Professor Choi had been visibly overjoyed when he saw the match rate results. Word was that the entire Esper department held a spontaneous celebration.

I was assigned to the same team as Joo Seunghyuk for all future training sessions. In fact, even the mock battle rosters had been rearranged so that it was just the two of us in one team. My schedule was adjusted to match his training hours, and my shooting practice group was switched from Class A to Class C. That meant I wouldn’t be seeing Professor Oh this semester.

S-class Esper guiding was notoriously difficult.

Considering I had only just been discharged, Professor Choi worried it might be too much for me to handle Seunghyuk alone. He thoughtfully suggested that I refrain from guiding anyone else for the time being.

A kind gesture—completely unwanted.

Just like that, I’d become Joo Seunghyuk’s personal guide.

The more I tried to distance myself from him, the more tightly we were bound together.

Where the hell was this story going...?

The future looked grim—but right now, someone else was weighing more heavily on my mind.

***

I headed to the Korean Esper Hospital, run by the government.

Contrary to what Seunghyuk had said, Kim Jun was still hospitalized.

Aside from briefly returning to campus for the match rate test, he’d remained at the hospital the entire time.

“Room 902, right...”

Because the incident had occurred at the academy, they’d assigned him to a VIP room on the ninth floor.

But that was just an excuse.

The moment the details of this event leaked, the press would have a field day.

Guiding rejection was a rare, unpredictable accident—but once you attached the words “S-class Esper” and “F-rank Guide” to it, the narrative changed. No journalist would let a juicy story like that slide.

They’d twist it, sensationalize it, tear it apart. That’s why they’d stashed Kim Jun away in a VIP room.

To reach the ninth floor, I had to pass an ID check and take a private elevator. Even after arriving, another identity verification was required. That was the protocol.

But as an S-class Guide, I was waved through without even being asked for ID.

Was that... really okay?

Either way, I arrived at Room 902 without any issues.

There was a private call bell by the door. I pressed it, but got no response.

Maybe he was asleep?

Just in case, I knocked lightly. A voice came from inside the room.

“...Who is it?”

“Junie?”

The voice was so low and unfamiliar that I instinctively asked again in surprise.

“Yeonsu-sunbae?”

There was a shocked exclamation, and the door burst open.

“Sunbae!”

“Jun-ah.”

“Sunbae, are you okay?!”

He immediately checked me over, clearly panicked.

“Yeah. As you can see, I’m fine.”

“Thank god... thank god...”

His knees buckled slightly as if his legs had given out. Alarmed, I rushed to support him.

“Jun-ah, you’re the one who should be resting. Are you all right?”

“Yes...”

“Let’s go inside first.”

“Okay, Sunbae.”

I tried to support him, but Kim Jun was tall and sturdier than most Guides—it wasn’t easy. Still, I took his arm and moved slowly, but Jun gently shook his head.

“I’m okay. I can walk on my own.”

“But still—”

“When did you wake up, Sunbae?”

“It’s been a few days.”

“And they already discharged you?”

“Yeah. I just collapsed from mana depletion. All the tests came back normal. I’m feeling fine now.”

“...Thank goodness.”

A tear slipped from Kim Jun’s eye.

“Jun-ah...”

“I was so scared something had happened to you because of me...”

I hugged him as he trembled.

He must’ve been holding all that guilt and fear in the whole time. I assumed he’d already seen the news about my discharge—but maybe not?

Ah, right. Kim Jun doesn’t use the internet...

The original novel mentioned that.

When news of an F-rank Guide entering the academy broke out, the internet exploded with hate comments. Kim Jun was so traumatized by that experience that he stopped going online altogether.

He was probably still like that now.

I understood. I had my own share of scars from reading comments as a kid. These days, even if I read an article, I forced myself not to scroll down. It didn’t matter if there were 100 compliments and just one insult—that one would ruin my entire day.

Sometimes, I still vividly remembered hate comments I read in middle school.

“Man, I envy the Esper who’ll get to screw that one,” someone had written in a way a hundred times more vulgar.

Even if he didn’t go online, he could’ve watched TV. I glanced at the large wall-mounted TV in the VIP room.

“...It was on the news. Didn’t you see it?”

“I was too scared... I asked the security staff and the academy to let me know if you woke up, but...”

So no one had told him? Even though he was suffering this much? I knew everyone was probably busy, but it still felt... heartless.

They must’ve dismissed him because he was an F-rank.

“I see... everyone must’ve been swamped.”

“Sunbae... I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault...”

“How is this your fault? It was an accident—just bad luck. Esper guiding rejection is unpredictable and it happens sometimes.”

“No. It is my fault. The moment I started the guiding, I felt my mana bounce off. I should’ve stopped immediately, but I panicked and tried to force it through. Because of my mistake, both of you were in danger.”

“It was your first time. No one gets it right on the first try. Mistakes are normal.”

Yes, it was true that Kim Jun had made a rookie mistake.

But he had no prior experience.

Most Espers and Guides, once awakened, either signed contracts with companies or joined guilds and received tailored training from a young age. At the very least, they’d attend a specialized school or enroll in a special track for ability users.

That’s why first-years at the Esper Academy were allowed to participate in mock training from their very first semester—it was assumed they already had the basics down from high school.

But Kim Jun was an F-rank. To even qualify for special programs, you needed to be at least a D-rank.

Sure, private academies run by companies or guilds existed, but they weren’t cheap. Unless you came from a well-off family, F-ranks had no access to training—even if they wanted it.

Jun had awakened late, and his family wasn’t financially secure. Even if he wanted to practice, he simply couldn’t.

So of course his skills were lacking. But that didn’t mean I felt like blaming him.

“Jun-ah, it’s not your fault. You don’t need to beat yourself up.”

I gently rubbed his back.

As my hand moved in slow circles, his shoulders started to shake again. Then he broke into full-on sobs.

By the time he calmed down a bit, I handed him a tissue from the nightstand beside the bed.

That’s when he suddenly paused.

“Sunbae... your hand...”

His gaze was fixed on the scar on my palm. I gave a small laugh.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”

“I’m sorry...”

He bit his lip hard. He’d only just calmed down—if I let this go on, he might start crying again. I quickly changed the subject.

“Forget about me. You’re still in recovery. How are you feeling?”

“...It doesn’t hurt. I’m not here because I’m in pain.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just... running away. Because I’m scared.”

His voice was low and steady. He’d stopped crying.

“I ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) was confident, you know? Even though I was F-rank, I thought I was special because my match rate was high. I even looked down on the high-ranking Guides who acted like they were so much better.”

It was a bit surprising to hear such a candid confession. In The Guide’s Abyss, Kim Jun was portrayed as the epitome of kindness and perseverance. The idea that he harbored contempt for others never even came up.

But this honesty didn’t make me think less of him. If anything, it felt more real.

“But I was wrong. I’m ashamed. Pathetic. I’m too embarrassed to go back there.”

This was the same Kim Jun who withstood all kinds of bullying without flinching. But this incident must’ve broken something in him.

Was it a mistake to pair those two together?

If I apologized now, he might take it to mean that F-rank Guides really are unfit for S-class Espers...

“Jun-ah, I’ll say it again—it was an accident. Just bad luck.”

“...Actually, I didn’t faint that day. I saw everything. I saw you guiding him. I wanted to help, but I couldn’t move. I just... froze. I’m trash. Someone like me shouldn’t have come here.”

I took his hand and held it tightly.

“Jun-ah, I was like that too when I started. Everyone had high hopes for me because I was S-class, but I didn’t know anything. I made mistake after mistake.”

“That’s different. You’re on a whole other level, Sunbae.”

“It’s not. I was just lucky. I awakened as S-class and got the chance to build up experience. That’s it. You and I—we’re not that different. And school is for learning. Making mistakes doesn’t mean you don’t belong here.”

“...But still—”

“I want to keep seeing you at school.”

“You... really mean that?”

“Yeah.”

That was the truth. Forget the original plot or the designated uke—I didn’t want to see a hardworking junior give up his dreams over something like this.

“You’re really... forgiving me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. If you’re feeling better, come back to school. Let’s go together.”

“Okay. I will... Thank you. Thank you so much, Sunbae.”

Kim Jun nodded, tears falling anew.

And I, the guide who had only just begun walking his path, gently embraced the junior who still had so far to go.