Chick 199
by Cristae199
The thought of becoming a tree-person again brought tears to Guru’s eyes.
‘Guru wants to stay human just a little longer…!’
If he turned into a tree-person, his skin might become hard as bark, and leaves could sprout thickly from his head.
What if, then, even Papa couldn’t recognize him anymore?
“…?”
Joorim, hunched in front of the flowerpot, distressed as if he were bearing the weight of the world, narrowed his eyes at Guru, who approached with a sad gaze.
“What is it?”
“What if Papa doesn’t recognize Guru…”
“What?”
Guru shook his head forlornly.
“But I have to…”
“Have to what?”
“Papa, you mustn’t forget Guru…”
“All of a sudden?”
Leaving the bewildered Joorim behind, Guru went into his room and closed the door.
“…?”
Nearly a month passed in worry and anxious thoughts.
Then, one day, a letter was tucked into the sign at Guru’s potato field.
To my dear ‘On Guru.’
I write to ask how you are doing.
It’s been lively around you lately—are you well?
It was only after our lunch in the potato field that I realized we’d never properly introduced ourselves.
So I looked into you a bit. If that troubled you, I apologize.
I had hoped to offer my apology along with a lovely dinner, but I’ll have to leave Korea for a while, so that won’t be possible just yet.
Therefore, I’ve prepared a small gift.
Simply write your name on the documents I’ve sent and the transfer will be complete; don’t trouble yourself over complicated procedures.
I hope it will be of some help, however small.
Ah, and I’ve recently begun learning Korean.
It’s not so difficult a language, which is a relief.
Hopefully, by our next meeting, we’ll be able to converse in Korean…
Until then.
Your potato friend, Raiji 🙂
“Potato friend Raiji…”
It was that Interpol foreign uncle!
Crouched before the kindergarten potato field sign, reading the letter, Guru’s eyes sparkled.
“Senmoool, senmoool.”
The gift was an envelope of documents.
Guru took out the bundle of papers and saw a post-it marking where to sign.
On the post-it, in neat handwriting, was written, “⭐Write your name here⭐.”
‘Oh.’
Raiji had said he’d just started learning Korean…
‘Did someone else write this for him?’
Puzzled, Guru set the papers down on the dirt, took out his pencil case from his bag, and some tinyping pencils tumbled out of a cute bear-shaped case.
Guru grabbed a pink pencil, lay down on his stomach, and carefully wrote out his name.
“On… Gu… Ru…”
Unaware that someone was watching.
The man who watched the child sprawled on the ground, writing his name, sent a message to Raiji that the documents had been safely delivered.
Now, the child would receive a 48% share of SSPED and become its major shareholder.
For SSPED’s founder, Amakusa Raiji, that was his “gift.”
Outwardly, it was a token of apology to the child, but in truth, Amakusa Kazuki’s situation had played a major part.
The Korean government was weighing accepting Amakusa Kazuki’s naturalization, together with possible export restrictions on SSPED.
With management rights for SSPED landing securely in Korean hands, Korea would have no trouble accepting Kazuki.
It was just that, thanks to Raiji’s wicked sense of humor, an enormous thing had landed in the hands of a five-year-old child.
He smiled faintly.
The child, having pressed his name carefully onto the paper, stood, letting the document flutter in his hands.
He put the letter away safely in his bag, waved the paper like a flag, and dashed to hug his sitter.
When the sitter saw the document, she read it once, twice, over and over, hardly able to believe her eyes.
Then, she began to make a call somewhere.
“Mr. Guru’s father, Guru just received what I think is a transfer document. Yes. No, I don’t think it’s a toy bank thing…! Yes, yes, I think you should see it for yourself.”
She even thumped her own chest in frustration at being doubted.
Meanwhile, the child, puzzled, spun in circles around her.
Han Roun watched the child’s adorable antics for a while, then turned away.
After receiving the letter and signing the document.
Led by his sitter, Guru went straight to his grandfather’s house, mouth gaping.
“Roof kitty?”
Grandpa kept on saying something over and over, so Guru became the “roof kitty,” apparently.
Grandfather On Suhyeong, amused and proud of his granddaughter’s creative interpretation of “share transfer,” simply nodded.
“Yes, that’s right.”
Oh, I see!
“Guru is a kitty?!”
“Yes, yes.”
So I’ve become a cat on the roof.
But—what does that mean?
Wide-eyed, Guru stuffed the document back into his bag.
“What’s wrong?”
“Guru doesn’t need a kitty.”
Rolling his eyes the other way, Guru then pretended, as if he understood everything, to say, “Guru doesn’t have to be a kitty…”
He still preferred Gudetama for now.
“Hmm, that’s fine, too. Then let Grandfather handle it.”
On Suhyeong patted Guru’s back.
To think those wretched Japanese would try to stand in the way of our children’s future—he’d already set things in motion to deal with them.
Whoever the potato friend was, it might have been a prank, but it ended up being a great help.
From Joorim’s reaction, it seemed someone he knew…
Just as he was about to contact the SSPED response team, Guru whispered softly.
“Grandpa, where’s Papa? Where did he go?”
“…….”
Guru looked at the watch on his wrist.
Already 9pm.
Normally by this time Papa would have put Guru to bed, but as soon as he received the letter, Joorim had frozen, handed Guru to his grandfather, and left.
‘Couldn’t blame him…’
After a moment’s silence, Grandpa gently stroked Guru’s hair with his large hand.
“He’ll be back soon. Shall Grandpa tuck you in tonight?”
“Yes!”
“All right. Let’s pick a book to read together.”
“Yay!”
Joorim, sitting on the edge of a building rooftop, folded the letter.
He shut his eyes tight, and his power surged; for a moment, the city went dark in a blackout.
Flicker, flicker.
City lights blinked on and off all at once.
With a deep breath, Joorim reopened his eyes, the rooftop now a field of snow.
He looked back.
As always, the master of the 99th floor sat on a chair, listless, pointing at him with a finger.
—Danger. Guru.
“I know.”
He knew. It was a warning about Joorim himself, struggling to control his power.
That, in fact, was why he’d stepped outside—he didn’t want Guru to see him as a danger.
Joorim unfolded the letter again.
He gazed again and again at the handwriting promising to transfer shares from Amakusa Raiji.
It was unmistakably On Ijo’s handwriting.
His jaw clenched.
Where was Amakusa Raiji?
Joorim knew more about Amakusa Raiji than most.
He wasn’t the type to harm a child, nor was he two-faced. In fact, he likely felt no need for such duplicity.
Yet now, Amakusa Raiji called his daughter a friend, toying with him using On Ijo’s handwriting.
Joorim immediately began tracking Raiji’s movements after he’d left Korea, but no matter how deeply he searched, there was no trace after the airport.
His gaze darkened.
He felt as though his throat were tightening.
No way to know. Would he feel better if he found and shredded Raiji to pieces?
Or… Ha, Joorim sighed in exasperation.
The letter crumbled to dust in his hand.
Once more, Seoul went dark in a blackout.
For the briefest moment, the night city was engulfed in complete darkness, then flickered to life again.
Chasing the dead was always a repugnant affair.
Joorim drew a deep breath, trying to master his power.
His icy anger refused to subside.
Bzzzz—
Just then, his pocket vibrated.