Time for an Investigation
“Hup—cha!”
Having scrutinized every detail with the eyes of a hawk and finally sent off the completed feel-good article, Gak Dusic stretched languidly.
Now I won’t get nagged for a while.
He’d delivered the “heartwarming tale” they wanted, so for the time being, the pressure to churn out more pieces would ease. With a sigh of relief, he exhaled deeply.
In truth, compared to other reporters, Gak Dusic faced less heat even amid his recent string of flops. That was because he’d always taken on the cases everyone else shunned.
The kind that ruffled feathers when dug into—incidents that made the powerful uncomfortable. The so-called “higher-ups” with their money, influence, and muscle hated it when he poked into their big scandals. He’d toiled alone, reporting diligently, occasionally fending off threats.
Bro says it’s not some noble mission to reveal the truth—it’s just my contrarian streak.
Gak Dusic half-agreed. The more someone told him not to, the harder he charged in—a trait straight from his great-grandfather, or so his father shook his head over.
Thanks to tackling those thankless jobs, he’d gained plenty. His byline—“Gak Dusic, Daily World News”—carried weight now, drawing quiet allies from the shadows.
As he threw himself into the fray without holding back, help emerged from unexpected corners: tips whispered in dim alleys, documents “accidentally” dropped his way.
And those who’d scream at any other reporter—“Get the fuck out, you rotten scum! I ain’t telling you shit, you fake-news hacks!”—spraying salt in their faces, or ranting, “Oh yeah? They call you ‘dog-shit journalists’ now? Wanna taste the real thing, you mutts?!” while dumping chamber pot filth from an old outhouse...
Yet when Gak Dusic handed over his card with a polite bow, they’d squint, hawk a loogie, wipe their nose, and mutter, “Hmph. Well, come on in then. Water? Tea? Coffee?” gesturing him inside.
Of course, it wasn’t all sunshine. Unearthing buried secrets made him a thorn in many sides. Even with his iron guts—like his brother’s—fear crept in sometimes.
Like kneeling bound in a derelict yard, a pit big enough for a body yawning before him, a sledgehammer slamming the ground inches from his face—thud! thud!
Or stuffed in a drum barrel at a stalled construction site over unpaid wages, watching thick concrete ooze from a ready-mix truck’s chute.
He’d escaped those by sheer luck—help from the unlikeliest sources. A gaggle of college kids on a haunted house dare, live-streaming: “Whoa, what’s this? Movie shoot? Or are you actually burying someone?!” Shoving phones in faces: “Holy shit, can you see this?!”
Or low-level gangsters with tools, enforcing a lien on the half-built site: “The hell you punks? Lookin’ all scrawny—Ogeori crew? Hey, didn’t ya hear from up top? This is ours now!” Cracking knuckles, swinging pipes.
That’s how Gak Dusic slipped free, kept writing. His newsroom nicknames evolved: “Insanely lucky bastard,” “Nine lives,” then—riffing off brother Gak Il-sik’s “Physics Fairy”—he became the “Luck Fairy.”
Great-grandpa was the same, they say.
That rebel ancestor tangled in all sorts, always finding an out when death loomed.
...Huh. Maybe that shaman was right—a guardian spirit’s got my back.
Gak Dusic chuckled. Even if true, he wouldn’t bank on it. The feel-good assignment? Just a breather. But wholesome stories proved scarce, drawing grumbles from above.
Anyway, vacation time.
Leaning back, eyes closed—then snapping open at a sudden thought.
The hospital where streamer Coronodon’s brother lay. Happiness Nursing Hospital. Something about it nagged.
Right, I remember now.
Patient care seemed solid—no elder abuse scandals like other nursing homes. Sure, a recent elevator plunge injured two badly, but accidents happen anywhere.
But—
Happiness Nursing Hospital Chairman Kim Byung-gi. Shady as hell.
On paper, a rags-to-riches tale: tenant farmer’s son clawing to hospital magnate through grit.
Yet haunted by his roots, exploding in inferiority-fueled rages.
Connections everywhere to cover it—tight with politicians, chummy with chaebol bosses, tangled with celebs...
Recalling the rumors, Gak Dusic paused.
Coronodon’s brother’s accident—11 years back. Perpetrator still footing bills.
A chaebol chairman buddy with Kim Byung-gi...
Threads connecting in his mind. He tapped the keyboard.
“Bingo.”
Suspicion darkened his eyes.
Rumors the driver didn’t crash—the guy covered for Jeong Kyung-rok.
No dashcam, witnesses, CCTV—dark road. Victim vegetative, perp connected. Twisting evidence? Child’s play.
Same old corrupt bullshit.
Gak Dusic tapped a monitor photo: a smirking man baring white teeth.
Jeong Kyung-rok, black sheep racking up scandals, now rising while golden-boy brother sidelined by his own crash.
“Accident, huh...”
He brewed strong coffee, chugged it to sharpen his mind.
This needs investigating.
“Ha. Ha! Dodged. It!!”
A black mass lunged from nowhere. Gwangjeong startled but dodged nimbly.
“Take. This!”
Blasting light stiffened it rigid.
“Evil spirit. Weaker. Than. Me. Know your. Place!”
Humming, Gwangjeong balled the writhing black thing—like a worm in hot sun—into a sphere.
It reminded him of something.
“Evil spirit. Delusion. Pouch. Looks like. That.”
Smaller, but akin to an evil spirit’s core. Wrapping it in light, he glanced at the “spoiled one”—and blinked.
“Huh. Not. Spoiled. Anymore?”
No more human-tainted stink; back to kin-form.
“Hear me? Hear?”
“Uh... ah...”
A faint groan; it shuddered, eyeing Gwangjeong anxiously.
“Where. Am I? Who. Am... I...”
Gwangjeong approached, soothing whispers.
“It’s. Okay. Fine.”
Sharing a sliver of his master’s qi—precious, but earned: witnessed events, snagged this pouch. He’d replenish later.
“Ah... clean. Pure. Thank. You...”
Revived, gratitude shone—then it faded.
“I. Rest now... Thanks... Later... Repay...”
“Yes. Later. Repay. For sure.”
Bidding farewell as it merged with nature, Gwangjeong pondered.
Keep watch? Report? He chose.
“Delusion. Pouch. Master. Needs. Report. First.”
Nodding, he vanished.
Aigoo, they’re eating well. Stuffing my face just watching everyone on stream chow down happily.
Mom and Bin-i on screen? Heart-melting—market folk and viewers pampering them.
Crowds beaming, helping with meals. Obvious, but: they’ve thrived without me. No more tears, just smiles.
In Dark Heavenly Realm’s spare moments, I’d worried. Hoped they were okay.
[Here it comes at last! You’ve waited! Dotdomtang! One clear broth, one spicy—for tastes! Spicy has handmade dumplings, of course!]
Ah, spicy with dumplings? Irresistible. Hot, tangy broth, chewy dough... Yum!
“I’m. Back!”
Oh? Gwangjeong returns, weary.
Hwa-jeong, Pung-jeong, Su-jeong swarm curiously.
“What. Happened?”
“Tired? What?”
“What’s. That?”
Worried tilts; I’m curious too.
“Saw. Spoiled. One.”
[Spoiled one?]
“Spoiled. Ones. Reek. Of humans. Too close.”
Got it.
“But this. Time. Different.”
Beaming, he held up a tiny delusion pouch—pea-sized vs. walnut-norm, still sour-faced head.
“From. Inside. Spoiled one. It. Attacked me.”
“Scary!”
“Okay? No weird?”
“We. Help. What happened?”
Spirits flock alarmed. Gwangjeong struts.
“I. Blasted. Evil spirit. Boom! Fine! Made. This. Myself.”
Preening, expectant eyes on me.
“Pound. Like. Last time?”
[Yeah.]
He thwacked firmly from the start.
“See. Like. Before?”
[Death cause maybe, but why in nature spirit? Probably not.]
“Why?”
[Evil from pre-death obsessions.]
“After. Evil? Unknown?”
[Yes.]
Face crumples, lips part—ignore, pound on. Smoky haze wavers atop head.
Watching...
Hmm. As expected—only lifetime memories. Post-resentful/evil? Blank.
But True Truth Village glimpse? Unpleasant as hell.