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Jinseong stepped out of the shop and entered the shade, closing his eyes.

“Om Sababababa Sudalsalva Dalma Sababababa Sudoham (ॐ स्वभाव सुद्भाः सर्व धर्माः स्वभाव सुद्धोऽहम्).”

As Jinseong closed his eyes, bright sparks of flame seeped out. The flames seemed to struggle desperately as a serpent attempted to escape from the devil’s mouth, but like something was sucking it into a bottomless pit, it quickly vanished.

In its place, fragmented sparks trickled from his closed eyes like tears, and the fragmented heat from Jinseong’s mouth as he chanted his invocation scattered in his breath, creating a thick white mist.

It resembled steam, and also bore a likeness to smoke.

As the invocation intensified in Jinseong’s eyes, they revealed a particular scene.

The first thing shown was the appearance of a liquor store announcing its closure.

It looked as if a tiny bug was gazing up at the shop from the ground.

“—-”

Jinseong let out some sound, as if assuring himself that it was now possible. It was a high-pitched noise, akin to the horrific sound made when a nail scrapes against a chalkboard. As this sound escaped, the crackling noise returned, and the darkness created by his eyelids covered his sight once again.

But like a CCTV feed, another scene emerged.

This time, it featured a liquor store with a shady-looking owner.

He was mixing cheap liquor with expensive vodka in the shop’s basement. With just one bottle of vodka passing through his hands, it transformed into four, suggesting he was undoubtedly an alchemist who had uncovered the “Golden Rule,” a legendary feat.

Surrounding those bottles were others filled with the seemingly genuine but ultimately cheap imitations mixed with whatever was unknown. If Viktor saw this, he’d surely unleash terrible retribution, exclaiming, “Even the bastards pilfering Soviet supplies didn’t pull this kind of shit with alcohol!”

As Jinseong quietly observed this from the perspective of the bug, he made another sound.

“—!”

However, this sound was somewhat different from before.

While the previous sound was merely sharp, this one had a rhythm to it.

Flap.

The bug moved as Jinseong had commanded with his invocation.

A bug that had been watching the shop owner from the corner of the basement fluttered its wings, soaring high, and as it flew into the alcohol spilled on the floor, it ignited with a loud pop, bursting into flames.

The vision plunged back into darkness, and Jinseong, his eyes now wide open, muttered.

“Life is like the words of the old man; as the fake liquor vanishes, the store ablaze and money lost may very well be a blessing.”

Jinseong mumbled as if he had bestowed mercy.

* * *

“There’s a fire.”

Viktor visited the liquor store to personally confirm the fake alcohol and incinerate it, only to find it engulfed in black smoke, billowing heavily.

The flames were quite fierce, likely burning the store to ashes; even if luck were on its side, it seemed it would at least suffer partial ruin. In such a dire situation, the thought of intervening to look for fake booze or dispense punishment didn’t sit well with him.

However, it was a fire at the home of the guy who committed the terrible crime of selling fake alcohol, so he had no desire to help. Thus, Viktor forgave the owner for selling fake liquor instead of taking him down, and although he could have extinguished the flames, he did nothing and turned away instead of calling the fire department.

“Oh, oh no!”

The mournful wails of the shopkeeper echoed from behind, but who cared?

With so many things to do, he didn’t want to save someone who had met divine punishment.

‘Divine punishment, divine punishment.’

As Viktor turned and walked away, something came to mind.

The image of Jinseong appeared.

And that idiot Nazi brat from Ukraine.

‘Hmm.’

Before knowing of Jinseong’s existence, Viktor had been moving under the impression that the perpetrator of the human sacrifice ritual was that Ukrainian Azov Brigade guy. He had asked his subordinates, who reported that they had conspired with Japanese shamans to pull some shit in Russia, which led to a plan for retaliation against Japan being pitched and approved.

‘Wait, was it indeed the Japanese who were the perpetrators?’

The one who thwarted Viktor’s sword energy was Jinseong, and the one who performed the ritual was the Irish guy.

Was there any reason for Ukraine and Japan to be involved?

He pondered for a moment.

And then he concluded.

‘Well, it’s none of my business.’

Either way, it didn’t concern him.

What if the one performing the ritual was Irish?

He could very well have received help from the Ukrainians and Japanese.

‘Given how grand the ritual location was, it looked like they spent a lot of money; that possibility is quite high.’

And then whatever….

Who cares.

* * *

Someone said.

The starlit sky sparkled but was soon cloaked in darkness by humankind.

Yet, this was merely due to people creating stars upon the earth with their own hands.

As mentioned, the sky of a civilized nation made it hard to find stars.

Obscured by thick, choking smoke, the light of the moon was dim, let alone stars.

What looked like stars were only artificial satellites.

Korea was the same.

The sky of Seoul was pitch black, with only the lonely moon hanging high.

The solitary moonlight emitted a chill as it shone, and even as the seasons changed repeatedly, it could only stand there in silence, compelled to change shape in response to its despair.

The stars that should have been beside it were rammed down to the ground as streetlights, and the lights that should have traveled around the earth with it had transformed into cellphone screens, the light spilling from buildings illuminated for late-night work, and the countless people moving in the night, all producing light through electricity.

It was lonely and truly lonely.

But someone says.

No matter how much you cover it with a curtain, the essence remains unchanged.

Even though darkness looms, if there is an eye capable of piercing it, you can see the truth.

And here stood someone capable of discerning that truth.

On the rooftop of a high-rise building in Mok-dong, Seoul, an old man sat in the lotus position.

He straightened his back, sitting in contemplation as he gazed up at the sky.

The hazy moonlight enveloped the heavens, revealing only darkness above.

Flowing clouds tinted the darkness, providing a sense of depth, while the lights of airplanes and helicopters wandering the midnight sky danced like fireflies. With his eyes, augmented from years of training, the warrior pierced through that darkness and captivating light to capture the essence beyond the veil.

In his gaze lay a sea of stars.

Stars formed clusters creating rivers, and scattered stars shone uniquely, forming shapes. He observed the constellations flowing through the sky and those lights dimming and brightening in a repetitive dance, manifesting their existence.

The old man, focusing on that trajectory, murmured.

“The heavenly qi is truly unwell.”

He gazed up, reading the future, his demeanor solemn like an ancient Taoist who comprehended the truths of the heavens or a prophet who could foresee the future, admiring the patterns shaped by the stars reflected in his eyes.

“The energy of the wood will only grow stronger; this is a truly terrible thing that Japan alone will benefit from. How could the fate of Korea drift into such peril, considering I have lived solely for patriotism?”

The old man muttered with a pained expression.

It resembled the look of a sage who had cultivated for a long time and realized the truth.

Yet beside him hung a sword, indicating that he was indeed a warrior, and the calloused hands and surprisingly toned muscles for his age suggested he had achieved a high level of mastery.

However, this serious atmosphere was soon shattered.

“Shut your damn mouth!”

The old hag who opened the rooftop door scolded the old man, unleashing a torrent of insults.

She berated him, who sat in lotus position looking serious.

“You old coot, without even knowing the meaning of the word ‘shaman,’ how dare you talk about the heavenly secrets?!”

“Oh! How dare you call me senile!”

At the hag’s barrage, the old man rose from his lotus position, yelling back.

“At my age, I’m supposed to be able to read the will of the heavens! Besides, as a warrior, I’ve trained my mind, and having diligently read the ‘Toteung Secret,’ I can read the heavenly secrets just fine!”

“Oh, you crazy old man. Instead of going off on all this nonsense, why not continue practicing your swordsmanship?”

“Speak of my latter years! How long can a warrior even expect to live before you call it my final years?”

“With that odd behavior, it certainly seems like your time’s up; that’s what ‘final years’ imply!”

Crack!

“Yah!”

The hag struck the old man’s back with a surge of energy.

“Old coot! You said you’d pass the company down to that brat, Lee Yang-hoon, and immerse yourself in the activities of the Hongik Patriotic Group! What in the world are you doing getting all obsessed with the weird stuff? Shamanism and heavenly secrets! Just go practice swordplay!”

The old hag kept nagging as she pushed him down the stairs.

“Really. And the other day, who was it? Lee Yang-hoon, right, that kid he lives with just entered adulthood? If he heard any of your nonsense, how embarrassed would I have felt? What would others think? That the old man finally lost his mind? That he handed his company over to that brat and became a backroom elder? They surely would think so, wouldn’t they? Oh, I can’t take it. How could this old coot be getting more childlike as he ages? What immaturity!”

As the two faded below, a picture of a sword stood tall behind them.

It bore the logo of Korea’s chaebol group, Ilgeom Group.

 

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