Hero’s Child C10

Chapter 10

“Site inspection complete. Please begin post-operation cleanup!”

At last, the order was given. Workers who had been huddled around scattered fires stood up and began packing away their things. Most of them were lower-ranked heroes, the kind who ran small local agencies.

“Let’s move, people. Quick cleanup, then drinks—just one round,” said Song Ojun, miming the tilt of a glass before slinging a pickaxe over his shoulder and striding off. The others followed, grabbing their tools. Uichan pushed his slipping glasses back up the bridge of his nose and put on his mask.

It should be fine. He had dabbed peppermint oil inside the mask to help dull his nausea. As long as he focused only on repairing the damaged ground and avoided the worst of the carnage, he could probably endure it.

He chose his position carefully. Avoiding the areas where the stench of blood hung thick in the air, he selected a relatively tolerable spot and began shoveling to restore the overturned earth. But the scene was far worse than expected.

“Ugh… what the hell did they do to these things? No matter how many times I see guts, I’ll never get used to it. Why’s it so gruesome today?”

“That’s what happens when Blacktan shows up. Whenever the Litan guys move in, the monsters end up shredded. Look at this—no form left at all. Do they ever consider the cleanup crews?”

“Watch your mouth. Those guys inspect their own work afterward—don’t give them a reason to complain.”

“Come on, hurry up! Think of it as money and keep moving! If you nitpick everything, we’ll never finish!”

Unable to stand the complaints any longer, Song Ojun barked like a drill sergeant. The workers pouted but obediently picked up the pace. When he glared at them, even the grumbling stopped. He clutched his chest as if struck by heartburn, muttering about the stress, then glanced around and frowned. Someone was missing.

“Where’s the kid?”

“The youngest? He was here a second ago.”

“There! Over there!”

The bear-like Lee Ranghyun, who had been scrubbing bloodstains, pointed toward a distant figure. Everyone turned. The youngest—Ha Uichan—was rushing out of the scene, hand over his mouth, his mask still on.

“What’s with him lately?”

Song Ojun blinked dumbly as the boy vanished from sight. The rest exchanged puzzled looks until someone offered a reasonable guess.

“Maybe he’s sick? He’s been eating nonstop today.”

Cough, cough… hah.

Having dashed into the public restroom of a nearby park, Uichan turned on the tap and dry-heaved over the sink. His body lurched several times, but nothing came up; his throat felt sealed shut. He coughed repeatedly, then yanked off his glasses and pressed his fingers hard against his brow.

“Ha… yeah, message received. Got it… calm down.”

He rubbed his abdomen lightly, and the violent spasms began to subside. Only then did he grip the sink and lift his gaze to the mirror. His sharp eyes were flushed red, as if he’d been crying. He rinsed his hands and mouth quickly and tugged down the zipper of his suffocating work suit.

He’d come here with a sliver of hope that he could handle the day’s work—but that illusion shattered before it even began. Of course. If food smells were already unbearable, a field reeking of blood was far worse.

Sleepiness and fatigue came and went unpredictably, but he’d learned to manage those. Hunger could be solved by carrying snacks and eating steadily.

But the smells—

Cough, cough…

Another fit shook him. Bracing a hand against the mirror, Uichan lowered his head. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the restroom suddenly dimmed. Startled, he turned. A large shadow filled the doorway.

His heart dropped. Someone was there.

He tried to step aside, but the man at the entrance was already approaching. The heavy sound of boots striking tile echoed—sharp and steady.

Step.

“Excuse m—”

Before he could finish, a large hand reached toward him. He stumbled backward, his spine hitting the door with a thud. But instead of pain, a strong arm wedged itself between him and the door. Another hand covered his mouth—firmly, but not harshly. It almost felt like someone helping a person through hyperventilation.

Uichan froze. Before he could tear the hand away, a low, steady voice spoke above him.

“…People unaccustomed to scenes like this often experience hyperventilation.”

The voice was deep and dry, yet oddly calm. Uichan looked up, and even with the light behind the stranger, his features were unmistakable. Bright golden eyes, sharp and predatory. Jet-black hair that gleamed like ink. Refined, yet exuding a dangerous, animalistic aura.

He was tall—close to 190 centimeters—with a broad, muscular frame and the bearing of a disciplined soldier. His presence reminded Uichan of a well-trained warhound—composed, but inherently wild.

He knew that face.

Born and raised abroad, the man had spent most of his life as a mercenary before naturalizing in Korea two years ago. Now, he stood shoulder to shoulder with La Épée as one of the nation’s most powerful heroes.

The head of the Litan Korea Branch—Blacktan. Real name: Yeo Taehwon.

And he was standing directly in front of him now, golden eyes lowered in silent scrutiny.

He was also—possibly—one of the fathers of the children growing in Ha Uichan’s belly.

“Haa… ha…”

Uichan’s breath quickened. He forced himself to relax and lifted a hand, gently removing the one that covered his mouth. The man hesitated, but complied.

“It’s not hyperventilation… it’s indigestion.”

“……”

“And I’m quite used to fieldwork.”

Blacktan tilted his head slightly, then gave a single, measured nod. Uichan remembered that the concept of “indigestion” didn’t have a direct equivalent abroad—foreigners often understood it simply as “poor digestion.”

Without a word, Yeo Taehwon pulled off his black gloves and reached toward Uichan’s face. Instinctively, Uichan flinched back. The man’s hand paused midair, then slowly clenched into a fist and dropped to his side.

“…It must hurt a lot, then. To the point of tears.”

“It’s not that… just from coughing, that’s all.”

“…I see.”

For a man of few words, his tone softened noticeably. Despite his sharp, predatory gaze, there was something almost gentle in the way he watched him. Like a hunting dog focusing entirely on its master’s signal, his attention never wavered from Uichan for even a second.

It was their second encounter since that night—the night of the charity gala two months ago.

When word spread that the Big Three Heroes were searching for Under Doom, In the Hell had erupted in chaos. Phantom Thief Kill had fumed that he should’ve returned with their severed heads, while Mother Ship and Jekyll Jack had been ready to storm out and finish them themselves.

Hyde had scrambled to divert attention, planting misinformation to keep the heroes from discovering Uichan’s identity.

Thanks to that, Uichan had spent the past two months quietly confined at home, temporarily stepping down as Under Doom. He only visited Nonhier occasionally—to keep food on the table.

A month ago, by coincidence, Nonhier had been assigned to a site where Blacktan was present. It had been a massive job requiring manpower from multiple agencies, and somehow they’d been selected. While taking a short break, Uichan had briefly lowered his mask—only to meet Blacktan’s gaze.

He hadn’t even been wearing his glasses then, just protective goggles. His heart had nearly stopped.

Did he recognize me…?

He’d quickly pulled the mask back on, but by then, Blacktan had already studied his face with unsettling precision.

At the gala, the facial recognition jammer had shielded him. Even in the pit, the device had been active—so the Big Three shouldn’t have seen his real face.

Still… what if? What if the jammer had failed? What if Blacktan possessed a sensory ability—like visual recall through touch?

Anxious, Uichan had worked silently, avoiding any attention. Thankfully, Blacktan had eventually left with his team without saying a word.

Uichan had breathed a deep sigh of relief.

But the next day, disaster struck. Blacktan’s agency had begun sending regular job orders directly to Nonhier, and nearly all of them required working on sites under his supervision.

Uichan had avoided field assignments for almost two months due to his condition, but now, with his savings dwindling, he had no choice but to return.

And now, here they were again—face to face.

“You should stop working for today. You don’t look well,” Yeo Taehwon said quietly.

“Let’s… talk outside first. Ugh—”

The stench of the restroom hit him again, and Uichan hurried to shut off the tap. When Blacktan stepped aside, he darted out into the cool evening air. The scent of damp earth and trees brushed his cheeks, and he finally felt like he could breathe again.

As he filled his lungs, he remembered—his glasses. They were still inside, on the sink. He turned back, but before he could move, a large shadow blocked his path.

Those golden eyes looked down at him—expressionless, unreadable. Then, Yeo Taehwon extended his hand, holding out the glasses.

“Ah… thank you.”

Uichan bowed his head quickly, accepting them. The man gave a short nod, then turned his gaze toward the nearby park benches. As Uichan lifted the glasses to put them on, Yeo Taehwon gently took them from his hands once more.

Uichan blinked in confusion. The man lowered his gaze, meeting his eyes.

“Would you care to sit for a while, Uichan?”

Uichan froze, startled. He hadn’t expected him to know his name.