Chapter 58

The metallic stench of blood mingled with the scent of pomade drifted through the air. Furrowing his brows, the master reached his hand out toward Seo Mu-yeong. At that gesture, every thought vanished from his mind. Breaking through his paralyzed reason, a visceral repulsion surged up.

No…… I don’t want that hand touching me!

Twisting his head with great effort, Seo Mu-yeong bent his stiffened knees. Under the sudden strain, his joints made a dry grating sound like twigs rubbing together. It was just as a silent scream reverberated behind his muffled mouth—

The master’s hand came to rest upon the tree Seo Mu-yeong was leaning against. It was a point barely a handspan away from Seo Mu-yeong’s head. With smoldering eyes, the master glared up and down at the trunk.

“I thought they chopped every last one of you down, yet you took root in secret and grew this huge? Vile thing. I ought to pour gasoline into the soil.”

He stomped down hard on a thick, protruding root. Yet even as he ground his shoe sole against the wood with his full weight, the part being scratched and scuffed was not the grayish-brown bark, but the pressed-leather heel of his dress shoe.

Puffing with anger, the master spun on his heel with a dramatic flutter of his robes. Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, his regal countenance returned. He strode boldly into the depths of the mountain, raising his voice to the searchers.

“Search every inch! It’s a domesticated dog, so it couldn’t have gone far. Be careful not to get hurt! A human life is what matters most!”

Before long, even his voice faded into the distance. As if the stench of blood had never existed, the damp scent of moss and bark flooded his nostrils—a moist, bitter, yet invigorating fragrance.

All strength drained from his legs, and Seo Mu-yeong sank to the ground. His tightly clenched thigh muscles trembled with faint spasms. The mountain breeze that rustled the dense brush pleasantly cooled the sweat trickling down his spine.

Exhaling a long breath, Seo Mu-yeong looked up at the tree behind him. Though it was too dark to see clearly, it seemed to be the same kind of tree that once stood in his grandmother’s courtyard and in front of the library—the kind that only bloomed late in the summer with modest flowers tinged with pale yellow.

Though this tree had made him feel as if his heart were about to stop, thanks to it he had learned an immensely vital truth. Seo Mu-yeong let his head fall back, resting the back of his skull against the bark. A dry chuckle slipped between his parted lips.

The laughter raced down his spine, sending a shiver through his entire body. His head tingled, and his pulse thudded fiercely in his fingertips.

He can’t see me.

Seo Mu-yeong clamped his hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking as he stifled breathless sobs of laughter. There was no longer any reason to tremble in dread.

Taking the opposite path from the searchers, Seo Mu-yeong descended along the ridge. Striding briskly past the deserted ritual ground, he slid open the door of the empty hanok. Hanging from a clothes rack inside the neatly kept room was a lightweight summer suit jacket.

Without hesitation, Seo Mu-yeong searched the jacket and pulled out a wallet. The national resident registration card inside bore a familiar name. It was far too exact to be a mere namesake—even the resident registration number matched the records he had previously investigated.

Yang Ui-ju. Known by his shamanic title, Master Myeongan. He was the former disciple who had succumbed to dark sorcery after festering in jealousy and an inferiority complex toward Seo Mu-yeong’s grandmother. He was the very culprit who had sold the ritual that stole Seo Mu-yeong’s life down to its roots to Choi Sijin’s family.

Considering that Inspector Kim Jae-cheol, who had concealed Grandmother’s cause of death, had received tens of millions of won in payoffs, this man had likely handled sums reaching into the hundreds of millions. That truth was evident from his sleek, fine-grained leather shoes alone, which scuffed simply by pressing against a tree root.

His life must have been not only lavishly wealthy, but thoroughly gratifying. Having ruined Grandmother’s honorable reputation and surrounded himself with legions of disciples, how thoroughly his bruised pride must have been restored.

Yet perhaps at the very moment that sorcery was consummated, his patron deity had abandoned him. After all, Hong Soon-ja had remarked that when she saw him at Grandmother’s funeral, he possessed neither a true god nor even a wandering phantom spirit.

If that was the case, it made perfect sense why he couldn’t see Seo Mu-yeong, let alone sense the slightest incongruity. The very crime he had committed against Seo Mu-yeong had resulted in Seo Mu-yeong no longer having any reason to fear him.

Seo Mu-yeong could no longer find any reason to call him a baksumudang or a master. He was merely Yang Ui-ju—a dog butcher and a con artist swindling the Choi family.

Only now could Seo Mu-yeong understand the conversation Choi Yook had shared with Han Seo-yoon. Choi Yook had mentioned that “that place” and Seo Mu-yeong would soon come face to face. That meant Seo Mu-yeong was destined to accompany Choi Yook to see Yang Ui-ju. While seeking clues to locate the child, Choi Yook had simultaneously intended to test him.

Yet Seo Mu-yeong would visit Yang Ui-ju one step ahead of him.

Returning the wallet to its place, Seo Mu-yeong detached the GPS tracker from Kim Jeong-seon’s car and headed to his own vehicle. Since Yang Ui-ju’s house was located on the outskirts of Seoul, there would be plenty of time to buy what he needed before heading over.

Before he knew it, the hour was nearing the top of the clock. Getting into his car, Seo Mu-yeong sent a text message to Choi Yook, who hadn’t answered his calls.

I just came down from Mount Inwang and am having dinner. The dumpling soup here is delicious.

No reply came. Seo Mu-yeong pulled a dry roll from his backpack and chewed on it as he drove. Though he hadn’t climbed Mount Inwang, he was indeed heading in that direction now.

Near Dongnimmun Station, there were many shops selling Buddhist and shamanic ritual goods. That was because near Seonbawi stood Inwangsa Temple, along with the Guksadang Shrine and Sansingak, which were frequently sought out by shamans. Seo Mu-yeong followed the dim light and stepped inside one of the shops.

Seo Mu-yeong offered a polite bow. “Hello, Boss.”

“……Ah, welcome. What can I get for you?”

The proprietor, who had been fanning himself in front of an electric fan, scrambled to his feet. Seo Mu-yeong looked around the interior, densely packed with various shamanic robes hanging from racks, brass bells, candlesticks, talismans, and Buddhist statues. Everything shone with gaudy, dazzling colors, overwhelming the senses.

“I’m not sure if you’d have it here……” Offering a polite smile, Seo Mu-yeong asked, “Do you happen to sell straw cutters here too?”

Leaning his upper body over the counter, the owner nodded readily.

“Straw cutters? Of course we do. We’ve got them sorted over there by price range, so take your pick.”

Seo Mu-yeong walked over to where the proprietor was pointing. Straw cutters were piled high on one side of the room—the very twin blades that had once sliced open his grandmother’s feet, a hallmark proving the presence of a dwelling deity in a shaman. Paired blades of steel were mounted atop heavy cast-iron and wooden frames, set roughly a person’s shoulder-width apart.

Seo Mu-yeong selected one that wasn’t overly heavy. Pleased by such a swift decision, the proprietor broke into a broad grin.

“If you pay by bank transfer, I can sharpen the blades as a courtesy,” the shopkeeper offered. “How about it? Sound good?”

Seo Mu-yeong nodded. “Yes, let’s do that. Please grind them as sharp as you can—sharp enough to slice right through a pineapple in a single stroke.”

“That sharp? I don’t know who your master is, but they must possess extraordinary spiritual power.”

The proprietor shook his head in marvel. Seo Mu-yeong smiled so pleasantly that the corners of his eyes crinkled shut.

“Of course,” Seo Mu-yeong said, his tone sweet and unassuming. “My master is remarkably gifted.”

Yang Ui-ju’s house was located in a quiet suburb. Though situated within a detached housing community, the residences were spaced far apart, offering exceptional privacy.

Gently undulating hills were blanketed in manicured lawns and majestic ancient pines. Flanked by stone markers engraved with their names, ages, and origins, every single tree had thrived elsewhere for centuries before being uprooted and transplanted here.

Seo Mu-yeong looked up at Yang Ui-ju’s residence. Built from interlocking courses of red brick, the house projected a sharp, geometric modernity. The yard was paved seamlessly with white gravel, without so much as a single tuft of grass poking through.

Carrying the straw cutter, Seo Mu-yeong waited by the front entrance with an eager, fluttering anticipation. Time passed swiftly as he idly flipped through the introductory gut pamphlet he had brought from the shaman academy some time ago.

He should be arriving any minute now. Checking the time, Seo Mu-yeong pulled his cap lower and tugged his mask higher over his nose. This was to minimize any distinctive features Yang Ui-ju might recognize later when he returned in Choi Yook’s company.

People usually found it difficult to remember him, but when bound to a traumatic shock, they could never completely forget. Just like the nuns who had watched him revive when he was on the brink of death, or Choi Sijin when reunited with someone he had believed dead.

Before long, Yang Ui-ju arrived. Seated in the back of a Mercedes sedan, he had draped a suit jacket over the arm wrapped in bandages, so at a glance, there was no outward sign of injury. His expression was equally untroubled and immaculate, without the slightest trace of fatigue.

The disciple at the wheel stepped out first to unload the trunk. Whether the ritual bowls and candlesticks had been left behind at the traditional hanok, the only belongings brought to the residence were a stack of hanji paper and several shamanic robes. Opening the rear door, the disciple bowed deeply to Yang Ui-ju.

“Master, you haven’t eaten, so you must be famished,” the disciple began attentively. “I’ll prepare dinner right away. After that, I’ll arrange the shoe repairs—no, I’ll prepare catalogs so you can purchase new pairs. Then the dry cleaning, and we still have to keep searching for the dog, and the tree-logging issue you mentioned earlier……”

Yang Ui-ju cut him off coldly. “Enough. Be on your way.”

He stepped out onto the driveway without looking back. Flustered, the disciple wrung his hands together.

“Should I come back at dawn tomorrow, then?” the disciple pressed. “It happens to be my turn to change the consecrated water. The refrigerator is running low on groceries too—is there anything in particular you’d like to eat?”

Yang Ui-ju scowled. “Didn’t I say that’s enough? Don’t even think about coming until I call for you. I need to remain in quiet prayer alone.”

He took the hanji paper in one hand and the shamanic robes in the other. Scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the ground, the disciple stole hesitant glances at Yang Ui-ju.

“Excuse me, Master… but about my initiation rite, when might that be…?”

Yang Ui-ju dropped the belongings he had been carrying with a dull thud.

“Everything has its proper time, so why are you badgering me?” Yang Ui-ju snapped. “You are not ready yet.”

The disciple stammered desperately, “But back then, you clearly promised I would be the first. When I dug up the earth in the backyard… You told me you gave that task to me because I was trustworthy, didn’t you say…?”

Yang Ui-ju glared at the disciple as though passing sentence on a condemned man. Unable to finish his words, the disciple let his shoulders slump in defeat.

“I’m sorry, Master.”

Yang Ui-ju didn’t even deign to respond. Climbing into his peeling, faded van, the disciple drove away from the house.

Now Yang Ui-ju was entirely alone.