Hero’s Child C9

Chapter 9

People often imagined that In the Hell lurked in some damp underground den, conspiring and plotting crimes in secret—but that was a terrible misconception.

Though heroes and villains fought across the lines of good and evil, even those who lived in the shadows needed ways to sustain themselves. The more famous villains could rob noble houses or steal fortunes through acts of terror, but such feats required teamwork and precision. An organization as individualistic as In the Hell preferred that each member fend for themselves.

In short—Ha Uichan, when he was not Under Doom, held a regular job.

He preferred quiet, modest things and avoided attention at all costs. After careful thought, he had accepted an offer from an acquaintance—the head of a small, struggling agency.

The hero agency was called Nonhier.

Originally hired as an accountant, Uichan had been forcibly reassigned to field work after his possession of a Hero Certification came to light. But even as a hero, there was little for him to do. The most “heroic” tasks at Nonhier involved finding lost pets or helping elderly clients retrieve stolen purses.

The agency was miserably poor. Its resident heroes were all idealistic fools barely out of their teens, overflowing with righteousness and lacking sense. Watching them was an exercise in patience, one that often drove Uichan to bury his face in his hands.

Naturally, work orders and contracts were practically nonexistent, and the group was treated like social outcasts.

In the modern age, heroes were not what they once were. Wealth, power, and political influence now defined their reputation. They were walking corporations—sources of money and symbols of national strength.

To Uichan, it was all absurd.

“Unbelievable. Look at them swarm like wolves over one cleanup job.”

“Eh, we’re not much different,” one man grumbled, warming his hands over the fire burning inside a metal drum. Four people sat around it, huddled close.

A man in his thirties with a fresh military-style haircut adjusted his in-ear communicator, scanning the area with an unimpressed look.

The eight-lane intersection before them was unusually empty. Only steel drums burned in the night, and armed heroes stood at intervals, waiting for orders.

“Hey, at least Blacktan’s agency contacted us first this time. You know what that means, right? It means they liked how we handled their last job. Right, guys?”

The man with the earpiece—Song Ojun—grinned smugly, puffing his chest like a trusted minister before a king. A yellow name tag dangled from his grimy work uniform.

[Nonhier]

Despite the ragged appearance, Song Ojun was the head of their tiny agency. “Agency,” however, was a generous term—it shared a second floor with a shabby detective office, and few people even knew it existed. But things had started to change over the past two months.

Uichan adjusted the thick frames that had slipped down his nose as he listened quietly from his seat among them.

“At this rate, even La Épée might send work our way. When Blacktan first subcontracted us, I thought that’d be the first and last time. But they keep sending jobs—again and again!”

And that wasn’t all. Song Ojun’s voice grew animated as he spoke, spittle flying in the firelight.

“Yesterday, Noatis’s agency called me personally—asked if we could dispatch a team to Seonghwa University next week! Can you believe it? Out of all the top hero agencies in Korea, the big three are giving us work. You know what that means? They finally recognize our profound sense of justice.”

“Profound my ass,” muttered Kwon Songhee, a woman with her long hair tied back. “And stop lumping La Épée in there when he hasn’t even hired us yet. They’re giving us scraps because we’re cheap labor. Heroes like them don’t want to clean up their own mess after catching villains, so they dump it on us.”

To anyone else, it might have sounded like glorious hero work. In truth, their tasks were grueling—cleaning up crime scenes, removing debris from collapsed buildings, and restoring devastated areas.

Still, after months of unpaid wages, they were grateful. The subcontract work had brought in steady pay and even bonuses.

Ever since the Hero Ranking System was established worldwide, heroes had been graded by their public contributions, mission counts, and popularity. In Korea, only the top 100 were recorded.

Among them, the Big Three Heroes—La Épée, Blacktan, and Noatis—were household names, more recognizable than the president himself. Their current ranks were 1st, 2nd, and 5th respectively, though many in the industry whispered that Noatis was the true third in terms of strength and activity.

But why, then, were such colossal figures suddenly subcontracting to a near-defunct agency hidden in a corner of Seoul?

It made no sense.

Someone sniffed and whispered conspiratorially, “Maybe they just needed errand boys. Instead of contacting a dozen agencies for minor stuff, they probably picked obedient dogs they can order around. That’s us. Look—we come running like puppies the moment they call.”

“Watch your mouth. They’re our sponsors, got it? Be grateful,” Ojun hissed, glaring.

Though May had begun, two days of spring rain had left the nights damp and cold. Uichan huddled closer to the fire, glasses glinting faintly as he scanned the cordoned-off intersection.

Armed heroes and government officers patrolled the area, rifles and light batons in hand. In the middle of the road lay a grotesquely dismembered creature, its remains scattered among corpses believed to be villains.

The fight was long over. They were only waiting for clearance to begin cleanup.

Uichan held his hands to the fire, then glanced down at his stomach. Hunger was setting in again; any moment now, it would start growling like thunder. He reached into his pocket, pulled out two sausages, unwrapped them neatly, and began to eat.

“Look at the kid—eating again, even now. Has he got a beggar living in his stomach? Why’s he always eating?”

“Hey, lay off him!” protested Lee Ranghyun, a bear-sized man sniffling beside him. “What’s wrong with eating? We’re all doing this to stay alive, aren’t we?”

Song Ojun flinched at the outburst and smacked Ranghyun lightly on the back like scolding a son.

“Anyway, boss,” Songhee muttered, lowering her voice, “don’t you feel like we’re being watched?”

Her words made everyone tense. Heads leaned closer together.

“You felt it too? I thought I was imagining things.”

“No, it’s real. Look over there.”

They turned subtly toward the opposite side of the road—where a tall, dark figure stood among the armed troops.

It was Blacktan himself.

The legendary hero who had subcontracted them in the first place, the one who had single-handedly neutralized the villains that rampaged through this very site.

As expected of a PMC mercenary, his marksmanship was otherworldly. Every bullet hit its mark, killing villains instantly. His men—the elite mercenary unit LITAN—gathered around him like trained hounds, reporting their progress.

LITAN, officially Litan Revalment, was a private military company originally based in the United States. Its mercenaries were stationed across the globe, though each branch simply went by “Litan.” Blacktan served as the Sector Chief, the highest commander of the Korean branch.

No one knew why Litan had suddenly established a permanent base in Korea, though rumors suggested secret ties with the government.

Dressed entirely in black, they were nicknamed the “Black Panthers” or “Black Tigers” by civilians.

But why was such a man staring at them?

The Nonhier team whispered like a cluster of ants.

“Did we… do something wrong?”

“Wrong? Not at all. That’s trust, my friend. He called us right after the incident ended. He probably can’t get enough of us. Same with Noatis—he’s been looking for me nonstop these days.”

“Yeah, sure. Maybe he’s just pitying us. It’s probably all over the grapevine that we’re broke. The Big Three Heroes throwing us scraps like this—it’s charity, plain and simple.”

“Enough chatter. Kid, you still eating? Get up! They’re waving the light batons—orders are coming down soon.”

“Just one more bite.”

“Hey, stop picking on him! Seriously, boss, give him a break. You don’t see him skipping meals—his stomach’s flat as a board!”

At that, Uichan froze mid-bite, the last sausage halfway to his mouth. The eyes around the fire drifted toward his abdomen.

…Was it really that flat?

Frowning faintly, he ran a hand over his stomach. The muscles were still firm and tight, no sign of softening despite all his attempts to rest. Perhaps he should start taking it easier.

Before he could dwell on it further, a government officer at a distance began waving his baton—time to work.