Shattered Traditions
Driven out of the police station like dogs after hearing Choi Il-woo's icy ultimatum, the six ringleader old men gathered at the village hall out of habit.
But the usual raucous chatter was nowhere to be found.
The village hall was shrouded in a suffocating silence.
"......."
No one could bring themselves to speak first.
Just moments ago, they'd been cackling over a game of cards at someone else's house, but that bravado had vanished without a trace.
Ashtrays overflowed with smoldering cigarette butts.
"....What're we gonna do..."
Finally, Mr. Choi broke the silence with a trembling voice. His hands had been shaking badly ever since the station.
"Kim, you say somethin'. You said there'd be no problem...! That Chun-bong had it all handled!"
Even Mr. Choi's near-shout of resentment drew no response from Kim, the de facto leader. His spirit was already in shards.
And who could blame him? He'd seen his nephew—practically the law in the village—quivering like a cornered rat, begging before that lawyer.
Chun-bong's done for too...
The moment he realized his trusted backup was worthless, a tsunami of real fear crashed over him.
But worst of all was the settlement Choi Il-woo had proposed—terms that shattered their common sense.
The full cost of the smart farm facilities and house construction that Kim Jin-su had poured in when he returned to farming.
Plus three months' lost expected profits from their midnight flight, and emotional damages.
"Six hundred million... six hundred million..."
Kim muttered like a madman.
The lawyer had been firm: refuse this, drag it to trial, and they'd claim the firm's massive litigation costs too.
Who knew if it'd tack on another hundred million or two?
Simple math: a hundred million each.
For dirt-poor rural old-timers who'd spent their lives scraping by, a hundred million was the weight of their entire existence.
"We ain't got that kinda money..."
"Sell all the fields and paddies, and it still won't cover it!"
One old man pounded the floor, voice cracking with sobs.
Rural land prices were in the toilet these days, and a fire sale meant taking even less.
Worse, that land was their lifeline—their pride.
Sell it, and they'd be penniless homeless bums.
But hold out? Then what?
"We... goin' to jail?"
Kim scanned the room with hollow eyes.
The old men fell silent.
Special theft, home invasion, property damage, extortion.
The charges the lawyer had listed were brutal.
Rotting on a cold prison floor at their age, eating jail slop? That was a death sentence.
They'd either drop dead from rage or waste away sick.
"...Can each of us scrape together a hundred million?"
Kim's question was a killing blow.
"Trial or not, we'll get seized anyway..."
They'd lived like they were the law and justice itself, hiding behind the village's closed doors. Never dreamed it'd come back like this.
Trivializing others' property, treating the young like servants—that arrogance.
Now karma had billed them principal plus compound interest.
"...I'd be lucky to get thirty million sellin' all my fields."
Choi hung his head, sniffling.
The others were probably the same.
They wanted to grovel at Jin-su's feet.
Aw, Jin-su lad! We were wrong! Forgive us just once!
But Jin-su was gone. America. As distant as the moon.
No way to contact him, no way to reach him.
Just that grim reaper of a lawyer left.
"...He gave us a week, so head home and dig up whatever we can sell."
Kim rose weakly. No point in more talk.
The old men shuffled out one by one.
The sun had set; the rural paths were dim.
Their steps toward home were as heavy and forlorn as cattle to the slaughterhouse.
Lifelong fields, homes, fragile pride—all at risk of vanishing.
In the quiet village, only late regrets mingled with the wind.
Stubborn pride had made the village their kingdom, their whole world.
Pride in a lifetime locked in that closed-off place.
Delusions of guarding and growing the village.
Even old men had an Achilles' heel: kids they loved like their own eyes.
At holidays or birthdays, sons and daughters-in-law arriving laden with gifts, sweet-talking "Father, Mother," grandkids bouncing like rabbits.
That was their sole joy, their brag.
But now, that idyllic scene lay in ruins.
They tapped calculators with trembling fingers. No answers.
Youthful savings, scrimped belt-tight, long spent on kids' weddings and homes.
Left with worthless fields and a rickety house.
Finally, they swallowed shame and begged their children.
Parents had screwed up big.
That word alone had city-working sons and wives rushing rural-ward.
But once they grasped the situation, daughters-in-law turned ice-cold lethal.
"What? So you're sayin' Dad did the right thing?"
Sharp daughter-in-law voices echoed over quiet courtyard walls.
As if scripted, all six households played out the same scene.
Sons heads bowed like criminals.
Daughters-in-law losing it over a hundred million vanishing from their accounts.
Old men, first cowed by the fury, bristled when pride stung.
"Watch your mouth, girl! How dare you glare and yell at your father-in-law?"
The daughter-in-law scoffed in disbelief.
"So Dad thinks he did right? I'm too ashamed to show my face! Stealin'? Stealin'! Did we skimp on pocket money? Can't you just age gracefully instead of this crap?"
"It's our village tradition! Neighborly bonds! Never been a problem before—it's that city boy's the weirdo!"
"Bonds? Where in the world is smashin' into someone's business and wreckin' it called bonds? Get a grip, Father! Kids' academies, loan interest—money woes are pilin' up!"
She drove it home.
"Sell the house, fields—figure it out! Not a dime from our house!"
"Wha... what!? You... you! How dare you talk to your father-in-law like that!"
She glared at her mute husband.
"You! Sneak one penny to Dad, and it's divorce that day! Ink's ready!"
Bam!
She stormed out fuming.
Silence blanketed the room, leaving just the old father and middle-aged son.
"......"
After a long quiet, the old man spoke slyly, voice Humble.
"...Son. Can't you help once? Not the full hundred million... half even..."
Rubbing hands, gauging reactions.
Son sighed deeply, shaking his head.
"...You heard. Help, and it's divorce. Then child support, alimony... I'd be ruined."
At rejection, the old man played his last card.
"...I helped your wedding. Added two hundred million for the house. Think of it as payin' that back... just once? Huh?"
True. He'd sold a cow, land—two hundred million for son's Seoul deposit.
His final pride, insurance.
Son scowled, rubbing his dry face.
Grateful for past grace, but reality bit hard.
Still, couldn't jail his dad.
".....Sigh. I'll try to scrape somethin'. But don't get hopes up, Dad."
"R... really? Th... thanks. Truly."
The old man's face lit up at "try." Blood's thicker, he thought—worth raising kids.
"Whew... Others too, right? I'll talk to 'em."
Son fled the house.
The old man sighed relief, waving goodbye—like the boulder on his chest lifted.
Moments later.
Behind the village hall, empty lot.
Six sons, childhood neighbors now city-scattered, gathered.
Thick cigarette haze. Faces sour.
"Chul-su, what'd yours say?"
"Don't ask. Wife threatened to run to her folks—barely stopped her. You?"
"Same. Begged her not to fetch divorce papers."
Sighs cratered the ground.
One stubbed his cig, speaking cold.
"Look, straight up. Your wives ain't wrong. Our dads went nuts."
"Yeah... too ashamed to tell anyone."
"And real talk—who here can cough up a hundred million cash? Fifty even? All mortgaged apartments. House-poor—where's the money?"
Silence.
Reality.
Two hundred million from parents past? No cash now.
Even if, handing it over wrecked their families.
"So what? Jail the dads? Over seventy—they'd come out corpses."
"That's why..."
The coolest-headed, big-corp son spoke cautiously.
"Lawyer said sell land, house—pay up."
"Hey, that's..."
"No choice. Can't cover with our money—we'd die. Dads gotta handle it."
Eyes wavered.
Force parents to sell all—fields, home? Death sentence for rural old folks.
"Sell everything... where do they live?"
"Cheap county rental. Or nursing home."
Unfilial? Maybe.
But kids chose survival.
Protect their homes by smashing parents' retirement.
"Sigh... Dad wants back the wedding help money."
"Ancient history. Cold truth: did we threaten? They gave willingly. Can't let it chain us now."
Harsh, but no alternative.
Filial piety comes after your own footing.
"Settle. Not a dime from us. Convince dads to sell land, max farm loans for payout. Best we got."
"......Yeah. Better than divorce."
Six sons nodded.
In cig smoke, a heartless deal sealed.
Meanwhile, old men home, trusting sons to fix it, sighing relief.
They didn't know.
The kids they'd poured life into plotted to sell their final foothold.
Sons were cold.
"Max farmland loan in Dad's name."
No thought to pay parents' debt.
Just survive this mess.
Dad dies later? Bank seizes fields for debt.
Kids sign inheritance waiver—done.
Zero out-of-pocket.
Their optimal solution.
Old men always harped: "Tradition! Tradition!"
"Rural heart, bonds—why so stingy?"
Excusing theft, rampages guilt-free.
"Frost is our tradition, our bonds"—their miraculous logic.
Kids raised by selfish, self-only parents chose self-only too.
No cash to clean up old folks' mess.
World too tough feeding own kids, wives.
"Dad, pack up."
"Huh, where to?"
"Got a studio in town. Live there."
Sons decided to scatter parents.
Together in village? They'd plot again, cause trouble.
Better cram each in cheap urban fringe rentals, county flops, or goshiwon studios.
Cheaper than lump sums: tiny monthly rent, bare-minimum allowance.
"No way! Leave my lifelong home?"
"House, land need as bank collateral for loans. Gotta cover your screw-up!"
Sons' shouts silenced old men.
Nothing to say.
Self-inflicted.
Thus, their beloved village community dissolved.
Trucks loaded with ragged quilts, clothes.
Old men once lords at village hall cards now jailed in lonely concrete rooms for remaining days.
No friends, no chatmates—solitary prisons.
Staring out original-room windows, late regret tears flowed.
But visitors? Just monthly first-day deposit texts, not kids.