cap slightly, revealing his face to the agent, and spoke in a casual tone.

“Long time no see, branch manager.”

“Fuck... that ‘branch manager’ shit again.”

Without thinking, the agent fired his gun.

Bang! Bang! The gun roared, but the man dodged the bullets with a slight shift of his body.

It was a superhuman reflex. The kind only superhumans had.

“We’re screwed.”

The agent looked between the approaching man and the drop below. The fall was about five meters—he made a quick decision.

Better to break a leg than be captured by a superhuman.

He swallowed hard and yelled down to his subordinates.

“I’m jumping! Catch me!”

One of the Shepherds looked up, and the agent immediately leaped off the bridge.

Thud!

Fortunately, one of the pig-heads managed to catch him, but there was no time to relax. The superhuman had followed him off the bridge.

“Kill him! He’s the one behind all of this!”

The agent screamed, his voice filled with desperation. He had no proof, but the Shepherds didn’t hesitate. They charged at the man.

Whoosh!

Three of them attacked simultaneously. The first Shepherd leapt forward, and the other two opened their mouths wide.

Kraaaah! A voice imbued with cursed mana erupted from the pig-heads.

In perfect sync, the airborne Shepherd threw a punch as the others spewed their curses. It was a flawless combination.

“Tch.”

The superhuman didn’t dodge. Instead, he clicked his tongue and threw a punch of his own.

Was he planning to meet their combined attack head-on? But between a leaping punch and a punch just now thrown, the outcome seemed obvious.

But then...

The moment the superhuman threw his punch, something changed.

The agent, unable to sense mana, didn’t notice it, but the Shepherds who could felt it immediately.

They recoiled at the sight of the mana flowing through the superhuman’s fist, but it was too late to pull back.

The fists collided. Crack! One of them was completely shattered.

“Graaah!”

It was the pig-head Shepherd’s hand that broke. He tried to retreat in agony, but the superhuman didn’t give him the chance.

With his left hand, the superhuman struck the Shepherd’s head. There was a sickening crunch, and blood poured from the pig-head’s eyes, nose, and mouth.

He was dead instantly.