Chapter 8: Problem (2)
The training grounds fell into a heavy silence.
Occasionally, the faint noise of other students practicing in the distance broke through, but it felt as if the world had stopped.
‘Her arm….’
I stared at Chun Seo-hee in shock, still processing what I had just witnessed.
“……”
She remained silent, her eyes fixed on the tips of her toes, her face a mix of frustration and bitterness.
I had to find a way to handle the situation—at least for now.
“…Alright. Next.”
I moved on, calling the next student, and continued the evaluations for a few more students.
But my thoughts were elsewhere. Distracted, I used orientation as an excuse to end the session early.
I needed time to think.
‘Her left arm, of all things….’
For a left-handed swordsman, an injured left arm was the same as losing an arm entirely.
It was even worse for someone who used a one-handed sword.
Forcing a left-handed fighter to use their right hand was like making someone write with their non-dominant hand—frustratingly difficult.
The fact that Chun Seo-hee insisted on using her left hand despite her condition showed how deeply ingrained her style was.
She hadn’t been able to adapt.
‘How did it happen? What caused the injury?’
Sitting in the office, I let out a deep sigh, trying to piece together the puzzle.
But knowing so little about her made it nearly impossible to imagine.
“Ms. Kim!”
“Yes, Mr. Han. Is something urgent?”
I went straight to Chun Seo-hee’s homeroom teacher, Ms. Kim.
If anyone knew her situation, it would be her.
“Ah… Seo-hee? Is something wrong?”
“Yes. I noticed earlier that her arm… it seemed injured. Do you know what happened?”
Ms. Kim sighed softly, a look of pity flashing across her face.
“She was seriously injured just before the entrance exam.”
“What? And her left arm, of all things?”
“I can’t share all the details, but… it seems she didn’t receive proper treatment after the injury, and now there are lingering aftereffects.”
“She wasn’t treated properly?”
At that moment, memories of Kim Yoo-bin came rushing back.
How she had lived with a painful scar on her hand after being injured by her abusive mother.
‘So this is why the goddess sent her to me.’
For the first time, I began to understand why the goddess had appeared to me.
Chun Seo-hee didn’t need overwhelming power right now.
She needed warmth. Help.
As I continued the remaining classes that day, I racked my brain for ways to help her naturally, without drawing attention.
‘They said she doesn’t have issues in her daily life.’
Fortunately, Chun Seo-hee’s injury didn’t completely prevent her from using her left arm.
As long as she avoided strenuous activities, she could manage just fine.
But her status as an Academy student made that impossible.
Training was a fundamental part of her life now.
‘She can’t just give up training entirely.’
Whether she liked it or not, Chun Seo-hee was destined to be a Hero.
As much as I wanted her to focus solely on recovery, I couldn’t let her neglect swordsmanship entirely.
Not unless she planned to find a highly capable partner and live a peaceful life.
But for a Hero, that wasn’t an option.
‘I need to help her strike a balance.’
*
Everyone welcomed lunchtime with enthusiasm.
“Mr. Han, aren’t you eating?”
“I’ve got a few things to take care of. You all go ahead.”
Declining the other teachers’ offer to join them for lunch, I sat alone in my office, staring at my phone with a grave expression.
I was deliberating on what kind of message to send to Chun Seo-hee .
‘How should I start the conversation?’
Though we had only met briefly, I now had a reason to contact her.
She had stood out during the earlier class, showing more promise than the other students.
Most modern-day so-called swordsmen tend to focus more on mana manipulation than actual swordsmanship.
For them, the sword is just a medium; the real power lies in mana.
That’s why I made the students practice swinging their swords earlier: to see if they were wielding the sword or just the mana.
As expected, none of them paid much attention to swordsmanship itself.
None, except for Chun Seo-hee.
She had real talent.
“Hmm….”
I typed, “You’ve got talent,” into a note, only to delete it a moment later.
It felt like I was writing to a crush—drafting and erasing messages over and over again.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
Knock, knock.
The door opened slightly, and a familiar face peeked in.
“Mr. Han Do-hyun, are you here?”
It was Choi Yeon-jung.
“What’s up? Something you need?”
“Nothing much. I was waiting for you at the cafeteria, but you never showed up.”
Confirming I was alone, she glanced around my office and stepped inside.
“Your office looks a lot like mine.”
At the Academy, most teachers were assigned individual offices.
As the instructor for 3rd-year Shooting Practice, she had her own space as well.
“What are you doing here, skipping lunch?”
“Sigh… It’s complicated.”
I put my phone down with a deep sigh and stretched.
Seeing this, she tilted her head and asked slyly:
“This is about her, isn’t it?”
“Huh?”
“Chun Seo-hee, I mean.”
“What—how did you know?”
“It’s obvious. That’s your ‘thinking about a girl’ face.”
How was she always so sharp?
Caught off guard, I stared at her in astonishment before deciding to take this opportunity to ask for her advice.
“I want to message her, but I’m not sure what to say. Any ideas?”
“Message her?”
“Yeah. I taught her class earlier today.”
I explained how Chun Seo-hee had struggled with her left arm during class, prompting me to investigate.
After learning about her injury and lingering aftereffects, I felt compelled to help but wasn’t sure how to approach her.
After hearing everything, Choi Yeon-jung gave me a peculiar look.
“Hmmm….”
She paused for a moment before speaking again.
“What do you want?”
“What do you mean?”
“What kind of relationship do you want with her?”
It was a simple question, one I didn’t have to think deeply about.
“Just… a teacher-student relationship?”
“Oh, is that all?”
Her tone made it clear she didn’t believe me.
“You’re not thinking of dating her, are you?”
“What!?”
I waved my hands in denial, flustered.
“What kind of nonsense is that? Why would I date her?”
Though, to be honest, her words struck a nerve.
“Then why not just keep it simple?”
“Simple?”
Crossing her arms, Choi Yeon-jung offered blunt advice in her usual candid tone:
“Tell her: ‘You’ve got talent. Your arm seems injured; I’d like to help.’”
It was one of the ideas I’d already considered.
“No, that’s too….”
“Too what?”
“Too… cold. Like there’s no warmth in it.”
I didn’t want a deep relationship with Chun Seo-hee.
I had morals, and there was no way I’d pursue someone the same age as my daughter.
I wasn’t about to give Na-gyeong a classmate for a stepmother.
But—
“Still, I don’t want to come across as too stiff. If I’m going to be around her for a while, it’d be better to have a more friendly relationship.”
I wanted to build a connection with her—nothing too formal, but not overly intimate either.
Just something a little softer, a little easier to navigate.
That’s all.
Really.
“…….”
Lunch with Choi Yeon-jung wasn’t as relaxing as one might hope.
Her presence was like a magnet, drawing the attention of students and faculty alike.
“You’re quite the celebrity, aren’t you?”
She shrugged casually, unbothered by the murmurs and glances.
“What can I say? It’s me.”
Her blasé attitude aside, eating with her meant scarfing down my food as quickly as possible to escape the growing attention.
Back in my office, we brainstormed ways to approach Chun Seo-hee naturally.
“How about you say you want to talk about swordsmanship?”
Choi Yeon-jung suggested the simplest, most straightforward approach.
As a teacher and student, discussing a class-related topic was a logical pretext to reach out.
“Not bad, but…”
Something about it didn’t sit well with me. It felt too impersonal, too businesslike.
“If it’s not business, then what is it?”
She gave me an exasperated look, and I scrambled to explain myself.
“Look, she has no family. She’s probably lonely. Wouldn’t it be good if she had at least one person she could lean on?”
It was a genuine thought. People learn best when their hearts are open.
But my reasoning didn’t seem to resonate with her. She gave me a sharp, disapproving stare.
“…Never mind, forget it.”
We ran through a few scenarios, even discussing what to do if she outright rejected my approach.
“Threaten her.”
“…Excuse me? What did you just say?”
Nonchalantly sipping her coffee, Choi Yeon-jung elaborated.
“You know, tell her there’ll be consequences if she doesn’t listen. That kind of thing.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
She grinned slyly but didn’t deny her unorthodox suggestion.
“You’re not serious, are you?”
“Who knows?”
“That’s a terrible idea. What would she think of me then?”
“A stalker.”
“…That was necessary for context!”
After much deliberation, we finally landed on a simple, neutral message:
[Hi, this is Han Do-hyun, your swordsmanship instructor. I’d like to discuss your performance in class. Would you be able to stop by after class or during lunch?]
It wasn’t flashy, but it was a safe starting point.
‘Relationships take time to build.’
Satisfied with our plan, I sent the message and began the nerve-wracking wait for a reply.
It reminded me of texting a crush for the first time, heart pounding as I stared at my phone.
But the hours passed, and there was no response.
That evening, as I anxiously checked my phone for the hundredth time, Na-gyeong interrupted my thoughts.
“Dad.”
“…”
“Dad?”
“Huh? What?”
“What are you so deep in thought about?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t thinking about anything.”
“Hmm… if you say so.”
Even as I reassured her, my mind raced with questions.
‘Why hasn’t she responded?’
It was a textbook case of being “left on read.”
‘I even made sure to include my name!’
I’d clearly identified myself in the message. Normally, a student would at least acknowledge a teacher’s message.
But Chun Seo-hee didn’t.
‘Should I just go find her?’
Struggling with frustration, I forced myself to be patient. Maybe she wasn’t responding because it was late.
‘She’ll reply tomorrow. Definitely.’
The next day, I barely slept as I headed to work, still waiting for her reply.
But instead of hearing from her directly, I was blindsided by a piece of news.
“She did what?”
“Seo-hee contacted us yesterday… She’s filed for withdrawal from the Academy.”
Chun Seo-hee had submitted her resignation.