The Dokkaebi's Warning
There was a man who lived with his elderly mother. Cheerful and brash, he carried himself with the confidence of someone who believed the world was his playground. After graduating from a private art academy, he continued studying Western painting at an art supply shop. Tonight, he had come out to the night streets to celebrate successfully renewing his contract to draw short comics for a magazine.
Horiki Masao knew the streets of Tokyo like the back of his hand. He navigated the entertainment districts with the ease of a man strolling through his own living room. Lately, however, he had begun to feel a faint sense of boredom.
"Come to think of it, I haven't seen that Yozo guy around lately. Dragging him around was always entertaining... Should I give him a call for old times' sake?"
With light, bouncy steps, he crossed the nighttime streets and slipped into the narrow rectangular phone booth. He dropped a coin into the slot and reached for the receiver.
Click.
Suddenly, a powerful hand shot out from behind him, slamming the receiver back down before he could even lift it. Horiki jumped in shock and spun around. A massive man stood blocking the narrow entrance of the booth, his face hidden in the shadow cast by the overhead light. Only a pair of fierce, predatory eyes gleamed from within the darkness, staring straight at him.
Horiki's breath caught in his throat. The tension was so thick he couldn't even think of cracking one of his usual witty remarks.
Then the giant spoke.
"Horiki Masao. Born in Shitama. Graduated from a private art academy. Currently studying Western painting. Lives with his elderly mother. Member of the secret communist study group, R.S. Correct?"
"H-huuuuh... I won't do it anymore! I swear I'll never touch communism again! It was just a trend, that's all! Please, please spare me...!"
Horiki was so terrified he could barely breathe. If the giant had been nothing more than a robber, he would have smiled, complained in a joking tone, and handed over his wallet or belt without hesitation. But the way this man recited his personal information in a completely emotionless voice, without even asking a real question, felt like he was simply carrying out a task. It was utterly chilling.
"Answer with yes or no. Horiki Masao. Is that correct?"
"Y-yes..."
At that moment, all Horiki could think about was his mother waiting at home. If I die here, who will take care of her? My older brother who ran away from home? My married sister? Am I really going to die like this? I never should have gotten involved with those damn reds. Why the hell did I come out tonight...?
"Good. Horiki Masao. Do you know Oba Yozo?"
"Yes! I know him! I know where he lives, what he does, everything! That bastard is a hardcore communist! He's a devoted party member! Ask me anything! I'll tell you everything! I even know where they hold their reading groups!"
"Answer with yes or no."
"Yes!"
"From now on, you do not know Oba Yozo. You will not meet Oba Yozo. You will not speak with Oba Yozo. Understood?"
"Yes...!"
"Good."
With that final word, the giant melted into the crowd passing along the night street and vanished. A man a full head taller than most, disappearing like a ghost the moment one's attention wavered. It was a horrifying sight.
Horiki Masao's legs gave out. He collapsed right there inside the phone booth. It felt like he had barely woken up from a nightmare just before dying. Only when a passing pedestrian asked if he was okay did he scramble up and sprint home to his mother as if his life depended on it.
"Good. I've cut off the drinking buddy who dragged the protagonist into debauchery..."
Horiki was the guy who gave the protagonist a tour of Tokyo's pleasures and introduced him to every kind of nightlife. I'd been wondering how to get rid of him, but after actually meeting the man, he turned out to be surprisingly obedient. It seemed I wouldn't need to lift a finger after all.
"Still, I doubt this alone will suddenly make the protagonist passionate about his studies."
In the original work, it was mentioned that the protagonist somehow managed to score well on exams even without attending classes. But since the novel was written in the form of the protagonist Oba Yozo's autobiography, its reliability was questionable. My personal theory was that his father, being a politician, had either bribed the teachers or pressured them. That was probably how he got such good grades.
In the end, it didn't seem likely that the protagonist would become the respectable civil servant his father wanted... but then again—
"I'm not playing Princess Maker here. I don't need to worry about that far ahead."
At the root of it, the protagonist's problem wasn't his career. It was his weak, fragile mindset. What he needed was enough aggression to be able to say something like, 'What the fuck? Screw that. It's my heart, asshole.' with his chest puffed out. Personality was something you were born with, wasn't it? Still... I could always beat it into him. Or beat him until it came out. One way or another, it would work out.
I never particularly enjoyed going to high school, but lately it had started to prove somewhat useful. The dokkaebi had never appeared on campus, which gave me a strange sense of security. Plus, it was a good place to gather information about that very dokkaebi.
I still hadn't found anything about the prochi or sapuri that the dokkaebi frequently handed out. However, in an unexpected place, I managed to hear a story regarding the word shibaru.