TFN C21

Chapter 21

Fortunately, Cheongmun seemed to grasp Wonhyo’s clumsy explanation at once and turned his head toward the door.

“Do you still sense it now? The ghostly energy.”

Wonhyo shook his head.

“Not like before.”

The system was quiet. Still, his senses told him that the energy that had troubled him was nearby.

When defilement is present, the tip of the nose prickles.

After a moment’s thought, Cheongmun pushed his glasses up with a gloved finger—when had he put them back on?

“Could you find out why? Compensation will be provided.”

At the promise to pay, Wonhyo blinked.

In principle, anyone who borrows divine power should pay, but a “what if” snagged his mind.

If an emergency arose before climbing the Tower, there might be times he would need help from Cheongmun.

If the quest didn’t end in one go, he might have to climb more than once, and it was said finding the NPC on the 7th floor in one attempt was impossible—who knew what might happen in between.

He had to go, because the penalty’s intensity would only grow if he didn’t pursue the quest. But a spare emergency kit of support would be good to have for peace of mind.

Looking at Cheongmun as if at a lifesaving kit, he spoke.

“Well, this is something I was going to look into, too, so there’s no need to settle anything separately.”

“And that’s acceptable?”

“…Consider it repaying a debt for saving my life.”

He was returning what he’d received; since he was the one indebted, let him repay it—without further explanation, the intent seemed to land, and Cheongmun tipped his chin.

“In that case, I’ll pay.”

“Pardon?”

Hadn’t he understood?

When Wonhyo looked up, Cheongmun’s mouth curved.

“Instead, let’s conclude this by having you do me one favor later.”

“I can only handle ghost-related matters.”

He cut it off—anything beyond his ability was a no from the start.

“It won’t be unreasonable. Now, shall we go out and have a look?”

The “not unreasonable” request did not inspire confidence; still, there was no way to refuse now.

He agreed and let out a sigh.

“I’ll take a look at the staffer, but even if there’s an issue, I can’t assume liability.”

Nothing is more foolish than promising to fix anything and everything related to ghosts.

Despite the disclaimer, Cheongmun nodded, unbothered.

“Very well. You’ll explain what you find, instead.”

Wonhyo nodded in assent.

The bathroom door opened.

Seeing the huddle of his subordinates crammed into the narrow corridor, Cheongmun clicked his tongue.

Not just Team 1; people sharing the floor were peeking and craning their necks from all directions.

“That the ‘shaman’?”

“Say any more, and audit will really come running.”

They made an effort to whisper, but clearly wanted him to hear.

At the mention of audit, he swallowed a dry laugh.

He shifted his gaze to Wonhyo, who was edging forward behind him.

He looked uneasy at the crowd itself, but something in his demeanor was different from the café.

Cheongmun registered the plain, patternless white fan in Wonhyo’s hand.

He recalled the awakener profile: unique-ability type, was it?

Rank unknown, but likely low; classified under production, so little in the way of direct offense, and separate from being a shaman by trade.

By all appearances, shamanry was the main profession and awakening the sideline—yet the item in his hand belonged squarely to the main profession.

Tools or weapons that changed shape were uncommon; awakening at low rank with such a tool was unusual.

Cheongmun had seen it once—bells turning to a fan and back—so it wasn’t strange to him, but it clearly nettled others.

Wonhyo scanned the gathering with steady eyes, neither fearful nor annoyed.

Cheongmun noted where his gaze stopped. Following it, he found Deputy Manager Choi—the one who had called through the bathroom door earlier.

No hint had been given; it must have been the sensed ghostly aura.

“Deputy Manager Choi.”

“Yes.”

Called, Choi answered with a pinched look, as if sensing something off.

“Is that the one?”

This time, Cheongmun asked Wonhyo.

“Yes, that’s right.”

As he answered softly, black energy flickered at Cheongmun’s fingertips.

The murmurs died in the suddenness.

Silence that made people more uncomfortable, thought Wonhyo.

Despite hostile stares aimed at him, Cheongmun spoke calmly, looking at the person trapped in his skill.

“Deputy Manager Choi. Let’s move you to a conference room as you are. The nearest one.”

“Room C.”

A face unfamiliar to Wonhyo answered, filing a usage request swiftly on a tablet.

“Am I in danger?”

Choi’s voice trembled inside the cube.

Rather than reply himself, Cheongmun turned to Wonhyo. He looked at the man inside and shook his head.

“No danger.”

In truth, contact with ghostly energy could slash away days from a lifespan in a moment and leave one severely ill, but it wasn’t lethal.

So he answered thus.

Seeing things organized, Cheongmun moved the trapped teammate himself and headed for the conference room.

“Can’t we watch too?”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Deputy Manager Kim—Team 1’s so-called mad dog—bared his teeth, shoving back the rubbernecking members of other teams.

He didn’t know what had happened in the bathroom, but the atmosphere around the supposed shaman echoed the earlier moment when the phantom had been drawn out—irritating.

And that the person trapped in the team leader’s skill was Choi, who had returned from the morgue reporting anomalies in the salt, was equally telling.

With him in tow, Team 1 filed into the conference room; once he confirmed no one was missing, Kim backed in and blocked the doorway with his rear.

At his nod, Cheongmun raised his hand and summoned a cube.

A cube the size of the room swallowed them whole, cutting off every stray sound to the outside.

Only then did he set down the cube containing Choi near the shaman.

Wonhyo fanned gently with the white fan in his hand.

“When did you come into contact with the deceased?”

At his question, Choi looked flustered and glanced at Cheongmun.

“Just answer.”

“Really? I did go to the morgue yesterday.”

“…Around noon?”

“Sorry? Ah, yes. About then. I went in before lunch and left before one.”

At the answer, Wonhyo flicked his wrist.

The white fan became seven bells that shivered.

He shook out the bells, scattering divine power, and whistled.

Fwee—eek! Fwee—eek!

Twice whistling, he traced a half-circle around the trapped man with light, dancing steps.

“What is that? I’m not the only one seeing this, right?”

“This is insane.”

At the chorus from the team, Choi flinched, eyes darting.

“What? What is it? Is there something on me?”

He spun toward Cheongmun.

Cheongmun lifted a hand.

“Deputy Manager Choi A-cheong. Stay exactly where you are.”

While they fussed, Wonhyo continued his work and waited.

It wasn’t finished yet.

Once the staff fell silent at the team leader’s check, Wonhyo cast what he held.

Pellets pattered and bounced; as grains popped into his mouth, Choi grimaced at the saltiness.

“This is way too salty.”

The involuntary wince pulled his face into a pout; still, there was no protest about the sudden salting.

Shaking the remaining salt from his hand, Wonhyo exhaled.

Choi looked around, uneasy.

Every team member was goggling at him, eyes wide.

“Take off your outer layer.”

Waiting for the right moment, Wonhyo spoke again.

Choi glanced to Cheongmun.

A face asking if that wasn’t a bit much; Cheongmun simply waved: do as he says.

Choi cast a look toward the others.

“Strip, idiot.”

“Here. Change into this.”

When he hesitated, the deputy handed him a dowdy gray tracksuit from his inventory.

“Okay, yes, I didn’t change since yesterday, but isn’t this a bit much? I did change my underwear, though.”

With a face that said is this really necessary, he grudgingly undressed in the center of the room and changed.

The shed clothes, Cheongmun sealed in a separate cube.

“Is this sufficient?”

He asked Wonhyo.

Shaking his head at the energy streaming right out, Wonhyo answered,

“It’s just leaking out.”

The status window was in an uproar; he quickly stepped back, farther away.

Cheongmun’s brow pinched.

“For now, we’ll have to be content with avoiding human contact.”

Sniffing and frowning at the smell of the borrowed outfit, Choi stepped out of the vanished cube.

“What is this, seriously—why go this far?”

“You really don’t see it?”

Deputy Manager Kim grabbed the junior and pressed him to look with his own eyes.

“What is even—why the salt—what the—?”

Across the back and shoulders of the plain sweatshirt, black marks—anyone could see them as human handprints—were plastered.

Even at the lower back, near the seat, there were handprints as if someone had grabbed and yanked.