—Trddduduk...

The taut sound of a bowstring being drawn beyond its limit echoed throughout the archery ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) range.

The strain pulled to the brink, so tight it looked painful to hold.

But still—she didn’t stop.

Ha Sion kept her fingers firmly in place, drawing until the arrowhead trembled with tension.

And then—

Thwack!

The moment her fingers released, the arrow exploded forward.

It cut through the air in an instant, so fast it left a blur in its wake.

Crack!

The arrow struck dead center, shattering the target in a single hit.

The sensation lingered in her fingertips.

“Ha...”

Her mind lately had been a battlefield.

She felt a swirl of emotions, but one weighed more heavily than all the others.

Guilt.

They had twisted the flow of fate for his sake.

But in doing so, he ended up reliving that agony.

It had been the right thing to do—but even so, this regret clung to her heart.

Like water suddenly flooding in,

Her mind was drowned by someone else’s memories.

No. Not someone else’s.

They were her own.

My memories, she realized.

Her own—Ha Sion’s—undeniable memories.

***

As if to mark the end of the raid, the peninsula was consumed by heavy rain.

The sound of the downpour felt like a dirge for fallen heroes.

Black mourning clothes.

The fabric soaked and clinging to her skin, weighed down by rain.

Water dripped quietly, endlessly from her knees to the ground—like silent weeping.

She sat at the front of the funeral, dazed, as the bereaved.

Ha Sion had lost her parents at a young age, but she’d never been lonely. Her kind grandfather, and the uncles and older sisters who trusted and followed him—because of them, she never felt alone.

Then, one day, her grandfather brought a boy home.

He was weak. He had no family. He learned to fight from her grandfather, despite his frail body.

She wanted to be his family. And, before she knew it, he had become part of theirs.

Ha Sion recognized the feeling that had taken root in her heart. She had called it friendship, but deep down, she’d known for a long time it wasn’t just that.

And on that day, she also realized—

It had all been meaningless.

“...Sorry, what?”

An Association staff member arrived with grim news.

While organizing the rain-soaked papers, he solemnly read the names of the deceased.

It had been a routine mission.

But that ordinary mission had taken away her entire family.

In one day, almost everyone who supported her was gone.

The only one left—was Jeong Haein.

She could do nothing.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even lift her head.

“...Heroes KIA. And student Jeong Haein is currently unconscious—”

But then.

“Jeong Haein??”

She repeated his name, lips trembling.

Why the hell were you there?

He wasn’t dead. But many assumed he would die. Some said death would’ve been kinder.

That single comment—crushed her.

Heroes expressed their condolences. Laid flowers. Bowed their heads.

She was the bereaved. But she couldn’t manage any of it.

Then she heard a murmur spread through the crowd.

She looked up. A lone figure approached.

A hospital gown, soaked in rain. Bandaged arms. Blood from burst wounds bleeding through the fabric.

He limped slightly, as if standing upright was a struggle. He looked wrecked.

“Haein!”

It was him.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Ha Sion jumped to her feet and ran to him without hesitation. He said nothing—just stared at the memorial portrait.

“......”

His eyes were empty.

Then his lips began to move.

“...I’m sorry... I’m sorry... Sion...”

He kept repeating the words like a broken doll.

What was he sorry for? She didn’t ask.

In the end, she just held him—crying from the depths of her soul.

To her, the only reason left to remain in this world—

Was Jeong Haein.

That was all.

***

Papapabang!

Ten arrows fired in rapid succession. Strictly speaking, not all at once—but fast enough that it felt simultaneous.

Rapid fire.

All ten arrows struck dead center on different targets.

The other students on the range began to murmur.

Stares from all directions gathered around her.

But she didn’t care.

Instead, she inhaled slowly and deeply.

This time would be different.

Ha Sion closed her eyes and made a vow.

***

The day after applying, the club messaged back immediately, welcoming us.

They added that activities would start after class and to meet up in the clubroom.

It happened to be a mentor-mentee day, so I had the perfect excuse to casually invite Yoon Chaeha.

“You joined a club?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

“Then how about this one?”

I opened my watch, pulled up the poster, and showed it to her.

She gave me a curious look.

Board Game Club. Lexium.

“Oh...”

Her eyes sparkled.

She tilted her head slightly, then smiled with interest.

“How do I apply?”

“I already did.”

“For me too?”

“Yeah.”

I answered casually. She stared at me, clearly surprised.

“I’m your mentor.”

I added it like it was no big deal, and she looked at me in disbelief for a moment—then let out a small laugh.

After class, we headed to the clubroom. Fitting for a board game club, the space was cozy and packed with games.

But at the back table, only one person was sitting.

“Oh, you came?”

A second-year senior in a lime green collared shirt. She had her hair tied back and was leaning against the chair.

She raised an eyebrow when she saw us.

After checking the club roster on her watch—

“I thought it might be you, just from the names. We’ve got celebs signing up now?”

There was clear amusement in her eyes.

“I’m Jo Seoyeon. I’m the club president.”

We greeted her.

I quietly glanced around the clubroom.

Shelves stacked with board games.

A chess set on the table. A Go board in the corner.

“What about the others?” I asked her.

She chuckled and pointed with her finger.

“They’re off playing the expensive stuff.”

Where she pointed—

Four glowing blue cubes spun on the floor, whirring with magical light.

‘So that’s it.’

Puzzle cubes in the form of instant dungeons. They were probably enjoying a game inside the activated mana spaces.

Each cube generated its own puzzle zone.

So four teams, then.

“You’re not playing, sunbae?”

I asked her.

“Someone has to stay outside. Doesn’t look like much, but it’s a hair’s breadth from dangerous if something goes wrong.”

She gestured toward the cubes.

Yoon Chaeha tilted her head.

“Dangerous?”

Seoyeon nodded slightly.

“You took mock dungeon class, right? Think of these as mini versions. Spatial tears, mana backlash—you name it, anything can go wrong.”

Naturally.

Creating internal mana spaces isn’t exactly easy.

“Anyway, welcome to the club.”

Jo Seoyeon held out her hand.

“Relax and have fun today. The fancy stuff’s in use, but there’s still plenty to play.”

I shook her hand. Yoon Chaeha followed suit.

“What do you want to play?”

I asked her.

She looked around the room, then grinned and headed for the corner.

There, she sat down in front of a dusty Go board.

“Do you know how to play?”

I expected it.

That she would choose Go as her board game.

Go is a battle of territory—two players, black and white stones, taking turns to occupy space. Once placed, a stone cannot be moved. The goal is to claim more territory than your opponent.

But the essence of the game isn’t simply land-grabbing.

Every stone placed carries meaning. Every single move has weight.

I answered quietly, “Yeah.”

I’d played a few times with the old man. But never for long.

As a Renaissance Man, I surpassed his skill within days.

Yoon Chaeha would test me—constantly judge and measure.

And I would, constantly, pass.

On the board, our conversation took the form of stones.

Tak.

Tak.

Black and white.

The only sounds were those of stones being placed.

From the start, Yoon Chaeha played with confidence. She drove the match into chaos, forcing me out, aggressively expanding her territory. There was no waste in her moves.

Every formation was textbook. Efficient. Optimal.

A game of Go, befitting a magician.

I simply responded.

When she attacked, I defended. When she tried to shake the board, I drew the line and claimed only the bare minimum.

Tak.

Tak.

A consistent rhythm.

She held the initiative—and I never once tried to take it from her.

I just let her have it.

The game neared its end.

And then—

Tak.

Her hand froze.

She made her move—her gambit.

Now it came down to choices.

For someone who prioritized efficiency like her, the rational decision would be for me to leave one spot open and pull my stone back.

The most optimized move, supported by analysis and data.

That was the most reasonable choice, from her point of view.

But I placed my stone in a spot she hadn’t expected.

Tak.

Instead of keeping a one-space gap, I placed it right next to hers.

In Go, spacing a stone by one is seen as a swift, advantageous move.

It claims more ground and allows for favorable development.

So then, this move?

I ignored that conventional wisdom.

I put my stone right up against hers.

The slowest approach—but one that demanded immediate confrontation.

The most aggressive move.

“...!”

It wasn’t some elaborate trick.

It was simply a direct rejection of the logical thinking she’d built up until now.

A free move—possible only because I wasn’t boxed in by extensive Go experience.

Yoon Chaeha’s hand froze midair.

Her gaze stayed fixed on the board for a long time.

Anyone else would have brushed past this move without a second thought.

But not her.

I picked up another stone and said quietly, “Counting.”

In Go, once the stones are placed, both players must tally up the territory.

Usually, it’s the confident player who calls for it.

Yoon Chaeha’s head shot up. She looked at me.

Her expression—a smile, and yet somehow upset.

Strange. Conflicted.

She began to count.

Her fingers traced the borders of black and white territories—normally razor-sharp, but now slightly hesitant.

She wasn’t just following the flow—she was scrutinizing it, chewing over it, trying to understand.

One, two, three—

And then, finally.

“Let’s go again.”

She gently set her stone down.