Chapter Text
XX.
Byakuran is a bonafide menace.
A menace with a propensity for ambiguity, as proven by the cryptic text message waiting for him the following morning:
U shld srsly think abt takin a detour 2 the caf at 2:18. On the dot, Tsu-kun. Not a min earlier or later, k? I promise youll c somethig interestin.
Haneul squints suspiciously at the text, wondering what game Byakuran is playing and if he wants any part of it. But he supposes it can’t hurt to humor the man—at least keep him occupied enough so he’ll forgo looking for a source of entertainment elsewhere. Besides, it’s not as if he’s required to stick around if it turns out the former Gesso has something entirely too vexing and mischievous up his sleeve.
(Perhaps he should’ve listened to his inner voice’s warning and ignored Byakuran’s text, or at the very least found a reason to avoid this section of the school without rousing the marshmallow-obsessed man’s suspicions.
Well, it’s too late to beg off now. Even if curiosity is slowly starting to get the better of him.)
Which is why half a day later finds Haneul lurking in the hallway like some adolescent creeper, mere inches away from the principal’s office as with both a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes, he stares intently at the intimidating group gathered in the room. A few of the men are immaculately dressed in black suits while the one standing in full view of the doorway is wearing traditional clothes, complete with a black hanbok-style shirt, slate-gray pants, and a patterned coat that hangs elegantly to his ankles.
What's the Alliance Chief doing here?
Edging closer to the doorway, Haneul debates sneaking into the office and eavesdropping on what is bound to be a private, clandestine meeting. The Alliance is unmistakably out for blood, pursuing even the slightest rumor of a Nine Arts Dragon disciple—desperate to find a weakness to exploit.
(Any weakness, really, including a son the Goomoonryong rarely sees.
Chun-Woo’s aggressive strength and overwhelming power have accrued many enemies over the years, enemies that would overjoy at the first hint of a familial connection between such a powerful heavy hitter and a seemingly normal high school student. They won’t care who gets caught in the crossfire; their only concern will be the absolute destruction of a man who not only surpassed all other competition for the glorious title of Goomoonryong but who refused to bend over backwards for the Alliance, who still refuses to allow them even the smallest hint of authority over him.)
The thought of discovery leaves an uneasy frown on Haneul’s face.
Thank god for impromptu lessons on how to read lips from a distance.
Attention riveted on Alliance Chief Shin-Il, tense and guarded and frankly nervous at even the slightest threat of detection, Haneul watches the clever way words form on the elder man’s lips, trying to parse through the chief’s subterfuge to reach the heart of the matter. The fact that his party doesn’t seem particularly concerned about leaks, considering they left the door partway open, is telling. Overconfidence is a dangerous quality to have in the Murim, easily capable of destroying you from within for the sheer audacity of thinking yourself above reproach or ruination.
It will be this man’s downfall if he isn’t careful.
“I come bearing terrible news, Gyojang sunsaengnim,” Shin-Il is saying, his tone as somber as the air permeating the office. “Your esteemed president’s body was found on US soil. If not for the help of a government official, we may have never learned of his unfortunate...accident.”
From where he’s standing, Haneul can see how wide the principal’s eyes are, his side-profile hunching forward as the elder nods shortly and adds, “We have reason to believe one of your new...hires is connected and with your permission, of course, we were hoping to question him.”
Oh.
Oh no.
Hibari was right. They know.
He slowly backs away from the doorway, heart pounding in his ears. Fear is a chilling presence dogging his every step, cold and primal. (It knows no weaknesses, nor can it be reasoned with. It simply is.) Haneul takes a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. It isn’t fear for himself that has him hastily departing before the Alliance representatives can detect an unwanted presence. It’s fear for his father, a man capable of many vicious, godlike feats but still very much human at the end of the day—and fear for Shi-Woon too, a boy on the verge of a colossal breakthrough the likes of which has only been seen sparingly. A teenager with seemingly more courage than sense and an incredibly dedicated, unwavering sense of justice. His father certainly struck gold with that one.
It isn’t until he’s halfway to his next class, however, that Haneul realizes something big is happening, big enough to warrant a cry for help.
“Quick! Someone, get a teacher! Chang-Ho’s finally lost it!” An agitated voice calls out, accompanied by shocked exclamations and gasps, wide-eyed students circling Chang-Ho and his choice of victim like vultures, too startled to do anything but gawk at the spectacle.
Worry sits heavy in Haneul’s stomach, like a stone at the bottom of a river. Because he knows that silhouette. Recognizes that sandy-brown hair, even streaked red with blood, and that compelling aura of untested power.
Shi-Woon.
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XXI.
Two inconspicuous men—one with long, blond-white hair and the other with short jet-black hair, both adorned in black suits—stand amidst the gawking crowd of onlookers, studying the rather violent scene in thoughtful silence.
Yi Shi-Woon hasn’t moved from where he fell after taking a bat to the head, a fact that seems to alarm one of the girls who immediately runs to the injured teenager's side as soon as she notices what is happening. “Shi-Woon,” she cries as she drops to the floor beside the boy, reaching toward him with a trembling hand, fingertips barely grazing the back of his head, as if afraid of further aggravating his injuries.
The men share a look, introspective and calculating in nature, unmoved to act but suspicious all the same. Until the instigator, this Chang-Ho, points his bat at the girl in a threatening manner, no doubt prepared to use it. A startled gasp catches in the girl’s throat, her eyes squeezed shut. But before Chang-Ho’s weapon of choice has the chance to connect with its intended target, a surprisingly strong fist plows into the kid’s face, blood splattering everywhere as the impact sends him careening into the jeering posse gathered around him.
The men stare, transfixed, at Shi-Woon, astonished by the amount of ki they can feel emanating from him, from the clenched fists at his sides, his boyish features contorted into a livid expression as he glares at Chang-Ho. As practitioners of the North Star School, their senses are more attuned to ki than most, capable of determining the strength of one’s ki simply by being in the same vicinity as them—and for someone previously unknown in the Murim, this boy seems to possess a staggering amount, reminiscent of the Nine Arts Dragon when he first rolled onto the scene all those years ago.
“You think that’s him?” Asks the one on the right.
“Seems like it,” the other replies with a curt nod.
Exchanging yet another loaded look, they step out of the crowd, ignoring how the other students immediately fall back, a curious hum sweeping through the group as their collective attention shifts to the only two adults in a crowd of students. (Strangers who do not belong.
But that’s never stopped them before.)
“Hey, you,” the long-haired one calls out, a sly smirk twisting his lips, his intense gaze hidden behind dark aviator sunglasses. His lightly accented voice with its mocking undertone seems to startle Shi-Woon out of whatever trance he briefly fell under, and the man watches with vague anticipation as the boy goes rigid, muscle memory evoking an unusually ominous stance that acts as yet another reminder of the dangerous influence that only the Nine Arts Dragon is suited to.
Coincidence? He thinks not.
When it looks as though the boy intends to slip away, to escape before the two Murim-ins can obviously question him—a tenseness to Shi-Woon’s face that all but screams wary—the man’s hand snaps out, seizing Shi-Woon’s wrist in a vice-like grip. “Rumor has it you’re involved with the Goomoonryong. That true?”
Shi-Woon blanches, which is all the confirmation the men need to act on their suspicions. “Told you,” declares the shorter haired one, a hint of a smug smile tugging at his lips as he comes to stand abreast of his companion. “But know this, Kang Woobin-ssi, only the master has the right to interrogate the boy. We must not interfere.”
“Seriously, man? You saw how confused the poor kid is,” says Woobin, pursing his lips in a pout. “C'mon, Sung-Ho-sunbae. Live a little,” he adds, unapologetically excited about the prospect of being the one to capture the Goomoonryong’s disciple. “We probably don’t even need to wait for the chief to interrogate him. This’ll be a cinch.”
At that, Shi-Woon seems to lose even more color, as if familiar with their chief’s reputation. Warned, no doubt, by the very man they’re searching so diligently for.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shi-Woon is quick to say, a defensive note creeping into his voice.
Woobin stifles a snort, not even sparing the boy a reply as he and a scowling Sung-Ho—the guy has never really appreciated being contradicted, especially in public—move to surround him, hoping to cut his escape off before Shi-Woon can act on what his instincts are clearly telling him to do.
But Sung-Ho doesn’t seem to have any such compunction, despite his earlier words. “Who’re you trying to fool, Yi Shi-Woon? Your face says differently.”
“Hey, Shi-Woon!” An unfamiliar voice sharply (unexpectedly) cuts in, startling the two men into turning to confront whatever new threat has decided to present itself. “Duck!”
Unhesitant, Shi-Woon drops to his stomach, and the next thing Woobin sees is a pair of black canvas shoes coming for his face. With a muffled curse, Woobin ducks, practically rolling out of the way of what could have been a potentially lethal attack...and yet he still somehow manages to catch a ki-enforced fist to the jaw, the blow strong enough to dislocate it. (Not to mention the big, fat concussion it threatens to leave him with.)
Oh—
"Fuck," he grunts, barely able to get the word out, and rubs his chin with a pained wince, already beginning to feel the physical effects of the new kid's punch in the raw tenderness of his jaw and the way his teeth don’t quite line up properly.
(Damn brat.)
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XXII.
A collective gasp washes through the stunned crowd, seeming to wake Shi-Woon up from his dazed state. “Haneul-ssi?” He mutters, almost in disbelief as he watches the other boy perform the same intricate, powerful maneuver his own master taught him just last night, before informing him of his imminent departure—something about how hanging around Shi-Woon is getting too dangerous (for Shi-Woon’s sake, of course) and that it’s time to move on. He tried to argue against it, naturally, but Chun-Woo refused to even entertain the idea of staying and now the man is long gone, supposedly taking the so-called dangerous Murim business with him.
Or so his master wanted to believe, but apparently, the Murim chose to seek Shi-Woon out instead.
And now?
He can’t help but gape at Haneul, who managed to pull off a Breaking Spirit Strike with the surprising ease of a seasoned pro. The very same Haneul who seemed so perfectly normal not even two days ago when he decided on a whim to sit with Shi-Woon at lunch, quietly finishing his homework while Shi-Woon lost himself to Chun-Woo’s teachings, thinking of a hundred different ways to execute the very move Haneul did so effortlessly. Does that make him a student of Chun-Woo’s then? If so, why hide it?
(Maybe for the same reason you do. Idiot, he thinks with an inward shake of his head.)
“No time,” the other boy grits out, abruptly grabbing Shi-Woon’s hand and yanking him in the direction of the stairs, all while ignoring how dubiously some of the students stare after them, a murmur of confusion and some bemusement rippling through the crowd as the two Murim-ins curse before quickly giving chase.
Together, the two boys slip out one of several side doors and immediately high-tail it for the front gate. Just as they reach it, though, another man—this one so much broader and taller than the other two, with thick, white hair styled to resemble a military-esque cut—steps out of the shadows, blocking their exit with his bulk. “Shit. Kang Oongsan,” he hears Haneul mutter under his breath. He then turns to offer Shi-Woon an encouraging grin, strangely unconcerned by this new arrival. “Your turn.”
Shi-Woon has to fight back a nervous chuckle at how quickly and cheekily Haneul steps down—as if he’s the teacher and wants to see how far his student has improved. It’s so eerily similar to Chun-Woo’s approach that Shi-Woon obeys without question.
Ki externalizes in tangible waves, circulating in his ankles and synchronizing with his footsteps. Just as his master taught him.
One step. Two steps. Three steps...Four, lightning-quick and simultaneous to the point that when Kang Oongsan blinks once, Shi-Woon has already dodged the man’s outstretched arms; he then follows it up with a hard right hook to Kang’s midsection, just shy of reaching the Breaking Spirit point.
But it’s enough to bring the Murim-in to his knees, enough to make him double over with a grunt of pain, which in turn gives them a tiny but doable window of opportunity to escape before the other two can catch up.
“You’re a fast learner, huh,” Haneul muses aloud as they cut through an alley toward the main street, inspiring confidence in the way he evades pedestrians as he leads them to yet another alley, not bothering to slow his pace as he navigates around dead ends and narrow back streets. Shi-Woon keeps pace easily enough—which is a surprising turn of events given his former body condition. (But thanks to something called a Divine Pill, he is now strong enough to step into the world of Murim without feeling as though he may very well expire on the spot. Speaking of...)
“I, I didn’t know you were p, part of this world, Haneul-ssi,” Shi-Woon pants, little lines of concentration forming between his brows as he focuses partly on regulating his ki distribution and partly on keeping up with Haneul.
“Never came up,” Haneul replies, as nonchalant as if they’re talking about the weather. “How about we table this discussion for now?” He suggests after a brief, awkward pause filled with the sounds of pounding feet on concrete and deep, steady breaths. “I promise I’ll tell you whatever you want to know...once we’re safe.”
Shi-Woon takes a long moment to think it over, finds the suggestion reasonable. “Yeah, okay. Later then,” he forces through lungs that are starting to burn, still not used to running for longer bouts.
It’s just as well—that kind of multitasking, he regrettably learns, is so much harder than it has any right to be.
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XXIII.
It’s no secret that Alliance Chief Shin-Il can be rather impatient when certain problems arise that need to be dealt with swiftly and quietly. That is, perhaps, why the man who reluctantly interrupts their meeting to deliver the bad news is sporting a grimace and trying very hard to disappear into the floor.
“I have an urgent message for the danju,” Shin-Il overhears from the now open doorway where the aforementioned man stands panting, nearly bent over his knees to catch his breath and possibly to muster up what little courage he can—as if he’s been running miles around Seoul in search of the Goomoonryong's disciple himself. The elder perks up, thoughts of finally having Chun-Woo right where he deserves to be (on his knees, begging for his life) weighing heavily, excitedly, on his mind. “The suspect has just penetrated the first encirclement. And he’s not alone,” adds the younger Murim-in, an involuntary shudder running down his spine as the chief stares uncomprehendingly at him, before a scowl darkens his countenance.
What.
Almost beside himself with frustration, Shin-Il snaps out infuriatedly, “Damn you! How could you let the boy make a fool of the Alliance? Were you even paying attention? And what do you mean he’s not alone? Explain yourself!”
The other man barely suppresses a flinch, hands held aloft in the universal sign for ‘I don’t know.’
Kang-Sung’s sigh is heavy when he moves to rise, meeting the chief’s narrow-eyed, inquisitive gaze with determination. “I’ll find the boy, Danju-nim,” he promises.
A promise Shin-Il is more than happy to take to the bank, the elder inclining his head in acceptance.
(Because—if anyone has the skill to pull it off, it’s the Sammoonryong.)
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XXIV.
“Haha, do you really think Tsuna’s here?”
“That’s what the marshmallow-loving imbecile said.”
“Yeah, but can we trust him?”
“Of course not.” There’s a beat of silence, followed by a slow exhale as the two boys gaze up at Nine Dragons High School, taking in all the commotion with little interest save for the possibility that their missing sky may be at the heart of it. “But I refuse to live in a world where Tsuna doesn’t exist, so he must be here.”
A low, unrestrained chuckle pervades the solemn atmosphere. “Well then. Let’s go find him.”