TFN C16

Chapter 16

Wonhyo tilted his head up from the first spot where the status window reacted, gazing toward the upper reaches of the apartment, a place with a clear line of sight to where the deceased had lived.

He tried moving around that area again, but wherever his steps landed, he kept returning to that same spot.

What now.

He swept a quick look around.

Perhaps because of the incident from a few days ago, there weren’t many people outside.

It was the back of the apartment to begin with, not a place where many passed, so even if he did something here, it likely wouldn’t draw attention.

Wonhyo took out a sanctifying rope he’d stored neatly in his inventory.

It was a twisted rope of rice straw, hung with numerous talismans upon which he’d offered prayers; holding it in hand, he checked the ground.

Traditionally, one would set wooden stakes and raise posts, but that was inconvenient to carry; instead, he produced and set up a tripod for easy installation.

He fixed the tripod so it wouldn’t wobble, bound together jujube-wood slats as uprights, and hung the sanctifying rope.

It might have looked a bit rough, but it was something he had crafted with care—and among all he possessed, it was the most efficacious item.

After finishing the base setup, Wonhyo brought out additional equipment.

He removed two talismans modeled on the form of a wish-granting charm; one he set on the ground, the other he set in midair.

As if unaffected by gravity, the talisman hung in the air within the rope-bounded barrier, clinging upright in space.

Quietly, he rolled his tongue and intoned the incantation.

As divine power took hold, the cinnabar-red letters flared with golden radiance and burned away.

In that instant, a distortion appeared before his eyes.

Like rewinding an old videotape, noise bled into a segment of his field of view, and then time began to spool backward, as if the world itself were being wound in reverse.

Within the space demarcated and separated by the sanctifying rope, time alone flowed backwards.

Wonhyo watched several figures that suddenly appeared and walked backward out of sight, then fixed on a particular point in time.

“Exposed to powerful ‘ghostly energy.’ (…in progress…49.9%)”

Even though he had merely traced a fragment of old memories left in the earth rather than anything real, the ghost-load accumulated.

He considered stopping then and there, but the divine power invested in the jujube wood and rope would go to waste. This wasn’t a hundred-day prayer but something he’d devoted nearly three years of devotion to craft.

With some leeway remaining, he decided to comb the memory further.

He rewound one day, two days, then a week and about a month; only then did he realize the power left in the rope had thinned and its effect was nearly spent.

He stared into the air.

“Exposed to powerful ‘ghostly energy.’ (…in progress…55.3%)”

Each time that alert came up, a hazy figure surfaced.

From a gaunt, twisted shape, the longer he walked time backward, the more it shifted toward something one could recognize as human; he inspected the changes carefully.

It was indeed a soul.

The resentment or obsession seemed strong enough to exert influence on the living; with its voice grotesquely muffled and clothing obscuring gender, it was hard to tell, but judging from the overall build, it appeared male.

Age—around the thirties?

Wonhyo retraced the original grudge’s repeated behavior.

It would appear at the same spot, tilt its head upward, and stare blankly at the deceased’s apartment.

The time it showed up was when the sun was overhead; with the shadow at its shortest, around noon, likely near twelve.

Appearing at similar times and repeating the same action was common for such grudges.

Who knew if it had been that kind of personality in life; what was certain was that strong obsession toward the dead was largely the impression left by the emotions felt at death.

Even if one had a boss one wanted to tear apart, it was not uncommon to see a ghost resentful of a café clerk who’d been rude right before their death.

“So then, what made the pattern change?”

If the intention was murder from the start, it would have stormed in rather than watch; that it had watched for a time and then moved was odd.

An original grudge is born of the desire to harm; there’s no reason to hesitate.

Perhaps influenced by memories of life—

“Could it be that it had been watching even while alive, not recognizing the shift—and then suddenly realized I had died?”

If what looked like sizing up whether it could harm was a repetition derived from living memory, then the first action upon realizing death could well have been murder.

It wasn’t unheard of; not deeply surprising. But that something strong enough to exert physical force on humans was a soul that had only just “come to” felt troubling.

“Left alone, a bigger disaster is brewing.”

Wonhyo decided to address what lay before his eyes first.

He took out a fan used with divine power rather than an item, and carefully tuned the wavelength to produce the image.

Since it didn’t use mana, it amounted to a spooky recording of strange phenomena—but at least this much could be used as evidence or reference.

He shook the fan to scatter the gathered ghostly energy.

Rummaging memories left in the ground means pushing against a flow designed to run one way; if not neatly unwound, it caused trouble later.

After tidying away the rope, heat flushed through his whole body despite the subzero weather.

He fanned himself to cool the sweat, then scratched his head.

“So then, with this in hand, should I go to Mapo Precinct or the special agency?”

It was his uncle, a detective from Mapo, who’d asked him to visit the scene; it was Cheongmun who had said he’d pay for any clues.

“Do I need to dig more?”

If there were two videos to report—or a video and extra leads—he could hand one to each and feign ignorance of the rest.

“Shouldn’t do that.”

Jurisdiction exists, and designated investigators, so turning it over to the investigating side was the right course.

At any rate, having found an unexpected lead, he looked further around, but found nothing else clear enough to record.

Instead, there were places where the ghost-load accumulated fast or slow; he marked those spots.

Trailing out from the lot behind the apartments, through the tennis courts, the path ran toward the main road by the subway.

Whether from inside to out or outside to in, he didn’t know; but with a video that could be used to infer the grudge’s living movements, checking CCTV might surface a specific individual.

Depending on how long CCTV or dash-cam footage was retained, results would vary; that was for the police—not his worry.

He turned and headed back to the apartment.

He considered purifying the scene’s energy as Uncle had asked, but as the elevator rose, the load spiked quickly, and he hastily jabbed the close button.

He felt the substation officers guarding the apartment door looking at him as if perplexed.

He simply resolved that, if Mapo took the case, he would send a generous supply of prayer-blessed salt to ward off misfortune.

“Just how did the person die, to emit such a miasma.”

If not for the failed-quest penalty, he would attempt it—but for now, there was no way.

“Until every last cent is scraped together and the Tower is done, I can’t do anything.”

Resting his head against the cold elevator wall, Wonhyo raised it again.

Until a moment ago, he’d thought it right to contact Uncle first; now the balance tipped the other way.

Never mind jurisdiction—contacting Cheongmun first felt right.

“Right, time to earn.”

It’s all for making a living. Uncle knew his situation—he’d understand.

Mother and Sister would tell him to choose expedience over obligation.

He remembered that, although he had no cause to contact him, he’d saved the card’s contact info anyway.

“While I’m at it.”

Two birds with one stone.

He thought of how ghost-load stopped accumulating when he’d touched Cheongmun.

Unlike then, he was now in a human body, with palms callused rather than soft pink jelly—but perhaps a similar effect would occur.

“Already touched him once—another handshake won’t cause a catastrophe, right?”

Leaving today, he had suspected that events would flow toward seeing him at least once—but he hadn’t expected to have such a specific goal.

“Where’s Team Leader Lee gone?”

Deputy Manager Kim Geungsik of Special Agency Special Judicial Police, Team 1, lifted his head.

He wanted to verify the face of the Team 3 staffer who had suddenly arrived to ask for the team leader—and he was also bothered by the sheaf of papers the person had gone out of their way to hold.

In a special agency 99% digitized, documents on paper were either trash or highly classified.

If classified, staff with relevant skills conveyed them orally and erased memory afterward for better security.

Otherwise, they received a temporary curse-type debuff preventing them from speaking relevant keywords aloud.

In any case, the responsible party always delivered directly, never through subordinates.

“Is there something to deliver?”

At Kim’s answer, Team 1 members, each busily working, flicked glances their way.

Despite the attention, the Team 3 staffer didn’t shrink; body tilted, wearing a smile straddling the curious and the mocking.

Everything about them said, I’m here with a secret—except the voice, which was anything but.

“So, I heard something in passing—about the incident on Saturday.”

Kim, masking fatigue, opened his mouth.

“Yes. Some tip came in?”

Team 3’s staffer, ignoring the crisp, procedural tone, gave a little wave.

“No, nothing like that. Just heard something weird—they say you called in a shaman and did a ritual on-scene?”

The three words—“scene,” “shaman,” “ritual”—boomed as if through a megaphone.