Expansion (19): The Protector
The word "coup" felt so unfamiliar that I just stared blankly for a moment before snapping back to reality. The news was shocking enough that I asked for more details. Executive Ha explained, though he seemed reluctant to say much. I told him to speak plainly. How else would we prevent it from happening again?
"We investigated your production network and overseas lines. We also looked into your movements, sir." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
Why would they investigate? I sighed. Why was that elite young man going this far? Had I failed to provide something? A strange sense of self-doubt crept up on me. At first, the warning had been the main goal—to protect Executive Ha's authority. Even if he had gone a bit overboard, I figured that after being taken in, paying some lawyer fees and doing a little media play would allow for a return. It was a first offense, and he was part of the elite class. He would be released easily, of course with some suspended sentence and a scratch or two remaining. But this? This was different. It seemed they had been preparing all along. A sense of betrayal toward Seon-bujang rose within me, and my own self-worth felt like it was being chipped away.
"Even if Seon-bujang had prepared like that, sir, he wouldn't have succeeded." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
"How do you run an organization with no one following you?" —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
Executive Ha's comforting words didn't register. "Thank you for your words. I'll consult with Director Jo and ask him to handle the reorganization." —GB (38.3)
That day, murderous intent surged so strongly that I knew I couldn't stay. I headed down to Donghaksa. There wasn't even any grass to pull. Suddenly, I found myself missing the monk. His words from last time—if it ever became unbearable, come down—echoed in my mind. My heart was in turmoil, and I was even showing signs of delirium, making driving difficult, but I somehow managed to reach the temple grounds.
As I approached the parking area, I saw the monk. For a moment I thought I was hallucinating. I parked the car and opened the door. He was real.
"You came at a good time."
Hearing the monk's voice strangely calmed my heart. It really was him.
"Have you been well, Sunim?"
"I was well, but now I'm not."
"I've seen all the world's maras, but I've never seen one as fierce as you."
"Rest here for a week before you go."
"Yes."
I went into the quarters I had used before and slept the entire day. The next morning, after tidying up my bedding and stepping outside, I saw the monk in meditation. When I went to greet him, he gestured and spoke.
"Go for a run."
It had been a while since I'd exercised. Nostalgia hit me as I changed clothes and ran a lap around the Donghaksa valley. Fresh air, birdsong, warm sunlight—everything felt natural. Everything except me.
After about an hour of exercise, I returned to the quarters to find that a meal had been prepared. The quality was different from last time—more refined, perhaps. As I stared at it and asked what it was, the monk looked slightly embarrassed and spoke.
"You made quite a large donation."
"Go wash up."
I took a quick shower and ate breakfast with him. Afterward, he cleared the table and led me to his quarters, saying we should have a cup of tea. The tea, whose name I didn't know, cleared my head. The monk said he wouldn't ask questions, but if I needed to organize my thoughts or wanted someone to talk to, I should speak. From afar, the temple broadcast continued its sermon.
"Because there is nothing to be gained in worldly affairs, the bodhisattva relies on prajñāpāramitā and thus has no obstructions in the mind. With no obstructions, there is no fear, and thus departs from inverted, empty thoughts to enter perfect nirvana. All Buddhas of the three times also rely on prajñāpāramitā and thereby attain supreme enlightenment."
From that afternoon onward, I spent my time with nature. I climbed the mountain a little and found a small waterfall in the valley, where I meditated to the sound of rushing water. I also ascended to the summit of Gwaneumbong, ate, and took walks. I even sat before the Buddha and prayed for the well-being and happiness of those around me.
On the third day since arriving at Donghaksa, the monk brought someone with him. The man looked a little younger than me, but his solid build suggested he had trained. His eyes were fierce—wild eyes. The kind that had killed before. I felt tension enter my body.
"Have you returned?"
"Yes."
"Who is this?"
"He will be your protector. Take good care of him."
"Greet him, then show him to the quarters over there."
Suddenly? Why a protector?
"My name is Ri Cheol-min."
A North Korean? Cheol-min looked older than his years. He said he was nineteen this year. If he dressed well, I might have to call him hyung. He was a defector. I asked if he had received training, because his eyes were different. Had he exercised? His way of speaking was oddly mature for his age.
"Living in this world is already hard enough. Why would I need separate exercise?"
Then, out of nowhere, he challenged me.
"Shall we have a match?"
Sudden competitive spirit flared up. As I took my stance, something felt familiar. The eighteenth movement. The fifth posture. Cheol-min's eyes lit up as well.
"Where did you learn this?"
Where else? I learned it in Cancun. As the exchange continued, I launched myself at him. The fifth, ninth, and then second movements flowed into striking techniques, followed by a modified tackle. He blocked them all. My finishing blow had been stopped. We kept going, and the back-and-forth became enjoyable. Suddenly he created distance. Why was he pulling out a knife?
"Cheol-min, this isn't a real fight, is it?"
The tension spiked instantly.
"You don't carry yourself prepared?"
Hey, this is South Korea, you idiot. I took three scratches on my sleeve and pants before finally subduing him. The fresh tension and focus I hadn't felt in a long time blew away my worries and troubles.
That afternoon we trained together, then went down below Donghaksa for some baeksuk and a few rounds of dongdongju, growing closer. He felt like a younger brother I had known for years. His personality was refreshing, he held no grudges, and though he was somewhat blunt, I liked him. As we emptied about three bottles of dongdongju and talked, his story turned out to be quite extraordinary. It might have been a common defector tale, but seeing someone who had lived through it made it hit differently—both relatable and pitiful.
His parents had been farmers in a small village on the Gaema Plateau. They had been genuinely devoted to their children's education. His mother was a local, and his father was from Pyongyang. Despite his elite education, his father had been unpretentious and without any sense of authority. He had studied in Austria, Cheol-min said. His mother came from a family of local hunters and was the eldest daughter. From his father, he learned Russian and classical Chinese, receiving a proper education. His maternal uncles hadn't liked that, so whenever his father was away, they would take him into the mountains. They also taught him hunting. The eighteenth movements—he had learned them then. Curious about the origin, I asked, and he said his grandfather had brought them back from the Korean War.
After that came tales of his exploits. He told me about his first hunt. At thirteen, he caught a rabbit for the first time. He spoke so seriously about catching that rabbit. I caught an alligator! Two years later, though not alone, he and his uncles caught a tiger. But that tiger, he said bitterly, had brought misfortune to the family. His maternal uncles, who made their living from hunting, had tanned the tiger's hide and taken it to the market. Unfortunately, they ran into an inspector from Pyongyang. The hide was confiscated, and his uncle was taken away. His father had stepped in as the brother-in-law and barely managed to get him released. They thought that was the end of it, but the following month his entire family of three was taken. Under the pretext of purging a reactionary family.
His family was held for several days in a village detention center that served as a hub before being moved to a camp. On the day they were to be transferred to the camp, his uncles ambushed the convoy. That was how his family of three and three uncles attempted to defect. In the process, everyone died except one uncle and himself. The uncle, wounded by gunfire during the escape, had wasted away and passed away last year. Before dying, he gave Cheol-min a contact number. When he called, they accepted him as a defector, and so he came to South Korea.
"Hyung-nim, the monk said you're running a big business. Take care of me, won't you?"
"You should look after your fellow countrymen who've lost their homeland, and I need to get married and continue the family line, don't I?"
"From what I hear, your four pillars and mine match well."
Drunk, I shouted back.
"Fine. But first, fix that dialect. Do you need to advertise that you're from North Korea?"
"Yes, sir."
The next morning, after running a lap around the mountain with Cheol-min and loosening up, the monk approached us.
"Go down. You're stirring up dust."
He was smiling, as if his mind was at ease. Just the day before yesterday, his face had been heavy.
"Yes. Thank you for taking care of me. I'll make a large donation before I leave."
He laughed heartily and returned to his quarters. Cheol-min and I showered, prepared to head back to Seoul, and went to say goodbye.
"Stay healthy."
"Yes. Come anytime."
"Cheol-min, take good care of your hyung. He's a boy with a lot of anger."
"Yes, sir."
I needed to resolve the housing issue first upon returning. Living together in a one-room apartment in Noryangjin was inconvenient in more ways than one. When I asked employee Hyeseon, who handled practical matters, to find a place for two men, a message came from Executive Ha.