Shadows of the Professor
Of course, I didn't for a second suspect that some friend of Kim Hakju's daughter—someone whose name I didn't even know—could be the culprit behind "that incident." For one thing, just picking up the phone from a total stranger like me wouldn't suddenly reveal her sins in vivid detail. And besides, I wasn't banking on randomly guessing the perpetrator through sheer luck without any rigorous deduction.
"Who is this? Why the hell are you saying weird shit out of nowhere?!"
As expected, the friend reacted like any normal person would. Even though a mysterious caller like me had brought up highly sensitive keywords—five years ago, a trip to China, and "friend"—at this late hour.
Very few suspects could respond so naturally to this out-of-the-blue, probing interrogation without flinching or getting defensive, as if they were truly just an innocent civilian clueless about everything.
"Oh, wrong number. Sorry about that."
"God, what a freak... whatever."
Even though it was a trip from five years back—something she should've remembered—she sounded exhausted from the daily grind, irritated as she hung up. Proof she was living the harried, bone-tired life of your average working stiff.
So worn out from college life five years ago that she couldn't even recall going on an overseas trip.
I called up everyone connected to Kim Hakju's daughter as a friend, one by one, gauging their reactions like that. A few didn't pick up because it was too late, so I skipped them for now, but the vast majority seemed to be leading utterly ordinary lives—far from any suspect profile.
Plus, their bonds with the friends didn't seem particularly deep. No one asked things like "Who'd you get this number from?" or "Are you from XX University?" Not a single time.
Which made sense—friendships from college rarely survive once everyone hits the working world. Even I, who didn't hate my college days, hadn't kept in touch with a single friend after starting my job.
In short, even if they'd all been directly or indirectly part of H University's travel club five years ago, none of them had any connection to the supernatural harm that befell Kim Hakju's daughter.
Setting aside those I hadn't reached yet, my gut told me the most suspicious figure was the club's leader and supervisor: the professor himself.
This time, I didn't call rashly. Instead, I dug into his background online. For a long-time professor at a prestigious Seoul university, a quick search turned up his career in seconds.
Gong Hyeokjin. Sixty years old as of 2025. Unusually, he majored in political science and diplomacy, economics... and folk studies.
Political science/diplomacy and economics overlap enough that double-majoring isn't weird. But folk studies? What the hell does that have to do with international politics, delicate diplomatic tensions between nations, or the economic engines and futures of countries?
Sure, you could stretch it—maybe he studied it to deeply understand long-standing traditions and cultures for diplomatic edge. Not totally bizarre.
But still... why bother? It felt mismatched enough to raise eyebrows, especially for a guy five years from retirement who, five years back, was dragging ambitious young diplomacy hopefuls on trips.
And why zero in on China, claiming there was "so much to learn"?
As questions turned to suspicions, I searched deeper and found statements where Gong Hyeokjin argued that all nations on the Korean Peninsula had been heavily influenced by continental culture tracing back to ancient China.
Fair enough—he could've formed that view studying East Asian history in grad school. China's ancient influence on neighbors was massive, after all.
But separately, I figured there was a reason he shoehorned folk studies—a field with no money or prospects—into politics, economics, and diplomacy.
A shady reason. Tied to "impure ideologies" and the wrong crowd.
In this day and age, pro-China boosters weren't rare. We'd had Japan-worshippers in droves before; it'd be weirder if they vanished now.
The real red flag? While running H University's travel club, China trips dominated his itinerary.
In international politics, the West—especially Europe—gets way more focus than the East. Interpreters in global poli-sci circles prioritize English and French above all. Chinese, Japanese, Russian? Niche by comparison.
Digging into the club's history page, I saw they mostly flew into Guilin Liangjiang International Airport. Main destination: Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region.
"Dragging clueless young grads to a place like that."
Guangxi had a bloody, madness-soaked history, even by Chinese standards. The creepiest ancient custom? "Slaughter" culture.
Brutally butchering beasts for food was baseline. But long ago, they devoured human flesh on a scale unmatched elsewhere—even holding markets to buy and sell it.
Like a Chinese Aztec civilization. Dragging wide-eyed undergrads there under the guise of "learning from Chinese culture" didn't add up.
Even a professor clueless about politics, econ, or folklore would've picked Shanghai or Beijing first. Paris for France, New York for America, London for the UK—it's obvious.
Suddenly, it hit me: there might be more victims besides Kim Hakju's daughter, even now while the club still existed.
Obvious, really. Considering Gong's stubborn fixation on Guangxi, and how shallow the members' bonds seemed, turnover must've been constant.
Curious newbies joining, bailing when they realized the prof's weird destinations. Gullible ones sticking around, suffering harm, vanishing quietly.
If victims all died like Kim Hakju's daughter—racked by unexplained mental torment—no one would've pinned it on Gong.
Had families shattered like the Kim's, most would've met grim ends before uncovering the cause.
So, assuming Gong was the perp, time to rethink: his exact motives, his exact crime. Or if not him, who?
The unidentified male ghost had threatened the family to hand over "something." Kim Hakju's daughter, tormented, kept insisting she had to flee endlessly or hide her body.
Key hint: there were gaps. She could run or hide from it.
The Kims were still evading it. Tormented in dreams, sure, but...
'Right after moving, she snapped back to sanity briefly, urging everyone to run. A ghost knowing Korea like the back of its hand would've hounded them relentlessly. So the thing tormenting her isn't a local ghost.'
Answer's obvious. Either it hitched from China to Korea... or its true body's still there, linked spiritually to track her from afar.
Sounds odd, but in a region steeped in cannibalism and sadistic slaughter of living things, how would a pure young virgin look to locals?
To entrenched evil ghosts or evil gods, Kim Hakju's barely-twenty daughter might've seemed like succulent, tender rare meat.
Even mighty spirits can't casually meddle with the living—needs a human proxy or scheme.
Enter folk studies prof Gong Hyeokjin, suspiciously China-obsessed.
'Sacrificing a living soul to an evil ghost or god as a living offering?'
Plausible. Students hand profs personal info without question; birthdays, four pillars of destiny—easy to snag.
Just lure the target to the spot under travel pretense. No occult expertise needed—with local help, sending a couple souls to oblivion's trivial.
No hard evidence yet, just hunch-built theory. But the puzzle pieces clicked in my head as I opened the door to head back into the hall.
Except the familiar motel corridor wasn't there.
Instead, the center of a dim stone chamber, lit only by a few candles.
"I smell it. The scent of that delicious thing."
Something in the dark began sniffing, slithering snake-like across the stone floor.