And Jurim tilted his head slightly as he read the comments on the mom-café.
“Is it really that important whether it’s ‘dad’ or ‘guardian’?”
Wasn’t the quality of the caregiving environment what truly mattered, family or not?
He didn’t think it was a bad upbringing. He’d hired four separate sitters just to ensure Guru was properly cared for. It was an environment where he could give her everything she asked for, and his relationship with the child wasn’t bad either.
As he read the comments, Jurim rhythmically tapped the back of his phone with his index finger.
The orphanage director had told him it might take Guru some time to accept him as family, but Jurim didn’t particularly want ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) that in the first place.
A relationship that wouldn’t hurt her, a home that was safe and comfortable, an environment that could fulfill her wants—wasn’t that enough?
Whether it was mom, dad, guardian, or Guildmastuh...
With a slightly displeased look, he began typing on the keyboard.
Meanwhile, Park Mirim sat all the way in the back on purpose, quietly stealing glances at Jurim as she waited for the right moment.
Now she understood why they’d avoided private contact.
S-Rank. Not just any S-Rank, but the highest-ranking Number One—what good would it do for someone like him to go back and forth with a random kindergartner’s mom (who was extremely low-ranked even among regular civilians)?
It felt like a lion didn’t bother receiving apologies from an ant.
“Harry... of all people, did the classmate you bullied really have to be On Jurim’s daughter? Were there truly no other options? Like, maybe just being friends or something...”
Even if she wasn’t On Jurim’s daughter, she had hoped they’d build that kind of relationship. But what had happened had already happened—it was water under the bridge.
Just as she kept watching for her chance to speak, Mirim caught sight of the phone in Jurim’s hand.
“Huh?”
The café on Jurim’s screen looked oddly familiar.
“Why though?”
She narrowed her eyes and craned her neck to see better.
Then the screen scrolled all the way down. Right above the comment box, she saw the username “Dooguru.”
Not long after Jurim began typing, a notification popped up on Mirim’s phone saying that a comment had just been posted by “Dooguru.”
[Dooguru: Is that really so important? It’s just a title.]
“Ah... because the child’s name is Hanguru, so it’s Dooguru...”
Mirim chuckled briefly at the unexpectedly cute username—then bit her lip.
“I’m screwed. Fuck.”
The person she’d publicly scolded on the local mom-café under the nickname “OnJurim” had actually been On Jurim.
While Harry’s mom and Guru’s guardian both fell deeper into their spirals of concern, the recital was beginning.
Jurim watched the children’s presentations without much reaction.
Some kids stumbled over their words or forgot what to say and stood there with their mouths clamped shut, unsure of what to do. But whenever they were cheered on and given time, they would eventually gather the confidence to finish their part.
"Guildmastuh doesn't know about pwesentations 'cause he didn't go to pwe-schoow."
As Guru’s words popped into his head, a quiet breathy laugh slipped from Jurim’s lips.
He had no idea why she thought that, but seeing the preschool recital in person, he could now understand what kind of mood she had said it in.
His father’s words had always been hesitant, scattered, a total mess—just like a preschool recital.
But in that clumsy desperation, Jurim had heard the truth.
A truth he might never have learned if not for Guru.
The disappointment and resentment he felt toward his father had festered for a very long time—too long to be washed away all at once.
If it hadn’t been for that moment with Guru and his father in front of Gu Shinhoo—no, if it hadn’t been for the carnivorous preschooler’s demand for meat—their relationship might have simply drifted past, truth or not.
But because he’d heard something heartfelt from his father, and because they shared a meal...
He could feel it now—things were changing. Life with a child was a constant stream of change and realization.
“I’m Soyeong from the Chick Class! I will pwesent Mommy Bunny and Daddy Tortoise!”
Each kid had a different theme.
Some talked about animals, some about their families. Dinosaurs were especially popular among the children.
And despite the chaotic, disorganized nature of these four-year-olds’ presentations, the parents cheered and clapped for every single one.
“You did amazing, our Soyeong!”
Every time that happened, Guru would turn around to look.
Then she would glare at Jurim, who was resting his chin in his hand like he was bored.
That would make Jurim clap, trying to read Guru’s mood. Guru would give a small nod like a drill instructor praising a rookie.
With radiant grins and polite bows, the kids returned to their seats amid thunderous applause.
Then, flapping a sheet of paper in her hand, Guru clumsily made her way to the front.
She always gave herself away when she was nervous. Jurim, still resting his chin in his hand, smiled faintly.
“Oh wow, what a pretty little one.”
“She’s adorable. Like a baby chick.”
Judging from the audible coos of “so cute” among the gathered parents, it wasn’t just him who thought she was cute.
Given how popular dinosaurs were at this event, he figured Guru might talk about some kind of “saurus” creature too.
Because she loves hybrids.
Or maybe she’d brag about her [Hunter License], or talk about the egg from the fridge she carried around like treasure, or maybe that morning drama she’d recently gotten obsessed with—all those shows with Chairman after Chairman in them.
Jurim thought of all the little stories that made up Guru’s daily life. Without realizing it, he’d come to know so much about her.
But the topic that came out of Guru’s mouth was something he never expected.
“Da one who’s waizing me is da Guildmastuh of Hyeonak.”
The entire Chick Class turned to look at On Jurim.
Caught off guard, Jurim dropped his hand from his chin and sat up straight.
Now it made sense. That talkative, chirping little bird had been secretive about what she wrote.
“Da Guildmastuh of Hyeonak is vewy handsome and so coow. He’s stwong-stwong and scawy monstews wun away just wookin’ at him.”
In his whole life—literally, his entire life—On Jurim had never felt this aware of people’s stares.
Even under the global spotlight, he’d been unshaken. People used to joke that only his mouth came back alive. That’s how unfazed he was.
And yet here he was, nervous at a damn preschool recital.
Where was she going with this?
“Da most amazin’ fing about da Guildmastuh is dat he went up da scawy Tower.”
Of all topics... Jurim rubbed his face with one hand, trying not to let his tension show.
Whenever the Tower came up, he became the villain.
He could shrug off other people’s criticism, but what the child might say—or how others might look at her because of it—scared him.
“Da Guildmastuh used all his might to save so many people.”
Jurim lowered his eyes.
Truthfully, he’d never had some grand vision of saving the world.
“Come on. Let’s go together. It’ll mean something to you too, Jurim.”
His older brother had said that, and in the middle of a dull, stagnant life, it had just become a new goal—something to stave off boredom.
Meaning? Whatever.
The satisfaction he felt clearing each floor, the desperate struggle to survive—if that counted as meaning, then maybe there was some.
But that was it. If anything, the Tower had branded him with the shame of his first major failure.
He hadn’t even reached the top. He’d abandoned his family and returned alone—a first-generation survivor.
That label was no badge of honor.
Jurim’s return came with just as much blame and resentment as it did praise.
“If you'd tried a little harder, couldn’t you have brought back at least one or two others?”
“Were there truly no other choices that could’ve saved more lives?”
Maybe they were right. Even now, he couldn’t say with certainty that he’d done his absolute best.
“Maybe so. But is that question meaningful now?”
The moment he said that to reporters, all the “savior of humanity” hype faded without warning. Five years later, his name only surfaced during boring ceremonial events.
What he realized, watching people react after descending the Tower, was that no one remembered the struggle. Not really.
It was only when the goal was achieved that anyone paid attention. That attention baffled him.
Was this the “meaning” his brother had talked about? The praise and grief people attach to success?
His father had seemed worried about a son who wasn’t spoken of only in positive terms, but Jurim couldn’t have cared less.
He was the only first-generation survivor. Now, no one could harm him. Not the Tower. Not his brother. They were both mirages now.
His sorrow belonged to him alone. He had no interest in staging a weepy spectacle to meet anyone else's expectations.
So whether it was praise or blame, Jurim no longer attached meaning to his time in the Tower.
Until now—
“I fink da Guildmastuh is da most pwoudest in da whoooole wide wowld.”
—If you feel proud of me, then maybe it wasn’t meaningless after all.
Praise from others, awards, political clout—they meant nothing. But when a child says it?
Only then does it feel like he truly accomplished something.

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