Dreams of the Corrupted
Even as the thought crossed his mind, Silvester lowered his eyes. He had felt it already in his encounter with the Jinma Phantom—against a vampire who had built real social power, you simply could not pick a fight. Unless the other side wanted war, there was nothing to be done.
That left only one option: hunt the executioners. Only powerful vampires who held significant rank within their clans were ever named as such. Kill an executioner, and you could make a Jinma angry enough to move.
Footsteps rose up the stairs. A moment later, a middle-aged man's voice carried down the hallway.
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
"Hmm."
The visitor was Song Deok-yeon. He, too, sensed by instinct that what was unfolding now was no ordinary crisis—for vampires and hunters alike. But that was not the only reason he had come.
"Ha. Busy day for visitors."
Silvester opened the door and stepped into the corridor as he spoke. Se-geon followed him out and shut the door behind them.
The city felt like a raccoon den someone had stirred with a stick. Gruesome murders were breaking out everywhere, and as a result the police riot units were on standby around the clock. There had been talk of calling in the military, but the National Assembly was in recess amid the usual brawl between ruling and opposition parties, and the president was abroad on a state visit. The media and public opinion were both running hot—yet the people with the authority to actually do something were not even in the country. That the police were at least moving was, under the circumstances, something to be grateful for.
"Hard at work, I see."
Still, he could not approve of the way they were inspecting vehicles at the tollgates. That thing was no longer human. What good did screening people do? Knowing that vampires wore human faces, the approach might have looked shrewd—but thanks to it, armed vampire hunters could not move freely either.
Puhk!
A young man blowing a bubble of gum frowned as he eyed the tollgate ahead. He was driving a large refrigerated truck, and he was a target for inspection like everyone else.
"We'll need to check your vehicle for a moment."
"Sure… appreciate the hard work."
For a truck driver his hair was rather long, falling over his right eye, but he paid it no mind and kept chewing, occasionally blowing another bubble when the urge struck. Five plain cylindrical rings lined his ear, making the entire pinna look as if it had been forged from metal. His face itself was sharp, almost refined, but his manner of speaking was ice-cold. The police, however, ignored the driver and opened the back of the truck. Inside there was nothing but cargo.
"You're clear."
"Yes, sir."
He restarted the engine and rolled forward. The moment he entered Seoul, he tore off his cap and steered the truck toward a parking garage.
A large sign at the multi-level garage warned that trucks and special vehicles were prohibited. Height restrictions kept heavy vehicles out. The refrigerated truck stopped just short of the exit. The driver opened the door, climbed down, and muttered to himself.
"Hmm. So it's true—they don't search inside a reefer. Nearly gave me a heart attack."
"Shut up. The goods arrived intact, I take it?"
Voices answered him as several people walked out from inside the garage. The driver only chuckled and blew another bubble.
"Hahaha. We cleared the checkpoint, so yeah—they're here. Pay the rest of the balance and I'll let you check the merchandise all you want."
They stiffened slightly at that, then brought out a large sports bag.
"Have a look."
"Hmm. Weight should be enough, right?"
He glanced over the group, then opened the bag. Inside was a trash bag, and through it he could make out stacks of ten-thousand-won notes. From the fuel tank housing on the side of the truck he produced a digital scale and actually weighed the bills.
"Close enough. Fine. Open the cargo hold and take your goods."
"Good."
They threw open the truck's cargo bay and hurriedly hauled out the crates. On the surface it looked like fish packed in ice—but they tossed the fish into a dumpster and dug deeper into the ice.
Shhhrrrak!
From under the ice spilled firearms of every kind: MP5s, M16A1s, M4A1 carbines, AUG-STEYRs. There was enough hardware to fully equip two squads—primary weapons, secondary weapons, even body armor to spare.
"Hmm. Excellent. To get this kind of arsenal in Korea…"
The clients looked thoroughly pleased. Of course they did—he had delivered standard-issue military weapons of every type.
"I'd prefer if you tried not to kill people with them, if you can help it. They are guns, after all."
He said it with a wry little grin as he stuffed the money back into the bag, then loaded it onto the truck.
Click-clack!
Behind him came the sound of magazines being chambered. The truck driver froze mid-motion.
"I'd advise against anything foolish. A gun without bullets is scrap metal. You've got rounds now, so they're useful—but think long-term, would you? Make an enemy of a competent arms dealer, and every one of those things in your hands turns into a paperweight. Makes a man wonder whether your kind even has the brains to think that far ahead."
"…"
A heavy silence settled. For a while the only sounds were water dripping from the pipes on the garage ceiling and the distant noise of traffic. The ones who had raised their weapons lowered the muzzles. Then the most presentable among them stepped forward and offered an apology.
"Just a little joke. But still… a 'competent arms dealer' really is something else. Standing there calm even with guns being loaded at your back."
"Isn't that the lesser issue? A human dealing with vampires is the real curiosity, don't you think?"
He turned as he spoke, his voice cold. Behind him stood people—no, vampires—with eyes that glowed blue.
"In any case, pointing a gun at an arms dealer's back is extremely unpleasant. So from now on I'll be charging you an extra ten percent. Just so you know."
"'From now on'?"
He said it so matter-of-factly the vampires almost laughed from sheer disbelief. Whether to call it nerve or pure ignorance was anyone's guess.
"We'll remember that, then."
The vampires spoke and moved off. Only once they had vanished did the arms dealer finally turn fully around and let out a long breath of relief.
"Hoo. These bastards… zero manners. I heard Hecate's spawn were revolting beyond measure—looks like the rumors weren't wrong."
He climbed into the truck and started the engine. The first deal with vampires had been a little tense, but he had been paid in full and the job was done. Success, by any measure.
Besides, a war between vampire clans would demand far more guns than any turf fight between organized crime outfits that still tried to keep firearms in check.
"Heh-heh-heh."
Far from feeling any guilt about arming vampires, the dealer hummed as he pressed the accelerator. The massive refrigerated truck rolled out of the garage.
"What did you just say?"
Se-geon stared at Song Deok-yeon in stunned disbelief.
"His name's Jung Jun… Special Forces, same as me. He was a captain when I was still in. After his family died in a fire he snapped and ended up in this world."
Song Deok-yeon explained as he watched the television. On the set in the second-floor living room of Arjuna, a special panel discussion was airing—experts from various fields invited to talk about the ongoing tragedy. The subject, of course, was the Corrupted.
"This is… footage filmed by a civilian who happened to witness the incident. It was shot on a camcorder, so please bear with the poor quality."
The image cut to Han River Citizens' Park. Whoever had been filming had leaned out from an apartment terrace with a camera; the distance was extreme and the picture was a blur. Trying to capture something far away at night, of course it had not come out cleanly. Even so, through the miserable quality, the camera had unmistakably caught something that was not human—a monster.
"This is the raw tape. No editing whatsoever."
"…"
The moment they saw it, everyone fell silent. Se-geon lifted the iced latte from the table and brought it to his lips.
"Making it onto broadcast… so the vampires still don't have their roots deep enough in this country."
"Sir?"
"If a vampire clan controlled the back channels of society, that never would have aired. Which, I suppose, is also why a Corrupted like that can run wild in the first place."
Silvester delivered the remark as if it bored him, then rose from his seat.
"We've reached the point where we can't just leave this alone. Shall we go?"
"Yes."
Se-geon stood without hesitation. Song Deok-yeon, still looking unsettled, shook his head.
"Ah… damn it! Fine, let's go! If that bastard dies, it'll be by my hand."
He shoved himself up, boots slamming the floor, and jammed his worn beret onto his head.
Vampires who sleep by day do not dream. Only when they sleep at night can they dream at all. To vampire hunters it is a meaningless scrap of vampire custom—but vampires who have lived far too long will sometimes seek sleep for no other reason than to dream.
Jung Jun, however, had not been a vampire long at all, and still he was dreaming. A Corrupted: even when he drank blood, it would not convert into his own VT. A mayfly's life, never knowing which day would be his last.
When the gas explosion brought the official residence down, a four-year-old child and his wife had been inside. How a concrete building that would have struggled to collapse even under composition charges had caved from a single LPG tank—blaming the construction company changed nothing. It was already too late. She had always waited for him, even when he barely came home at all.
The son born premature, always frail, always a source of quiet agony—the child who had once drawn tears from that hard Special Forces officer's face—had vanished into the roaring heat as well.
But tonight, for the first time in a long while, he dreamed of his wife. He remembered the courtship years: sitting formal and ramrod-straight in his ROTC dress uniform outside her house, waiting for her father's permission, drawing every eye in the neighborhood. President Park Chung-hee was already dead, but it was still the Fifth Republic, when a soldier's prestige ran high. A prospective officer in full kit occupying the alley was more than enough to startle a future father-in-law.
And yet his wife had been smiling. He had all but dragged her away, boasting without shame that he would make her happy—every empty promise in the book—and in the end he had not even managed to be there with her. For a child who had barely seen the world, he had done nothing but shuttle him from hospital to hospital. He had given them nothing.
And still, in the dream, she was laughing. Taking their child's tiny hand and coaxing, Daddy's leaving for work—say goodbye, and the boy would manage a clumsy little salute: Bye-bye, Daddy…
"KRAAAAGH!"
When he woke, it would have been a mercy if even a single tear had fallen. Nothing came from his eyes.
"Krrrrrruuu…!"
That thing could not speak human words. It was only a monster that hungered for human flesh.
In the thick dark of a tiny goshiwon room—Se-geon's prison—the only human trace was a family photograph set by the window: stiff-faced relatives gathered for a stiff portrait. Beyond that, the room was pure goshiwon, barren of any warmth that might have said a person lived here.
A space so narrow that lying down nearly filled it. And the closet along the wall was packed with nothing but instruments of slaughter.
Clack!
In the quiet, even the sound of the closet opening cracked like a thunderbolt. Se-geon flinched for a moment like a cat startled by lightning—then, when he touched the weapons inside, his hands were swift and unhesitating. Firearms amounted to two Tokarevs and nothing more; everything else was blades.
Even swords that were not silver could be useful against vampires simply by the bleeding they caused. The catch was that matching those monsters blade-to-blade meant you had to sacrifice just as much on your side. And the swords in Se-geon's room were training weapons; there was no guarantee they would stay whole if they actually had to cut bone and flesh.
"Still better than bare hands."
Se-geon muttered low and gathered up the knives. From below came the blare of a car horn—Song Deok-yeon, already out of patience, leaning on the horn in the alley.
"Get your ass out here already, you useless bastard! How heavy is that rear end that packing your gear takes this long?"
Bellowing like that in a residential alley was hardly the mark of a cultured citizen. From other rooms in the goshiwon, people leaned out their windows at the noise. The manager already looked on Se-geon with open distaste; eviction was only a matter of time. He could not stay glued to a goshiwon forever anyway—he would have to move. Se-geon thought as much and still frowned.
Mindful of the ones waiting, he simply vaulted out through the window. Jumping from a second-story height was not ideal for the knees, but Se-geon landed as quietly as a cat.
"Ohh!"
The goshiwon residents peering out their windows let out little gasps of admiration. Se-geon ignored their cheers and walked toward Song Deok-yeon's Pride waiting in the alley.
"It barely took any time. You can't even wait one minute without throwing a tantrum?"
Se-geon eyed the little Pride with open disapproval. No matter how confident he was on a motorcycle, after putting the RX-125 to rest like that he did not have the guts to take out the XR-250 he had only just bought. You could not scrap a bike before the ink on the registration had even dried.