The hum of the generator filled the small clan house, vibrating faintly through the cracked linoleum. Dust motes floated in the dim light, tracing invisible paths over soldered cables and patched walls. Min sat at one of the tables, hands hovering above the keyboard Chan-Sik had kept safe for him. Memories of his brother's collapse, the jeers of Red Pulse, the smell of burnt circuits—lingered at the edges of his mind. But here, in the heart of Mangwon-dong, a different presence anchored him.
Chan-Sik leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp beneath thick brows. Age and streaks of gray in his beard added weight, but the authority in his gaze hadn't faded.
"I've been doing what I could while you were gone," Chan-Sik began, voice low and measured. "We fought our own wars online, lost influence, and street cred is disappearing fast. Free-for-alls, 1v1s… nothing ever sticks."
He sighed, dragging a hand down his face.
"We've lost people. MC ORCA stayed to help, your friend Ji-Ho went into hiding. Others either joined Red Pulse or sought protection elsewhere. Now we're holed up here… nowhere to go."
Min's fingers twitched nervously. "Then why do we have Hye-Jin and Sung-Woo?"
"They're from here too," Chan-Sik said. "Don't let their age fool you—they're monsters at Starcraft. They want to fight back. But this isn't just about territory. Red Pulse and other gangs are taking electronics, extorting shops, leaving people homeless. We're running low on supplies. And the Warlocks are barely a name left."
Min looked down. "I… I don't know if I can…"
"No buts," Chan-Sik interrupted. His voice was firm but not unkind. "You've been hiding for a year, thinking life would stay simple. It hasn't. And it won't wait for you."
Min swallowed. "I'm not like Jae-Hwan."
Chan-Sik stepped closer, placing a hand over the old keyboard. "Jae-Hwan was a hero. But heroes alone don't lead. Leaders adapt, inspire loyalty, guide those around them. That… is you, Min. You've got the gift. The Warlocks need a leader, not a legend."
Min's chest tightened. Dust, sweat, the collapse, the laughter, it all pressed down on him. "Me? Leader?"
"You don't get ready. You act. You survive. You lead." Chan-Sik's eyes softened, just a fraction. "The people in this city… they need guidance. Someone who remembers why we fight, not just for victory but for the community we protect. And you… you have that gift."
Min glanced at the keyboard. Muscle memory itched in his fingers, tapping, swiping, reflexively moving as if the past were calling them home. He lowered his hand, uncertainty warring with instinct.
"And the others?" he asked quietly. "Hye-Jin, Sung-Woo… are they ready?"
"They're sharp. But they need guidance. That's why I brought you back, not just as a player, but as the rightful leader of the Warlocks. The heir of Mapo."
Min swallowed hard. The weight of responsibility pressed into his shoulders. Fear, doubt, grief all fought for dominance. But beneath it, a spark ignited, the pulse of the streets, the drive that had once propelled his brother, now calling him forward.
He pressed his fingers against the keys. A subtle combination: production, unit creation, rallying forces, automatic, instinctual. His hands remembered what his mind had tried to forget.
"I… I'll do it," Min said, voice steady now. "I'll lead the Warlocks. But first, we find Ji-Ho."
Chan-Sik nodded, a rare approving smile tugging at his lips. "Good. The city isn't waiting. And neither is Red Pulse."
Outside, Mangwon-dong breathed quietly, unaware that its heir had returned. Somewhere in Hongdae, Red Pulse prowled, unaware that the ghost they thought buried had come home and that the balance of power was about to shift.