Han Joon-seok did not jump to conclusions.
That night, after the guild training session, he replayed the sensation again and again in his mind—not the recruit's improvement, not the surprised reactions, but the connection.
It hadn't been strong.
Barely noticeable, really.
But it had been there.
And more importantly, it had not been described anywhere.
By morning, he had already written a list.
Mental, not physical.
Duration
Range
Number of targets
Conscious vs unconscious activation
Mental strain
Aftereffects
If his skill was doing more than advertised, then blind experimentation was the fastest way to expose himself.
So he needed controlled variables.
Which meant he needed someone predictable.
"Absolutely not."
Han Se-rin crossed her arms, expression flat.
Joon-seok stood in the kitchen, mug of coffee in hand, calm as ever. "I haven't even explained yet."
"You don't need to," she replied. "Every time you start with that tone, something stupid follows."
"That's an unfair generalization."
"You tried to analyze a dungeon gate from the sidewalk once."
"It was pulsing irregularly."
"And then it exploded."
"…Unrelated."
She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "What do you want?"
"I need a test subject."
"No."
"A controlled one."
"No."
"One who won't panic."
She stared at him.
"…You're talking about me."
"Yes."
She leaned back against the counter. "Absolutely not."
"It's safe," he said calmly. "Low output. Short duration. You said yourself growth skills don't affect high-rankers meaningfully."
She hesitated.
That was the problem.
She had said that.
"…This isn't about growth," she said slowly. "This is about you poking things you don't understand."
Joon-seok took a sip of coffee. "That's how understanding starts."
She glared at him.
He met her gaze evenly.
After a long moment, she sighed again, long and tired.
"Five minutes," she said. "No more."
"Three," he countered.
"…Fine."
They stood in the private training room beneath their apartment complex—a reinforced space Se-rin used when she didn't feel like dealing with guild facilities.
No cameras.No observers.
Just them.
Se-rin rolled her shoulders once, casual but alert. "Low output."
"Yes."
"And the moment I feel anything weird—"
"You stop," Joon-seok finished. "I know."
He took a breath.
Then activated the skill.
Target Selected
Skill Activated: Growth Acceleration (Low Tier)
Nothing happened.
At least, nothing visible.
Se-rin frowned slightly. "I don't feel anything."
"That's expected," Joon-seok said. "You're already—"
She paused.
"…Wait."
Joon-seok focused.
There it was again.
Faint.Thinner than before.
A thread brushing against his awareness like static.
He swallowed.
"What?" he asked carefully.
"It's subtle," Se-rin said. "Barely there. Like… a sense of momentum."
That alone shouldn't have been possible.
Growth skills didn't feel like that at high rank.
Joon-seok counted silently.
One minute.Two.
The thread didn't strengthen.
But it didn't disappear either.
Then—
Se-rin stepped forward.
Her movement was smooth, efficient.
Too efficient.
She stopped mid-step, eyes narrowing. "That was… off."
Joon-seok's breath hitched.
He hadn't moved.
But for a split second—
He'd known how she would.
The skill ended.
The thread snapped.
Silence filled the room.
Se-rin stared at her hand, flexing her fingers. "That was strange."
"How?" Joon-seok asked.
She hesitated. "My body felt… aligned. Like everything responded perfectly. No resistance."
"That's not normal?"
"For me?" She snorted. "Nothing feels perfect at S-rank. There's always drag."
She looked at him sharply. "You felt something, didn't you."
Joon-seok nodded slowly. "Yes."
"…Explain."
"Later," he said. "I need more data."
She sighed. "I knew this was a bad idea."
The next few days passed quietly.
Too quietly.
Joon-seok didn't use his skill on Se-rin again. One test was enough to confirm the anomaly—and repeating it risked consequences he didn't yet understand.
Instead, he returned to safer targets.
Low-rank hunters.Late awakeners.Guild trainees.
But this time, he paid attention inward.
And the pattern became clear.
The better the target's control over their own power—
The clearer the thread.
With rookies, it was chaotic. Bursts of sensation, fragments of movement, useless noise.
With trained hunters, it sharpened.
Not memories.
Not thoughts.
Intent.
He could feel where they meant to move before they moved.
Not consciously.
Instinctively.
That terrified him.
And excited him.
The first time he tried to lean into it, it almost went wrong.
It happened during a routine sparring session at White Fang.
Two B-rankers were exchanging blows, controlled and measured. Joon-seok stood at the edge, officially observing.
Unofficially, testing.
He activated the skill on one of them.
Skill Activated
The thread formed instantly.
Stronger than before.
For a split second, he focused.
And the world tilted.
His vision doubled—then snapped back.
He staggered, grabbing the railing.
"Hey!" someone shouted. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Joon-seok said quickly.
He deactivated the skill.
The sensation vanished, leaving behind a dull headache.
Data point noted.
Forcing synchronization causes backlash.
Good to know.
That night, he sat on his bed, notebook open.
He didn't write power fantasies.
He wrote rules.
Synchronization is passive by default
Conscious focus increases strain
High-rank targets = higher clarity, higher risk
Skill does not grant power—only perspective
Perspective.
That was the key.
His skill didn't add anything.
It observed.
Aligned.
Borrowed.
Joon-seok closed the notebook.
"…Observer," he murmured.
The word lingered.
"Stop smiling like that."
Joon-seok looked up.
Se-rin stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "That's the face you make when you're about to do something dumb."
"I'm just thinking."
"That's worse."
She walked in and dropped onto the chair opposite him. "Guild reports are coming in."
He raised an eyebrow. "About?"
"Unusual growth rates," she said. "Across multiple teams."
His heartbeat didn't change.
"That's bad?"
"It's suspicious," she corrected. "Support skills don't stack like this."
She studied him closely. "You're not doing anything extra, right?"
He met her gaze calmly. "No."
It wasn't a lie.
He wasn't doing anything extra.
She leaned back, unconvinced but unwilling to push further.
"Be careful," she said. "People notice patterns."
"I know."
As she left, Joon-seok stared at his notebook again.
Patterns.
Yes.
That was the problem.
Because once people noticed—
They would want to control the variable.
And Joon-seok had no intention of becoming one.