To the Raid Team, CEO Lee Shin was an incredibly complex figure.
He was a benefactor who had discovered them when they were promising talents in the underground scene, yet from their very first meeting, he had thrown a shocking line right in their faces: “You are just tools.”
And yet, despite this, he sometimes gave them top-tier treatment—high salaries, item support—but otherwise, he was indifferent, barely speaking to them except for the monthly consultations.
By his actions, he seemed like a reckless twenty-something, yet when standing before those playful eyes, there was an inexplicable fear and intimidation.
In short, he was a complicated and uncomfortable presence, impossible to define in one word.
So when Lee Shin appeared suddenly, the entire Assault Team could only move their lips in surprise.
“Pleasure to meet you. From today, I’ll be helping you manage your condition and training.”
He had never once visited the training grounds, and the monthly consultation was all they ever had.
Now, all of a sudden, he showed up and declared he would help.
Their eyes darted around anxiously.
“What’s going on? What’s the matter?”
“Why is the CEO at the training ground? Do you know?”
“Me? I don’t. You?”
“Me neither.”
Amid the silent chorus of questions and unease, Lee Shin, as usual, paid no mind and continued speaking his mind.
“There’s no need to look for the team leader. Why do you think I, who is so busy, would come all this way? The team leader mentioned that you all seem to be falling into a rut lately.
I’ve also been paying close attention. Well, a drop in your record stats is understandable. You’re human; it happens around the latter part of the league. I understand it all.
Tada! That’s why I’m here. The Happy Virus of the Mir Guild, the Super Vitamin—I will be your vitamin.”
That was quite a talent in itself.
Even in a tense atmosphere, he could smile at his own pace, and that seemingly frivolous smile actually brightened the surroundings—perhaps the uniqueness of Lee Shin as a person.
Yet the Raid Team’s faces were noticeably stiff. They were slowly beginning to discern the intent hidden behind that innocent smile.
‘Is this it?’
‘This is obviously a dig.’
Though he spoke in a consistently cheerful tone, the summary of it was essentially: “You’ve been slacking off lately.”
And then Lee Shin’s words became clearer.
“Don’t feel pressured.”
: Feel pressured.
“I really won’t interfere~. Just train as you normally do.”
: Yes, I will interfere. Make sure your training is done properly.
“Anyone free afterward? Now that I think about it, I haven’t really hung out with you all. Shall we have a gathering after training? There’s a nice place these days.”
: Be honest. What do you all do after training? Club? Drink? I’m just curious.
By this point, the Raid Team realized the frightening truth: the reason Lee Shin had taken the trouble to come was to warn them about their recent decline in form.
Their expressions stiffened rapidly and their reaction made sense.
Training was entirely a personal domain, and the training grounds were their exclusive space.
Some guilds restrict access to anyone but hunters for a reason—it’s out of respect for the hunters and courtesy to the Raid Team.
Yet, not only had Lee Shin intruded without a word, he was now declaring he would intervene in their training while saying, “You’ve been slacking off lately.”
Which hunter could receive that pleasantly?
Even if their performance were poor, one could understand. If demotion were looming, they might grasp at straws.
But Mir Guild was currently ranked first, overwhelmingly dominant over all four League 4 guilds. So honestly, what kind of treatment was this?
No matter how they tried to understand, it was difficult to see positively.
Yet no one dared to voice their complaints.
“…Honestly, this is a bit uncomfortable.”
Flinch!
“…?!”
The support and training teams were startled.
“…!!”
The Raid Team was startled.
“…!!”
Even the person in question was startled. Why are you startled?
They weren’t supposed to voice complaints. Even if they existed, they shouldn’t.
There’s always someone more emotional than rational. When young, hot-blooded, and basking in early success, they can become unrestrained, as now.
The training ground went cold.
The piercing gazes of the team members turned to the one who had spoken, as if by agreement, and Lee Shin smiled brightly, unchanged.
“Ah~ I see. Yes, it must feel a bit uncomfortable. I suppose I was a bit thoughtless.”
“Team leader, would you step out briefly for a coffee?”
Lee Shin smiled as he drew a card, and the team leader hurriedly ran to take it with both hands.
Cold sweat poured so much that in that brief moment, his chin was soaked.
Once everyone left, only Lee Shin and the Raid Team remained in the spacious training ground.
Lee Shin walked to a nearby chair, sat backward, resting his chin on the backrest, and stared at the Assault Team.
He just stared without a word while smiling charmfully.
The uncomfortable silence, combined with the alluring smile, became almost grotesque, awakening deep emotions within the team: fear.
To the Raid Team, Lee Shin was just a lighthearted person who fulfilled their requests and gave generously.
Even in a physical confrontation, he wouldn’t be a threat.
So it was incomprehensible even to them, yet the fear they felt toward him now was undeniable.
They were fundamentally overwhelmed by Lee Shin’s presence.
“You all.”
“…”
“Answer.”
“’Yes!!’”
Lee Shin nodded, satisfied.
Not because he was pleased with their nodding, but because his ‘Dominance’ stat, diligently raised with his precious points, had done its job.
※ Name: Lee Shin (23 years old)
•
•
Dominance: 35(+600p)
Charm: 101(???)
•
•
Lee Shin pressed the air to close the status window and looked at them again.
Their slack faces, cold sweat, and some pale expressions.
Would they believe it? In truth, Lee Shin wasn’t particularly angry at them.
He spoke in a gentle, kind voice.
“There’s a word called ‘rookie.’ New (新), person (人)—it means a new person. The administration defines a rookie not by debut, but by completing a full season. Therefore—”
“Even a newly awakened hunter.”
Park Su-bin flinched.
“A hunter moving between the 5th league and final battles.”
Park Jung-seok closed his eyes.
“A hunter who has only filled in for five years.”
Lee Hye-jeong bit her lower lip.
“All of you who have never completed a full season are rookies. So problems like poor condition management are natural. It happens because you are rookies.”
This was why Lee Shin wasn’t particularly angry.
For him, rookie risks like condition issues were natural. To a former GM, these issues were a type of system, determined by input and output, not personal will.
So he had no grievance.
Therefore, neither should they.
“But before you were rookies, you are professionals.”
A professional proves themselves entirely through their own ability.
They are professionals and Lee Shin is the guild leader.
“I don’t care what you do. Even if you ignore the training coach’s advice to rest and go around swinging clubs or shake your hips, even if you drink with fans with your shoulders puffed up, I didn’t mind at all.
As long as you showed the form you could display like a professional.”
Moreover, he is the leader who can see the [status window], the only truth in this world.
If you can’t see it, you might overlook it, but you can see it—how clearly they are failing to demonstrate their abilities.
“As I’ve said before, to me, you are tools.
I don’t care that you’re first place. From the start, you were purchased as tools to aim not for League 4, but League 3 or higher. If you can’t chew through League 4, you’re defective.
I’m not lazy enough to tolerate defects.”
The owner doesn’t blame the tool.
They only return or replace it.
Lee Shin instills this firmly into those trembling before him.
“Do your best until the league ends. I know your best better than anyone. If you truly do your best, I promise: your value will be higher than anyone of the same level.
But if you don’t do your best, for example, if the record-breaking race breaks off…”
At that moment, the smile Lee Shin had worn the entire time disappeared.
“I think I’d be really angry then.”
Lee Shin’s crazed eyes swept across the room.
Startled, everyone shivered.
It was a gaze that seemed to look beyond them.
The warning was over. Lee Shin smiled brightly again and clapped his hands.
“Alright, conversation over. Let’s enter training with a cheerful mind.”
Shortly after, the training coach and assistants came in, and training began under Lee Shin’s guidance.
“Except for this course, let’s go through the new course I made.”
Now that I think about it, it made sense.
Lee Shin was also the one who trained Park Su-bin.
Moreover, this was not the only thing Lee Shin had prepared.
________________________________________
There can be many motivations that move humans.
Mentally, it might be the realization of a dream, self-satisfaction, completion of the self, personal beliefs—motivations that sound impressive just hearing them.
On the other hand, there were also those moved by more basic, somewhat crude motivations: good food, luxurious travel, attractive women or men, and so on.
Lee Hye-jeong was the latter.
Her motivation was ‘money.’
Money, cash, bills with Shin Saimdang or King Sejong.
She didn’t know when it started. From the moment she became aware of the world, she liked money.
If you asked why, nothing particular came to mind.
It wasn’t that her home was lacking—it wasn’t rich, but it wasn’t poor either—and it wasn’t that conflict drove her; the minor morning bathroom quarrels with her many sisters weren’t serious enough to explain it.
Since childhood, she understood the value of a monthly salary more than the idea that learning new words could change her spouse’s face, and found tracking annual income rankings more entertaining than spending time liking idols.
Her parents didn’t give her too little allowance, yet they scolded her for constantly talking about money.
It was simply instinct. A deeply ingrained instinct in her DNA.
Lee Hye-jeong wanted money.
She wanted to earn money through her own abilities, to pile it up like a mountain.
That’s why, despite her excellent grades, it was almost natural for Lee Hye-jeong to quit school upon awakening and decide to become a Hunter.
A Hunter is the ultimate in capitalism.
Last year, the minimum annual salary for a League 1 Hunter was a staggering 950 million KRW. This is the minimum salary for a Hunter included in a League 1 roster, not even a starter.
If she had the ability, she could raise her value to 10 billion, 20 billion, 100 billion—sky-high.
Even if she followed the ultra-elite path of studying to enter Korea University or the LeeDo Group, it was a realm unreachable by ordinary means.
Of course, behind such brilliant appearances, countless Hunters barely earned minimum wage, but young Lee Hye-jeong, already captivated by the fantasy, never saw it.
At 18, she quit the high school she was attending and jumped into the Hunter world, full of wealth and opportunity.
And then she failed miserably.
Five years of second-team life. It was called the second team, but it was essentially like being a trainee.
What tormented Lee Hye-jeong the most was that trainees, aside from food and expenses, were essentially unpaid. For someone obsessed with money, it was hellish.
Thus, Lee Hye-jeong was deeply grateful to Lee Shin, who rescued her from this unpaid hell.
Not only that, but although she didn’t show it, he had presented a new path—Poison—and even willingly funded it. Lee Hye-jeong thought Lee Shin might be a benefactor in her life.
But then.
“What did you say? For the deputy commander position…”
With no proper director or coach now, they were talking about the second-in-command of the raid team…
“You mean I have to fight him?”
Pointing in disbelief, Lee Hye-jeong saw Park Jeong-seok, making the same incredulous expression as her.
“Yes, the deputy commander position.”
Lee Shin smiled brightly and nodded.
Grateful? Yes.
Strange? Absolutely.
Lee Shin…he’s not normal.
