The Chick Class Hunter is Being Filial

Suddenly, Jurim fixed his eyes on Suhyeong.

“……”
“You were wro—”
“Shhh.”

Guru tugged Jurim’s hand again and quickly clamped a hand over his mouth before he could say anything snide.
At some point, Suhyeong had begun choosing silence. Speaking less helped more than opening his mouth ever had.
When your words were constantly sliced apart and sensationalized in the news, your voice naturally began to close up.

And also… because sometimes words alone couldn’t carry sincerity. And also… and also… there were still countless reasons left unspoken.
But—
“Jurim.”

If there’s even a sliver of forgiveness left in you—
“I regret what I said to you. Every day you’ve been gone.”
—just once, I wish you’d be the one to come to me.

“I’ve never really said it to you, have I? It might sound like an excuse, but… it was a hard time for me, too.”
Jurim had always been indifferent to others’ reactions—he was stronger, better at enduring it. But Suhyeong… he had crumbled, helplessly, beneath the hailstorm of barbed words.
“I was always sorry—to you, and to Ijo. When Ijo didn’t come back, the guilt was overwhelming… and what I said to you—truth is, I was saying it to myself. I was just projecting my guilt onto you.”

“What a boring story. Am I supposed to have some reason to keep listening now?”
“It was Ijo’s choice to take part in that ‘project.’”
“……”

“Ijo was kind. That’s why he never assumed the worst.”
Yes—despite what {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} the public said, Ijo hadn’t been sent to the tower for the company. Nor had he been offered up to the government’s classified project for the sake of Doan Construction, like Jurim believed.
“In the end, yes—Doan did benefit from government support because Ijo joined the project. You’ll be disappointed to hear it… but I took full advantage of that.”
Suhyeong closed his eyes tightly, then opened them.

“But no one sells their own son for that kind of reason.”
It had been humiliating. Unbearable, even. He’d stayed silent for fear that saying anything might betray Ijo.
He didn’t want his eldest son remembered as some tragic sacrifice in a government experiment—he wanted him remembered as a noble hero.

“Please believe me on this one thing: I didn’t push Ijo forward out of selfish ambition. I’ve never stopped loving either of you. You two always came before anything I owned. No matter what moment you pick—I can say that with pride.”
“……”
Jurim looked at him with a face that betrayed nothing.

No anger. No sarcasm. Just a flat indifference, like someone listening to a story that had nothing to do with them anymore.
At that moment, the loudspeakers crackled to life.
[The auction will begin shortly. All guests, please take your assigned seats.]

Jurim spoke with the same unaffected tone.
“It’s starting.”
“Jurim. Will you join us for dinner this year, on Ijo’s memorial day?”

“……”
Guru looked up at Jurim.
His lips remained tightly shut.

We can’t let this moment pass like this… Guru parted her lips.
If what they needed was a push—just like helping someone on a swing—Guru was more than willing to be that push.
“Gwuwu wuvs meaty-meat~”

“……”
“……”
Both pairs of eyes shot toward her the moment she spoke.

Then, to hammer the point home, Guru declared:
“Dinner. Meat!!”
Jurim dragged a hand down his face, clearly disoriented.

That carnivore kindergarten gremlin…
Suhyeong’s frozen expression finally cracked into a faint smile.
“I’ll make sure there’s more than enough to eat.”

You hear that, Guildmastuh? There’s gonna be a mountain of meat.
Guru whipped her head around so fast it made a whoosh, staring up at Jurim with a face that said: You heard him, right? There’s meat. Say yes.
“……”

But Jurim just kept his mouth shut, narrowing his eyes, then abruptly turned his back.
The doors opened, and the banquet hall came into view—guests already seated.
“Guildmaster On, please allow me to escort you to your seat.”

He gave a slight nod.
‘Failure?!’
Guru stood frozen, looking like she’d just taken a punch to the face, sneaking glances at Suhyeong.

His expression was calm again—cold, unreadable.
Is this… really the end?
Did Jurim still feel no desire to forgive his father—even after learning it had all been a misunderstanding?

Just then, Jurim turned back and spoke.
“I’ll be going home with Guru.”
It was his answer to the dinner invitation.

Guru’s mouth dropped open without a sound.
She turned to Suhyeong—his face was just as surprised. But then he broke into a wide smile, baring his teeth, and mouthed silently to her:
‘Thank you.’

Guru’s face lit up like a blooming flower, spreading the kind of radiant smile that was almost painfully lovable.
 
****

Ijo had been right.
Left alone on the terrace, Suhyeong let out a low chuckle at the thought.
“Father, Jurim may not show it, but he’s got a big heart. He just doesn’t let people see.”

Suhyeong had been appalled when Ijo said that, shaking his head like it was absurd—but Ijo had only laughed that easy, carefree laugh of his.
“He hates emotional stuff—gets all cringy about it. Says melodrama is the worst thing in the world. Is he going through a teenage phase or what? Sometimes he just sulks like a brat—it’s kind of cute, don’t you think?”
“Since when do you find walking around with a knife on your tongue ‘cute’?”

“He’s still good at saying what’s pretty is pretty, and what’s good is good.”
“True. He might be rude, but he’s never stingy with honesty.”
“That’s why he’s popular at school. They say he’s a jerk—but not a total jerk.”

“Honestly, I’ll never understand kids these days.”
Well, of course Ijo had known Jurim better. He’d been around while Suhyeong was constantly away with company work.
Even if it didn’t always show, Ijo and Jurim had shared a deep bond.

People always said they were completely different—but their fundamental temperaments were actually quite similar.
“I’m going to the Tower.”
Both of them had that same way of making decisions in solitude—processing everything internally, and only then declaring their choice.

“I’m bringing Jurim with me. There’s something he can learn from the experience of protecting something. He’s a little rough around the edges right now, so I’ll bring him along and help smooth that out. C’mon, how dangerous could it be with me there? You’ve got one hell of a son, Chairman On—why so worried all the time?”
When he’d said he was going to the Tower—and when he said he was taking Jurim—
“Dad, you trust me, right? I’ll come back safe.”

His smooth, smiling eldest son had never once gone back on a decision.
Every choice Ijo made had weight, reason, and confidence behind it.
And what had Suhyeong had in return? Just worry. Pain. Bitterness at a situation he couldn’t fix.

Even when he’d belatedly learned that the government funding pouring into Doan Construction was the reward for Ijo’s participation in some secret project—
“Take it all, Dad. You can accept this much. Just think of it as your son being filial. Look at that—you’ve got yourself a good boy, right?”
All he did was ask Suhyeong to accept it.

“You’re not gonna just let Doan collapse, right? Our White Knight already had a kid, you know…”
Even though he must have known how much dread and sorrow his father carried, how it must have looked to others—that a father had sacrificed his son for profit.
“And… it’s not just about the company. I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want you to worry, but—if I don’t do this, no one else can. So we have to think ahead. That’s why I joined the project, Dad. A lot of lives are riding on this. So please—just shut your eyes and understand, even if it’s hard.”

Ijo—and Jurim—both had a way of always leaving him speechless.
Even now, he still didn’t know what the right thing to say to his son had been.
“Does Jurim know?”

“Of course not. I can’t tell him. You know what he’s like. There’s no way I could let him get in the way.”
He couldn’t even look directly at his son as Ijo laughed like it was nothing.
“Will you come back?”

And Ijo had only said this:
“Dad, you trust me, right?”
He’d accepted the government’s funding, believing it was a sign of his son’s worth.

He’d believed in his brilliant son—because Ijo had never once broken a promise.
Even though, in the end, he hadn’t come back.