Clash at the Square of the Bards

I'd kill Cheese the moment I saw him, but for now, I stood in front of a massive three-story bar with a rather upscale sign reading Square of the Bards. No way in hell was this some peaceful plaza where pretentious scholars chuckled and recited sijo poems. It was obviously just a crime syndicate's attempt to look as harmless as possible. You know how it is—gangs like Twin Axes or Dodongpa sound too dangerous, so the cops keep a close eye on them. But if your outfit's called something like I Don't Wanna Go Home, I Wanna Fuck, it doesn't scream threat. People just think it's a den of lunatics. In that sense, these assholes with their fancy Square of the Bards sign knew exactly how to dodge the authorities' gaze.

From scanning their sins while taking out the grunts, I gathered this was one of the factions rooted in Italy. The boss here, Kim Domino, was said to be a sharp operator. Kim Domino—early forties, real name Kim Domi. He'd changed it to "Domino" while running with the mafia over there. No wonder the whole organization reeked of cheese; their boss was the king of cheese himself. This is why I can't trust Italians. Pasta! Pizza! Cheese! Olive oil! A whole country full of shit that doesn't go with ramyeon. As of today, I'm revoking my neutral stance with Italy and declaring open hostility. Any defense of or pandering to Italy will be seen as an attack on me, and I'll respond with extreme prejudice.

I planted myself in front of the firmly shut entrance to the Square of the Bards. True to their Italian mafia roots, they had some old-world taste—the massive doors were engraved with two angels blowing trumpets, so tacky it made me want to puke. Still, being a polite civilized man, I grabbed the metal knocker and pounded away.

"I'm a proud son of Korea, lover of kimchi and ramyeon!"

Bang bang ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bang!

"I'm Han Daeri, owner of the Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office on Hongdae Street!"

Bang bang bang!

"I'm a bluebird spreading Jesus's good word, and a guide sending folks—man, woman, old, young—to heaven however the fuck I please!"

Knock knock knock.

"Then I'm just a humble million-dollar man."

The door swung open, and the wide first-floor hall of the bar greeted me with dozens of gangsters glaring murderously.

"This place stinks of cheese. You fuckers sit here all day chugging cheap booze and scarfing cheese or what? If you're gonna rip off customers, at least run a proper bar."

"This pint-sized shithead. Do you even know where you are, flapping your gums...?"

"Hey, you fucking prick. Your mouth ain't just for eating cheese either. Every Korean man has the right to free speech, deep kisses, and blowjobs."

I smashed the face of some poser lounging at a table into the wood. From the back, slow, deliberate claps echoed out.

"Hey, Domino's Pizza. I said wait upstairs, didn't I?"

"I've crushed every bastard who's ever mocked my name. But in Italy, no one dared. That's how I bonded with them quick, became brothers. Now I'm grinding my bones here for my brothers, so crushing anyone who gets in the way—man or woman—feels damn good."

Especially if it's a woman—after a taste, of course. Kim Domino spat out the unnecessary footnote as he settled on the grand staircase linking the first and second floors.

"Charging in here solo means you've got some backing, right? We already know you're the owner of that piss-ant Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office. Heard you caused a ruckus at that underground bar too. Holding your own in Hongdae ain't easy. Even with that old hag's protection—she's like the pillar of this street."

"What you think of me ain't my business. You touched something you absolutely shouldn't have today. Now I'll punish you, so take it sweet, repent, and head to heaven."

"Heh heh heh! Crazy fuck just like they say. Fine, let's hear your grand reason. What kinda brain lets you waltz in here alone?"

"You touched my ramyeon."

"...What?"

"You cheese-munching fuckers touched my ramyeon. No one's ever laid a hand on my ramyeon and lived. You're next."

Kim Domino dragged a chair to the wide landing and sat, his face twisting in fury.

"This guy's actually insane?"

"Great men always get called lunatics by dumbass monkeys. I'm a pioneer opening new horizons for ramyeon, a dreamer of 2+1 utopia where ramyeon and tteok fuck to make more ramyeon. How could a sparrow understand a phoenix?"

"Enough. A million-dollar bounty on your head had me curious to see your face, but you're just a nutjob. Boys, what're you waiting for? Guest says he hasn't taken his meds—give him a good clubbing instead. Better than pills!"

Some fifty thugs charged. A few without weapons at first, but their sins showed they were dabblers in dirty sorcery and taboo rites. On Korean soil, they're called mystic sorcerers.

"Gotta hand it to you for the timing. Our elite boys are out on a job. If they were here, you'd learn physical pain beats mental any day."

"Is your tongue that long just for licking cheese?"

"...What?"

"You reek of cheese—shut your piehole."

"Yo, half-kill that fucker and drag him here."

"Pissed off yet, you psycho?"

I slipped on my gleaming golden knuckle duster with my right hand and pulled a sealed grimoire with my left—my Google Books for any sorcery questions.

"Charge!"

One barked it cockily, and they vaulted tables and chairs, swarming from all sides. But ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠before the armed ones reached me, curses slithered into my body. From the rear, faint whispers channeled malice through cursed objects, piling on their intent.

One curse stacks, then another, then more—suddenly it's no ordinary hex. Like a cocktail, mixed curses birth something new and vile. Fail to block from the start, and unraveling it gets hellish. Not just tangled knots; they're welded together, impossible to untie normally.

Questioning how to repel the compound curse, my grimoire's pages flipped wildly. Ancient Latin shifted to crisp Korean—I skimmed and grasped the essence. In short: when myriad curses ravage with varied effects, don't force them out. Absorb them fully via your body as medium. Refine the cocktail into a single essence, then hurl it as baleful qi at foes.

The curses invading me wrought debilitation, bleeding, necrosis, organ failure. Piled on one man, even ER docs couldn't save you—you'd be a living corpse. These million-dollar hunters couldn't grasp that basic fact, flinging curses willy-nilly. Means they're all green.

To gather curses inward, heart must race, blood pump fast. Curses spread like viruses; time lets them overrun. True masters curse that way from the jump.

Then first, heat up the body.

I took a steel pipe straight ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to the forehead without dodging. It rattled my brain, but that's just a wake-up call to hustle. Human bodies pump adrenaline, tense muscles, surge blood under threat.

"Heh, this retard can't dodge one?!"

"Can't dodge? Eat it!"

Another thug slashed my side with a jackknife. Cold steel burned hot—but still not enough. Faster! Fiercer! Bolder! More blood must cycle for the curses—debilitation, bleeding, necrosis, organ failure—to fully rampage.

"Big talk for a nobody!"

"Rip him to shreds!"

"Our vanguard got wrecked by this cumrag? Pathetic!"

The Square of the Bards thugs encircled me, unleashing every ounce of violence: kicks, punches, slashes, clubs, curses. I endured silently, like Jesus nailed to the cross. Self-defense was ironclad; foul energies piled around me. The condensed curses couldn't defy my will—they converged at my fingertips.

Eyes snapping open, I stepped forward amid the black-reeking aura, ignoring the encirclement.