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Chapter 2
Ich’eoeum stared blankly at the floating consultation log in the air.
‘Ah… I really don’t want to do this.’
It was psychology-related, and it came with the obligation to fill it out—no different from a college assignment.
But what could he do? If he didn’t write it, serious problems would arise.
Like a student forced to his desk for homework, Ich’eoeum wore a face full of death as he flipped through his Toledot.
The consultation log itself was closer to a quest, but there were clear benefits from completing it.
‘This is the only part worth it.’
Since he couldn’t just sit there in silence while claiming to “consult,” Ich’eoeum half-heartedly threw a question at Hayan.
“Besides insomnia, do you have any other issues?”
Hayan thought for a while before replying.
“Lately I have no appetite at all. Even at mealtimes, I don’t feel like eating. My tastes seem to have changed, and… well, nothing tastes right.”
Good. From here, it should flow naturally.
“You may be pregnant.”
“…I’m a man.”
“Don’t challenge the authority of my diagnosis. Next.”
“…W-Well, if I had to say, I’ve been feeling constantly hurt by people close to me. I know I’m being petty, but… it feels like I put in more effort than I get back, and it stings.”
“File a case with the Fair Trade Commission. Anything else?”
“….”
“No? Understood.”
That should be enough small talk to build rapport with the client. Maybe even too much.
“What was that just now? Were you actually talking to me?”
“….”
“C-Consultant?”
Ich’eoeum turned his gaze back to the Toledot.
[Opening list of assignable counseling effects for the client.]
Verbal consultation was nothing but smoke and mirrors. The real essence was this—Counseling Effects.
Beneficial effects granted to the client. In other words, buffs.
At the initial stage, the effects were weak, but…
For Hayan’s insomnia, this alone was more than enough.
[Assigning “Drowsiness” to Client Hayan.]
Tonight, even if a bomb went off outside his home, Hayan would sleep like the dead for eight full hours.
Ich’eoeum’s work was done.
“No major issues, it seems.”
He was about to wrap things up—barely five minutes into the session—when Hayan cleared his throat.
“Ahem. Counselor.”
“Yes.”
“How… how are you these days?”
So he wanted more conversation? Just how much rapport did he expect?
But as a counselor, when a client reached out, one had to accept.
“Do I look like I’m doing well?”
“…Excuse me?”
“I’m asking if my face looks radiant enough to warrant that question.”
Hayan froze at the gentle retort.
‘…Is he angry?’
To Hayan’s ears, it sounded like a fight was about to start.
‘Where did I go wrong? Should I have asked if he got his eyes transplanted from a dead fish again today instead?’
His timid heart wavered, but he quickly calmed himself.
‘Don’t misunderstand. The counselor isn’t in a bad mood… his personality is.’
After three weeks of sessions, Hayan had pieced together some understanding of Ich’eoeum.
‘That first impression really was the worst.’
And with that thought, his mind drifted back to their first meeting.
Three weeks earlier.
“Is this really okay…?”
In front of a modest teahouse, Hayan chewed on his lip as he fidgeted anxiously.
‘Still not sleeping?’
‘Uh… do I look that bad?’
‘You look like a tubercular poet from the 1800s.’
‘…’
‘Tch. You should try a counselor.’
That was how it began: a colleague, unable to watch Hayan waste away from insomnia, had recommended a counselor.
‘So he cures status conditions?’
Given a phone number under the vague title of counselor, Hayan eventually sent a message.
[Excuse me.]
[I was introduced by a friend who said you offer counseling. May I apply as well? I suffer from insomnia.]
[I’m not a weird person.][Counselor: Thu 2PM is available.]
[Huh?]
[Counselor: This Tuesday at 2PM, will that work?]
[…Yes.]
Reckless, yes. And the appointment was confirmed before he even realized it.
‘Damn it. I was half-asleep when I agreed.’
At that point, he was so desperate he’d have eaten dog shit if someone called it medicine.
But standing now at the promised spot, his rationality crept back.
‘What kind of idiot signs up for “psychological counseling” from a stranger?’
Even aside from the scams running rampant under the guise of therapy, no “talk session” could cure a post-catastrophe status ailment.
[I’m very sorry, but something’s come up. I’ll have to cancel—]
“Are you the one who applied for counseling?”
Shit. He’s here already!
“Y-Yes…!”
Hayan hastily erased his unsent excuse and looked up.
And then froze.
Because the man before him said:
“I’m Ich’eoeum, the counselor you contacted.”
And Hayan’s first thought was—
‘God, what a horrible face.’
It was rude, yes, but his appearance was the exact opposite of the kindly counselor image from media.
“Let’s go in.”
Without hesitation, Ich’eoeum walked inside. Hayan stumbled after.
The teahouse was empty, its lone employee barely sparing them a glance.
“I’ve rented the place. Counseling can’t exactly happen in public.”
Surprised by the level of preparation, Hayan thought—
‘I’ve come too far now. I’ll probably have to pay a cancellation fee.’
But when he tried to sit at a table—
“Not there.”
“Huh?”
Creak.
Ich’eoeum crossed to the back and opened a door marked “Staff Only.”
“Here.”
Inside was a cramped storage room, bursting with supplies and reeking of cheap air freshener.
‘No way. Don’t tell me this is the rented space…’
His denial shattered when his eyes caught a banner on the wall.
“WE CURE YOUR MIND DISEASES”
The kind of tacky cloth you’d expect at a back-alley shaman ritual.
Beside him, Ich’eoeum added casually:
“The teahouse gave me this room at a big discount. And counseling is about the process, not the place, so I didn’t mind.”
No. You should have minded.
Sitting in a sagging armchair, Ich’eoeum gestured.
“Let’s begin.”
His pale, sunken eyes fixed on Hayan.
“…Ha ha.”
Instinctively, Hayan reached back and grabbed the doorknob.
‘Run. He’s either a quack… or insane.’
But entering was one thing. Leaving was another.
“Would you like peppermint tea?”
“…Yes, sir.”
Caught trying to escape, Hayan found himself dragged back.
“Mm…”
As Ich’eoeum squatted to boil water in a cheap kettle, Hayan sat trembling.
Despite being only D-rank, Hayan possessed his own Toledot, which fluttered around him like a warning.
This was the cause of his insomnia.
Hayan was cursed.
Not long ago, he had been dragged into a “trial resolution” event in the US by his boss, despite lacking combat powers. Outfitted with protective gear, he thought he’d manage.
Until—
“A psychic calamity!”
Mental-type. The armor meant nothing.
The attack left him convulsing in a fit. The meds stopped it, but the curse remained.
The symptom was simple but horrific:
Every time he closed his eyes, negative memories replayed—endlessly, vividly.
“Huff… hhhff—!”
He simply could not sleep.
