That Evening, the Village Wept
That evening, the entire village gathered, some wailing uncontrollably, others collapsing and being carried away on stretchers. And who could blame them? Most of the rugged seamen who sustained the village's fishing industry had set out to sea and never returned. Even the fishermen who'd stayed ashore by sheer luck breathed sighs of relief at dodging the grim fate.
"Aigoo, Uncle Seok-i! How can you just leave us like this? What are we supposed to do now?!"
"No way! This can't be happening! It can't! He was fine just yesterday—how could he be gone overnight...!"
"That's why I told you to take a break from diving, you stubborn husband! Your wife was so worried, and you wouldn't listen—went out anyway!!!"
"Aigoo... aigoo..."
From those who'd become widows in an instant, to children orphaned of fathers and parents bereft of children—they howled like beasts. But no amount of weeping or pleading now would bring back the departed. Just like my own parents, who left home after that outburst and never came back.
Of course, that didn't mean I was about to step forward and declare to them, "Everyone who died at sea believed in Jesus and went to heaven." Christianity had that vicious doctrine claiming every human birth, death, fortune, and misfortune was all part of the Lord's plan. Even the Pope in the Vatican wouldn't dare spout "This too is the Lord's will" to parents whose child was murdered by a killer. That was the normal response. Who the hell had the right to meddle in human life, death, fortune, or choices anyway?
Look at the facts. Countless fishermen ignored the mad woman's warnings—supposedly conveying "heaven's will"—and chose to brave the dangerous seas themselves. If they'd just listened quietly and waited for us to resolve the incident, they might've eked out a few more years of life. This wasn't fate; it was the consequence of their choices.
If dying at sea had truly been their destiny, the mad woman never would've needed to come here in the first place. Whether she warned them or not, the fishermen would've gone out anyway. But she came all this way at her shaman mother's request to help them, and the fishermen refused to bend their stubbornness. Each side simply followed their own convictions and made their choices.
We're all stumbling through a labyrinth of countless choices. And why is it a labyrinth? 'Because no one—no one—can escape choice.' Not even God.
I stood a short distance away, hands tucked into the pockets of my coat fluttering in the night breeze, gazing quietly at the shoreline. There, before a crowd of villagers, the mad woman stood impassive in her ritual garb, dancing wildly atop an altar laden with offerings fit to break her legs. She'd done everything to save the fishermen right up to the end, never complaining about the abuse or being branded a cultist. Now she twirled, soothing the souls of the departed and ensuring no grudges festered in the hearts of those left behind.
Normally, you'd start with a joint funeral, but the villagers knew exactly what freak accident had caused this—they'd begged for the ritual without shame. I'd figured the hot-tempered mad woman would snap and refuse, but she accepted without hesitation, as if she'd forgotten vomiting up a bowl's worth of blood on that boat.
"Human life feels so fleeting."
S-man's murmur had me instinctively patting my pockets again. I didn't smoke, didn't even like it, but in moments like this, I always craved a cigarette. Settling for candy instead, I popped one in my mouth; the sweetness flooding my tongue eased my mood a bit.
"Yeah. Just listening to the religious nuts spout off shows how ephemeral humans are. Molded by God's hands, living in the world He made—believers who sin not go to heaven, sinners and nonbelievers to hell. Quoting the zealots, humans are nothing but machines hurtling from birth toward the fork of heaven or hell. Pretty damn fleeting, right?"
"Even rolling in dog shit, this life is better. I think I get that saying now."
"Because while you're alive, you don't know you're a machine. Only after death do you realize you were just running a pre-set track from the start."
Jesus Heaven Nonbelievers Hell. How utterly fleeting. Worse than moths mindlessly swarming any light—campfire or neon sign—only to burn alive.
"That's exactly why I do this shit. Because it's fucking infuriating—like some perverted researcher who wants to log data on his lab rats going through the 'life' experiment only to hit the predetermined outcomes of 'heaven' or 'hell'."
I flipped off the sky.
"We never asked for this life. We never grabbed anyone's pant leg begging to be born into this world. Toss us in a cage of irrationality and absurdity, then claim to respect free will? Why not just admit you wanted a world where all creatures blindly worship you without thought?"
What's the difference from a thug rolling loaded dice, praying for his favorite numbers? Oh, right—God doesn't play dice? Bullshit. In my eyes, He's just having more fun toying with humans than with dice.
"I wonder what amusement He'll find once this pathetic village drama wraps up."
I turned from the shoreline, where the ritual drums and sobs echoed endlessly. S-man lingered a moment longer, staring, then followed silently.
Human life is fleeting. We didn't have the luxury to dwell on it.
We climbed into the pickup and gunned the engine in the dead of night, climbing the coastal road. The mad woman would head back to Seoul on her own once finished.
S-man drove in silence for a while before cautiously speaking up. "How do we make human life less fleeting?"
"Deep question. But not hard to answer."
I gazed out the shaking window at the dark landscapes whooshing by. "Kill the bastard who makes it fleeting."
************
In Hongdae's largest underground bar—a place no ordinary civilian could enter, and even qualified folks hesitated to visit—five figures in black robes and deep hoods slipped inside. Their steps were softer than a cat's, quieter than a mouse's.
The mystics, brokers, and info analysts gathered for the occultists turned as one toward the intruders. A previous uninvited guest had nearly caused a disaster here, so their hostility burned hotter than usual.
But the leader of the black-robed group strode to the bar without a care. Few mystics qualified to sit at the bar: only the most experienced, with sky-high success rates and an air of true mysticism.
A voodoo sorcerer-priest, his necklace woven from countless aborted fetuses' skulls, sipped his drink at the bar—then shuddered violently. Choking, he heaved with fake coughs.
"Cough cough! Damn it! Who the hell lets Jesus freaks set foot in—gack?!"
"Watch your tongue, heretic."
A double-barrel shotgun—rare even through black market channels in Korea—emerged from the black robe, pressing firmly under the sorcerer's chin. The bartender, calmly polishing a glass, warned evenly.
"Sir, this is an absolute neutral zone. All mystics gather freely, regardless of religion, beliefs, values, or powers—to share info or take commissions. Buildings and tools serve their purpose for everyone's benefit, right? Or does the Vatican use cathedrals and churches for killing too?"
"My apologies. He disrespected me first, so I returned the favor without thinking."
"Differences in faith shouldn't offend. I'm sure he gets that now—put away the nasty toy."
"Fine."
The shotgun vanished back into the robe, and the tension—taut as a rubber band about to snap—eased slightly.
Of course, even among mystics, there were "Jesus freaks." From cultists to devout Christians, defrocked priests, or self-taught exorcists fueled by faith alone. But they stuck to the mystic app for info and jobs—never crawling into a place like this, a heretic-infested dump in their eyes.
"So, what'll it be, Vatican inquisitor?"
"You knew that already? Korea's small—info spreads fast."
"Faster than the Vatican. This street's even smaller."
"True enough. Then I'll order. Target: real name Han Siwoo, alias Han Daeri. Age: mid-to-late 20s, male. Requesting handover of the subject. Essential condition: alive. No others. Reward..."
The man took a special bag from his waiting comrades—heavy enough to rival a rice sack—and slammed it on the bar with a thud, declaring in a flat tone.
"One million dollars. Cash."