Flames of Regional Pride and Pandemonium's Whisper

But there's a country for sinners.

"Since ancient times... Gyeongsangbuk-do... was a bastion of patriotic conservatives...!"

"Isn't everywhere outside Seoul just overgrown jungle ruins with rocks tumbling around?"

"!"

If we're talking regional racism, count me out. To lifelong Seoul natives like me, anywhere else looks like a backwater dump. Talk of what this place is famous for or how great that spot is falls on deaf ears.

-Daejeon has Sungsimdang! Their bread is fucking delicious!

-For real? But Seoul bakeries are even better.

-Busan keeps you spinning for a week with pork stew and nakgopsae noodles without getting sick of it.

-For real? But Seoul's pork stew and nakgopsae are even better.

That's how it goes. Even Jeonju bibimbap can't top Jeonju Bibimbap Waffles—straight outta Seoul! Gangwon-do's famous potatoes? In Seoul, they're just booze snack french fry fodder! Seoul has everything you can imagine!

"You know why our family name is Han, Gas Can?"

",,,,,,?"

"It's from the 'Han' in Hanyang, the old Joseon capital everyone dreamed of living in. We're basically born-and-bred capital ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠folk from the start. Hell, maybe our great-great-grandpa's great-great-grandpa owned slaves with a snap of his fingers!"

I don't really know the family history, but I'll look it up someday. Might not be some dog-shit clan—could be prestigious like S-man's.

But slamming Seoul and Hanyang shut Gas Can Grandpa down on instinct. Old-timers have this weird inferiority complex toward Seoul natives. Back in the day, folks got beat just for speaking Seoul dialect in the provinces—regional trauma runs deep. To Joseon folk, Hanyang was where the king and yangban lords lived. To modern Koreans, Seoul's a land-value hellhole for the rich and chosen few.

"That Gas Can shit doesn't fly in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Seoul anymore, Grandpa. The good old days of Molotovs and gas can protests are long gone."

"I was... a democracy fighter... and a patriotic conservative...!"

Hoo, holding out against a Seoulite's 'land-value power'? I tossed him something a countryside grandpa like him could never have.

A business card reading Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office, Han Daeri.

"Got a legit business in Seoul, pulling in hundreds per job minimum—specs that hold up anywhere. Think you can handle me, Grandpa?"

"Ch, chi...!"

"Chi?"

"Traitorous Jap collaborator!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Gas Can Grandpa flipped from patriotic conservative to anti-Japanese mode, losing his shit. Seeing my wealth and status, he rationalized me as a sellout. Sure, red empire blood flows in me—but it's revolutionary blood.

Sensing no way out of this deathmatch, I grabbed a burning log from the campfire. In my other hand, bug spray—common even in late summer.

As he unlocked the pipe on his gas can and lit it, I sprayed over my flaming torch.

WHOOOOSH!!!!

We stood firm amid our man-made infernos, neither backing down. If I retreated, I'd be a straight-up Jap-selling traitor. If he did, he'd drop to conservative hardliner. Like moths to flame, we stared each other down, wreathed in fire.

Skin melted black, body moisture evaporating fast. Exposed flesh turned to charred coal first.

"Grandpa! I see your sin!"

"......"

"That day—today—you planned to torch this hospital with your gas can!"

"......"

"But you couldn't! The money they paid let you send your kid to college!"

He was bold enough for protests anywhere, even under riot cops and soldiers. But before zealot, he was a father. Deep down, he knew locking folks up for torture and death was insane—but family collapse and kids' dreams forced him to ditch his beliefs.

"The real hell-bound bastards are elsewhere! You don't deserve hell just for being born in this 'unfair' world!"

Of course, I'll personally send those bastards to heaven. Play with a toy, put it back in the box—not the trash.

"I... was the biggest hypocrite. Preaching justice, democracy, peace—powerless before money!"

"Who lives on bread alone? The world's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠full of buffet pigs picking what they want. Hypocrites by need or circumstance are a dime a dozen. If that's sin, don't build a world that breeds it!"

GULP GULP!WHOOSH~!

"My beliefs crumbled so easy—worthless, pathetic. Dead friends must be laughing from the afterlife."

"I'll send 'em all to heaven—reunion after decades up there."

"A scum like me... heaven-bound?"

"I'm witness and forgiver—who's gonna argue?"

I stood before the old man, now mostly ash, hard to find unblackened spots.

I pressed my fist to the gas can clutched in his dying grip.

"No more victims like you. I'll be the Jesus Punch."

BOOM!

The near-empty can popped, spraying shards. A bluish, holy flame flickered on my knuckles.

Glancing back, the village head was gone. But scum leave traces. His panicked footprints glowed like fluorescent paint toward the abandoned hospital.

I flashed my lightning-marked tongue at Lee Ji-ah secretly filming from the tent.

PZZZT! Her gear shorted out.

Had to—can't show that part casually. Club members might wake to the noise, but that's irrelevant.

No option for unrepentant sinners to flee in my book. Any sinner facing me repents, accepts Jesus, dies to heaven—or lives a bit longer, then heaven.

I raised my bluish, will-o'-wisp-like fist flame high, ascending the mountain silently. Black threads expanding from the hospital under night cover shriveled or burned at the light.

Crossing the fiercely burning woods, I reached the hospital. Soldiers blocked me.

"Th-this is a controlled... zone!"

"Who dares control my will?"

I advanced on the rifleman, melting his gun with flame. He knelt.

"I am a sinner."

"Why call yourself sinner?"

"I aided trapping innocents alive here, dead out."

"Paid?"

"Yes."

"Then you're no sinner."

"......?"

"Those who forced the choice are."

"Ah."

"Believe in Jesus. He'll take partial blame for your life—heaven awaits."

I laid my burning hand on his head. Black aura vanished in translucent smoke.

Entering the lobby, nurses blocked me. I made them repent, believe.

In the exam room, doctor and torturer bowed. Repent, believe.

In the ward, the entity caging innocents like vermin for decades emerged via village head.

Decades ago, this hospital director favored occult over primitive medicine. A weirdo stays harmless—till he cracked Pandora's box with power.

"Repent your sins now?"

"Believe in Jesus, go to heaven?"

"Then eat dirt, you fucking bastard."

CRUNCH!

The village head's head—puppeted by black threads—smashed center-floor like a marionette.

I grabbed his collar with burning ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hand, slamming him onto a patient bed. Bible in the other.

"Exorcism ritual starts now."

I yanked down ceiling threads. Hospital director's filthy soul—fused to the building—and victims' memories peeled like old wallpaper.

No hiding, it crammed into the safest spot: village head.

As it sealed itself, I gripped its throat.

"I know you, your sins. By human authority, name your master."

I slammed the thrashing thing bed-ward, asked again.

"Refuse your master's name? I'll repaint heaven's gates with your blood, fertilize its gardens with your guts, carpet the entrance with your skin. Once more: who do you serve?"

All light vanished. My fist's blue flame, its mad-glinting eyes—gone.

From void darker than abyss, deeper than pit, I pulled my pocket watch. No ticks.

Instead, an unexpected voice echoed from afar.

"I am the corruption of all rulers, source of their stench, advocate of the 'worthless.' Now I know you. Now we all know you."

I looked down at my feet, ablaze in crimson inferno. Below: a dazzling golden fortress too vast for human eyes.