The Vatican's Buried Secrets
Among the ancient branches of Christianity, standing alongside the Orthodox Church as one of the oldest sects, the Vatican—centered on Catholicism—harbored countless secrets. Secrets they had to hide from the world, secrets they concealed even from themselves, and sometimes, in a blasphemous twist, the stains of the world (sins) that had to be buried so as not to offend His gaze.
Regardless, as one of Christianity's premier denominations, as venerable as the Orthodox, Catholicism had eyes and ears—and faithful—scattered across the globe. Before the internet blanketed the world, they gathered intelligence through human couriers, carrier pigeons, or ships hauling physical data. But as wireless communication advanced and the web proliferated, they adapted. Wherever a phone signal pierced, no matter how deep or treacherous the wilderness, their eyes and ears were there, their loyal limbs ready to act where needed. In the Middle East, where religious strife raged fiercest; in Africa, too busy with civil wars to bother with faith; in South America, worshiping crime and drugs as idols; in China and Russia, crushing all underfoot to deify living men—they were always where they needed to be.
Yet even the Vatican found one nation profoundly alien. Not Japan, with its pantheon of ghosts, nor the Southeast Asian countries steeped in ancient shamanism and totemism at their peak. It was the tiny nation of South Korea.
This country was profoundly peculiar, utterly heterogeneous. Though followers of God's word outnumbered other faiths by far—even per capita—most were Protestants. Churches stood proudly even in remote villages where convenience stores were scarce, two or three as standard. At night, the first sight piercing the sky was often the neon cross atop a church steeple. Born from the Reformation's schism with Catholicism, evangelicals were a new denomination, yet at root, faithful servants believing in and following Him. They differed in how they believed and interpreted Scripture, large and small variances alike, but what mattered was existing together under Christianity's vast umbrella.
Thus, the Vatican often puzzled over how Protestantism had rooted so deeply in such a small, war-torn, divided land that still punched above its weight globally. History books explained well enough how the faith took hold—any third party could grasp it. But while Protestantism spread like wildfire, expanding its influence, what had Catholicism done?
Catholics weren't absent; Korea had Catholic universities and plenty of cathedrals. Many had ripened through long years of self-cultivation, abstinence, asceticism, and proven faith to receive ordination. Priests and pastors differed, but gone were the musty, outdated squabbles of old—who was righter, truer believers. If anything, they now engaged Protestants far more actively than before.
Still, every report from Korea left the Vatican questioning. Many churches? Good. Many believers in Him? Excellent. All fine... but why the nagging sense of otherness? No one could easily explain it. The vague unease bred questions, which looped back to unease—an endless ring, eternally unresolved.
Just then, a Korean exorcist priest nearing old age quietly set foot in the Vatican. Among Koreans, he was fondly called "Father Seong" after his family name; elsewhere (mostly Western dioceses), by his baptismal name, "Marco." He was a true gentleman of this era, versed in decorum, and a loyal, unfeigned servant of Him. A mature charisma emanated fiercely from his still-imposing frame, not yet fully withered by age. Beneath his deeply pulled fedora, his eyes burned with life.
Those in the Vatican who knew his role paused at a distance upon encountering him, gazing silently or crossing themselves wordlessly. The exorcist was His servant, yet also the blade bearing His power, the victorious trumpet blasting His word to annihilate evil. But bound to frail human flesh, endlessly traversing death's gloomy valley, they shunned sunlight's glory for shadows' deep respect.
An exorcist's duty ended in only two ways: crushed under the burden they bore, or hearing His call and departing quietly for the distant road. Such were the exorcists, marching silently toward that fate.
"Come in."
As Father Seong knocked with precise grace before an office door, a vigorous elderly voice answered promptly from within. Entering quietly, Father Seong doffed his fedora and greeted the old man at the desk, immersed in paperwork.
"It's been too long, Your Eminence."
"...I've heard you entered the country. And if memory serves, you still have unfinished business back home."
"Unavoidable circumstances."
"Those who speak like you always trot out 'reasons' that devour the souls of the sane. You've been through much, no doubt. So where's your disciple, that boy? Yohan."
"......"
Father Seong fell silent for a long moment. Sensing something amiss, the cardinal set aside his reading glasses quietly and looked up.
"You insisted on teaching that boy in the field yourself. You've been at this nearly a decade. And the answer I suspect now fills me with dread."
"Yohan is recuperating in a monastery."
"I want to ask why, but I lack the courage. That young, steadfast lad—like a shooting star blazing with the Lord's grace—frightens me to hear how he fell."
"But you must know. Not just you, Your Eminence—all of the Vatican, even His Holiness."
"Does Benedict, cardinal of the Seoul Archdiocese, know as well?"
"He sent me here."
"......"
The old man rubbed his face, wrinkles smoothing in exhaustion. For the head of Korea's largest diocese to make such a call meant he'd grasped the full context of what Father Seong and Deacon Yohan endured. And with his authority—one of the pillars upholding the Vatican—he'd dispatched some 'record' directly here. If the cardinal deemed it so, it was of utmost import. The old man rose quietly.
"His Holiness receives reports on 'evils' pouring in daily from across the globe. Not one of your decade-long submissions has gone missing."
Those records remained securely archived in the Vatican's underground vaults—precious chronicles for reflecting on the past, seeking answers in the present, averting future doom.
Seating Father Seong on the guest sofa, he brewed fragrant tea, set it before him, and sat opposite.
"I'll verify here and guide you to His Holiness."
Father Seong nodded silently, retrieving a laptop from his heavy briefcase.
"This is footage of the exorcism rite performed on 'Han Siwoo'—prime suspect in a serial murder case in Seoul three weeks ago, and the possessed. Verified through channels as unadulterated original, not a copy."
Playing the video, Father Seong angled the laptop toward the old man. High-ranking Vatican clergy, especially those inevitably entangled with exorcists, had a duty—beyond like or dislike—to verify authenticity. No misreports confusing mental illness with possession, no fabricated evidence claiming nonexistent demons. Ironically, those in such roles studied modern medicine and psychology deeply. Some even held medical licenses.
Distinguish spiritual wounds manifesting physically from mere abuse, torment from genuine infernal suffering. The cardinal gazed at the young man on the narrow bed in the footage, limbs bound, writhing under prayers and holy water.
The prime method: fierce rejection of His blessings—relics (crosses, Marian statues) or holy water, like force-feeding allergens to the severely allergic. Inescapable reaction. Most possessions were confirmed thus.
But truly wicked, cunning demons controlled themselves well. They felt holy water's pain but feared not; loathed relics yet didn't flee. Hiding expertly, they clung tenaciously even when exposed—true demons.
In that sense, the cardinal deemed the youth afflicted by nothing extraordinary. Until the footage's early phase.
Static crackle.
Noise erupted suddenly; the recorded voices vanished, replaced by an alien tongue from the laptop speakers—arcane, convoluted, beyond even seasoned ancient linguists. Yet the malice, blind rage toward humanity and Him, pierced even this mere recording.
Then the youth snapped his bonds, rose. His features twisted; beside Father Seong stood Deacon Yohan, hale, now bleeding from eyes, nose, mouth, ears.
Yohan merely seemed startled, standing firm. Whether he knew of the blood, or it invisible to them, was unclear.
Seemingly stationary Father Seong suddenly levitated to the ceiling, then slammed down. Yohan shuddered, collapsed.
The youth snatched a Bible from the table, mouthed something at the still-recording camera, and strode out. End footage.
"First, note: Yohan and I were momentarily overwhelmed, movements restricted, but not hurled from the ceiling as shown. He didn't hemorrhage from orifices or convulse to the floor."
"But you just saw it. And it's verified unedited..."
"No CCTV in that underground bar's private lounge for cross-check, but the bartender and we all remember clearly. No injuries, no bloodstains. Full hospital exams, originals submitted."
"Then what is this?"
"A dream."
"...Pardon?"
"Yohan's dream—the boy who now sleeps twenty hours daily to endure. He says its contents match this footage precisely. I questioned too, like you: why record a dream as reality, relive reality as dream? His answer:"
Father Seong drew a recorder from his breast pocket, hit play.
Father Seong pocketed the recorder.
"Han Siwoo by birth name—now forsaking even that—the monster wields power to warp and bite reality."
With eyes holding fear unseen in his decade—or lifetime—Father Seong spoke cautiously.
"...The authority of ■■■."