Chapter 29
Chapter 29
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 029
Chapter Title: The Grimoire's Master (1)
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After unexpectedly running into an incident at the Weekend Farm just to score some parchment,
Yohan arrived back at his tiny studio apartment, utterly spent.
He showered with hot water and flopped straight onto the bed.
"Ah... I'm beat."
Now that he was finally home—a place where he could actually relax—all the tension he'd been carrying melted away at once.
He just wanted to pass out right there...
"..."
But dinner was non-negotiable. Going to bed on an empty stomach would wreck his body.
He hauled his weary frame upright and rummaged around the kitchen for something edible.
His body was exhausted, sure enough.
'...Probably from seeing all those corpses today. No appetite at all.'
The heaps of mangled bodies Grizzly had shredded on his command flickered through his mind.
Grotesque stuff like that was just no good. It killed his hunger dead.
Bad for the mental health, too.
Sure, coming from a guy who'd just offed dozens of people, complaining about it being gross and losing his appetite might sound off.
But what could he do? They were dead, and he was alive.
As long as he was breathing, he couldn't escape the basics: eat and sleep.
'Cold sucks when it's cold, hunger sucks when you're starving—life's a bitch.'
He paused to think, then pulled some noodles from the cupboard.
"Hmm... Soy sauce noodles it is?"
Nothing fancy, and he wasn't thrilled about it, but it went down easy when nothing else appealed.
While waiting for the pot of water to boil, he fired up some tunes on his phone.
Green Day - Bang Bang.
Ding-ding-dang~ ding-ding-dang-ding~!
I get my kicks and I wanna start a rager.
(I wanna kick up a storm and let the rage out.)
With the guitar riffs and vocals filling the air,
he whipped up a dipping sauce for the noodles. Nothing fancy—super simple.
Mix store-bought Japanese tsuyu soy sauce with water at a 1:1 ratio, toss in some sliced cheongyang peppers. Done.
Now he just boiled the noodles and hummed along, killing time.
"Bang, bang, give me~ fame."
'Bang bang, make me~ famous.'
A grown man grooving solo to the beat and mumbling lyrics might look ridiculous,
"I am a semi-automatic~ lonely~ boy!"
'I'm a semi-automatic~ lonely~ guy!'
but this was his place, and he was alone. Why not have fun like this?
"You're dead, I'm well fed."
You're dead, and I'm eating good.
"Give me death or give me head."
Kill me or blow me.
"Daddy's little psycho and mommy's little soldier~!"
Daddy's little psycho and mommy's little soldier.
Grizzly must've woken up from his humming—he poked his head out of the Grimoire.
"Gyaa?"
Bobbing his head back and forth, he tried humming along.
"Gyagyagya~ gya~ gyagyagyagya~."
The totally unexpected duet had Yohan cracking up uncontrollably.
"Puhaha~ You sing better than me."
He petted and scratched Grizzly's head.
"Gororong~."
"Wanna eat while you're up?"
"Gyaa~!"
Right, might as well eat together.
He grabbed some meat and milk from the fridge to fix Grizzly's meal.
The noodles were done boiling, so he killed the heat,
strained them, and rinsed under cold water.
Once the noodles cooled enough, soy sauce dip noodles: complete.
(Technically just noodles for dipping in soy sauce.)
Either way, the cool noodles with that perfectly salty-spicy soy sauce slid down easy despite his lack of appetite.
Slurp slurp~.
Maybe it was the food hitting his stomach, or watching Grizzly chow down happily,
but his appetite started coming back.
He ripped open the cheap skirt steak pack he'd bought for himself while getting Grizzly's food and threw it in the frying pan.
Sizzle-.
Ate it straight off the pan. ...Real beef was straight-up fraudulent.
No fancy cooking needed—just grill it plain and dip in ssamjang or sesame oil sauce, and it was perfection.
Carbs plus protein in the bag.
For nutritional balance, he polished off some cherry tomatoes for dessert.
A pretty solid dinner, all told.
To aid digestion and recover his stamina, he hit the hay early.
...And the next day.
He dumped the loot from Kim Mireh's underground workshop out of his bag onto the floor.
Mentally wiped yesterday, so he'd put it off till now.
Spoils inspection time. First up: the parchment bundle.
Seven sheets from Kim Mireh's personal workshop.
He'd gone to the ranch specifically for lambskin to make parchment, so scoring finished wizard-grade parchment was a huge win.
Finally, he could craft a pentacle.
And the second spoil:
The automatic pistol he'd scooped up from the underground corridor—there were tons lying around.
He didn't know much about guns,
but even he recognized this one.
The pistol that showed up in every movie and media: Glock 17.
Belonged to one of the ranch workers Grizzly killed before he could fire; the magazine was fully loaded with seventeen rounds.
"..."
He stared at the stubby black pistol.
He'd picked it up himself, but...
The stark lethality of the thing...
A ridiculous chuckle bubbled up.
Familiar... or conveniently, pet mismanagement leading to accidental death, serial murder, crime cover-up, and illegal firearm possession.
How long had it even been since he became a wizard?
"...My rap sheet's already stacked."
Still, it seemed useful, so he'd kept it.
He hefted the gun, feeling its weight in his hand.
'Lighter than expected, but still got some heft.'
The Weekend Farm fiasco drove it home once more: in this world, you never knew what might go down.
He'd learned he could summon his Grimoire even if it got dropped somewhere.
So he could just call Grizzly in a pinch,
but he needed something to protect himself at minimum.
Problem was, guns were loud—one shot, and hiding it would be tough. Plus, getting caught with one spelled big trouble.
"Hmm..."
His eyes narrowed as he recalled the special breathing technique Shin Sion had shown him.
Best self-defense was mastering martial arts to boost physical abilities, even temporarily...
But no way to learn that right now. No choice.
He'd swapped numbers with Sion, so he could bite the bullet and ask her,
but getting tangled up with the Response Special Task Force too often,
for any reason, wasn't great for keeping his crimes under wraps.
...So he'd hunt down martial arts manuals and magic supply shops step by step, like the rest.
Back to the gun problem. He eyed the Glock.
'So how do I carry this thing around?'
He glanced over at the white coat hanging on the wall.
"...Just stuff it in the inside pocket?"
Men's coat pockets could swallow a laptop, no problem.
Only fashion models obsessed over pocket bulk—or guys with weird personal rules.
He got up and fiddled with the coat's lining.
Might be smart to sew in a dedicated pistol pocket.
Good enough—gun sorted.
He returned to his spot and checked the final spoil.
A zip-top plastic bag holding blood-soaked strands of Kim Mireh's hair.
He'd grabbed it because you needed an item or body part tied to the soul for summoning.
He picked up Post-Mortem Memory Preservation Soul Summoning Ritual
and read through the steps required.
First, prepare a suitable location for the ritual.
Abandoned house with no people, forest, lakeside, cave, garden, nighttime crossroads.
"Hm?"
The others made sense, but why a crossroads?
Explanation: crossroads led in every direction, and spiritually, they connected to the underworld.
Thus, a nighttime crossroads was ideal for soul-summoning rituals.
If you couldn't swing one of those spots,
a wizard's workshop would do.
He swept his gaze around his cramped studio.
Did his room qualify as a wizard's workshop?
Problem was the bed and furniture cramping the space.
Might be tricky drawing the required magic circle.
Scale it down proportionally?
As he pondered and read,
He'd normally brush it off, but...
He set the Lesser Key of Solomon down on the desk, rubbed his chin, and stared at the phone.
He'd sensed it before, but seeing the Lesser Key of Solomon rip apart the Grimoire he'd been reading confirmed it.
Grimoires—these things had some kind of ego. Will. Preferences.
Like ego swords in fantasy stories?
They probably liked some situations and hated others.
"..."
A profoundly idiotic thought flashed through his mind. And...
No real reason not to go for it.
Yeah, time for a break. This was solo playtime.
He approached the noisily humming Lesser Key of Solomon and picked it up.
Then chucked it onto the bed.
At the sudden rough handling, it vibrated wildly, but
a low, cold voice echoed in the room.
"Shut it—where do you get off throwing a fit."
Mimicking the aloof male leads from those romance fantasy covers he'd glimpsed,
he strode to the bed.
Not sure if he nailed it from just the covers, but whatever.
He climbed onto the bed.
"You showed up expecting this from me, didn't you?"
He slapped the space next to the Lesser Key of Solomon, pressing down on the mattress.
"You filthy, lewd Grimoire."
Bedroom edition of the wall slam.