Artificial Devils and Natural Devils (2)
Morning came. I'd spent the night chatting with Jumo over drinks, greeting a new dawn. If anyone was spying on this place, nothing untoward had happened—no clichés of a man and woman pulling an all-nighter together.
"Awake? Want some chicken?"
"Chicken for breakfast?"
"Spicy chicken's a national rule when eaten cold in the morning."
"Pass. Boil some ramen."
"Dokaebi's so frugal. Ramen for Sunday brunch?"
"Then heat up some gukbap nice and hot."
"Now that's my specialty."
Jumo pulled two retort gukbap packs from the fridge.
"Oops, secret's out. The secret to my gukbap. You won't refuse unless it's simmered from real beef bones, right?"
"I'm not picky. Need a hand?"
"Nah. Just sit. I'll handle breakfast."
"Thanks."
I settled at the kitchen table and scrolled through last night's events on my Taeguk Watch. Nothing major. Villains rampaging worldwide was routine; heroes deployed to incidents, saving lives; endless chatter on how ability users and non-ability users could coexist, what humanity must do. The only snag? No mention of that flooded lab.
Of course. If it were public knowledge, they wouldn't have built a basement dozens of meters—nearly 100m deep, now that I thought about it—under Sejong Island in the first place.
"Found it."
"What?"
"Eden District sewer overflow."
Not in the news, but on SNS where people posted daily life: tales of seawater briefly backing up from Eden District's sewers last night.
"Cleared up by dawn, so no one's paying attention."
"So what now? It just vanishes? Forever?"
"Who knows. Could send divers in wetsuits to check the building interior visually, or deploy ability users to redirect the seawater and scout the basement."
Options galore. Human ingenuity is infinite; we'll always find a way past obstacles.
"Vet everyone coming and going here later. But skip it if it feels risky."
"Obviously. As long as I don't get bitten by a traitor inside Imae Mangnyang, no one catches me."
Thud. A steaming earthenware bowl landed before me.
"Back in the colonial era, tons of bar madams hid independence fighters or fed them without getting caught. I'm that madam now."
"A foreigner saying that."
"Harsh. Speak Korean, hold Korean citizenship while living here—ain't that Korean enough?"
"It's the foreign looks that feel off."
Watching someone foreign-looking beam with pride over being Korean always hammered home how this world felt like an isekai light novel. A redhead foreigner, hungover from drinks, serves piping retort gukbap in an earthenware pot?
"Ah, I pickled these radish cubes myself. Try some?"
"......"
"What?"
"No, you can make takuan too?"
"Duh."
Jumo scooped takuan into dishes like it was no big deal.
"Why two?"
"Easier to pour the brine."
She sat, dumped takuan brine straight into her gukbap.
"......"
"What?"
"Well..."
Just to check.
"Got perilla powder?"
"That kills the hangover less effectively."
"........."
"Lame? Weird. Everyone cracks up."
"You know perilla powder actually makes hangovers worse?"
"...For real?"
"Yup. So, perilla powder?"
"Got it."
Thud. She slid an earthenware pot forward like it was obvious.
"Here."
"........."
A redheaded foreigner eating gukbap from an earthen pot, pickling her own takuan, with perilla powder on the table? This world?
'I give up.'
Good is good. I sprinkled perilla powder into my gukbap, finishing breakfast courtesy of Jumo.
The job wrapped faster than expected. Thinking it'd take a full day, it ended overnight—leaving me with a true weekend of freedom.
'Kinda feel bad for Yumir?'
If I'd known it'd end this quick, I'd have just promised weekend lunch. Sure, pre-committing might've distracted from the mission, but with everything smoothing out, regret crept in. Untried spots lingered.
Spots serving global cuisines.
'Even on Sejong Island, they've got Japanese, Chinese, Indian specialists.'
As Korea became the world's pinnacle, Korean eateries spread globally. Problem: they overran Korea too.
Foreign tourists flooded Korea, touring everywhere. Truth: scouting illegal bases, overstays, or marriage scams for residency.
Whatever the motive, most Korean food bosses grinned wide for foreigners. Most.
Non-Korean spots—Western, Japanese—took devastating hits. Survival experiments failed; then ssambap joints raking 50 million won daily for three months straight went viral. Everyone pivoted to Korean.
Thus, my sad half-year: no bakeries, just rice cake shops where London Bagel should be; han-gwa stores over Tous Les Jours.
Villain life meant "entertaining" via Korean full-course, never Chinese or Japanese. Peak: six-person trip with executives and Chongsu.
Never imagined a creek workshop with five women ending in conch hotpot.
'Korean food once or twice is fine, but daily? Crave variety.'
Can't live on kimchi, namul, meat forever. Hunting surviving spots on the mainland? Hell.
But Sejong Island? Different.
'Global Street, huh.'
One dining district for foreign visitors: national flags fluttering over every spot, like a sea of world banners. Overwhelmed choosing—like picking from classic novels.
All chefs top-tier from their countries; quality guaranteed.
'Week of kimchi and bibimbap? Weekend foreign food's fair.'
True foreign eats. Pondering options, someone approached directly.
"......?"
"What're you doing here, sir?"
"...Yoon Isun?"
Pink-haired girl in casual outing clothes: Yoon Isun.
"Lunch? ...Solo?"
Oh.
"Hmm. Wanna join me...?"
Yoon Isun extended a hand, mischievous grin.
"Buy me lunch, oppa."
"......A teacher can't refuse a student's request."
Definitely not because of "oppa."