LRAB Chapter 365: Star-Defier (2)
Chapter 365: Star-Defier (2)
Chapter 365: Star-Defier (2)
Kang-hoo arrived at Celestial Assassin’s room and was just about to knock.
“Come in.”
Celestial Assassin had sensed his disciple first.
When Kang-hoo opened the door, Celestial Assassin was carefully doing fingertip push-ups.
The muscles running clean from his fingertips upward looked like those of a man in his twenties.
The mat on the floor was soaked with his sweat.
Yet even his sweat smelled fresh; it was no longer the old, damp odor.
Perhaps “heals everything” also included flushing bodily waste and signs of aging.
Because Kang-hoo knew his master’s scent better than anyone, the change amazed him even as he understood it.
“I was just about to head out.”
“Sir?”
“You’d better eat heartily. This time, we won’t be here—we’re going north.”
“North Korea, sir?”
“Right. We leave after we’ve eaten and slept well.”
Night had already fallen.
He had expected training under a different curriculum at the training ground again, but the backdrop had changed.
“North Korea” didn’t tell him where they would go.
Even within North Korea, monster ecologies and vegetation varied wildly.
This wasn’t the North Korea from before Judgment Day opened—it was practically another world.
Only a short while ago, when he’d visited Pyongyang, it had been the same: so much was devastated that it was hard to believe it had once been the capital of a divided nation.
Following Celestial Assassin down to the living room, Kang-hoo found that Ju Haemi had already set the dinner table.
It seemed that her earlier trip outside had been to pick vegetables to go with the meal.
Usually it was just rice and side dishes, but for some reason there were shot glasses tonight.
“Let’s eat.”
“Yes, Master.”
Watching Celestial Assassin pack a spoonful of rice firmly and cram it into his mouth, Kang-hoo smiled.
His master’s appetite had returned.
Before, eating half a bowl was “a lot,” and he’d only nibble.
Now he ate with gusto—“rejuvenated” fit him.
He had never understood the saying “just watching someone eat well makes you full,” but now he did.
Seeing his master eat so heartily stirred Kang-hoo’s own appetite—and a warm pride besides.
Once they had eaten enough, Celestial Assassin reached for a bottle of soju he had set beside him.
“Care for a drink?”
“I’d be grateful, sir.”
“I think this is the first time I’ve seen you drink.”
“Yes. I drink sometimes, but I don’t really enjoy it. I haven’t had cocktails in a while either.”
Trickle...
Watching the soju fill the cup felt strange.
Had Celestial Assassin’s health not recovered, a simple shared drink like this would’ve been unimaginable.
Even if he had offered, Kang-hoo wouldn’t have been able to drink at ease.
“Raise it.”
“Yes, Master.”
Clink.
His first toast with his master.
It might seem trivial, but seeing his master across a soju glass made his chest tighten.
He looked obviously healthier; that made the moment warmer still—the warmth of the living.
After that, Kang-hoo talked on without noticing time pass.
What had happened in France.
What had happened on Jeju.
He shared even the trivial bits, and Celestial Assassin laughed heartily each time and emptied his cup, repeating praise: that Kang-hoo had done well, that he had much and moved without hesitation.
They were obvious words, but praise from his master felt different.
Not only was he unquestionably a powerhouse; he was also Kang-hoo’s role model as an assassin.
Praise from Celestial Assassin felt like deep recognition of his whole being—which made it all the more gratifying.
This time, Ju Haemi would accompany their training as well.
North Korea, wherever you went, was full of variables; she would guard them.
Depending on the situation, the three might even coordinate in battle.
It was a combination Kang-hoo liked.
He was also curious to see more of Ju Haemi’s true capability.
What he knew came only from a single training session.
Naturally, he didn’t think that was all she had—it was just the tip of the iceberg.
Departure was scheduled for 6 a.m. tomorrow— exactly eight hours from now.
Dawn.
They had said their goodnights and gone to their rooms, but at the training ground, as if arranged, Kang-hoo and Celestial Assassin walked in step.
Neither could sleep; they had stepped out to stroll and bumped into each other amusingly.
So they walked together for a long time in silence, following the perimeter.
Celestial Assassin broke the silence first,
asking the same question Ju Haemi had asked earlier when she saw Kang-hoo.
“Nothing you want to say to me?”
“I’m looking forward to the training.”
“Cut the canned nonsense. There’s at least one thing you truly want to say... isn’t there?”
He wasn’t one to sidestep or coax; the blunt question felt almost like an instruction to speak.
“There isn’t, Master.”
“There isn’t.”
“Yes, Master. Nothing special to tell you—only that I look forward to your guidance.”
“...”
Standing where he was, Celestial Assassin looked at Kang-hoo quietly—then pulled him into a tight embrace.
Both bodies were honed by blood-and-sweat training; neither “fit” into the other’s arms like a child.
It felt like two sturdy young men sharing a warm, friendly hug.
He felt his master’s warmth.
Maybe that was why— lately the surges of emotion rose higher and higher.
His eyes stung; his nose prickled. He felt glad that their shared memories remained unblurred.
But a cold cynicism, rising from deep within, pulled those warmed feelings back down.
Before he knew it, his face had settled into a blank expression, stripping away the life in it—back to zero.
In the meantime, Celestial Assassin stepped back a little and spoke calmly.
“Kang-hoo.”
“Yes, Master.”
“I’ll live believing it was heaven’s bond that made you my disciple. Thank you.”
“It’s my honor to be with you, Master. There’s no need to speak of my gratitude.”
“Good. Let’s stop with the sappy talk.”
Celestial Assassin gave a sheepish smile.
Saying “I know you healed me!” would leave too much unspoken around it.
He had been sincere, though.
He would never, ever forget his gratitude to Kang-hoo—and vowed to repay it in some form.
Celestial Assassin changed the subject.
He had meant to bring this up once, and a quiet moment alone felt right.
“Kang-hoo. How much do you think you know about the world you live in?”
A sensitive question, deep-cutting.
Taken lightly, it could be answered as mere “sense of the times.”
But for Kang-hoo, it meant more.
His recent worries ran in the same channel.
It was good that he had inhabited the author of this world—the Creator. He knew all that was written.
But the world had filled in even the parts never described, not even considered subconsciously.
A prime example was Celestial Assassin’s cancer.
In the original, there had been no follow-up on him; whether he lived or died was unknown.
Here, the “filled-in” content had been that he was terminal, fighting cancer.
Never mentioned, yet completed without breaking plausibility... an unknown zone.
Know 99%, and the 1% still becomes a variable.
So Kang-hoo could not claim to know this world completely.
Like a 500-piece puzzle—short even one piece, or with one piece wrong, and you can’t finish the picture.
He answered honestly.
“At present, I don’t know much outside Korea.”
He was confident about domestic affairs.
Even if “the Battle of Dongducheon” had been a new development, the flow remained within expectation.
The original protagonist had been Jang Si-hwan, a Korean; the main stage was always Korea.
Most of the story had unfolded domestically.
Japan appeared occasionally; America only in limited visits.
China, too, aside from a few special arcs, was never covered in detail.
‘The work ended at 400 chapters—you can’t cram in an entire world. We tossed out tons of North Korea foreshadowing and never cashed it in.’
Recalling his writing made him realize how many gaps there had been.
If it had ended at 800—or 1,000—more of the worldbuilding would’ve been folded in.
Because it hadn’t, the foreign spheres remained riddled with question marks.
“About Eclipse.”
“Yes, Master.”
“When you first escaped Eclipse’s camp, they must have felt like a mountain. What about now?”
“I think they’re manageable. I can also roughly gauge the power behind them. Kang Dong-hyun isn’t the end.”
“Right. Raise your eyes, and the world stretches farther. That’s what you’re seeing now.”
“I agree.”
“The Shinto Guild case is the same. Someone outside your horizon put a hand on it.”
“You knew about the Shinto Guild... sir?”
The Shinto Guild incident hadn’t been officially announced.
He might have heard through connections.
But Kang-hoo had never heard of Celestial Assassin having an informant inside Shinto Guild, so he couldn’t help but be surprised.
Celestial Assassin only nodded lightly and continued.
For Kang-hoo it was surprising; for him, getting information on China’s incidents was all too easy.
“Because of that someone, China’s number one guild fell into chaos. Whose work do you suppose it was?”
“I don’t know.”
All he knew was what Yu Cheonghwa had told him—about the Purple Eyes. He had no suspects.
Surely... the man before him? His master? No—he didn’t see a motive.
“If only one predator lived on a vast plain full of prey, that would be a great loss to the plain.”
“...”
“Two predators don’t share the same range not because they can’t—but because they don’t need to. Draw a line, and each can feast richly within it.”
“Please, tell me more, Master.”
His curiosity kept tugging.
What was he trying to say?
No—what did he know?
At Kang-hoo’s urging, Celestial Assassin stretched out his hand as if to bid him hold.
And he added:
“There’s a book I meant to leave you. It contains many secrets. But I’ve agonized over whether I should tell you.”
Secrets only he knew— words carrying Celestial Assassin’s dilemma about unknown things that felt like “leaking heaven’s will.”