TFN C12

Chapter 12

At the same negative answer, Cheongmun pushed up his slipping glasses with a finger, thought briefly, then moved his hand in the air.

Wondering what he might be pulling from inventory, Wonhyo watched with a sulky gaze.

Cheongmun took out a very small, packaged cookie.

At the crinkle of the wrapper, his ears twitched despite himself.

Cheongmun came closer, unwrapped it, and offered the cookie to Wonhyo. It smelled sweet, but something felt off; Wonhyo drew his head back and shook his head to refuse.

“Occasionally, in A-rank or higher dungeons, hunters fall under curses that animalize them; this is a communication-aid item made for such people. It contains nothing harmful—to humans or to animals.”

There’s a thing like that?

Wonhyo couldn’t comprehend how cookie crumbs could solve a communication problem that even a talisman made with three years’ worth of accrued merit couldn’t undo.

But since Cheongmun wasn’t forcing it into his mouth, he politely brought his nose closer.

Sniff, sniff.

No bad scent—just like an oatmeal cookie with a bit more sugar.

“Try it first, and if it does nothing, we can continue using the current method to talk.”

There’d be nothing to lose.

He hesitated about taking food from someone’s hand, but the fact that the other was a civil servant inspired trust.

If it goes wrong, a formal complaint can be filed.

Thinking that, he accepted a small piece, swallowed, and felt a slight minty coolness down his throat.

“Mint?”

Huh?

At the thunder-like wrap of his own voice around his ears, Wonhyo startled and sprang up. Then, hearing a low chuckle above his head, he quickly regained his composure.

“Ahem.”

Clearing his throat, he straightened, coiling his tail around his paws as if arranging his attire, lifted his head, and sat properly.

The honed-knife presence of Cheongmun was still hard to meet head-on, but perhaps he’d grown used to it while stuck together—he wasn’t as scared as at first.

Checking his watch, Cheongmun spoke.

“Talking should be possible for about an hour.”

Not bad.

Wonhyo grew quietly excited at the existence of an item he’d like to buy in bulk for emergencies.

Before he could blurt out where to get it—awkward, since they hadn’t even had a real conversation—Cheongmun showed the remaining cookie in his palm.

“It’s an item used internally by the Agency; obtaining it separately will be difficult.”

All the more reason to have a productive conversation.

A bit deflated, Wonhyo lifted his chin, signaling he’d answer sincerely.

“Let’s revisit the earlier question first. Why can’t we see again what we saw at the apartment?”

Wonhyo narrowed his eyes.

“What I called at the apartment was a kind of lingering thought at the scene—an original-grudge, that is, a trace the culprit left—and if it’s not the same place, it can’t be summoned. It’s like trying to find water from a dried mark.”

So the earlier “Not now” paired with “Not never” made sense to Cheongmun.

“An original grudge… that truly exists?”

Wonhyo clenched his narrower eyes shut.

“It does. If one refuses to believe, that’s that.”

“I see. Then is it common for ghosts to exert physical force and kill, like this case?”

Sighing, Wonhyo opened his eyes and looked at him.

“No. Life and death lie side by side, but crossing that boundary is rare.”

His voice turned firm.

It would be a lie to say ghosts seldom harm humans, but there were truly few that could directly injure the body.

Cheongmun tilted his head.

“What you showed us didn’t appear on video. Can it actually be recorded?”

“…I call it a wavelength; if tuned, it can be captured by devices that use mana. Payment upfront—fifty per minute for video.”

“Five thousand per photo, correct?”

Cheongmun cut in, his gaze tightening slightly.

“It’s not an illusion-magic type skill, then.”

“I’m no mage.”

On that point, Wonhyo was unequivocal.

No matter how much one swept with a mana scanner, divine power wouldn’t be found—just as at every scene he’d visited.

“So, divine-power category?”

“If one must, must classify it, yes?”

“When service fees arise from the use of divine power, there’s a recommendation not to exceed 300,000 won per instance, and in the event of a pricing dispute, the Agency can issue an authoritative interpretation.”

“…It’s not exactly divine power.”

“Costs for ability use are handled per the major class of the job code assigned at awakening, under international treaty. Would you state your exact occupation?”

Wonhyo narrowed his eyes.

Cheongmun’s lips lifted.

“If you’ve produced and sold footage at the prices first stated, administrative fines may be due. If assessed, a detailed statement and receipts must be attached at tax time; absent documentation, an additional 15% may be levied.”

In that case, you’d answer not to the Agency but to the tax office, and being flagged would make things very fussy for a while—quite a nuisance.

His voice remained even as he explained.

Startled at the prospect of being attacked not just by the Agency—long warned as the most watchful—but by the even scarier tax office, Wonhyo flinched.

“…I haven’t sold any.”

Honestly, he’d only named it to shoo them off; he’d never actually taken the money.

“I see.”

“Yes.”

Even with the calm delivery, the pressure from Cheongmun’s gaze made him swallow.

Cheongmun smiled again.

“Then. You can recalculate within the recommended price range.”

He shook his head quickly.

The gaze cooled further.

Wonhyo spoke fast.

“It’s not about the price! I can’t get back into that apartment for at least a week.”

He’d need access inside to record or photograph; getting back in was step one.

If he went after letting the ghostly load dissipate, maybe—but going just because he was human again would almost certainly mean turning back into a beast on the spot.

There was no special way to erase accumulated ghostly energy; only letting time run its course.

“A week, huh. Must you be present on site?”

“That’s fastest and most accurate. I could use talismans, but those draw on mana too.”

Like illusion magic, mana reaction would disqualify it as court evidence.

He’d learned that after taking a few jobs from his detective-division uncle; even for the Agency, trials weren’t held in-house, so it was the same result.

“Understood.”

He nodded, apparently following.

“Even if the scene is old, can those traces be captured on video?”

Tilting his head, Wonhyo wondered if he meant a revisit in a week.

“Well, I’ve captured things that happened about a month prior. If the traces exist, you can see faintly even at places ten or twenty years old.”

Ghosts didn’t only wander “fresh”; places like murder scenes, where grudges caked thickly, often yielded traces even long after.

Some reputed haunted spots still active had passed a hundred years.

Even without such energy, if one knew the dead’s name and birth date, there were other methods.

“…Is that so?”

“Yes. For now?”

At the words, spoken while he stared into space, Wonhyo nodded assent.

A short breath out, and the eyes went dry again.

“Then another question. You said earlier it’s rare for ghosts to physically harm people. What made it possible this time?”

Unsure where to begin, Wonhyo hesitated, then forced the words.

“It’s resonance, one could say. Similar to how I render that kind of energy into video. Normally, together but not touching at all—but when a certain frequency, a wavelength, matches, ghosts can make contact. Possession needs a match like that to let a ghost adhere to a person.”

He simplified his specialty by analogy, then idly flicked his tail.

Hm? When did that come loose?

He grabbed the careening tail with a forepaw and coiled it.

“But using divine power requires appropriate payment. Not necessarily expensive—but appropriate.”

He pressed his forepaws into the floor and issued the caution.

“What happens if one doesn’t pay?”

He seemed meticulous about this “price.”

“Bad luck follows. Not a mere ‘unlucky day’ like higher odds of a mishap or illness—but the kind of bad luck where you could drown in a bowl of water.”

Catch it wrong, and it’s death.

“Then I’ll pay.”

He stated he would pay fairly, but Wonhyo only wrinkled his nose-bridge.

“With taxpayer money?”

Even if allotted activity funds existed, wouldn’t spending them on a shaman cause trouble?

At the pointed question, Cheongmun nudged his glasses up the bridge.

“It’ll be out of pocket.”