Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Han Yoojin’s thumb dragged down the screen, one headline after another flashing past.

Guild Master Han Yoohyun leads successful raid—

Guild Master Han Yoohyun establishes new guild—

Guild Master Han Yoohyun secures exclusive contract—

Guild Master Han Yoohyun…

It didn’t matter what the words were. What mattered was that they existed at all. That there were updates, interviews, endless praise. That his brother’s name filled the screen again and again, alive in every syllable.

Yoojin blinked hard, but the text blurred anyway. He set the phone aside and curled deeper into his blankets, clutching the fabric tight against his chest as though it might keep his heart from breaking any more than it already had.

Alive. He was alive. Alive. Alive. Alive.

Each repetition pulsed through him like a mantra, an anchor against the undertow of memory. The smell of scorched flesh. The sight of pale, glassy eyes. The way the world had gone silent after that moment, a silence so jagged that it had carved itself into his bones.

“Yoohyun-ah…” His voice cracked, half-croon, half-sob. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, trying to force back both the tears and the images crowding his mind.

The headlines hadn’t lied. They couldn’t have lied. His brother was out there walking, breathing, fighting. Not the empty husk Yoojin had cradled in another life. Not his little brother whose warmth had drained away in his arms.

Alive.

The word swelled again in his chest, painful and desperate, like if he repeated it enough it might drown out the echoes of that other ending.

Alive.

His little brother was alive. That’s what mattered.

…Except it wasn’t that simple, was it?

Han Yoohyun, his precious little brother, had died for him. Again and again, in every nightmare Yoojin couldn’t claw his way out of, it was always the same. Burnt flesh. Empty eyes. Blood cooling too fast in his arms.

For three days those nightmares had torn him apart, over and over, until waking felt no different from sleeping. For three days he hadn’t left his bed, hadn’t eaten more than a mouthful, hadn’t done anything but lie there and drown in it. For three days he had wallowed, clinging to the memory of loss because he didn’t deserve relief.

Alive. The headlines said alive.

But that couldn’t be true because Yoohyun was dead and it was—

His fault. It was his fault. His fault. His fault. His fault.

The words pounded through his skull, louder than his heartbeat, louder than breath. Because what else could it have been? He had been nothing but a stain on Yoohyun’s name, dragging his brother down until there was nowhere left to fall. If not for him, Yoohyun would’ve been free. If not for him, Yoohyun would’ve lived.

His breath hitched, painful and shallow, until every inhale felt like shards of glass scraping his throat. He curled into himself, knees pressed hard against his chest and arms wound so tight around them it hurt. The room smelled faintly of sweat and stale air, thick with the sour reminder that he hadn’t moved in days. Unwashed sheets clung damp against his skin.

And still, he couldn’t stop wondering, why was he still here? What point was there in dragging out a life that only ruined others? If he hadn’t existed, Yoohyun would have been spared the stain of a pathetic older brother. If he hadn’t existed, Yoohyun would still be alive, brilliant and untouchable, unshackled by dead weight.

Wouldn’t it be easier? Better for everyone if he had never been born at all?

The thought burned, bitter and familiar. Because hadn’t that been the truth all along? His parents had left him behind like he was nothing. Yoohyun too, turning his back, shutting him out with the cold dismissal Yoojin had taken for hatred. It hadn’t mattered that it was supposed to be protection. That’s not what it had felt like. 

It had felt like abandonment.

Even now, even with the headlines screaming that his brother was alive, that hollow ache didn’t fade. Yoohyun had been alive before too. Alive and still so far away, untouchable, out of reach. Alive, but never really his.

And Yoojin… he had been left behind again and again.

Maybe that was all he was ever meant for. If that was the case, then fine. He could do what he should’ve done years ago.

Leaving wouldn’t be hard. Yoohyun was in a dungeon, a brutal one, the kind that had already claimed two A-Rankers and three B-Rankers. He wouldn’t be out for at least two more days. That was time enough.

His “watchers,” if they could even be called that, had long since stopped caring. They’d hardly lift a finger if he slipped out of routine, not when he was the useless older brother, the nobody their boss only bothered keeping an eye on to make sure he didn’t cause trouble.

He could withdraw everything from his account. Years of savings he’d hoarded with the foolish dream of awakening, of one day standing beside Yoohyun. That dream was gone, crushed under the weight of his own failures. But the money remained, and it would be enough to get him far away. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere small. Somewhere no one would have to look at him.

Somewhere he could stop being a burden.

But the thought didn’t soothe him. It twisted tighter instead, dragging him back into the same suffocating loop. If he disappeared, would that finally make things easier for Yoohyun?

Guilt.

Anger.

Guilt.

The cycle spun in his chest until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Guilt, for every failure, every burden he had forced onto his brother’s shoulders. And anger, because no matter the reason, no matter how noble the intentions, Yoohyun had left him as well. Just like their parents. Just like everyone else. Protection didn’t change what it felt like. It still meant distance, a wall Yoojin could never break through. It still meant sitting alone in the dark, wondering if he was truly that unlovable.

He wanted to scream at him for it. For dying. For leaving. For looking right past him as if he were already gone.

But the guilt followed just as fast, snapping shut around his throat, because how could he blame Yoohyun for anything when all of it was his fault?

The two emotions clashed until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began, searing through him in waves—rage, grief, guilt, grief again—until his head swam.

Lightheaded. Dizzy. Like the air itself had thinned around him.

It took a panicked second to realize it wasn’t the room. It was him. He wasn’t breathing.

Yoojin’s lungs seized, then dragged in a ragged, shuddering breath that scraped all the way down. The sound tore through the silence, too loud in the stillness of the room. He gripped the sheets hard enough to ache, forcing himself to focus, to pull in another breath, then another.

Slow down. Calm down. Shove it all back into the cage where it belonged.

The headlines said alive. That was enough for now. It had to be.

Yoojin pushed himself upright, his body trembling with the effort, and swung his feet onto the cold floor. His chest still hurt, but the motion steadied him, gave him something to cling to. A routine. Something normal.

A shower. He’d shower. Wash the sweat from his skin, scrub away the last three days clinging to him. Maybe then he’d be able to think straight. Maybe then he’d find a reason to keep moving.

Chapter Text

Name: Han Yoojin

Attributes

• Stamina: 6
• Strength: 4
• Agility: 5
• Mentality: 4
• Mana: 2

Skills

• Mentality Up (E)
• Agility Up (E)
• Perfect Caregiver (L)
• My Brat is the Best (L)
• Last Repayment (S)
• Promising Sprout (S)
• Dragon Slayer (L)
• Poison Resistance (L)
• Curse Resistance (L)
• Fear Resistance (L)
• Rauchitas' Natural Enemy (SS)
• Can't Be Found (S)
• Hidden Picture Puzzle (A)
• One More as a Freebie (S)
• Miracle Rookie (S)
• Veteran F-Rank (S)

  ---

Hidden Picture Puzzle (A): Makes the user difficult to perceive, though not entirely invisible, even when specifically searched for.

From what he knew, it should work on any awakened under A-rank. Which was perfect for his plans.

Han Yoojin snapped the stat screen shut with a bitter twist of his mouth, staring at the suitcase sitting by his bed.

All his belongings fit in a single bag. Just a couple of jackets he was attached to, worn documents, a handful of keepsakes that still held any meaning, reduced to something he could drag along behind him like a stray. The rest he had cleaned away, scrubbing the apartment until his hands ached, as if effort alone could erase the stench of the last decade spent rotting in his own misery.

It looked almost normal now. Normal enough that no one would notice he’d gone, not right away.

The window was his best option. Three floors down wasn’t much, not with the bushes below to break the fall, and even if someone saw him, Hidden Picture Puzzle should him him into nothing more than a passing shadow.

But before he left, he let his gaze drift over the cramped space one last time. The peeling wallpaper. The uneven floorboards he had memorized well enough to walk across in the dark. The narrow kitchen where he’d burned more meals than he’d eaten properly. This small, suffocating box had been home for over twenty years. 

Pathetic.

His throat tightened before he could stop it. Heat prickled at the corners of his eyes, blurring the crooked edges of the room. Tears. Of course. He was really tearing up over this place, after everything. He scrubbed his face hard with the heel of his hand, cursing himself under his breath. What right did he have to cry? This apartment had been nothing but bad memories. Whatever good moments had existed here, they were better off ignored, buried beneath the rot. 

And yet, the tears kept threatening to fall, stubborn in the way only grief could be. Remembering them only made the emptiness hurt more.

He dragged in a shaky breath and forced the tears back down where they belonged. No more wasting time. No more weakness.

The suitcase handle dug into his palm as he crossed to the window. He shoved it open, cold night air rushing in to sting against his damp cheeks. His chest ached with every movement, but he ignored it. Just like he ignored the envelope sitting squarely on the kitchen table, folded with agonizing care.

“Han Yoohyun,” the name was written across the front in his neatest handwriting. A letter he would never be brave enough to hand over face to face.

Without looking back, Yoojin threw his suitcase down and climbed through the window into the waiting dark.

A disguise was necessary.

The first step was his hair. Nothing drastic, just something that wouldn’t look out of place among the teenagers milling through the streets. He’d always been told he had a baby face, even after years of neglect, sleepless nights, and injuries that had never healed quite right. A quick trim, a softer cut, and suddenly he’d just graduated high school.

The stylist had been cheerful but professional, chatting just enough to keep the silence from feeling awkward. They asked about school, about hobbies, about weekend plans, each question light and harmless. Yoojin answered with nods and short murmurs, letting the words wash over him without really sinking in. The brief head massage that came with the wash loosened something tight in his chest, and for a few minutes he almost forgot where he was, the steady pressure grounding in a way he hadn’t expected. By the time he left, he hated to admit he felt a little lighter. Not better. Just… less.

Clothes came next. He had left almost everything at home, back at the apartment. He needed something he wouldn’t be recognized in.

The salesperson helped more than he expected, circling him with an almost predatory energy, an excited gleam in her eyes as she sized him up. She pulled shirts and jackets from the racks with quick, practiced hands, chatting easily as she did. She told him he had a good figure, though he could stand to eat more, and each compliment was paired with another hanger pressed into his arms until he lost count. Yoojin barely got a word in, but the relentless enthusiasm left no room for protest.

Nearly an hour slipped by in the fitting room; pastel blues, soft yellows, fabrics that clung rather than hung. Yoojin let himself be shuffled along, not in any particular rush. Everything else was already prepared. There was no need to hurry.

By the time they were finished, his suitcase was almost full of clothes that didn’t look like him at all. When he glanced at the colorful fabric folded neatly inside, it felt like staring at someone else’s life.

He thanked her for her assistance with a tip and an almost soft smile, the kind that might have passed for genuine if not for the way it cracked at the edges, like he wasn’t breaking all over again.

But he still had two more stops before he could go.

At a cosmetics shop that offered walk-in makeovers for customers willing to buy a few products, the clerk didn’t blink at his request. She simply guided him to a chair with practiced ease, chatting lightly as she laid out bottles and palettes. Concealer blotted out the bruised shadows under his eyes, foundation smoothed the unhealthy pallor of his skin, and a touch of liner made his eyes look even larger. By the time she was finished, the reflection staring back at him was younger, brighter, someone who could pass for a student.

Not Han Yoojin.

“How’re you feeling about this?” Park Iesul, or so her badge said, smiled at him, warm and professional.

Shame. Guilt. Resignation.

“Good,” he murmured, dragging his eyes away from the mirror to meet her smile with something brittle on his lips. “You did a good job.”

She beamed, clearly pleased with her work, and began packaging the items she’d used in case he wanted to maintain the look himself. Yoojin let her, nodding faintly in all the right places. By the time he left, his bag was heavier with powders and brushes he didn’t plan to use again, and his skin itched beneath the layer of foundation, a reminder of how foreign it felt to wear someone else’s face.

Then the bank.

He’d called yesterday, keeping his voice even and steady as he requested the full withdrawal of his savings. His excuse was simple: moving overseas for work. The teller on the other end hadn’t questioned him, only reminded him to bring identification.

And then it was done.

And he was alone.

All he had left was his suitcase and the money he’d taken. That was it. He sat at an empty bus stop with the strap wound tight around his wrist, keeping it close, as if the world might try to pry it from him. His knees were drawn up, arms wrapped around them, his body curling in on itself as though he could make himself smaller.

A weak laugh slipped out of him, nothing about it humorous.

Where exactly was he hoping to go? His parents were gone. His brother was a non-option. His grandparents had already passed. Maybe… maybe he could really move to another country. He still remembered a little English from high school, broken phrases and vocabulary drills, but it would be something. A fresh start. Somewhere far enough away that he couldn’t ruin anything for anyone else.

The thought hadn’t even settled when the air split with an explosion.

The ground lurched under his feet, dust and smoke belching into the air and shouts echoing down the street. Yoojin’s head jerked up—

—and suddenly he wasn’t there anymore.

Flame. 

Heat blistering against his skin. 

The air itself screaming with the bellow of a dragon. 

Smoke pressed into his lungs until every breath burned.

And the voices, God, the voices.

Run! someone cried, high and terrified.

Yoohyun, go! Leave me! His voice. His own, torn raw from his throat years ago, colliding with the present and drowning everything else out. The screams around him weren’t strangers anymore; they were his. They were Yoohyun’s. They were everyone he had failed, every dungeon that had ended with him crawling out alone.

His hands clamped over his ears, but it didn’t help. The dragon’s roar still ripped through bone and marrow. His chest seized and he couldn’t breathe. The world shrank to a tunnel of fire and blood, Yoohyun’s name clawing against his teeth.

And then—

“Hey, hey! Are you ok?”

The voice cut through, panicked and urgent, but it tangled with the chaos in his head until it wasn’t one voice anymore. It was now and then, stranger and memory, overlapping in a way that made his skull throb. 

Run, leave him—

“C’mon, breathe, we’re safe.”

—Yoohyun, go!

Hands, real and solid, closed around his shoulders, steady and warm even as his own shook violently. Yoojin flinched hard, eyes squeezing shut against the sting of smoke and memory, but the grip didn’t vanish the way it should have if this were only a nightmare.

“Shit— uh— hey, it’s okay, you’re okay,” the voice stammered, nervous now, tripping over the words. The hands tightened on his shoulders, before quickly releasing like they weren’t sure what to do. “You’re, uh… you’re having a panic attack, I think? I don’t— damn it— okay, just… breathe, alright? Try to breathe with me.”

Their own breathing was exaggerated, loud enough that even through the roar in his ears, Yoojin caught the rhythm. 

In.

Hold.

Out.

In.

Hold.

Out.

The cadence wasn’t steady, more rushed than calm.

“You— you’re doing fine. No one’s hurt, no one’s dying.”

Except they were dying.

The words cracked something open, and the screams surged louder, raw and accusing, wrapping around him like barbed wire. He could hear them so clearly. Hunters cut down in flames, strangers torn apart, voices cursing him, blaming him.

It’s your fault.

Because of you.

Because you were weak.

And threaded through them all, Yoohyun’s voice. Not the cold distance Yoojin had grown used to, but the desperate shout from that day.

Hyung! Move!

Why won’t you move?!

Yoojin’s body shook harder, his hands clawing at his ears as if he could dig the sounds out, silence them, erase them. 

The stranger’s grip shook almost as badly as Yoojin’s shoulders. “Okay— okay, uh— you’re breathing, that’s good. Or you were. Keep doing that. Just— don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Their voice cracked, words spilling out too fast, like they were scrambling to fill the silence before Yoojin could slip away again.

“I, uh— I went to university today. First day back. Honestly, I think I bombed—” A quick pause, then a sheepish mutter of, “wrong choice of words.” After a beat, the words stumbled on. “I think I failed my assignment. But, uh, who cares, right? It’s just one assignment. My professor’s ancient, he probably won’t even notice.”

They were rambling. Nervous, desperate rambling.

“I thought about skipping class, but I didn’t. Didn’t want to start the semester already behind, you know? Not that I’m good at keeping up anyway. I barely passed last term. My mom used to say it’s because I stay up too late, but really I just— uh— get distracted. A lot.”

The voice wavered, then pushed on.

“I wanted to be a hunter once too. Don’t laugh. Everyone does, right? Thought it’d be cool, thought maybe I’d be good at it, but honestly? I’d be dead in a week. I panic too much. Like right now. Haaa, you probably noticed. I’m terrible at this. But, uh, I’m trying, so… breathe? Please?”

The stranger’s words tumbled faster, overlapping and clumsy. 

“You feel any better? Should I… should I keep talking?”

Yoojin couldn’t speak, but a faint noise of affirmation slipped out.

The voice brightened a little at that. “Okay. Well… my favorite color’s brown. Yeah, boring, right? But it’s warm. Feels safe. I like coffee, too. Too much coffee. Haven’t slept properly in days. And my favorite food’s japchae— well, unless it’s kimchi stew. Or maybe both. I can’t choose. I’m indecisive, can you tell?”

Yoojin’s chest hitched. The screams were still there, but muffled now, Yoohyun’s voice fading beneath the flood of ordinary nonsense. His breaths came in jagged starts, but the stranger caught each one like it was a victory, pushing on with more words.

“What else, what else—uh, I’ve got a cat! She’s black and white, name’s Tofu. Mean as hell, but she sleeps on my chest every night. I think she actually likes me, even if she pretends she doesn’t. I talk to her a lot. Kind of like this.” The words tumbled faster, nervous but insistent. “Oh—she only answers if I call her Tofu-ssi. Sometimes Tofu-nim if she’s in a really bad mood.” A shaky pause, then a rushed laugh. “Aigoo, I must sound like an idiot.”

The voice wavered again, but it was real. It was here. It wasn’t a dream. And slowly, Yoojin’s lungs remembered how to move.

The stranger latched onto that flicker of progress and kept talking, words spilling out too quickly. “I was gonna— uh, don’t laugh— I was gonna pay some people to help me awaken. My friends keep saying it’s a bad idea, that it sounds shady, but, I mean, I don’t know, right? What if it works? What if it’s the only chance I get to—”

“Don’t—” Yoojin rasped, voice cracking between shuddering breaths. His chest hitched, the syllables dragging out like he was choking on them. “Don’t do it. It’s… a scam.” The words wheezed more than they spoke, but they were enough to cut through the rambling.

The stranger’s hands loosened from his shoulders. “…You can talk?” He felt the grip tremble, heard the self-deprecation slip in as the man muttered, abashed, “Of course you can talk. Stupid.”

Yoojin let out another broken breath, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. “S-sometimes.”

“Okay— okay, good, that’s good. Talking’s good. Breathing’s better. You’re still breathing, right? Yeah, you are. Okay.” The voice was too high, too quick, words rushing over themselves. A nervous laugh broke through. “Ah, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Slowly, Yoojin lifted his head from where it had been pressed against his knees, forcing his gaze upward.

His “savior,” if that’s what this was, wasn’t what he expected. A thin man stood over him, visibly worn down, hair long and choppy where it hung around his face. His clothes were plain, almost forgettable, mostly beige. The first thought that slipped through Yoojin’s fog was brown. The man’s favorite color. And somehow, that made sense.

“Uh— hi.” The man’s voice cracked, soft but strained, like he wasn’t sure if speaking would break something fragile. “I’m Yoo Myeongwoo.”

Yoojin blinked at him, slow, heavy, then rasped back, “...Park Yoojin.” His voice was still rough, scraping at the edges of his throat. He hesitated, breath stuttering in his chest, before forcing out a, “Thank you… for your help, Yoo Myeongwoo-ssi.”

Myeongwoo’s eyes widened, startled at the formal gratitude, before his expression softened into something uncertain but happy. “I— I didn’t really do anything,” he said quickly, almost tripping over the words. “Just… talked too much.” He hovered a moment longer, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. “But… you’re okay now? I mean, breathing okay?”

Yoojin managed the faintest nod. His lungs still hurt, but they were working. He swallowed, throat still raw. “…What happened?”

Myeongwoo shifted again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah— right. It was a dungeon break. Just a small one.” His voice was quick to reassure, “They handled it fast. Hardly any damage, no casualties. Just… noise, mostly.”

He felt himself relax at that. No one died. 

Relief flickered across Myeongwoo’s face when Yoojin didn’t immediately fold in on himself again. The taller man fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a battered phone and a scrap of paper. “Here,” he said, scribbling down a number with quick, uneven strokes. He hesitated before handing it over, like he wasn’t sure if this was too much. “If— if this happens again, or if you just… I don’t know. Need someone to talk at you.” A nervous half-smile. “I’m good at that, apparently.”

Yoojin stared at the paper in his hand, the ink already smudging faintly beneath his thumb. It had been so long since anyone had reached out without strings attached. I want to repay him, the thought was immediate, surprising in its clarity. 

Name: Yoo Myeongwoo

Rank: F -> S

Skills

• Whetstone (D)

• Gold Forge’s Owner (SS Potential)

  ---

Han Yoohyun,

Thank you for everything you’ve done for this useless older brother of yours.

I’m sorry I wasn’t what you needed me to be. I really did try my best, even if it never looked like it. I’m sorry for the trouble I caused, for the weight I put on your shoulders.

Don’t misunderstand. I'm not doing anything drastic. I’m just going away. Somewhere far enough that I won’t cause you any more trouble.

Please take care of yourself, Yoohyunnie. Live well. Be happy.

Han Yoojin

The letter was untouched for the next week.