Chapter 75

Chapter 75
Chapter: 75

Chapter Title: Headhunter

—

In any case, the reality that Paradox Flame has developed the capacity to incinerate the very abstraction of thought is a massive step forward.

This isn’t merely about the utility of burning mental processes; it serves as a definitive milestone. It signifies that my Paradox Flame has officially crossed a critical boundary of power.

If a clean strike is landed, the victim will be tossed into a state bordering on total unconsciousness for at least sixty seconds, and that is being incredibly cautious with the timing. But the most practical benefit is even better…

“The vapor saturating Azure Cloud Valley won’t be able to reach us anymore.”

I can essentially filter the air using Paradox Flame like a specialized breathing apparatus. Jeong Oh-hoon, who had taken a moment to fully recover his senses, directed a look of intense physical repulsion toward me.

“It felt as if I were being dragged under surgical anesthesia against my will. To be perfectly honest, I have zero desire to experience that ever again.”

That was the summary of Jeong Oh-hoon’s ordeal. Of course, I couldn’t risk testing the flame on my own mind—if my thoughts were set ablaze, there would be no one left to maintain the Paradox Flame’s stability.

“Give me a detailed breakdown of the sensation.”

Responding to my prompt, Jeong Oh-hoon began to hesitantly recount the experience of having his consciousness flicker like dying coals. Based on his description, I was able to define the exact parameters of influence I could maintain within my current sphere of mastery.

We were in the middle of a deep tactical session regarding how to utilize this breakthrough for the team’s upcoming operations when a sharp rap on the door broke our concentration.

Nana was currently occupied with a meeting involving the Korea Hunter Association President, and Lee Se-eun was out managing a fresh contract. We weren’t expecting any visitors at this hour.

“Greetings. My name is Woo Sang-sik, and I represent ChinHanChingu, the Nationwide Erosion Zone Victims Relief Alliance.”

A middle-aged individual dressed in a formal suit offered a professional smile.

“Right, hello. I’m Yoo Chan-seok.”

The man uttered an appreciative sound and reached out to shake my hand.

“It is truly a privilege to meet your acquaintance.”

He seemed highly dubious—what was his real motive? A relief alliance for Erosion Zone victims? I wasn’t buying it for a second.

“Mr. Woo, given that we’ve never met, perhaps you could clarify the purpose of your visit?”

He let out a practiced “Ahaha.” Since he had traveled all the way here, I provided some basic refreshments and tea for the table.

Once he was comfortable, Woo Sang-sik began a lengthy monologue regarding the supposedly noble efforts of his organization, ChinHanChingu. It was little more than a self-aggrandizing presentation of their various charitable works.

Han Sang-ah, who had been observing the pitch, leaned toward me.

“This person is essentially hitting us up for cash… isn’t he?”

I gave a curt nod, and Han Sang-ah pumped her fist with a hushed “Yes!” She was clearly proud of her intuition.

“Wait, that isn’t quite right. We are merely extending an invitation to contribute to a worthy mission.”

Han Sang-ah didn’t miss a beat as she countered Woo Sang-sik’s defense.

“The Nationwide Erosion Zone Victims Relief Alliance ChinHanChingu. A fairly large-scale setup. Let’s see… Last year’s financial records show: 35% spent on overhead and administration, 10% on ‘special’ costs, 5% on external cooperation, and 35% categorized as miscellaneous… That leaves a grand total of 15% for the actual charity programs?”

Woo Sang-sik’s polite mask began to crumble at Han Sang-ah’s revelation.

“Standard relief groups usually dedicate roughly 90% of their revenue to their actual programs, including the costs of raising funds.”

Han Sang-ah ran a hand through her hair and continued her critique.

“Personally, I find even 90% a bit steep. For a truly sustainable model, 70% seems more realistic… but if the program allocation drops too low, the public outcry is usually devastating. Yet here you are.”

And this man? A pathetic 15%.

“You hold the position of CEO, your spouse is the executive director, your son runs planning and management, your daughter-in-law handles the sponsorships, and your brother acts as a research fellow. Practically the whole office is filled with your relatives and old school friends.”

Han Sang-ah didn’t stop, her eyes glued to her mobile screen.

“Looking at the supplies purchased with that 15% program fund… electronics? A Galaxy S2 3G? They’re still selling those? You listed them at 850,000 won per unit… when you can find used, unlocked ones for about 15,000 won on the secondary market.”

Han Sang-ah stowed her phone away. Jeong Oh-hoon, having heard enough, provided a blunt summary.

“Mr. Woo… do you use canine shampoo at home and snack on dry kibble? Because you are a legitimate son of a bitch.”

“Hey, don’t insult the dogs.”

Why bring blameless pets into the conversation by comparing them to a person like this?

“Aren’t you concerned about how the public will react when they see you hiding from your social responsibilities behind such transparent lies?”

“Worrying about our reputation is the least of your problems; I’d worry more about the tax investigation heading your way.”

Woo Sang-sik snapped his attention to Han Sang-ah at that threat.

“The news stories will break, the government audit will begin… and you will likely end up behind bars.”

He had chosen the wrong people to scam. Han Sang-ah possessed a tool that was useless against monsters but nearly god-like when facing humans: an insurmountable wall of wealth.

Just because she had pulled back from the internal power struggles of the Geumyang Group didn’t change the fact that she was the granddaughter of Han Sang-chul.

We showed Woo Sang-sik the exit.

“I have my own abilities to bring to the table. Han Sang-ah uses her fortune like a weapon to support the group… What about you, Jeong Oh-hoon? Do you have anything to offer?”

Jeong Oh-hoon laughed.

“Ahaha, I certainly have my network. Though, my reputation is ‘Jeong the Useless.’ Most of my contacts are the sort of people who would slip a blade between your ribs while you’re eating dinner.”

“Do you think I’m bothered by that?”

Utility is the only metric I care about. Jeong Oh-hoon considered my response.

“Does that include a group that black-markets Erosion Core fragments and high-tier equipment to private citizens?”

“Do they offer high prices? Actually, forget the price—the main thing is discretion. We can’t afford to be compromised.”

Jeong Oh-hoon gave a quiet, knowing chuckle.

“I wouldn’t advise it. They claim to be secure, but it’s basically the equivalent of an underground casino.”

The kind of places that send out those “safe playground” text advertisements?

I won’t get my hopes up. Nevertheless, having knowledge of these illicit channels might be an asset eventually.

“Equip your gear.”

I instructed Jeong Oh-hoon. He wasted no time, slinging his firearm over his shoulder and standing before me.

“Get closer.”

“Whoa, take it easy.”

I gave him a look of pure annoyance, and he let out a soft breath, moving a few steps toward me.

“Come on, show a little mercy and give me some room to work with?”

“You can save your excuses for whatever deity greets you when you die.”

Complaining about a loss because the threat was too close? Buddha, Yama, Jesus—even Cthulhu would find that pathetic.

Jeong Oh-hoon put in the effort, weaving through strikes and parrying with his trademark evasive style. After roughly half an hour, I gave a nod of approval.

“Your output is higher, your precision has improved… and most crucially, you’ve met the baseline requirement I established.”

“So, I’m officially part of the staff?”

I nodded and reached out to him.

“Welcome to the team, Jeong Oh-hoon.”

He gripped my hand for a firm shake, then spoke up.

“But we still haven’t decided on a name for the group? Do you mind if I make a pitch?”

“Go ahead.”

Jeong Oh-hoon wore a mischievous smirk.

“Our primary targets are Rank 1 Erosion Cores, correct? So…”

So…? Why the dramatic hesitation?

“What about Team Bigmouth General?”

“Have you lost your mind?”

Just as I prepared to launch into a rebuttal, Han Sang-ah raised her hand. Fine, let’s hear her side.

“I actually like it.”

“The two of you are completely unhinged. I would rather pour raw pepper flakes into my eyes than sanction a name that idiotic.”

Bigmouth General? Seriously? And what does that have to do with clearing Rank 1 Cores?

“What do you want then?”

“…”

After a moment of silence, I tentatively offered a suggestion.

“Headhunter?”

Jeong Oh-hoon made a clicking sound with his tongue.

“Zero impact. It doesn’t draw any attention. ‘Bigmouth General!’ really sticks in the mind.”

It would stick, alright—like a thorn in my side. I have no interest in being remembered that way. In fact, it’s not even about memory; we’d just be a laughingstock.

It was better to go with the safe, professional choice of Headhunter.

“We’re going with Headhunter.”

Han Sang-ah, who was still looking down at her device, piped up.

“It makes no difference to me. Team names are just brands, and brands gain their reputation through deeds, not titles.”

“Bigmouth General is a winner… If you hate it, it’s your funeral. Ignoring brilliant ideas is the hallmark of an ineffective leader.”

In the end, they deferred to me, so our official public designation became Headhunter.

“The groundwork is complete.”

Unlike the limitations found in Bratsk, Azure Cloud Valley does not impose a cap on the number of participants. More manpower simply equals better survival rates—it’s basic math.

“We have zero reconnaissance on the interior.”

“Technically, no one has ever made it back from Azure Cloud Valley in an official capacity.”

The Association’s specialized escape crystals allow one to leave an Erosion Core without dying, but they aren’t as common as bottled water.

“We need to bring in more people. We’ll hire extra hunters specifically for this raid.”

To attract them, we need a standard of entry—similar to gear requirements or combat metrics in an online game.

“They have to be able to endure the haze the moment they step inside.”

Han Sang-ah, Jeong Oh-hoon, Adakawa Nana, and I can rely on my Paradox Flame for protection. But expanding that to cover hundreds of individual hunters is physically impossible.

We had already received the files from Sa Seung-hee regarding those who survived their entry into Azure Cloud Valley. We would use that as our starting point.

“Do you really think that many independent hunters or firms will want to join?”

Han Sang-ah nodded in response to Jeong Oh-hoon’s query.

“Quite a few. The numbers could easily exceed a thousand.”

“With a crowd that big, coordination is going to be a nightmare.”

Han Sang-ah gave another nod.

“That’s exactly why hunter management companies exist.”

Temporary groups are chaotic, but professional firms are much more manageable.

“High-end operator squads have a wealth of experience in organizing temporary hunter pools like this. They’ll handle the logistics.”

Han Sang-ah looked at Jeong Oh-hoon.

“It’s leadership through the regulation of information.”

Hunters report their observations; operators synthesize that data and issue commands. No single individual can perceive the entire Erosion Zone, so they are forced to obey.

“Are we going with Seagull, then?”

Han Sang-ah nodded.

“Seagull. If Lee Se-eun trusts their work, then they are reliable operators.”

They were expensive, but Nana’s financial backing should make that a non-issue. Besides, relying on the Korea Operating Corporation for a Rank 1 mission felt wrong.

It’s like filing a lawsuit against the Geumyang Group but hiring a public defender. I have nothing against public defenders—they do vital work.

But still… it felt out of place. Furthermore, could the Korea Operating Corporation even handle the management of over a thousand operators at once?

“I’ll reach out to Seagull. You two handle the formal confirmation of Azure Cloud Valley as our objective and start the recruitment process.”

As I walked toward the exit, I threw one last warning over my shoulder.

“The name is Headhunter, not Bigmouth General! If I see even a single mention of ‘Bigmouth’ in the media, I will personally grind you both into powder that very same day!”