TFN C39

Chapter 39

 

Wonhyo held Cheongmun’s calm, collected gaze and silently thanked the heavens that he was currently in chick form.

Just recalling the humiliating dream he’d had was enough to make him wonder what kind of expression he must’ve been making, and the thought alone sent his heart thundering. With such a tiny chest, he doubted it could withstand the pounding, so he forced himself to exhale slowly, expelling the suffocating heat.

He’d even wondered, only half-seriously, whether dying in this animal form would leave behind the remains of a chick or revert him back into a corpse of his human body—but he very much didn’t want the answer.

Whether it was the breathing itself or the distraction from his racing thoughts, his heartbeat quieted a little.

Cheongmun, face unreadable as ever, silently extended a hand toward him. Wonhyo, perched atop his transparent cube, watched carefully as Cheongmun picked it up and carried him out.

As they left the pitch-black bedroom, the world brightened somewhat. Wonhyo blinked.

An apartment?

Faint dawn light spilled through wide windows, revealing the shape of the place. A skyline outside stirred vague recognition. They were so close to government buildings that the glow of official signage was unmistakable. Commuting times must’ve been laughably short—yet wouldn’t living this close to work be draining? Then again, he himself had no room to judge, living where he also worked.

Eyes roving, he was caught off guard when Cheongmun moved into the kitchen.

“First, you should drink some water.”

Cheongmun poured clean water into a shallow dish and placed it before him. Wonhyo bobbed his head in thanks.

He flitted from cube to tabletop and dipped his beak. Awkward at first, but regardless of what his human mind thought, his body swallowed smoothly.

Cheongmun, meanwhile, took freeze-dried rations from his inventory, not even bothering with the fridge, soaking them with water and slicing the softened chunks into minuscule pieces. He offered the diced morsels. Wonhyo tilted his head.

Inside, it was just chopped-up fried rice flecked with red seasoning.

“Chirp.”

I don’t think I can eat this.

High-sodium food wouldn’t suit a body still in the chick stage. Even though he was starving with the constant cycle of eating and sleeping, eating recklessly could only end in trouble.

He wished he could just ask for the cabbage leaves Cheongmun had fed him the other day.

But before he could signal more, Cheongmun spoke, voice low.

“It’s alright. After you’ve eaten enough, I intend to attempt the cure again.”

Wonhyo pricked at two phrases he understood—“cure” and “attempt.”

“Chirp?”

Again? As in… when you gave me that cookie?

Cheongmun slid into a chair, placing on the table a relic unfamiliar to Wonhyo’s eyes.

“No. This is above that. The cure-item I mentioned yesterday. Last night I retrieved it from Bureau storage and fed a fragment to you while you slept. You did return, briefly, to human form.”

“Chirp?”

I did? But I’m a chick right now.

“Only for twenty seconds. Then you reverted.”

“Chirp…”

At that, Wonhyo’s feathers drooped. Twenty seconds hardly made it worth using precious items. Sooner or later, his timer would expire anyway, and he’d be human again.

Still, he couldn’t help eyeing the item wistfully. If only it had lasted longer—if only it had cleared the curse outright.

“Chirp, chirp, chirp.”

So isn’t trying again pointless?

It wasn’t like a few seconds of being human would make swallowed rice vanish.

Cheongmun lowered his gaze, contemplative, eyes drifting between the item and Wonhyo.

“If one tried it again—during those twenty seconds, contact involving the mouth… artificial respiration, as you call it—might produce different results.”

“—!”

A crack of lightning struck Wonhyo’s mind.

Wait. That would mean… what? Really?

“Chirp—!?”

His thoughts spun wildly. Implausible, but not impossible.

He already knew physical contact with Cheongmun stopped ghost-qi from accumulating. And as a human, lips meeting his— that—had actually reduced the curse meter.

True, “artificial respiration” was simply a polite term for a much deeper entanglement. But still—if the curse would wear off on its own, why force a kiss? There was no urgency; even twenty-four hours wasn’t long.

Yes, it was a mechanism intended to link sacrifice and benefit—but he had no desire right now to be prey to such whims.

After agonizing, Wonhyo shook his head.

Meeting his gaze, Cheongmun paused as the little chick flapped determinedly.

“Chirp, chirp.

It’s fine. I don’t need to turn back right away.

Chirp.

Don’t waste the item.”

He beak-waggled his refusal firmly.

Cheongmun sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I know it’s awkward. But returning to human form would be better. A complication has arisen.”

“Chirp?”

At his tilt of the head, Cheongmun drew out Wonhyo’s phone from inventory.

The screen flared alive, floodlit with messages and missed calls.

[-Sister: Wonhyo! I just got a call from Park Goin of Jindo!]

[-Sister: He said your name came up on Hunternet!]

[-Sister: Why aren’t you answering?]

[-Sister: Where are you?!]

More than twenty missed calls.

Wonhyo remembered who Park Goin was—an old ritual musician and shaman-priest in Jindo, strangely awakened recently as a hunter. His rank was low, his body sturdy and little more, he’d joked—but apparently he had seen something.

“Chirp?”

What did Hunternet have to do with this? Why was that grounds for turning human?

Cheongmun unlocked his own phone to reveal posts on a familiar site.

[What’s going on with the Special Bureau?]

Rumors they brought in a shaman and held an exorcism? Anyone else hear?

└As if.

└No, fact.

└Ha, there goes my tax money.

└The nonsense in this place never ends.

└What if there really was a ghost?

└Ghosts don’t exist. If they did, half the old pro-Japanese elites would’ve died decades ago instead of thriving after independence.

└Exactly.

└I heard the same shaman consulted on the Mapo case.

└Mapo… then maybe…?

└Shamans giving police advice? What a pathetic country.

└Fact: that case still hasn’t announced cause of death.

└Just wait. Shamans will divine if it’s homicide or accident for us.

└This is insane.

Scrolling only sank deeper into curses.

Nobody revealed names, but Wonhyo was certain at least one commenter had seen him.

Cheongmun met his eyes.

“I had restricted all publication of these events. But by dawn, details leaked. We’re still hunting the source. For now, we need your testimony in person.”

Wonhyo blinked, stupefied.

And wait—Hunternet could be traced? He’d thought posted comments could never be tracked back.

“Accounts require Market ID or Hunter license, phone verification. Even without login, location data embeds into posts.”

Right. True. Hunter Market itself shared data with tax records—there was never true anonymity.

Wonhyo exhaled heavily, his little chest puffing and sinking.

He had only seen one such post, but of course it would not end there. Someone had recognized enough to spread word, prompting old Park in Jindo to raise alarm with his sister.

Could citizens’ identities really be hounded so easily? He worried how far it would spread.

Taking back the phone, Cheongmun spoke firmly:

“So forgive the inconvenience, but we must go to the Bureau. We need your statement directly.”

“Chirp…”

Of course.

Wonhyo thought back—when first offered reimbursement for his investigations, he had wondered why Cheongmun would spend from his own purse. Now it was clear foresight.

Cheongmun saw further ahead than most fortune tellers.

The dungeon had been official expense, not personal gain; the offerings had been paid for using Cheongmun’s Bureau card. Recordings and evidence had been logged cleanly, even the thrift-bought trousers reimbursable.

Technically, it was Wonhyo himself who deserved refund now.

Dizzy in his little head, he flapped his wings once, then settled his resolve.