Saleos Sent to Paradise
After shattering Saleos's skull, we witnessed a sinister aura condensing, as if all the evil in the world had gathered into one. It thrashed desperately, like it was trying to crawl back to where it belonged, but in the end, it couldn't fulfill its wish and was dragged upward into the sky. To the radiant paradise beaming down. To a place where no demon could possibly exist. To the side of the Lord overflowing with forgiveness, mercy, and love—for a sinner who could never be forgiven. Saleos was no longer a demon.
"It's hard to believe we actually pulled it off."
The moment we rode the pit—now filling itself in with dirt and rock like an elevator—back up to the surface, S-man muttered it out of nowhere.
"Saleos is a pretty famous demon, right? Not as well-known as the major ones, sure, but still officially one of Solomon's 72 Demons. And we just... "
"Who gives a shit if it's impressive or pathetic? The point is, we got it to believe in Jesus and sent it to heaven."
"...Yeah, when you put it that way, you're right. It did end up in heaven, after all."
It didn't matter who it was. In front of Jesus, everyone was just a sinner. Repent, believe in Jesus, and you've got that one golden ticket to heaven. Sending someone who belonged there straight up—whether they turned out to be some big shot or a pillar of society—didn't change a damn thing.
"Still kinda bummed we didn't snag that bastard's hide, though. Could've made a Gucci bag outta it—worth more than hitting the lottery."
"A bag made from demon skin? Sounds more like it'd come with a curse attached."
"Perfect for offing those brand-obsessed assholes. Total crime with no trace."
I smacked my lips, staring at the spot where the lodge had stood—now perfectly filled in, without a single trace left behind. This healing camp was a total bust. No alligator skin, no client fee, not even any actual healing.
Come to think of it, this pisses me off. Am I just some errand-running machine?
Finally dragged my ass to a campsite for some R&R, and some demon bitch squatting at the base of the mountain picks a fight, ruining everything. And the real culprit? Doesn't take responsibility—just peaces out to heaven. Is this what they call consequence-free pleasure? Fuckin' asshole.
"Too bad we can't record this for the books. If we went public with 'We beat a demon with our bare hands,' even the Christian groups couldn't say shit."
"Forget it. They'd just call it fake, a show. We're not doing this crap for attention anyway, right?"
"Then why are we doing it?"
I smacked the back of S-man's head like he'd asked the dumbest question ever.
"Money, you idiot! Money! Money! You think the Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office runs on dick? The only point is getting paid to fix supernatural bullshit!"
With money, I could chow down on kongnamul gukbap or ramyeon whenever. Hell, someday I might even plop my own building right in the heart of Seoul. And for that? I needed cash. More jobs, more sinners, more supernatural crap! We'd swallow it all like a black hole to make bank. That's how you stack it.
"Tch, healing camp's a wash. Time to head down."
"Roger. Snow stopped ages ago, and smartphones are back online. Figured it was Saleos messing with us from the start."
"Hate those fuckers most. Blocking roads with fake-ass natural disasters? Jamming phone signals? Thinks it's in some horror flick cliché."
"Maybe King Chi thought that was the only way to get your attention, boss. Pretty high-level tsundere strat, if you ask me."
"We socially agreed to call that antisocial communication disorder."
Bantering about nothing on the way back to the car, I suddenly noticed the swords we'd been swinging were gone.
Makes sense. Weirder if ultimate weapons just hung around.
The Heaven-Piercing Demon Sword and S Calibur had served their purpose and returned to our 'cross.'
"Others might blab about this. How we handling that?"
"The folks you sent down first? Let 'em talk. No video, no pics—nobody's buying it."
Even if someone did believe them, no biggie. Saleos—itching to fully descend and set up shop here—was off to heaven. No evidence we'd even been there with Han Daeri and S-man.
We hopped in the pickup—working fine now—and headed down. At the base, we spotted a staffer stretching his stiff neck.
"Hey! You guys!"
"Floor it."
Vroooom!
S-man punched the gas, the truck surging past the guy lunging to grab us. Perfect crime sealed. The lodge locked-room murder? Vanished into eternal mystery.
Sorry, Grandpa—couldn't quite save your rep.
Then again, no real need. What good was upholding some Confucian boomer's honor after he yelled at a snot-nosed kid for not sharing a toy? Should've flipped the whole table, not just the tteokguk.
Too bad~
"Hm, hmm~ Uhmm~."
I leaned back in the passenger seat, eyes closed, humming a tuneless, offbeat nasal song. Faded old memories bubbled up like they'd been waiting for this.
The day I rejected God, grasped my life's framework, recognized the world's bullshit. Maybe I'd been tangled in this stuff since I was a kid.
Guess a quick flashback to the past wouldn't hurt.
No rush, though. I'd worked my ass off—hadn't even gotten real healing. Earned a break.
"Wake me when we hit Seoul."
"Got it."
**********
The Republic of Korea has one very special prison. Sure, 'special' prisons exist worldwide, but in a free democracy, having one like this was undeniably unique.
Its name: Cheongsim Prison.
Not well-known to civilians, but the nation's leader—swapping every five years—prison staff, and anyone connected to inmates knew all about it. Hell, it was so extraordinary, it sparked gossip nonstop among those in the know.
What united Cheongsim's inmates? Sly 'tongues.'
False prophets, cult leaders, possessed folks, self-proclaimed avatars of 'something.' All used cunning words to corrupt the innocent and weak, pushing unimaginable crimes or antisocial groups.
In a rule-of-law democracy, jailing folks without actual crimes? Sounds like China or North Korea shit. But Korea's leaders did it with grim resolve.
In a modern world teeming with mystics and sorcerers, you couldn't let fake ones loose among harmless civilians.
So they built a prison disguised as a military outpost—out of sight from outsiders and insiders. On tiny Gyodongdo Island next to Ganghwa, closer to North Korea than Baengnyeongdo. Perfect excuse: fortify against NK's mad preemptive strikes. And the closer to the front, the less eyes from anywhere—everyone sees the peninsula as a powder keg waiting to blow, the world's only armistice state.
Thus, Cheongsim Prison became an underground island fortress. An ironclad cage to eternally block sunlight from inhuman threats no society—or humanity—could ever release.
Guard Choi Seongpil—ex-special forces—grimaced, puffing his cigarette hard. Disguised as a military hotspot, nothing here leaked out. Inmates' lives were theirs to take, yet no guard had ever fired a shot.
Because inmates followed rules quietly? Nah. Fear outweighed any will to pull the trigger.
"Fuckin' hell, I can't take this anymore."
He chucked his half-smoked butt into the communal ashtray, cursing. This hellhole broke regular guards or soldiers—only perfectly honed spec-ops types lasted. Still, five or six griped daily. Himself included.
They itched to mow down every inmate, bomb the place flat—anything. Not for lack of orders, but fear crushed their will.
Spec-ops couldn't conquer it? Outsiders would laugh it off as a joke. But to them, it was agony. Serious prayers for salvation.
If only someone wiped these trash out for us. Dream come true.