1. Balloon

Chapter 1

“How about getting an ability test?”

At the doctor’s words, Hee-beom frowned.

“What kind of test?”

“An ability test. In other words, an Esper and Guide assessment.”

“….”

It wasn’t that he didn’t know what an ability was. He asked because it sounded ridiculous. A mix of confusion and reluctance flickered in Hee-beom’s eyes.

“Your current symptoms resemble those that appear when an ability user awakens.”

“….”

But Hee-beom couldn’t agree with the doctor. He didn’t think he had any real symptoms.

A slight fever, muscle pain, and headaches—those were all he had. Nothing severe. These were common symptoms that anyone living in modern society would experience at least once.

He just happened to collapse on the street and ended up in the hospital. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have even bothered taking medicine, let alone visiting a doctor.

The semester had just started, his tutoring sessions had increased, and he had taken on more part-time hours. He had simply been exhausted.

But an ability test?

“I’m twenty-four. Don’t ability users awaken in their teens?”

“Usually, yes. But some people awaken as early as infancy, while others awaken as late as old age.”

“….”

“We’ve already taken a blood sample. If you just sign this consent form, we can proceed with the test.”

The doctor pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer and handed it over. It was a simple, single-page document.

[Ability Test Consent Form]

Hee-beom’s eyes slowly traced the printed text on the form. There were brief instructions and precautions, followed by blank fields at the bottom—spaces for name, age, phone number, social security number, and address.

The doctor placed a pen on top of the form. But Hee-beom didn’t pick it up. Instead, he looked at the doctor and asked,

“Do I have to do this?”

“You don’t want to? The ability test? Why not?”

The doctor looked surprised. Understandably so—Espers and Guides were highly sought-after professions. It wasn’t something one could become just by wanting it, and if someone was lucky enough to be classified at a high rank, they could make an enormous amount of money.

“….”

Hee-beom didn’t answer. The question why left him with a response too distant, too long, and too repulsive to put into words.

“It’s a great opportunity… and the test doesn’t cost anything. The government covers it. Just give it a try.”

The doctor’s voice rose slightly, an unmistakable note of excitement creeping in.

“…….”

Hee-beom glanced at the side of the desk. Three picture frames were neatly arranged there, all containing photos of the same person.

Because of the direct sunlight hitting them, the details of the person’s face were difficult to make out. But they had an unusually pale complexion. Below each photo, there was a name followed by the word Esper, though Hee-beom didn’t bother reading it. He simply assumed the doctor was a fan of some famous Esper.

“You’re really not going to take the test? The thing is… there’s a mandatory reporting requirement. If you don’t consent, it’ll be quite a hassle for us…”

Hee-beom instinctively knew—it wouldn’t be easy to leave the doctor’s office with just a refusal.

He wanted nothing to do with abilities or anything related to them.

He really didn’t.

But right now, Hee-beom was utterly exhausted. His headache was so severe it felt like his eyeballs might pop out. The only thing on his mind was going home and sleeping.

“….”

Letting out a quiet sigh through his nose, Hee-beom picked up the pen and began filling out the consent form.

And a few days later, a text message arrived.

[Hello, Mr. Joo Hee-beom. This is the Korea Ability Association.
As of March 8, 2025, you have been classified as a Guide.
Please visit the association as soon as possible to confirm your rank.
For directions, please check our website: Korea.ESP.association.co.kr]

Buses in Seoul were always packed in the late afternoon, no matter which route you took. The one Hee-beom boarded was no exception.

Climbing onto the bus, he folded his large frame as best he could and squeezed his way to the back. Instead of grabbing one of the hanging straps, he gripped the metal pole attached to them and let out a silent sigh.

As Hee-beom absentmindedly gazed out the window at the passing scenery, he reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out his phone.

The moment he lit up the screen, a flood of notifications popped up. It was unusual enough to make him frown slightly.

[8 missed calls]
[2 new emails]
[6 new messages]

“…….”

Hee-beom tapped on the missed calls first.

A series of red-highlighted numbers filled the screen. All from the same unknown number.

After a brief hesitation, he exited the call log and switched to the messaging app. It could have been one of his tutoring students or a parent trying to contact him. But when he checked the messages, the sender was the same as the missed calls.

[Hello, Mr. Joo Hee-beom. This is Director Jang Junho from the Korea Ability Association. Please respond so we can schedule your visit.]
[Hello, Mr. Joo Hee-beom. When would be a good time for you to talk?]
[Hello, Mr. Joo Hee-beom. This is Director Jang Junho from the Korea Ability Association. We haven’t been able to reach you…]

Hee-beom’s lips curled slightly in dissatisfaction.

Was this real? Or just another scam?

Not that it mattered—he had no intention of responding either way.

As he stared at the screen, lost in thought, his phone suddenly went black.

A second later, the call screen popped up.

Director Jang Junho was calling.

“….”

After debating whether to answer, Hee-beom let out a sigh and swiped the green icon.

“Hello.”

— …….

“Hello?”

— Ah, finally! I’ve been trying to reach you. Hello, Mr. Joo Hee-beom. This is Director Jang Junho from the Korea Ability Association.

“Yes.”

— You awakened as a Guide last week, correct? That’s why I’m calling.

“Yes.”

— Did you receive my messages?

“Yes.”

— …….

The other end of the line fell silent.

He was probably thrown off by Hee-beom’s indifferent responses.

Hee-beom made no effort to break the silence. All he wanted was to end this annoying call as soon as possible.

He didn’t care how the other person saw him—antisocial, rude, whatever. None of it was wrong, and he had no intention of denying it.

— We’d like you to visit the association. You need to receive your Guide ranking.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have time.”

— Oh… you can come on the weekend as well.

“I don’t have time on the weekends either.”

It wasn’t just an excuse. His weekends were fully booked, too.

At that moment, the bus made a wide left turn.

The veins on the back of Hee-beom’s hand bulged as he tightened his grip on the pole.

The people packed around him swayed sharply in one direction, pressing into him before shifting away again.

Hee-beom let out a tired sigh when—

— Because of your part-time job? Wow, you must be busy.

“…….”

His brow furrowed.

How did the Korea Ability Association know he had a part-time job?

Had they looked into him?

Why?

He was just an unremarkable college student.

— If you come in, we’ll cover your round-trip transportation costs, plus a 300,000 won stipend for your time. Even if you take a taxi, we’ll reimburse—

“I’m not interested in being a Guide. I’ll be hanging up now.”

— No, Mr. Joo Hee-beom! Wait, Mr. Joo—!

Without hesitation, Hee-beom ended the call.

By then, the bus was nearing a stop.

“Excuse me, getting off. Sorry, just a moment.”

He repeated the words in a flat tone as he maneuvered his way through the crowd and stepped off the bus.

The moment his foot touched the pavement, his phone lit up again.

Director Jang’s number appeared on the screen.

Hee-beom didn’t answer.

 

TL/N: The phrase “A Handspan Above the Ground” conveys a symbolic or metaphorical meaning. “A Handspan” (한 뼘) represents a small, measurable distance—the span of a hand when fully stretched. It’s a modest, close measure, implying something within easy reach, but not quite attained.

“Above the Ground” (바닥에서) implies something just above, or slightly elevated from, the base or foundation.

Together, “A Handspan Above the Ground” could symbolize something that is close but not yet reached—like a goal, a dream, or a state of being that is within one’s grasp, but still slightly out of reach.