Hongdae's Mystic Underworld
Hongdae Street was home to all sorts of factions, some clashing head-on while others formed uneasy alliances. No famous city lacked its share of such powers, but Hongdae had succeeded Hongik's old hotspots like Myeongdong and Itaewon—places frequented by foreigners in the past—making it one of Korea's top destinations where the supernatural inevitably converged.
In Seoul, the nation's bustling megacity, it was the spot where you could gather and wield mystic forces with the least interference from the authorities. Where else but Hongdae? Every night, crowds of oblivious civilians swarmed the streets, providing perfect cover.
That's why, from the military dictatorship era onward, Cash Queen Kim Bokja—who started as a street vendor hawking bundles of goods and eventually dealt in everything from items to cash—had no choice but to lay down the law for Hongdae Street. Just as in Itaewon and Myeongdong, she maintained strict neutrality, silently awaiting her end.
Her overwhelming wealth and influence made toying with the entire Hongdae district child's play. Of course, being neutral, she didn't care who set up shop here. If someone needed money, she'd lend it for a fair price. If they demanded their own turf, she'd demand qualifications in return.
Most of the major and minor factions entrenched in Hongdae belonged to the street's loose community, all vetted and approved by Kim Bokja herself. The biggest was the Jangchung-dong faction, hotly pursued by the Millennium faction. Below them, smaller groups squabbled endlessly, staining the streets with their filth and stench.
Among them, the Golden faction had earned a solid reputation as an upstart thanks to boss Kim Eundong's shrewd business acumen. They preached money-is-everything, snapping up people and mystic powers with cash like a textbook underworld outfit. And word had just spread that they'd made contact with "Han Daeri" moments ago.
The news broke in Kim Bokja's massive underground bar—the largest in Hongdae, a nexus where mystics, people, and intel gathered, then scattered at the right moment. Only two types showed up here: victims of supernatural phenomena desperate for mystic aid they couldn't handle alone, or the mystics who took those jobs for hefty pay, items, and intel.
By late afternoon, as clocks ticked past noon, the gym-sized basement bar buzzed with shocking gossip. Bottom-feeders nursing drinks eyed each other warily, hungry for juicy tips or gigs.
The source, naturally, was the brokers in this absolute neutral zone. These parasite middlemen posted jobs and intel on a secret site linked to the bar, which flashed them live on the electronic billboard.
Fresh intel hit the board, and the top factions' analysts—hyper-sensitive info hounds glued to the bar daily—sprang first. They relayed promising leads straight to their bosses or higher-ups as couriers.
With fresh dirt on the much-discussed Han Daeri, things heated up fast. The frenzy died instantly, though, when the man himself kicked the door open.
Drenched in gore from something inhuman—or was it beastly?—he crossed the vast hall silently. The stench of blood and faint booze hit from afar, hinting at his recent whereabouts.
Not part of the community and lording over his illegal little castle in the nation's guts, his intrusion into neutral turf irked everyone. Without Kim Bokja's prior word, dozens would've jumped him on the spot.
"Street community, huh. Yeah, stuck here all day boozing, grinning while plotting backstabs—fits the bill. Birds of a feather, right?"
The cynic parked at the central bar, eyeing the board's live mystic intel feed.
"So this is like... a job board and day-labor dispatch for jobless losers?"
A few offended types slammed tables and rose, only to be reined in by others. Not just analysts here—enforcers flexed their factions' muscle constantly. Knife men, attack dogs, top aces.
Everyone was a "mystic" at base, but standouts always lurked. A gloomy man wearing a necklace of tiny fetal skulls from illegal abortions rose quietly.
"Master, this kid looks young—needs more milk. Kahlúa milk on me."
The master whipped one up with elegant flair, sliding it over.
"Generous. Can't splash cash freely myself—wallet's tight."
He downed it, then casually called for another.
"That door you kicked? No quals, it vanishes. You burst through, so you're mystic-qualified."
"Lame naming. 'Mystic'? Sounds like a budget magician. Own it more."
"Shamans, fortune-tellers, spellcasters, monks, nuns, exorcists, onmyoji, witches, ghost hunters—they all touch the mystic differently. 'Mystic' unifies it simpler than fancy labels."
"I'm just a repentance helper sending sinners to heaven. Mystic's overkill."
"Rumors say you're president of the Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office."
"Gotta aggro for sinners to bite. Read the trends—in this cutthroat world, no attention, no survival. Life ain't as easy as you think."
He preached on, downing another. Caked blood and stench unchanged, but his nonchalance was tongue-bitingly casual.
"Not here for fun in this moldy dump. Heard you need community ties to use the incinerator. Needing permission for trash duty? Bullshit, so here I am."
"Kim Bokja's rule. No one eating here breaks it."
"Sorry, don't care. Just protesting interference. Free speech for all—but someone can call it noise pollution and complain about the racket."
The gloomy mystic frowned—two reasons. First, his deep curse of fetal spirits, born of abortion victims' obsession with life and human resentment, didn't faze this guy.
One clings, you're heavy, pained. Two? Bad luck, foul mood. Three? Daily life crumbles. Four-plus? Mental collapse, zombie existence.
He had five, gnawing from ankles to scalp—yet the man chugged milk unfazed. Pitiful, their struggle.
"Our Father in heaven doesn't judge pure, unstained kids. Kids dying pre-society, pre-self? Straight to heaven, 100%. But should we kill 'em all for paradise? Nah—sinners or saints deserve a free peek at the world, their own life. Hate abortion; robs kids' bright futures and freedom."
"Sometimes painless death beats painful life."
"Who decides?"
"Society rejecting easy acceptance."
"Irresponsible parents dodging kids, leeches like you riding 'em. Sounds way truer."
Clink. Empty glass down, he shocked the master.
"Join me to the community free—or watch me send everyone here to heaven. Pick one."
Sinister mystics half-rose, but master cut in.
"Lady already ordered your inclusion if you showed. Scan the QR for the mystics' app. Done."
"Wait, master! He broke street and neutral rules! Giving him quals...?!"
"Lee Sang-deuk. Curses on customers in neutral zone—possible?"
"..."
"He's unregistered, so technically a customer. Overlook once."
Lee sat. Han Daeri scanned QR, downloaded the app, and bounced—telling any heaven-hungry souls to hit the Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office.