Han Joon-seok became a problem without ever intending to.
This, he felt, was deeply unfair.
Problems were supposed to announce themselves loudly—through explosions, dungeon breaks, or at the very least, excessive screaming. They were not supposed to stand quietly in the corner of a training hall with a clipboard, doing absolutely nothing.
And yet.
"Is he here today?"
"Yeah. Near the back."
"…Why is he smiling?"
"I don't think he's smiling."
"That's worse."
Joon-seok adjusted his stance slightly and continued observing.
From the perspective of White Fang's training staff, the situation was uncomfortable.
Support hunters were supposed to be supportive. They boosted, healed, shielded, or enhanced. Their effects were visible. Measurable. Reassuring.
Han Joon-seok did none of that.
And yet, whenever he was present, things went better.
Not explosively better.
Just… annoyingly consistently better.
No sudden breakthroughs.No dramatic leaps.
Just fewer mistakes.Cleaner coordination.Shorter recovery times.
Results that were difficult to argue with—and impossible to explain cleanly.
"We should rotate him out," one instructor muttered.
"And replace him with what?" another replied. "A normal support?"
"That's my point."
They both looked toward Joon-seok.
He noticed immediately.
He always did.
And pretended not to.
Joon-seok had learned something critical over the past week.
People were far more comfortable with power than they were with uncertainty.
If you showed strength, they measured it.If you showed weakness, they ignored it.
But if you showed ambiguity?
They obsessed.
Which meant the safest place to be was neither strong nor weak.
Just… unclear.
So Joon-seok made himself useful.
But not impressive.
The dungeon run that day was supposed to be routine.
Mid-tier gate.Stabilized environment.Standard clear protocol.
The team consisted of one A-rank, three B-ranks, and two supports—including Joon-seok.
As usual, he took position at the rear.
As usual, no one relaxed.
"Support," one of the B-rankers said quietly, glancing back. "If you're going to do something… maybe warn us?"
Joon-seok nodded. "Of course."
"…That doesn't make me feel better."
Inside the dungeon, visibility dropped quickly.
Crystalline growths jutted from the walls, refracting light into sharp angles. Footing was uneven. Sound carried strangely.
Perfect conditions for mistakes.
Joon-seok activated his skill at minimum output.
Skill Activated
The thread appeared.
Thin.Controlled.
He did not lean into it.
He simply… listened.
Not with his ears.
With intent.
The frontliners moved.
He understood.
"Hold," Joon-seok said calmly.
The A-ranker stopped instantly.
A spike burst from the floor where his foot would have landed.
Silence.
"…How did you know?" someone asked.
Joon-seok blinked. "Pattern recognition?"
"That was underground."
"Yes."
"…You scare me."
Joon-seok smiled politely. "I get that a lot."
They continued.
Joon-seok said very little.
Which made every word he did say feel heavier than it should have.
"Two steps left.""Don't overextend.""Wait half a second."
Each instruction prevented disaster.
Each success tightened the knot in everyone's chest.
At one point, a B-ranker whispered, "Is he predicting us?"
Another whispered back, "No. Worse. He's correcting us."
Joon-seok pretended not to hear.
From Se-rin's perspective, watching through the monitoring feed was… irritating.
"He's not doing anything wrong," her vice-captain said carefully.
"No," Se-rin agreed. "That's the problem."
"He's still E-rank."
"On paper."
The vice-captain hesitated. "Do you want me to restrict him?"
Se-rin watched her brother calmly redirect a fight with three words.
"…No," she said slowly. "Not yet."
The run ended without injury.
Without panic.
Without drama.
Which somehow felt more suspicious than chaos.
Back at base, the team dispersed awkwardly.
One of the B-rankers lingered.
"Support," he said.
"Yes?"
"…If you weren't here, would that have gone differently?"
Joon-seok considered the question.
"Possibly," he said honestly.
The B-ranker swallowed. "Then… thanks."
Joon-seok bowed his head slightly. "You're welcome."
As the man left, another approached.
Then another.
Not praise.
Questions.
Requests.
Curiosity.
By the end of the hour, Se-rin had to physically extract her brother from the training floor.
"You're becoming popular again," she said dryly.
"I was trying not to."
"You failed."
They walked in silence for a moment.
Then she asked, "You're not overusing your skill, are you?"
"No."
"You're not pushing yourself?"
"No."
"You're not lying to me?"
He glanced at her. "Not today."
She sighed. "I hate that answer."
That night, Joon-seok received three messages.
One from a B-ranker asking for advice.One from a support hunter asking for mentorship.One from an unknown number.
Unknown:If you wanted a formal position, we could talk.
Joon-seok stared at the screen.
Then turned the phone face-down.
Too early.
Elsewhere, Assistant Director Choi reviewed a report.
Conclusion:Subject Han Joon-seok does not display overt threat behavior.However, continued proximity correlates with abnormal performance stabilization.Recommendation: Monitor. Do not provoke.
Choi sighed.
"Support types," he muttered. "Always the complicated ones."
Back on the balcony, Joon-seok looked out over Seoul.
He was still E-rank.
Still low-tier.
Still officially harmless.
But the definition was stretching.
Quietly.
Dangerously.
He smiled faintly.
"…Good."