The detention cell in the Inspection Division was barely large enough for a person to lie down.

There were no windows, no light, nothing to see, and no way to feel the passage of time.

That wasn’t all—powerful barriers had been set in every direction to prevent ability-users from using mana, subjecting the body to an unrelenting, crushing pressure.

At this point, it wasn’t a holding cell—it was a torture facility.

Everywhere in the building, you could sense the base intent of mentally cornering the detainee until they confessed to crimes they hadn’t committed.

If the police or prosecution had done this, the media would have exploded over the human rights violations. But the Inspection Division was not an official investigative body, and because it dealt with ability-user crimes, any such acts were granted exceptions.

Joo Seunghyuk sat with his back to the narrow cell wall, eyes closed.

Trapped in a place without a single point of light, he felt no fear.

Darkness was nothing new.

Even back on the island, the hired help would often lock him in a storage shed for no reason at all.

They hadn’t been punishing any particular misdeed—rather, they vented their stress by abusing a weak and defenseless child.

Seunghyuk, by his existence alone, was treated as guilty. They wanted the cuckoo chick feeding off a chaebol family to cry and beg them for mercy.

But instead of apologizing without cause, he adapted to the dark.

From the moment he was born, his life had been steeped in shadow; there was nothing especially difficult about it.

And in that pitch-black darkness, the only light had been Lee Yeonsu.

After receiving the classification of S-rank Esper, Joo Seunghyuk returned to Korea.

He was the youngest S-rank Awakener in the country—and a child who had single-handedly stopped a Gate Break.

It was the emergence of a genius Esper and an incident shocking enough to turn Korea upside down.

But Chairman Joo concealed the Gate Break entirely, and Seunghyuk’s return was carried out quietly.

“...This is him?”

The chairman’s eyes were cold as he faced Joo Seunghyuk for the first time in seven years.

But Seunghyuk wasn’t hurt.

Nor did he show any expression of longing or resentment toward the father who had abandoned him.

The chairman looked at him closely. The boy, now thirteen, looked back at him—but his eyes held no emotion at all.

Like a doll, perfectly made but not truly alive.

“You look even more like your mother than before,” the chairman finally said.

His wife had never once looked at the boy properly.

She had always been indifferent, never considering the chairman her husband.

Before being sent to Abite Island, Seunghyuk had always looked only to his father.

A child who could barely speak, hanging on every little action of the chairman’s, smiling or crying accordingly.

It had annoyed the chairman. The face resembled his wife, but the eyes and behavior were entirely different.

Now, though, the boy’s presence was like hers—especially the empty eyes that seemed to feel nothing at all.

Seunghyuk said nothing in response, and the chairman hadn’t been expecting an answer anyway.

After glancing at the boy once more, he ordered his secretary, Ahn:

“Have him stay in the annex.”

“What? But Chairman—”

Before the secretary could object, the chairman turned and went into his own room.

***

From that day on, Joo Seunghyuk lived in the annex.

It was the smallest, most modest building on the estate—a way to remind him not to forget his place as an illegitimate child.

But Seunghyuk wasn’t wounded. Compared to the storage sheds on Abite Island, this was a palace.

Those among the chairman’s close aides who knew his true parentage debated the decision.

“It’s bad enough he’s still on the family registry—why bring him back? Doesn’t the chairman know he awakened as an S-rank?”

“That’s why he’s keeping him close. He’s the youngest S-rank in Korea. And not just any S-rank—his mana is so vast it caused a measurement error. They say only Jinhwan can measure it accurately. If someone like that went elsewhere, he’d be a threat to Seonghan.”

“Exactly. Better to keep him close. You can’t buy that kind of talent with money. The moment it became known the chairman’s son was S-rank, the stock price hit the ceiling. His ability will benefit Seonghan in many ways. Might as well keep him close and make him repay the favor. That’s why the chairman put him in the annex.”

“And what if he gets ideas above his station?”

“Then disown him before that happens. For now, just watch.”

They didn’t even hesitate to speak this way in front of Seunghyuk.

Whether they supported or opposed his staying, they all spoke on the assumption he would eventually be cast out.

But Seunghyuk wasn’t hurt—he simply thought they were wrong.

The chairman hadn’t taken him in because of his value as an S-rank Esper, the Seonghan Guild’s strength, or the company’s stock price.

He’d done it only because of the resemblance to his wife’s face.

Life in the annex was materially far richer than on # Nоvеlight # the island.

He no longer had to eat others’ leftovers or expired instant noodles.

He could wash whenever he wanted and change into clean clothes every day.

But the darkness surrounding him never lifted.

“The boy’s awfully thin. And short for his age,” the chairman remarked.

His nephew and legal eldest son, Joo Taehan, agreed:

“He’s a picky eater. Probably because he lived abroad too long—he’s not used to Korean food. And, well, it’s inevitable—his father was a small man.”

“...He doesn’t seem to know Korean well.”

“That man went to a technical high school, remember? The boy’s probably just not cut out for academics.”

Whenever the chairman looked at Seunghyuk, Joo Junghan would bring up the “other man,” feigning concern—subtly reminding him that the boy carried not only his beloved wife’s blood, but that of her affair partner.

“There’s an Esper boarding school in Thailand. I hear the facilities are excellent—should we send him there?”

“....”

“Italy’s not bad either, but there you have to live with a Guide, and they’re heavily discriminatory toward Asians.”

Meanwhile, Joo Taehan took every chance to try to drive Seunghyuk out.

The chairman, however, showed little reaction.

Eventually, Taehan failed to get his way and returned to his university in the U.S.

Compared to the first son, Joo Junghan, the second son’s malice was childish and crude.

“You bastard beggar, what right do you have to come here?”

“You’re not a real Joo. You’re the dirty blood your mother brought back from an affair. Are you actually poor? Is that why you want to freeload here?”

“Didn’t the man your mom cheated with throw her out because of you? So she hated you too—because she lost him because of you. Your real dad, your mom, and of course my dad—everyone hates you. No one in the world wants you. Why don’t you just die?”

“Go rot in an orphanage, beggar!”

Every day, he came to the annex to spit such abuse at Seunghyuk.

He wanted him to break—but Seunghyuk remained unruffled.

After all, he’d heard the same things from the island’s servants every single day for the past seven years.

Everyone who knew of his birth—Junghan, Taehan, the rest—looked at him as if he were vermin. But he was used to those eyes and could ignore them.

Only one thing was hard to bear—

Whenever he crossed paths with the chairman, the man’s gaze would bore into his face, searching for traces of his late wife.

Seunghyuk, who could endure others’ contempt without flinching, found that relentless stare intolerable.

And each time, the young boy came to loathe his own face.

Even in Korea, his world was dyed entirely in black—and it felt like these days would last forever.

***

Then one day, Do Hyeokjin came to visit.

“Seunghyuk, long time no see.”

“Hello.”

“Why the sudden formal speech? I told you it’s fine to talk casually.”

“They say you shouldn’t speak that way to an adult.”

Seunghyuk didn’t just lack Korean literacy—he didn’t even know the basic manners or common sense expected of an elementary schooler.

The chairman found this distasteful. Whatever the truth, on the surface the boy was his child—and for someone with his wife’s face to speak so crudely was unacceptable.

So he ordered Secretary Ahn to hire a tutor.

If Seunghyuk showed even the slightest shortcoming, the chairman would frown and fire the tutor on the spot.

New tutors, fearing the same fate, were even stricter than their predecessors.

“I don’t mind. Talking to me like that makes it feel less distant,” Hyeokjin said.

Seunghyuk just shook his head silently. There was a trace of sadness in his otherwise expressionless face.

Hyeokjin considered urging him again, but let it go.

“Anyway, congratulations.”

“...?”

“You haven’t heard?”

Seunghyuk blinked his large eyes. His expression said he knew nothing.

Hyeokjin was incredulous. That something so important hadn’t been told to the person involved...

But he couldn’t openly criticize the chairman’s unfairness in front of the boy, so he simply smiled.

“Your exclusive Guide has been decided.”