The Iron Nail's Challenge
Back at the office after my Golgotha Mountain Jesus Jump, I brewed up a sweet mix coffee with a few ice cubes. This was the new horizon of iced coffee, Korea's unique coffee culture. Nothing like that cat-shit-scented crap picky assholes drink.
"Slurrrp. Ahh!"
There's that saying about freezing to death with an iced Americano, and yeah, I half-agree. Lounging on the office sofa with the electric heater blasting, sipping coffee at my leisure—it felt like I could reach heaven without even believing in Jesus.
The internet was still buzzing about some K-exorcist bullshit regarding me, but thanks to S-man's preemptive measures, the office phone didn't burst into flames. While I was gone, he'd swapped it out immediately and yanked the office location map from the homepage. So most netizens, who only knew about the Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office and Han Daeri, couldn't track me down even if they wanted to. Not like this illegal pop-up shop was registered with the government anyway—searching online turned up zilch. Plus, the office sat in that awkward spot just off Hongdae's main drags, making it even harder to find.
"Kinda sucks that all that drama only netted me fifty bucks a day."
Honestly, I could've easily charged five hundred, but having been a broke college kid myself, I couldn't bring myself to gouge those occult club members trying to spice up their bland university lives. Crushing their dreams would've been too pure-hearted of me. Still, next time, no mercy—I'd charge full price. I was crunching the coffee-soaked ice when—
Knock knock knock.
Someone rapped on the quiet evening office door.
"Come in."
Normally I'd post a "closed" sign this late, but today's me was feeling extra atmospheric, so I decided to take the late-night client. As I crunched ice and turned, in walked a middle-aged man in a pitch-black long coat and fedora. That outfit screamed old-school mob boss fashion—wild to see someone rocking it in modern times.
He approached wordlessly and sat on the sofa opposite me. No wasted movements, every gesture crisp and restrained, like he'd been pieced together from thousands of textbook pose photos.
"What's the business? Heads up, my rates just went up—no jobs for fifty a day anymore."
"You're Han Daeri of the Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office, right?"
"Would some random employee be lounging here leg-up, prying into client business?"
"Looks like it. Do you remember recent events—say, a few weeks back?"
"I remember what soup and ramen I ate."
"Assault on Park Dong-hyun, H Group chaebol third-gen. Assault on Lee Hye-seong, son of the current ruling party leader and four-term assemblyman. Assault on Choi Sang-jin. Assault on Kim Cheol-jin, son of the Education Minister. That you?"
"Don't remember."
Did those punks even have those names?
"No eyewitness testimonies panned out, all CCTVs glitched—no hard evidence. But the chairman's right-hand man insisted it was you. So we got that video of you just in time, showed it to the victims for cross-verification. They all ID'd you. No need for more testimony or proof."
"Ever hear of presumption of innocence?"
"A guy who voluntarily ditched his Korean citizenship talking law and rights? Hilarious."
"Ooh, you did your homework."
Practically no one knew I'd abandoned my Han Siwoo identity. The two priests who crumbled before me that day, maybe—but a third party tracking it down? First time.
"Couldn't figure why you ditched your social status, but key point: messing with you won't cause us any blowback. The chairman was furious—wanted you dragged in and kneecapped on the spot."
"C'mon, I turned a succession-line loser into a real loser. Shouldn't I get a thank-you? One less prince stirring up rebellion—profit for the H Group chairman, right?"
"Internal matter. Outsiders don't interfere. Sure, he's out of the succession line, but Park Dong-hyun is still royal family. Touching him is a challenge to H Group."
"So they send one old-timer like you to spook me and drag me back with threats?"
Even after a coffee, drowsiness hit. Too boring.
"You thought you'd touch royal family and walk free? Four of them, no less?"
"Legal punks whether one or four. I punched 'em—what, sue me? If you're salty, tell their dads to manage their bratty kids better."
My parents botched raising me, so they deserve the shade for unleashing a monster like me. Those deadbeat heirs running loose without leashes? Their fault. Even if it meant handing the pad-lip ammo to this guy, I'd never admit my side was wrong. My folks earned the diss, same as that H Group chairman turning his kid into a fuckup.
"Still not grasping it. Why do you think I'd risk coming alone to a rootless criminal like you?"
"'Cause you're sure you can threaten and kneecap me."
"...And you got the balls knowing that?"
"Congenital anger issues. If it's not me, it's not; if it is, it is. Problem is, anyone challenges that, I oppose just to spite 'em. Can't tolerate interference. You think I'd rush over groveling 'I repent, milord!'? Even beaten to death, nah. Body won't let me."
"......"
The man pondered silently, then set a small briefcase on the table.
"The chairman's confidant said if you refuse to cooperate, show you this."
"Kim Young-ran Act—no gifts over fifty grand."
"You're no civil servant."
"Living like one makes me half."
No fool thinks immortal sage life requires actual immortality. Eat, sleep, jerk off, game, booze—that's sage vibes. Live it, you're halfway there. Carry a cross, Golgotha-jump and self-nail: not Jesus, but Jesus-life.
Anyway, no reason to refuse, so I popped the briefcase locks and checked inside. Textbook says don't open traps, hand back—but I was bored shitless.
No bomb, cash stack, or hooker pics like expected. Just a single rusty iron nail.
Lifting it, I saw the thick, elongated shaft engraved lengthwise with tiny text:
If you truly possess the power of absolution, prove it yourself.
In occult circles, big nails symbolize bad shit. Old-school nails were basically thick stakes for brutal executions or torture. Plus, the nails that pinned Jesus Christ to the cross unto death? Symbol of killing God's son—pure evil.
Longinus's spear, checking Jesus's death on the cross, gets "holy spear" treatment in Christianity and media. But the nails that hung and pierced him? No "holy nails." Jesus's bloodied robe (Seamless Robe) is holy relic like the spear, yet the nails soaked in his blood, binding him to salvation duty? Weirdly unholy.
So in the trade, nails mark evil, devil worshipper badges. Ask Christians? We'd look nuts. Plenty unknown to the masses, though. At least, by my knowledge, blood-rusted big nails meant that.
"Interesting."
Instead of returning the nail, I pocketed it.
"Give me contact, directions, who to meet. I'll walk there myself."
"...You're insane. You choosing now?"
"If you wanted force, bring a truckload of goons. Send one powerless geezer for verbal threats, expect compliance? Usually not."
"That's why I'm solo."
"Busted another stuffy stereotype coming to our office—celebrate. No charge, now scram."
He grumbled but left a note with contact, address, and meetup deets before exiting.
The second the door shut, I texted S-man:
He challenged me to prove it? Fine. Korea's Golgotha—the royal family's castle—I'll climb it cross and all.