AAGULT Ch 105

Chapter 105

When he first joined the unit, he certainly stirred unease among everyone, but in the end, he was just an eleven-year-old child. Remarkably quiet, he never spoke unless spoken to, and apart from following assigned orders and routines, he showed no initiative whatsoever—simply a quiet and passive little boy.

The look in his eyes was so blank that it was difficult to read any emotion. Whether people were fighting or shouting around him, whether it rained or not, he simply stayed in his designated area and repeated his assigned tasks quietly.

The initial wariness didn’t last long. The unit members gradually began to let their guard down around him. He was too young, too passive, and more than anything, far too silent.

Most treated him simply as “the kid.” Everyone referred to him as “the kid” instead of his name and dismissed him as merely an inconvenient and awkward presence.

But time, unnoticed, left faint traces as it passed. And at some point, it began to feel as though someone was subtly swapping out the cogs of daily life from an unseen corner. The one who was intricately assembling those cogs was none other than that “kid.”

Baek Beomwoo.

At first, it was nothing.

Minor conflicts decreased. The frequent arguments and outbursts during training began to subside, the omission rate for reports dropped without exception, and even the mundane routines like night duties and cleanliness began to show a peculiar sense of order. None of this stemmed from direct orders or enforcement—it was simply that, at some point, the atmosphere shifted so naturally that everyone just started acting like that was the correct way.

It wasn’t mere cooperation. This was perfect compliance so complete that they forgot what it meant to feel discontent.

Disputes over orders lessened, individual complaints faded, and more and more people began instinctively prioritizing higher directives over personal judgment. And behind all these changes, Baek Beomwoo was always present. Silently standing in a corner, sitting on a hallway bench watching others, or quietly drinking water in the corner of the cafeteria.

This went beyond emotional stability or a shift in attitude—it was a sign that the internal framework of decision-making was slowly being restructured.

Then one day, as unit members were immersed in their routines as usual, a single sheet of orders arrived from the top command.

Infiltrate the detention center for uncooperative Espers and eliminate the target.

Target: On the third day of desertion, classified as combat-type destroyer.

Capture not required.

The contents were summarized in dry print, with no additional explanation. No context about the operation or details about the target were disclosed, but no one questioned or objected.

The unit just… moved with an eerily natural rhythm.

Without anyone needing to say a word, they headed to the equipment room, checked their weapons, and went through their pre-deployment routines. The flow of motion was smooth and disciplined. From the moment they received the order, everything proceeded without a single hiccup, and it was in that moment that Taegun suddenly felt as though he were being swept along by some unseen current. It was an indescribable sensation.

In the past, for an operation like this—especially one involving orders to kill a clearly underage Esper—there would’ve been at least some pushback and discussion within the unit. Someone would have protested to the instructor, another might have requested a change in the kill-on-sight directive. There may even have been suggestions to delay execution until a formal mission document was issued.

But not now.

No one asked questions, no one doubted, and no one challenged the directive’s purpose. It wasn’t perfect obedience—it was closer to a voluntary numbness. And this numbness was no longer born of individual judgment.

Taegun too found himself fully geared up and heading toward the designated entrance according to the unit’s deployment route. Everything felt normal—the snug fit of the bulletproof vest on his knees, the weight of the rifle on his shoulder, the HUD display before his eyes—but for some reason, it all felt off.

“……”

Taegun turned his head, almost absentmindedly. There, beside a dark column in the hallway, stood Baek Beomwoo.

The child said nothing.

Just as always, he was silent. He was still small, childlike, and his face betrayed no emotion whatsoever. It was a scene straight out of a horror film, and yet it wasn’t terrifying. Fear typically triggered instinctive rejection, but strangely, not once had Taegun hesitated or felt his heart drop while looking at that child.

Taegun passed him by with a calmness even he couldn’t understand.

This unit had changed.

And Taegun had grown used to that change.

On the surface, there were no issues. In fact, every metric appeared to be aligning with what the higher-ups had long desired.

The reporting system had been consolidated, and field records were submitted without omissions and in full. On the surface, efficiency seemed to have increased, but in truth, the very function of independent judgment had practically ceased to exist.

Since Baek Beomwoo had “calibrated” the unit, the Galgamaegi unit had become increasingly refined and silent.

It was around that time.

Seo Taegun stared at the mission order he had received.

<Galgamaegi Unit 58N – Black Ops Order>

Due to risk of classified information leakage, preemptive elimination before external contact is required.

Association A-rank Guide Song Juhyuk

Association A-rank Esper Kim Daeun

Staging the scene as a double suicide is recommended. Site must be cleared of all evidence.

Child is to be eliminated if deemed uncontrollable.

Executioners: Galgamaegi Unit 42/0

Seo Taegun quietly read through the familiar type of mission order from beginning to end, without taking his eyes off the paper. 42 and 0—those were the code names for himself and Baek Beomwoo. The content of the order was all too familiar, and being told to kill someone no longer sparked any reaction in him.

He had already sensed that an order like this would come around this time. The targeted couple had been digging into the Association’s secrets recently. There were even whispers that they were on the verge of going public. The direction indicated by the evidence they had collected pointed to one thing:

“The current Association President tried to kill the only S-rank Guide in South Korea—who was just seven years old!”

…It sounded like a conspiracy theory, but everyone within the Association already whispered it openly. The only difference was that no one had ever attempted to go public with it like this couple had. That was because standing behind that truth was the solid power of the Esper Association President himself.

The origin of this conspiracy theory was a gate incident on the outskirts of Seoul—something everyone connected to the Association had heard of at least once.

Two years ago.

A gate opened at 92-17 Sinwol Industrial Road, XX District, Seoul.

Initially, it had been classified as a simple B-rank gate, and a rapid response team was formed. Among them was South Korea’s only S-rank Guide. Sending an S-rank Guide to a B-rank gate was like using a butcher’s knife to kill a chicken, but since the Guide was only seven at the time, everyone assumed he was being sent to gain experience.

But as time passed, the fact that he had even entered that gate raised more and more questions. That gate turned out to be a double-layered gate—a rarity even on the global scale—something only revealed after his deployment.

Of the 52 agents sent in, half died and half barely made it out. The Guide also returned alive, but his background drew suspicion.

Why had such a young Esper been rushed into a B-rank gate?

Everyone’s attention naturally gravitated toward the survivors, driven by both sympathy and curiosity. Although records of the deployment approval existed, the names of the signatories could not be found. On paper, it looked like the proper procedures had been followed, but no one could say they had witnessed it firsthand. Even the field manual had been replaced by a higher-classified document under the vague reason of “emergency experimental deployment.”

People whispered:

“Isn’t the Association President screwed? That gate they said was B-rank… turned out to be a double gate. Half of them died, and the S-rank Guide nearly died too—what now?”

“Hey, I heard somewhere that Guide was obviously from a super rich family… Could it be some kind of corporate power struggle or something? Otherwise, why would the Association President—”

“No way… seriously?”

…Whatever the truth may be, everything that happened inside the gate that day was thoroughly classified afterward. The gate was closed, and a few of the response agents were transferred to other units immediately after. The young Guide who returned alive was quarantined in a treatment center for several months before rejoining the Association as a Guide.

Even though it had been two years and the incident was considered closed, people still occasionally whispered gossip about it.

“I heard he can’t go into gates anymore because of the trauma.”

“Poor kid… that Guide…”

Despite everyone’s sympathy, no one dared to step forward.

The couple who finally chose to speak out in the name of justice were them. And the moment Beomwoo and Taegun received their mission order was three days before the couple’s scheduled meeting with the press.

The mission was to be carried out the very next day.