TFN C52

Chapter 52

Cheongmun studied the memo pad in silence, then accepted the pen and wrote out a sentence akin to a warrant:

“As this investigation requires the pursuit of criminal activity, and given circumstances raising suspicion of the suspect’s connection to this address, we declare that permission has been obtained from the owner to search the premises.

—Special Judicial Investigation Team, Special Bureau, Lee Cheongmun.”

Wonhyo took the note and inscribed beneath it the characters of a talismanic incantation.

Then he affixed the paper to the door.

“Urgent decree, by the law.”

Having followed proper procedure, they petitioned for swift execution. Without force, the tightly barred door yielded, groaning open.

Cheongmun stepped forward, shielding Wonhyo with his body.

Wonhyo suppressed his presence as much as possible.

Encased within a cube and lifted slightly above the ground, he was carried inside.

The interior was no ordinary room but another world: a desolate space, warped as though upper and lower halves had failed to meet, halted mid-misfit.

There, black trees jutted skyward like spears piercing the heavens.

Their trunks were parched, dead of all moisture, yet beneath one of them something writhed.

Wonhyo sucked in a breath, only for it to snag inside him, leaving him choking and coughing harshly.

The stench was suffocating—not only acrid with ghostly miasma, but reeking, nauseatingly, of rotting flesh.

The very air pressed down upon him, making him want to turn and flee before he had even seen the ghost.

He shook his head, abandoning thought.

If he dwelled on the dread, he would collapse before the spirit revealed itself. Better to focus on why he must face it here and now.

Should the ghost escape, the world itself would not collapse. But a malevolent spirit, wrought from unorthodox sorcery, steeped in such crimes already, would not end here. If called forth again, it would only grow stronger. Better to destroy it now.

So resolved, his nose seemed to grow accustomed—or perhaps dulled—but another note surfaced in the reek: the scent of blood.

Cheongmun narrowed his eyes.

No alert had yet signaled that the dungeon boss had perceived their presence.

He remained watchful rather than rushing to scout.

It was strange, that their entry with a warrant-like declaration had delayed recognition. Perhaps declaring permission from the “owner” had bought them a brief reprieve.

He would not waste it. He looked beneath the skeletal black tree, at the thing writhing there.

Thud… screech, crack, crunch.

The noises were sickeningly familiar.

Cheongmun raised an arm, barring Wonhyo’s sight. He did not advance, but listened.

The sound of flesh and bone being cut apart filled the space.

Slice, thud! Slice, slice.

Sometimes the blade struck bone and hacked downward again; sometimes it mangled flesh into scraps. Yet there was no scream, no groan, no sound of life remaining.

Cheongmun debated: should he bring Wonhyo forward?

It was either beast or human. And if the “sacrifice” noted in the quest window, human was more likely.

“Mr. Yun Wonhyo.”

“I’m all right.”

Before Cheongmun could suggest he wait nearer the entrance, Wonhyo answered first.

His breath, once ragged, was now steady. His voice held no tremor.

There would be no panic to hinder them.

Cheongmun adjusted his glasses and advanced, step by grim step, toward the revolting scene.

The closer they came, the clearer the shape beneath the tree grew.

And so did the horror of its acts.

Wonhyo’s unvoiced scream tore at his throat, muffled behind his palm.

『You are confronted with the Seed of ￡∂▲Å, planted in the Swamp of Styx.』

Planted?

An evil already matured, and yet it could grow further?

He ground his teeth against the message, trembling from head to toe.

The creature hacked again, carving flesh into stubborn chunks. Lifting a severed piece, it grinned grotesquely and tossed it aside.

The remnants rolled toward them—

A foot.

It should have been attached to a body, but here it lay, twisted with ingrown nail, the skin swollen and red, bruised, still flushed with blood.

And now the spirit hefted an arm, weighing it like merchandise.

Though the corpse’s soul was long gone, Wonhyo thought he heard a wail of agony, a lament rising from the dead.

When dungeons formed, casualties always followed. People died. That much he knew. Yet still, this sight made his blood run cold.

Heh-heh-heh-heh—ah-hahahahaha!

That laughter.

The gleeful, echoing laugh of one who butchered corpses for joy, who reveled in desecration.

Even monsters that devoured men for sustenance seemed less vile.

Wonhyo clenched his mind, forcing clarity.

Drawing deep breath, he exhaled his rage, tempered.

The spirit remained fixated on its grisly butchery.

Wonhyo edged closer, noting the corpse’s clothing. Not a school uniform, nor a hunter’s casual wear.

Torn sweatpants at the knees. A stretched t-shirt, fit for indoors.

Not a reenactment of an old death—this was freshly made.

Cheongmun counted the bodies lying beneath the trunk, stripping away what could be saved.

The quest still listed two sacrifices remaining. These, then, were collateral—people dragged in when the dungeon formed.

An apron over a thick winter jacket marked one such victim. A shopkeeper, perhaps. Male and female, young and middle-aged alike. The dungeon had chosen indiscriminately.

Dead, all of them. No survivors here.

The spirit muttered incoherently all the while.

“That one… I think it’s one of the people it fought with in the comments.”

Wonhyo whispered.

Cheongmun’s brows lifted.

“How would you know that?”

“I told you, didn’t I? I’ll find you and kill you. That’s what it keeps saying.”

Wonhyo closed his eyes, focusing.

The voice was fragmented, distorted, like a corrupted audio file, yet he understood every word.

“Why doubt me? How dare you? It just repeats it over and over.”

Cheongmun tipped his chin slightly.

Hee-hee-hee-heeek!

The spirit threw back its head, shrieking with laughter.

Cheongmun’s gaze sharpened, his voice cold.

“It is time to strike.”

Wonhyo drew in a sharp breath.

“I’m ready.”

His ritual bell transformed into a blade in his grip, cold and solemn energy gathering along its edge.

The spirit’s head snapped, its gaze whipping toward them.

“Now!”

Cheongmun dismissed the cube. The translucent veil dissolved.

Wonhyo stamped the ground, clashing blade to steel to ring out a clear metallic cry.

“—Usujibhwarun, Gakdabunmaboborae, Naedocheongobeopryeok, Saan Tonghaeng, Suoburyeong, Geupgeupgeo, Chiksokgeo, Obongmansachikryeong. Cheonhoshin Jigyu-shin, Onae Bulshiin….”

The chant to expel evil resounded as he bent his knees, spun, and swung his arm wide.

It was dance—ritual dance. One of many, a distorted gutgeori rhythm made to banish corruption.

His body spun, his robes fluttered, his steps thundered.

『The Mask of Hoya enhances the effect of the Deotboegi Dance.』

『The Guna Ritual proceeds.』

The dance, once performed to drive out malevolence and misfortune, now surged with new power.

Each stomp thrust sacred force into the ground, each turn cast out ghostly ties.

The mask’s mane quivered, scattering demon-breaking light.

Wonhyo hurled himself forward, crashing down like a wave, severing the bonds between the spirit and the dead it clung to.

You filthy shaman bastard!

The spirit shrieked as Cheongmun struck.

From his fingertips, black currents spread, encircling and binding the spirit.

He pressed two fingers together and twisted.

The cube split, peeling away, and within it the corpses beneath the tree were freed.

Not a scrap of flesh was spared as the cube reclaimed what had been stolen.

Don’t take them from me!

The spirit raged. Wonhyo shifted his blade to a fan, sweeping it wide.

The ghost slammed the translucent cube with a thunderous crash, as though to shatter it apart.

But it held.

Cheongmun stripped off his glove and drew his gun.

He fired.

The bullet struck, burying itself in the specter’s form.

This? You think this will stop me?

It laughed, mocking.

But Cheongmun triggered the consecrated rounds.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Holy power detonated within, flaring light that gnawed through the ghost’s shape.

It writhed, collapsing and reforming—until Cheongmun summoned another cube.

From the bullets lodged within, spikes extended, pinning the spirit, stalling its regeneration.

Vermin! Do you know who I am?!

Neither Cheongmun nor Wonhyo answered.