Eight Black Threads

Hmm. So they're watching? Ghosts… ghosts?

If the mission window was telling the truth, ghosts actually existed in this world. The shaman's power earlier had been real too — the thought sent a sudden chill racing over my skin. I glanced around the room.

A soft scrape of fabric. Goosebumps prickled up my arms. I rubbed them absently, and once again that cool clarity washed through my head, sweeping the fear away.

Mental protection. How many times today had that same cool sensation settled my mind?

A pure white spirit pill. Smaller than the one from the dream, but unmistakably the same kind. I picked it up and put it in my mouth.

Just this once. Open Soul Eyes, then never open them again. Never again.

The ghost problem would solve itself if I simply never used Soul Eyes after this. Since this mission was chained to the revenge quest, I would do exactly as instructed.

That same flash of light that had torn through my mind in the dream came roaring back, and I felt my soul expand. Enormous pleasure and catharsis. A surge of exaltation rose from the base of my neck and flooded my brain. A kind of ecstasy entirely different from sex crashed over me.

Ah… this fullness. This high.

It did not last long.

Disappointment. A hollow sense of loss.

I let out a long breath and gripped the dagger.

A plain dagger of deep brown wood, nothing remarkable at first glance. Lightning-patterned grain ran against the natural rings of the wood. Roughly twenty centimeters long, edged on one side — more of a short sword than a dagger, really — though a closer look showed a faint edge along the spine as well.

Soul Eyes.

Knowledge had flooded in with that expansion of my mind, so I opened them by will alone. I scanned the room. Nothing unusual. No ghosts. But there they were — eight black threads, as if connected to the crown of my own head.

Threads stretching out in every direction.

Eight strands. Eight cousins on my mother's side. Don't tell me they've still been siphoning from me all this time?

The coincidence was too perfect. I had only just learned about the talent-theft ritual, and the moment I opened Soul Eyes, these black threads appeared.

I thrust out my hand, willing myself hard to seize one of them — and one of them truly came into my grip.

This one… Seong-cheol?

The eldest son of the family. His face flickered past for an instant.

The thread was soft and elastic, stretching like a rubber band when I pulled. Without hesitation I brought the blade to it. It parted with almost no resistance.

In that instant, a white mass burst from the severed end and was sucked straight into the length I still held.

Ah—!

The white mass that raced down the thread delivered that same exaltation and pleasure all over again. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Drunk on the sensation, I cut the rest as the high began to fade — Na-jeong's, Na-yeong's, Myeong-cheol's — until ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠only four threads remained before my eyes.

Four strands clustered in a single direction.

A-reum… A-hui… these two…

I remembered the aunt who had always boasted how clever they were. How clever could a first- or second-grader really be? But she had put them in English academy, and they had climbed the classes so fast they were already managing simple conversation.

Cut them. Their own abilities are one thing… but this is my soul.

The faces of the adorable twins rose in my mind. I squeezed my eyes shut and severed the threads one by one. Then, still riding the high, I cut the remaining two — Jeong-cheol's and Na-hui's, the son and daughter of the other aunt. Without hesitation.

Like an addict chasing a fix, I kept cutting the moment the pleasure began to ebb. None of them took more than ten seconds.

So this is what reclaiming a stolen soul feels like.

Severing all eight strands had taken less than three minutes, yet every surge of exaltation had stretched out long and deep.

Then the hollowness returned.

When would I ever feel this again? I wanted that spiritual high once more.

It would not come easily.

Dagger unsummon. Soul Eyes off.

The blade vanished from my hand.

I was sitting blankly in the chair when the chime rang out again.

Aren't you giving me a few too many missions in one day?

I'm supposed to have sex with my aunt?

Lately, whenever the two of us were alone, she had been doing yoga. For years I had never once thought of her as a sexual object, so I had watched her with complete indifference. No — more than indifference. I had figured she was losing her mind over Uncle's affairs, working out her rage that way.

So that's why the hysterics got worse?

Come to think of it, when I told her earlier that I had signed a lease on a room, her reaction had not been scolding so much as disappointment. The sighs, the trembling eyes. She had seemed angry, but she had kept glancing at my face the whole time. The memories reorganized themselves into a new shape.

In that case, clearing the three conditions would be easy.

She had planned to make me her slave — so the thought struck me hard: I would reverse it and make her mine instead.

Michael's video rose in my mind. Soft SM. The way Black Michael in that folder had handled three women at once.

I pictured treating Park Hyeon-ju and Jo Eun-hui the same way Michael had. Park Hyeon-ju declaring her submission and living as my slave. Training her until she smiled even while I slapped her face, until she obeyed me absolutely, until she would strip outdoors the moment I ordered it.

Park Hyeon-ju and Jo Eun-hui. They had grown up in the same village, were the same age, birthdays only two days apart — and they looked a great deal alike. Both of them tough, high-pride women.

Those women… as my slaves?

My cock twitched hard.

I would film them the way those videos did, and someday, once cousin Jeong-cheol came of age, I would show the footage to Uncle Myeong-hak and to Jeong-cheol himself. Their wife. Their mother. Living as slaves.

Wouldn't that be perfect revenge?

The vague, aching feelings I had carried for her as a boy. That only made the hunger for her climb higher. The thirst for revenge, and the soft-edged memory of how she had looked back then.

So this is what revenge is. Fuck every woman on my mother's side of the family.

But I did not want that.

Park Hyeon-ju and Aunt Jo Eun-hui were decent-looking enough. The other two aunts and their daughters were not. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠cousins' wives were not my type either. The sisters-in-law especially — what had they done wrong? Married in only a year or two ago. I would leave them out.

Then the conflict set in. Even if they were not my type, was it better to take them, enslave them, film it, and show the men of this family? Or better to skip the ones outside my taste?

I'm going crazy too. One day in and I'm already treating turning people into slaves like it's normal.

Taste versus revenge.

Which was better?

What the head ordered?

What the cock ordered?

My head throbbed. I opened the window and let the cold air hit my face.

I must have sat there blankly for a good thirty minutes. After thinking it through, I opened the wardrobe drawer and pulled out a pair of shorts I had bought and barely ever worn.

The bulge was too bad to wear them. It'll be even worse now.

Sports-brand shorts I had bought for soccer. I had spent real money on them — good sweat-wicking fabric, light enough that you barely felt them on. But the material meant I could not try them on in the store, and once I put them on at home I had given up.

I stripped off the jeans and underwear I was wearing. When I pulled the shorts on, the outline was unmistakable. No underwear underneath made it worse — the thick head of my cock stood out in clear relief.

Holy hell. Absolutely cannot wear these outside.

It sat there like a snake coiled in the fabric, advertising its presence. Since I was putting on a show anyway, I paired it with a short shirt that left my lower body completely unhidden, then emptied the pockets of my jeans.

Toss them in the laundry basket like it's nothing.

I glanced at the desk, shut the laptop, opened the door, and walked out with the clothes in hand. My aunt was watching TV.

A comedy variety show. She had been lying down laughing, then sat up in a hurry. When I stepped into the living room, she turned her head.

Whether it was the Acting trait I had gotten from Hye-yun or something else, I was reading the situation with perfect calm and moving as if nothing were unusual. Same as always, I carried the clothes toward the laundry room off the kitchen — holding them on the side opposite the bulge, so the view would be clear. I had already mapped the path and angled myself for maximum visibility.

I snuck a glance. She was staring at me, blank.

I dropped the clothes in the basket, then stood facing the living room as if watching the TV, pulled out a cup, and poured myself cold water. My aunt gave an awkward little laugh and fled into her room.

What the hell? Did the mission get this wrong? Now I just look like a pervert…

That was not a woman in heat. That was a woman panicking and running away.

Sudden shame hit me. I hurried back into my room, sat at the desk, and raked my hands through my hair.

Then a knock sounded at the door.

Knock knock.

"Yeah?"

"Ian. Come have a beer with your aunt."

"Huh? Oh — okay."