Seeds of Discord
"...The night draws near, and one must prepare for the fight."
Silvester let his long silver hair spill over his coat as he strode forward. Waiting for him in the darkness, his beloved car flaunted its sleek, streamlined silhouette.
Every vampire of the Ireland Astate clan stood arrayed in formation. Their ranks looked for all the world like an army, yet the people passing through the parking lot never seemed to notice them; they walked past without a second glance and vanished into the night. It meant the vampires still enjoyed the protection of the Tetra Anax.
"My Lord. We understand your will."
"So we're supposed to fight so you can seize the Jinma seat for yourself."
The vampires spoke with open insolence. Their original Esquire, John Base—who should have succeeded when their Lord died—had rebelled against Shane's usurpation of the position and fled the clan. The ones who remained would have loved to do the same, but abandoning the Tetra Anax's protection meant a life of pure ruin.
They would never again be able to gather openly in a riverside parking lot like this. Even at night they could not walk freely. Catch a human—however weak—and get discovered, and vampire hunters or military police would put them down.
"Fine. If you don't like it, you're free to run right now."
"..."
"You say that knowing full well we can't."
Leaving the Tetra Anax's shield was annihilation for a vampire. For creatures who had already transcended death, annihilation was the ultimate agony. Since they were so hard to kill, how long would they have to crawl through the depths of ruin before death finally claimed them? Oppose a Jinma and ruin was the only end.
So they obeyed. Outwardly, at least, their obedience was flawless. There was nothing more to say.
"Then we will prepare."
The vampires moved to their positions. Moments later every one of them vanished. The distant roar of cars racing along the night roads drifted in. It was not quiet.
"Tch... Truly pathetic. Even for a Jinma."
Shane raised his arm. The veins along his forearm had turned black—clear evidence of the backlash from his failed attempt. He had tried to induce toxin conversion and only succeeded in poisoning himself.
"Damn it."
The hood of the Lamborghini Miura he leaned against crumpled under his weight. He had once been Esquire to Jinma Sepia. There was no reason he should fail to awaken a Jinma's power. Or rather, there should have been none. Yet Scar, the blood ability of the Venom line, was a fiendishly high-level power he simply could not wield.
Scar was the power to turn an opponent's blood into toxin by force of will alone. Once you were in the user's sight, evasion was impossible—and it was no half-measure poison. Even a Jinma would die. If every member of Ireland Astate could use it, the balance of power among the night's forces would have shifted long ago.
Even so, the fact that he—a Jinma—could not use it was a problem.
In the end he knew the truth: he was a Jinma in name only. The clan followed him only because they had watched the Juk-yo faction collapse; they did not truly accept him as Lord.
That was why he meant to take down the Jinma hunter. As Lord, his subordinates had no choice but to obey his commands! He would slaughter every last one of these insubordinate thralls if that was what it took to claim the Jinma hunter's head. Then, perhaps, he could finally secure a real place as a Jinma.
"Tch. And where the hell did this little rat crawl out from, huh?"
He lifted his kukri, ready to hurl it at the shadow walking in a straight line toward the Lamborghini Miura from behind him.
"No need for that."
"Hmph."
The other man had raised the white flag first; the fun drained out of it. Shane lowered the blade.
"What do you want, Inn?"
The visitor was Juk-yo's Esquire—Inn, who had become leader of the Juk-yo faction after Juk-yo's death. Most of the Juk-yo-line vampires had already withdrawn from the country, yet this one remained, unable to master his rage. No—not rage so much as a sense of mission. A sense of mission in a vampire was laughable, but without something like that, how did one endure an endless life? Ireland Astate itself had spent its long years enjoying the work of purging the colored races.
"You're not seriously asking me to hand over the Jinma hunter, are you?"
"No. One is enough for me. Just the little brat hanging around the Jinma hunter!"
"The brat, huh... As long as he doesn't get in the way, I don't care about a nobody like that. Go ahead—if you can take him."
"Thanks, Shane."
Inn bowed his head in gratitude for the gift of Se-geon. The fact that Inn still refused to acknowledge him as Jinma scraped at Shane's temper, but he held it in check. After all, even he lacked any real conviction that he was a Jinma. Until he brought down the Jinma hunter, he could never be sure.
But if he took Silvester the Jinma hunter's head, even the proudest Jinma would be forced to recognize him!
Pastor Yang Jun-il pushed himself up from the military field cot set up in his office.
"Mmmph... Is it already this late?"
He stretched while watching the sky outside the window flush red. Joints cracked and popped throughout his body; the pain was sharp. Even after what should have been enough sleep, his neck and every muscle felt stiff. The endless forced marches of recent days had left him buried under chronic fatigue.
He knew perfectly well that driving in this state—the kind of exhaustion that made sleep feel like no sleep at all—was a crime that endangered not only his own life but every passenger's.
But a single day of rest meant someone would go hungry.
So he opened the door of his office and stepped outside.
"Hm? What's going on?"
People turned to look at him. Their eyes held confusion, anxiety, and suspicion.
It was unthinkable. No—claiming it was unthinkable was pure arrogance. But it was certainly something that had never happened before. The atmosphere hung thick and heavy, like gunsmoke over a battlefield, and it only grew denser instead of clearing.
"What's the matter?"
The door opened and a girl came in, flushed with sweat. She wiped her forehead and held out a red backpack to her father.
"Ye-seon? What is this?"
"Open it."
"...Huh?"
The pastor's face went blank with shock. Inside, bills had been crammed in as carelessly as trash.
"Th-this is—?"
"It's from that man. The one you brought home before... He gave us this much money."
"Ah. R-really? How does someone so young come by a sum like this?"
Yang Jun-il felt his heart pound. The young man had looked dangerous no matter how you sliced it; the money could not be legitimate. Yet it was all cash. Using it would probably raise no real problems. Ah... Seeing something desirable and wanting it was only human. Even a clergyman—how could anyone look at this much money and feel nothing? Ten hours behind the wheel, picking up passenger after passenger until he was exhausted... After gas and maintenance, almost nothing remained.
Buy rice and instant noodles, pay the water and electric bills, and every last won was gone. Fellow pastors contributed offerings to help, but they were people who knew the bottom of the barrel themselves; he could not expect much. With money of this size he could send his hardworking daughter to school, clear the utilities, even repair the house.
"But we have to give it back."
He could not accept money of unknown origin. Later complications were one thing, but no one was going to die for lack of cash right now. He felt sorry for Ye-seon, yet better she graduate by self-study exam than attend school on tainted funds...
"B-but... Old Man Kim says he wants to see his children and is asking for bus fare."
"Hm?"
Old Man Kim had gambled away everything in his youth, fallen out with his family, and become homeless the previous winter—until Pastor Yang himself took him in. His family hated him so deeply they had abandoned him without a second thought and even moved away. Visiting them now would bring only cold scorn. He could not waste precious money on that. Above all, this money had to be returned!
"And that's not all—the kids' school fees are overdue too."
"Ah..."
Every child who could freely commute was attending elementary school. The PTA fee per child was under ten thousand won, but it added up. Seeds for the vegetable patch, fertilizer, repairs for the house wrecked by wind and rain, a new shovel to replace the one broken while digging—thinking about it, money drained away in every direction!
And everyone had clearly seen the money arrive. They all looked at the pastor with a certain expectation. Their lives had been so hard for so long that they hoped this sum might improve things...
"No! This money can't be used that way! We can't casually spend something received from a man of uncertain identity! Luckily I know where he lives, so I'll go return it."
"D-Dad!"
Ye-seon suddenly tried to stop him. She knew her father's words were right. Even so... even so, returning a fortune like this made no sense. This was no proper welfare facility, yet a real church stood behind it and Pastor Yang was a real pastor. They could not lead this many people without donations! Dirty money or not... once a donation came in, wasn't it legally theirs?
"Hm?"
But Pastor Yang turned back with a calm expression that asked what the fuss was about. Ah, how could anyone be so composed, so free of greed? Honestly, she was angry. She had quit school to care for the children, sitting for hours at the sewing machine mending old clothes and making bags, while girls her age went out on holidays, raved about celebrities, and met boyfriends.
She had never resented her father for that, yet why was he so utterly without desire? He knew how hard his daughter worked, yet he was so rigidly upright it was almost frightening.
"That's right! That boy, well, I don't know what he does, but he didn't look all that bad..."
An old woman stood up and began defending Se-geon's character without knowing a thing about him. The fact that he had so casually thrown this much money their way seemed proof enough that he couldn't be too terrible.
"But still..."
"I know. I'm sorry."
He stroked his daughter's hair and lifted the backpack. For a moment she gripped the strap hard, then her hand went limp and let go.
"W-wait! Pastor!"
"No. This money is not for us to use. So I'm sorry, everyone—please bear with it."
Pastor Yang spoke to the people and walked out. In the front yard Old Man Kim, who had been trimming branches, set down his pruning shears and approached with a servile smile.
"Pastor. Leaving already?"
"Ah, yes. It seems I have some early business today."
"I spoke to Ye-seon—did she tell you?"
Old Man Kim wore a greasy smile. The reek of liquor on his breath suggested he had found another bottle somewhere. He hadn't stolen the money inside or sold off goods, yet somehow the booze never ran dry. Maybe the rumor was true—that every morning he walked the mountain path to beg at coffee shops.
This was a man who had lived a dissolute youth and wasted everything; the scars still marked his face. He had confessed to knife fights in gambling dens and thug work. The traces of sin remained, and so, it seemed, did the inclination—he cast a crafty glance at the red backpack.
For a moment Pastor Yang thought how pitiful it was that a man who had weathered such storms could turn so base over a little money, then shook his head. He set personal feelings aside. As a pastor he simply did the best he could.
"I'm sorry, but this money isn't ours to use. I'm going to return it to its owner."
"Ah, Pastor. But..."
"Yes?"
"..."
The pastor's calm stare shut the old man's mouth.
"Anyway, he lives in Seoul—this is going to be a hassle..."
"...You little bastard."
"Excuse me?"
"You goddamn bastard. You think I'm some kind of fool?"
Old Man Kim muttered and picked up the pruning shears he had just dropped.
"You think I don't know what you're up to? Yeah—you look down on me, and that kid, and everything else, right?"
"..."
"I'm going to see my family. Who said anything about gambling? Or you think a man my age is out chasing women? Huh?"
"This is not money we can use."
"So... you won't even give me the bus fare? Huh? Just five hundred thousand. No—three hundred thousand! Come on! I... I don't want to do this either."
The old man's hand shook around the shears. But a man lost to gambling never forgets it even if you cut off his hands. If it had truly been bus fare he would never have named a sum like that. The pastor shook his head without a second thought and walked toward the taxi. That was when it happened.
Thud!
For an instant the pastor saw the world turn red. His face tore open; blood poured into his left eye and half the world went crimson. Incredibly, Old Man Kim had swung the shears at the very man who had once saved him from freezing to death in front of the station.
"Wh-what? Looking down on me?! When I was young I had a temper, you know! Huh! Just because I'm old now, some wet-behind-the-ears punk thinks he can ignore me?"
"Ah! Dad!"
Ye-seon stared in horror at her blood-soaked father. But Pastor Yang raised a hand to stop her, then fixed Old Man Kim with a hard stare.
"What are you glaring at me for—"
Before the sentence finished, Pastor Yang shot out a hand, seized the old man's wrist, and wrenched the pruning shears free. With a dull thunk the shears buried themselves in a pine trunk.
"...You've had too much to drink."
That was all Pastor Yang said before climbing into the taxi.
Se-geon had bought new weapons from Kenneth Yang: a USAS-12 already worn from previous use, fresh rounds for the newly acquired Beast, and various explosives for booby traps. A large-scale vampire assault within the next few days was a foregone conclusion; he needed to be ready.
Of course Silvester was the kind of man who would die before asking Se-geon for help. But if the vampires destroyed Arjuna, it would be a headache for Se-geon as well—and more than that, it would be an event where a great many vampires gathered in one place. The pure, fierce killing intent he felt toward vampires was the most intense emotion left to him. Without it he could barely feel alive.
"Well then—shall I go set things up early?"
Planting explosives in the middle of a city was not something a sane human did, yet a handful of vampire hunters facing a horde of vampires had no choice but to rely on explosives. Vampires under VT 10,000 possessed spatial awareness no better than a human's, so traps were devastatingly effective. If he could plant the bombs freely, ten of them or a hundred, the mongrels held no terror.
If he could plant them freely, that was. Se-geon was gathering his gear with that thought when an engine note drifted from the alley in front of the hideout. A mid-low rumble, yet lighter and brasher than a gasoline engine—the sound of a commercial taxi running on LPG.
"Damn it. Right—he already knew this place."
Se-geon muttered and looked around. Vaulting the wall and running was an option, but his bike was at the front gate, so that was out. He stepped onto the neglected flowerbed, climbed, and peered over the wall.
It was that taxi, all right. A man who woke up every morning already late for work, racing to a place that earned him not a single won... Well, after dumping that much money, if he had just gotten up and gone straight back to work he would have been an idiot. But why come here? To return it?
What an annoying human.
Yet contrary to the thought, Se-geon did not dislike the man much at all. Someone so good, so upright that looking at him made Se-geon ashamed of himself. The fact that he still wished for such a person's happiness was almost strange.
Hm?
Suddenly the smell of blood reached him. The instant it snapped him alert, Se-geon lightly vaulted the wall and ran toward the taxi.
"Ah!"
Even in the gathering dusk the bleeding stood out starkly!
The taxi driver sat in the driver's seat with a face soaked in blood. Se-geon had expected something like this. Dump that much cash into a place that wasn't even a major foundation and people would inevitably turn on each other. Yet seeing the result with his own eyes left him hollow. Who did he think he was—Mephistopheles, scattering seeds of evil among people for his own amusement?
"I came to return it."
The pastor got out of the car and held out the red backpack. Se-geon shook his head. Malice or none, he could not take it back. Accepting the return of something he had given was not his policy.
"I don't need it. Keep it. The money itself isn't legally problematic."
"Don't tell lies you can't even fool yourself with."
Pastor Yang sounded angry. In the alley where twilight was turning to full dark, the two men faced each other.
"Haa. Legally speaking, I myself am illegal, but the money is clean—no one will ever dig into it. Or are you saying the people you're protecting right now aren't precious enough for you to accept that sum just because there's a chance it's illegal?"
"...Money like this is a seed of discord."
"Is that so? Hmm. But I have no intention of taking it back. I don't need it."
Se-geon smiled at the blunt pastor. The pastor, equally blunt, kept holding out the backpack.
"...Of course I want it. With that I could repair the building, fix the broken washing machine, send my daughter to school. But even so... even so, I feel I must not take it."
"It was useless trash to me, so I gave it away. If you don't need it, I guess that's that."
Se-geon muttered, took the red backpack from the pastor's hands, and pulled out a Zippo.
Click!
The flint scraped and flame bloomed. Se-geon held it under the backpack and tossed the whole thing into a metal trash can.
"Wh-what are you—?!"
"..."
Se-geon was smiling. Crooked lips, empty eyes. And yet the smile was so captivating, so beautiful that, if this were not an emergency, one might have wanted to keep staring. But right now the money was burning.
"Ah!"
When he came back to himself, Pastor Yang was holding the backpack. It wasn't even his; he had only come to return it. Yet the thought of it burning filled him with such bottomless regret that his hands had moved on their own.
"...Aaaah. Th-this is..."
"Heh heh heh."
Se-geon laughed like a devil and swept back his green-dyed hair. The demonic aura was so strong that Pastor Yang flinched. This man was taking pleasure in corrupting someone else—like the devil in old stories who tempted and ruined saints... And yet the joy itself looked hollow and lonely.
"Looks like that money belongs to you after all."
Se-geon smiled at the pastor, then swung a leg over his bike.
"Hurry home. Or what? Is that amount still not enough for you?"
"I... I... I..."
"Hmph. So that's all you amount to in the end."
Se-geon let out a scornful snort, put on his helmet, and tore out of the alley at reckless speed. Pastor Yang Jun-il could only stand and stare after him like a fool. Even after that figure vanished... he simply stood there holding the half-burned money bag and watching.
Ah! In the end, neither I nor anyone else will ever be able to save that man!
Yang Jun-il despaired.