A sudden thought turned me into a rosy-cheeked teenager.

It all began with Failnet.

I hadn’t logged in with any specific purpose. As usual, I was casually filtering through mostly meaningless information when one board caught my attention:

[Guard Applicants’ Board]

This was a gathering place for those aspiring to be my juniors.

The board was ranked 8th in popularity—quite large.

Its users were primarily teenagers in their mid-to-late teens.

They logged into Failnet by begging for signals near government offices or military facilities, posting trivial messages as their only source of joy. The board had a reputation as a gathering place for lives considered to be 99% "wrecked."

I had visited this board before but left quickly, as the immaturity and low quality of the posts were overwhelming.

Yet, a place with so many people must have its attractions.

This board had its own unique culture.

That culture was none other than Rit Sheet Authentication—users would post their Resonance Test sheets (like the ones I had pinned to my wall) for validation and commentary.

Searching for the “authentication” tag on the Guard Applicants’ Board revealed a mix of envy, approval-seeking, snide comments, and the occasional genuine compliment:

ㅇㅇ: Did you get a Rit Sheet? (34)
ㅇㅇ: Post your Rit Sheet results lol (12)
ㅇㅇ: Did you get white?! (8)
ㅇㅇ: Can I go to Jeju with this result? (31)
ㅇㅇ: Got white on the day my mom died lol (131)

Scrolling through, it seemed like everyone claimed to have gotten white, but most turned out to be black upon inspection.

Occasionally, there were actual white sheets, but even those were often fake—ordinary white paper torn to resemble Rit Sheets.

Amid these prank and bait posts, genuine authentication posts did appear now and then.

I knew that Rit Sheets indicated levels of psychic potential based on their colors, but I didn’t understand the exact thresholds each color represented.

However, on this board, there were hints about what the colors might mean.

From one post, I learned that blue indicated Level 1—the absolute minimum awakening of psychic abilities.

Gray corresponded to Level 5 and above.

As for white, its exact level was unknown, but the posts suggested something extraordinary.

There was another interesting phenomenon: this board wasn’t exclusively for kids.

True to South Korea’s relentless zeal for education, many parents seemed to frequent this board, despite its reputation for hosting 99% “wrecked lives.”

ㅁㅁ: Is gray good? Can my whole family go to Jeju with this? (43)
창민엄마: My kid’s Rit Sheet result looks like this. How good is it? (88)
쉐프파덜: How can I change black to white? I’ll offer a reward. (132)

Yet, this board was far too cold for their enthusiasm.

ㅇㅇ: Are you colorblind, ㅁㅁ? It’s black, you crazy b**** lol (9)
창민엄마기둥서방: This is the Rit Sheet for my mistress’s kid (attached). (33)
쉐프파덜님보세요: Reroll your kid’s gacha. (13)

The unrestrained, colorful ridicule made it clear that these parents weren’t the important figures here.

The real “adults” were another story.

In this cesspool of impersonators, trolls, and lowbrow drama, one adult received special treatment.

REDMASK: Hello! I’m a Guard admissions officer. Click the link I’ll send you.

Redmask.

The absolute authority of this board.

No one dared to post hate comments, mockery, or provocations at Redmask.

Why? Because Redmask could give these users exactly what they wanted most.

That name, though—it meant something different to me.

“Woo Min-hee…”

The moment I saw that nickname, I immediately thought of the loathsome woman with prosthetic limbs.

The personal identifier matched the one Woo Min-hee used.

If I hadn’t visited her research facility, I might have dismissed it as coincidence. But that facility held over a hundred children crammed into small rooms, desperate to go to Jeju. Some were dead, laid out on dissection tables.

“…Yeah. It’s her.”

Redmask had to be Woo Min-hee.

Unlike me, she enjoyed social media, especially Insagram, where she preferred to express herself through photos rather than text.

I knew she had once hinted at her Hunter status on social media, earning a reprimand from the Gukwiwon Compliance Department.

As her team leader, I had personally scolded her.

A Hunter with over 10,000 followers revealing her identity was a breach of the confidentiality agreement.

Given her penchant for the internet, it was no surprise she had a foothold on Failnet, the largest internet board in the apocalypse.

However, identifying her solely based on her posts wasn’t easy.

She didn’t write posts herself but consistently left comments:

REDMASK: Hello! I’m a Guard admissions officer. Click the link I’ll send you.

Conversations seemed to occur through those links.

The idea of using a private network to address Failnet’s lack of direct messaging was exactly the kind of creativity I’d expect from her.

“…Woo Min-hee.”

At this point, I was convinced that the “super-named” Redmask on the Guard Applicants’ Board was indeed Woo Min-hee.

I was curious.

What exactly was she doing in that research facility?

It was clear she was selecting students for the new school in Jeju, but she had to be conducting other experiments as well.

Moreover, Woo Min-hee was a Level 12 Awakened.

There were fewer than ten Awakened in South Korea who exceeded Level 10.

For someone of her caliber to stay in Seoul instead of moving to the safety of Jeju was suspicious.

“…Something’s definitely up.”

But how could I uncover her secrets?

As I sat at my desk, staring at the sketch of my mentor’s rocket axe, an idea struck me—so brilliant, it almost made me laugh.

“Oh.”

Yes, why not interact with her directly?

Not as Park Gyu, Skelton, or Professor, but anonymously—as one of the teenagers active on the Guard Applicants’ Board.

In other words, I’d pose as a boy on the board, baiting her into approaching me so I could extract the information I wanted.

The bait? My mentor’s white Rit Sheet.

Rit Sheets had a security feature, like watermarks on banknotes. The pre-printed black school emblem would reveal itself as the sheet changed color.

My mentor’s white Rit Sheet bore the emblem he had designed himself—a skull and a half-shattered shield, stark against a pure white background.

This level of authentication would undoubtedly catch Woo Min-hee’s attention.

She had personally appeared to grant coveted “selections” to users with genuine gray results.

Still, there was one issue: how to communicate with her.

Even anonymously, I knew from my two years of online experience that one’s writing style, word choice, and subtle nuances were surprisingly distinctive.

For example, my online “signature” was a mix of John_Nae-non-style headers, dry sarcasm, and slightly ahead-of-their-time jokes.

Compared to the teenagers on the Guard Applicants’ Board, my language would stand out.

Attempting to talk to Woo Min-hee this way could risk exposing my identity.

As Defender once said, I wasn’t exactly an expert at the internet.

So, I decided to transform.

The man who might be humanity’s last survivor—Professor Park Gyu—would become a reckless teenage boy on the Guard Applicants’ Board.

It wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

Some say age doesn’t matter online, but that’s not true!

Your typing, your words—they carry the scent of your years and experiences.

I tested the waters by posting on the board.

ㅇㅇ: Wow, you guys are having fun, huh? (3)

Three comments.

Let’s read them.

ㅇㅇ: What “fun,” you weirdo?
ㅇㅇ: How old are you?
ㅇㅇ: Go talk about politics somewhere else, old man.

“….”

A man in his early thirties, hardened by life’s trials, needed immense determination and humility to transform into a reckless teenager.

First, I donned the anonymous nickname ㅇㅇ, blending in with the other users.

Next, I erased my characteristic headers and posted meaningless gibberish:

ㅇㅇ: Yoooo! Lit stuff!

I even hid my age, using language to imply I was one of them:

ㅇㅇ: No old dudes here, right…?

I practiced forgetting myself as a thirty-something.

This was perfect.

I was ready.

Finally, I wrote my declaration, with the resolve of Zhuge Liang casting his war manifesto:

201cm120kg28cm: Did a Rit Sheet test. Check it out.

I attached a photo of my mentor’s white Rit Sheet, taken under sunlight in front of an outdoor camouflage setup.

Then, I waited.

201cm120kg28cm: Did a Rit Sheet test. Check it out. (103)

“Oh.”

The post had garnered over 100 comments.

ㅇㅇ: What is this?
ㅇㅇ: Is this stolen?
ㅇㅇ: Looks legit.
ㅇㅇ: This dude's got some art skills.
ㅇㅇ: Yo, this might actually be real.
영민아빠: Excuse me, but where are you located? I’ve got a Nintendo, a laptop, and lots of food to offer.
ㅇㅇ: Is it photoshopped?
ㅇㅇ: For your height, your, uh, proportions are a bit small...

Even the kids seemed to recognize the authenticity.

But their reactions weren’t what I was waiting for.

I was fishing for just one target: Redmask.

The communicator buzzed.

“Skelton.”

It was none other than Da-jeong.

“What is it, all of a sudden?”

“That post on the Failnet Guard Applicants’ Board. Did you write it?”

“What post?”

“The one about 2 meters and all that.”

“Wait, you check the Applicants’ Board?”

“No, I saw it on the trending list.”

Trending?

Could it be that my post had made it to Failnet’s top posts list?

What should I do?

There’s no need to admit it—it’s a private matter between Woo Min-hee and me.

“That wasn’t me.”

“Figured as much. It didn’t seem like your style, but I thought I’d check.”

“Yeah? What made you think that?”

“The username has that John_Nae-non vibe you like, but the content and tone felt like someone else wrote it.”

A sly smile crept across my face as I listened to Defender’s sister.

Even she was convinced.

She believed I was just an ordinary teenager.

Skelton’s transformation was flawless.

Now, all I needed was a message from Woo Min-hee.

And as expected, the bait was taken.

REDMASK: Hello! I’m the New Guard admissions officer. Click the link below.

REDMASK: <Link>

I clicked the link.

My browser opened a new tab, taking me to an unfamiliar website.

The interface was extremely simple, reminiscent of old-school internet chatrooms.

<REDMASK has entered the chat.>

REDMASK: Hello! I’m Redmask, the admissions officer for the New Guard.

REDMASK: Please introduce yourself!

REDMASK: Type your name and age in the box below (e.g., Min-hee20) and press the enter button~~~

Woo Min-hee messaged first—three times in quick succession.

How was she even typing?

This woman was missing an arm, yet here she was using tilde waves like a pro...

Could Awakened abilities cover even this?

No, wait. Upon reflection, it was probably voice recognition software.

Modern voice recognition technology is incredibly reliable.

This was it—the real beginning.

I cleared my mind and visualized myself as a mischievous 10-year-old boy.

Not Professor Park Gyu, but the 10-year-old version of Skelton.

I began to type.

엄창11 has entered the chat.

REDMASK: ?
REDMASK: Uh, Um-chang?
엄창11: Hi!
REDMASK: Is that... your name?
엄창11: Yes. It’s Um, from “humble,” and Chang, from “singing.” Kim Um-chang. I’m 11 years old.
REDMASK: Oh, I see.
엄창11: Why?
REDMASK: Oh, it’s nothing. Just a unique name.
엄창11: Yep.
REDMASK: So, Um-chang, you’re really 11 years old? By Western age?
엄창11: Yes.
REDMASK: And are you actually 2 meters tall...?
엄창11: People say I’m tall a lot.
REDMASK: Kids these days really grow fast... And is your weight accurate, too?
엄창11: No, actually, it’s all lies. Everything but the last part was fake.
REDMASK: The last part is true?
엄창11: Why?
REDMASK: Oh, no reason.
엄창11: ?

“Hah!”

Seeing Woo Min-hee flustered like this was a rare treat.

She had probably never encountered someone like this before.

Who could have predicted that a man in his thirties would be role-playing as a bratty elementary schooler?

As much as I wanted to keep teasing her, this was also a good opportunity to dig for information.

There were questions I had been dying to ask for a long time—like about the "Jeju Evacuation Ships," for example.