I Too Had Fresh College Days Once
I too had those fresh, green college days. Well, not that they were actually fresh and green in the fun sense. My innate personality and anger issues meant I didn't have a wide circle of friends, and above all, as a poor early-20s kid who had to fend entirely for myself, I had no room to enjoy life. While others were supposedly partying equally and ditching exams and assignments during their first semester, mine was packed solid with part-time jobs. Can you believe it? Some folks were out living it up on the "freshman grades don't matter" mindset, and there I was, working at the very spots they were playing. I was half-envious sometimes. I wanted to blow off money worries, life worries, and just have fun too. The urges of a vigorous early-20s guy were that intense. But even those urges couldn't break my will to survive, so in the end, juggling jobs and school let me earn scholarships and living expenses—a total human victory. The problem? I blew my entire prime 20s getting that one win.
College events everyone attended? I skipped every one. If any seniors tried slipping me drinks or low-key threatening me, I'd swing right back. While those damn rich bastards were living it up on their parents' dime, money was always my top priority since my folks had turned into "we were there, but now we're gone."
Ah, money. The ultimate tool to make life happiest and richest, humanity's eternal companion. The massive pillar holding up existence, the mighty ship that braves any storm. Money's like the Infinity Gauntlet. That purple chin-monster was just a local thug until he snapped it on—then he became the world's biggest thug. I was one of those desperate to grab it too. But once I clutched that measly tail-end cash, I realized life was all pointless anyway.
Long story short: these snot-nosed kids who made a weird club, enjoyed college life, and made money? Way more impressive than me. They were just five or six years younger, but while I flushed those "five or six" years down the toilet, they were milking them steadily and efficiently.
"Think we did good filming the vlog? Subscribers are up lately!"
"Vlogging's fine, but watch your mouth, yeah? People always ruin it with loose lips."
"Ugh, duh, I know! It's not like this is my first rodeo~."
Choi Yeon-jun, president of the ghost story club gripping the rental car's wheel, gave a subtle warning. Lee Ji-ah, slouched in the back seat next to Park Seol-ha, brushed it off casually.
Our ride was a legit 8-seater van. The way-back was stuffed with gear, Lee Chan-young fiddled with his laptop alone in the middle-back, Park Seol-ha and Lee Ji-ah took the seats right behind the front, and naturally, Yeon-jun and I claimed shotgun and driver-side front.
Seoul to Gyeongbuk? Hop on the Gyeongbu Expressway and it's a breeze—not too long at all. Chuseok break? Sure, that'd suck. But post-Chuseok, with October breathing down our necks, we could floor it stress-free. Three hours tops. Maybe less.
During that easy drive, we naturally swapped life updates.
"Oh yeah, Mr. Han, you said you're the boss of that Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office—what kinda stuff have you handled exactly?"
Yeon-jun's question gave me pause. My resume was all over the place.
"Eh, this and that. Exorcised demons possessing people, solved mysteries at Machupicchu Amusement Park, caught a water grudge ghost that screamed sailors to death."
"Whoa! Just like in that mad movie vid—total pro!"
"C'mon, demons are hard to buy. That's Vatican-level, official exorcist priest stuff. We know that much."
Lee Ji-ah suddenly paused her vlogging to nitpick, leaving me a bit awkward. The "Mammon" takedown had no S-man filming, so no footage. But no point tanking my cred by admitting it.
"Can't prove it, but yeah, I exorcised it. No staff to record back then."
"Excommunicated by the Vatican or something?"
"Atheist."
"Liar! How's a non-ordained priest exorcising demons?"
"...Ji-ah, that's kinda rude, no?"
"It's fine. Normal not to believe a non-priest claiming demon exorcism."
Demons were a whole other league from grudge ghosts or evil gods in the spirit world. They were like gods: ancient as hell, with proper names tied to religions. Say someone drowns unjustly and turns vengeful—we lump 'em as "water grudge ghost," not "Aqua Beast, the Bloodied Blade Lurking in Silent Depths."
A name means power. Christianity's got Yahweh, Buddhism's Buddha, Islam's Allah. Millions chant, worship, boosting their authority. Religions thrive on follower count—pure power gap. Can you call a god with zero believers a real "god"? If all Christians dropped dead tomorrow, who'd praise Yahweh or Jesus? That's name power.
Demons? Satan, Beelzebub, Mephistopheles. Grab any rando—they'll spit those out. Famous! Known by tons, spread by tons. Demons outclass random ghost A or local evil god A bossing a neighborhood. More knowers, more terror—like gods with followers.
Ji-ah's skepticism was fair. Layfolk figure only pious exorcists handle demons. Not wrong, really.
"So, seeing anything now? Pro like you can share that much, right?"
"Now? Nah."
"Nothing at all? Not even a Freeway Ghost outside, or one tailing us in the rearview?"
"C'mon, those aren't dime-a-dozen. If spirits popped everywhere anytime, it'd be their world, not ours."
Crowded spots, yang energy thick, virtuous vibes strong—hard to spot spirits. Even common Freeway Ghosts stick to stretches; most ascend or get nabbed by reapers in time. Shamans sometimes soul-send passersby. "Normally," ghost-infested views are rare. Maybe at spots like our haunted hospital.
"Hmm, suuuper suspicious. 'Cause I'm feeling something!"
"Ji-ah......"
"It's cool. Makes me curious—what?"
"Dunno, gloomy vibe? Chilly? Someone watching us."
Generic stuff anyone could say. Spine-tingling chills! Weird stares! But I wasn't amateur enough to disappoint a client—I played along.
"Heard you had some divine sense—sharp intuition. Feeling that in a moving car means wide resonance, tuning multiple frequencies."
"Hehe, planning shaman descent post-grad. Empathy with ghosts? That's key, I think."
Total bullshit. Shamans don't empathize with spirits. Special constitutions let 'em feel grudges, but they don't buy ghost sob stories. Old wanderers lie like breathing, toying with the living. Blind empathy? Job's fucked. Fixable if it goes south, but possession? Game over, royally screwed.
Understand resentment, lingering ties—fine. Empathize? Shaman taboo.
"Anyway, nothing visible in here, but I get why it's a rental."
"Why?"
"Saw a ghost smashed into the front bumper pre-boarding. Someone plowed a pedestrian hard once."
"......"
The drive to Gyeongbuk got a little quieter.