IGWKE Episode 5

Episode 5

While the two center heads were locked in their verbal battle, Yoon-ui took the opportunity to carefully read through the meeting materials. Espers, particularly, were known for their enhanced physical abilities and overly sensitive sensory perceptions, which often led to severe nervous strain. This strain frequently drove them to rely on alcohol, and sometimes even stronger substances, to cope. Although there were strict measures in place to prevent such dependencies, the recent trends showed a troubling increase in reliance on these substances.

Yoon-ui thought back to the 10 AM absentee—the one who had been so drunk they couldn’t even lift themselves off the table, their wrists so thin they looked malnourished. That Esper was likely just one more statistic in the report he was reading.

…But what does it matter to me? Yoon-ui closed the report and turned his attention back to the escalating confrontation between the center heads, finding a bit of entertainment in watching the director struggle to keep them from coming to blows.

The director finally had to raise his voice to get the room under control, pounding the table to make his point. “Anyway, everyone, focus on your roles and do them well. This is an important time.”

The Central Crisis Management Headquarters was always under Level 3 emergency status. When was it not an important time? Yoon-ui flipped through the papers in front of him with a sense of apathy.

However, it seemed that the director’s mention of an “important time” had a more political meaning this time. The Operations Manager, sensing an opportunity, quickly jumped in to elaborate, almost as if the director’s words were his own ideas. He passionately spoke about the roadmap to turning the headquarters into an official agency, known as Cheong.

“There’s growing public support for upgrading our headquarters into an official agency! Now’s the time to handle a few A-grade gates with record speed! We need to get S-grade Espers—the ones like that new twenty-year-old who just manifested—out in the media! We need to establish the slogan, ‘Our Hope! The Crisis Management Headquarters, Protecting the Nation’s Safety!’ and pull public opinion in our favor! This is how we’ll achieve nationwide consensus that the Central Crisis Management Headquarters should be upgraded to an agency!”

So that’s what this is about, Yoon-ui mused, resting his chin on his hand.

Upgrading the headquarters to agency status had been a longstanding goal since the headquarters was first established. The rumor was that the newly manifested Esper was indeed S-grade, and they were planning to use this to push for the upgrade. If the Esper was truly an S-grade, it would be an excellent opportunity to garner public and political support.

If they really are an S-grade, that is, Yoon-ui thought, watching the Operations Manager’s animated speech with mild disinterest.

Over the past few years, there had been several candidates suspected of being S-grade Espers. Park had often hyped up these individuals as “the real deal” and “definitely S-grade this time,” only for them to be downgraded to A-grade after thorough testing and training.

But if they were bringing up the agency upgrade again, perhaps there was genuine potential this time.

Eight years ago, the situation had been similar. Korea had seen its first S-grade Esper emerge—an event that was nothing short of the arrival of a hero. Until then, the headquarters had been more focused on damage control in the media than on actual gate management. But with the emergence of the S-grade Esper, the headquarters received public applause for the first time.

The positive momentum built up as Espers continued to demonstrate their abilities, leading to widespread public support for upgrading the headquarters to agency status. The decisive moment came when a live broadcast showed the S-grade Esper closing gates over Seoul and Busan in record time.

Buoyed by public approval, the headquarters boldly submitted a legislative proposal to become an official agency, but the attempt ultimately failed.

The reason for the failure? None other than Yoon-ui himself. At that time, he had been a veteran in the Field Response Center, an A-grade guide who was seen as one of the most promising elites on the ground. But it was he who ended up sabotaging the organization’s progress.

You’re correct. Earlier in the story, Park was referred to as “she.” I apologize for the inconsistency. Let me correct that for you:

[The Guide Who Abandoned an S-Class Esper in the Field and Fled the Gate]

This was the label that had stuck to Yoon-ui ever since the incident. Korea’s only S-class Esper had become a missing person, a loss the nation could not afford. The media, ravenous after years of waiting, pounced on the story, painting Yoon-ui as a traitor. The country had lost its greatest asset, and Yoon-ui had lost everything—demoted by a rank and relegated to the humiliation of administrative duties. The organization itself suffered as well, losing the support of both the government and the public, and seeing their long-sought goal of agency status slip through their fingers.

Five years had passed since then, five years of silence and regret. But now, with a new chance at upgrading the headquarters to an agency, the Operations Manager was passionately outlining the steps needed to seize the moment.

“So, at a time like this, we need to avoid giving the media any reason to attack us, maintain our good relations, and ensure everything goes smoothly with the National Assembly. Our Talent Department must continue to discover and train new talent, and, of course, our Espers need to perform well…”

“Honestly, what’s the point of us risking our lives to fight these monsters?”

Manager Park, the head of the Field Response Center, slammed her hand on the table, her gaze fixed on Yoon-ui. Her voice was laced with thinly veiled hostility, almost murderous in tone.

“When the guide can’t even support us properly, and ends up getting Espers killed, how are we supposed to trust anything in the field?”

The target of her words was clear. The atmosphere in the meeting room turned icy as all eyes shifted toward Yoon-ui. He stared back at Park with a cold expression, feeling the weight of the accusatory gazes. As their eyes locked, voices from the past that he had tried to forget came flooding back.

Murderer! Murderer!

The echoes of the Espers’ condemnation rang in his ears, like a haunting refrain.

Im Hyung-wan, the head of the Field Support Center, stepped in to defend Yoon-ui, unwilling to let such an attack go unchallenged.

“Manager Park, your words are unfair. The way you put it, it sounds like every time an Esper dies in the line of duty, it’s the guide’s fault.”

“There are cases where that’s exactly what happens!”

“You shouldn’t say it like that. It’s wrong to say the guide ‘killed’ them!”

“Then did they save them?”

Park’s agitation grew as she pounded the table repeatedly, each thud resonating with Yoon-ui, driving the voices in his head louder.

Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!

Whose voices are these? Yoon-ui pressed his palms to his ears, trying to block out the sound, but it was useless. The voices weren’t external—they were inside him, reverberating in his mind and body.

Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!

Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!

Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!

The relentless chorus continued, each accusation like a dagger twisting in his soul.

The voices wouldn’t stop. They echoed inside him, as if a speaker buried deep within was constantly blaring, urging him to feel guilt, to break under the weight of his conscience.

Yoon-ui slowly removed his hands from his ears. Yeah, murderer, murderer, murderer. So what?

“…God, that’s so noisy,” he muttered.

He’d heard it all before, not just inside his head but from others around him, and he was long past letting such words affect him. These accusations, whether internal or external, couldn’t crack his resolve. Yoon-ui looked at Manager Park with an unflinching gaze, his expression betraying no hint of the turmoil inside.

“On the battlefield, yeah, sometimes Espers die. So what? Are you really still hung up on something that happened five years ago?”

The room fell into a stunned silence.

Even the Operations Manager and Im Hyung-wan, who had defended him earlier, stared at Yoon-ui as if he had just grown a second head. Park, who seemed momentarily at a loss for words, soon understood the full impact of Yoon-ui’s statement. Her face turned a furious shade of red, and she exploded in rage.

“What did you just say? You little bastard! Get out here!”

She screamed, her voice shaking with anger.

“Manager Park!”

Someone called out, trying to intervene.

The meeting materials flew into the air as chaos erupted in the room, bringing the senior staff meeting to a sudden, disastrous end.

Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!

Yoon-ui leaned back in his chair, a small, almost eerie smile playing on his lips.

“Honestly, Park is such a pain. Espers, they all have no control over her temper”

Im Hyung-wan muttered as she exited the meeting room with him. She shook her head, exasperated by the outburst. She had barely managed to stop Park from lunging at Yoon-ui, nearly losing a jacket button in the process.

“Sure, Yoon-ui, your words were harsh, but really, do Espers think they’re the only ones who die on missions? We guides lose our lives out there too, but they act like they’re the only ones making sacrifices…”

With the director gone, Im didn’t hold back her words. As Park stormed down the hallway, still visibly fuming, Im raised her voice, clearly intending for Park to hear.

“And that incident too. It’s been five years. The people responsible were punished, some even forced out. Yoon-ui got his punishment too—he hasn’t been allowed back in the field since, and now he’s stuck acting as the interim head of the management team.”

As Park’s figure disappeared completely, Im’s voice grew softer, her gestures less pronounced. Meanwhile, Yoon-ui adjusted his demeanor, sensing the shift in tone.

“…Well, I did screw up,” he admitted.

“Yeah, you did. You shouldn’t act like that in front of senior staff. That’s on you.”

Im agreed, her tone taking on a lecturing note. Among guides, they might band together when facing Espers, but among themselves, the discussion was different. Im began to lecture him on decorum and organizational life.

“…Whether you like it or not, we’re all in this together. We can’t afford to look like we’re falling apart in front of the administrative staff. And especially now, during such an important time. No matter how much you hate what some Espers do, you’ve got to let some things slide. Of course, point out the things that need pointing out, but don’t push too hard. We need to support each other, like we do with guiding. That’s how you survive in this organization.”

“Right.”

Yoon-ui replied, nodding along but hardly listening. He’d heard this speech at least thirty times by now. It was the same old advice: don’t be so harsh, give the Espers some slack, let them be late by a few minutes without sending them straight to detention. But even after hearing this for the thirtieth time, Yoon-ui had no intention of giving Espers a break—not even for a single minute. And he knew he never would.