Erased Histories and Moonlit Blades
Jin-cheol voiced his thoughts without filter. "Who? And why the hell?"
Parm slowly shook his head. "Unfortunately, that's as far as I could dig. As I said, the materials available in Jipain were either damaged or documents whose meanings we couldn't decipher. There weren't many facts I could infer from those fragmented scraps. And that destruction process? It wasn't over a short period—it spanned a very long time. In my view, it dates back to the library's founding."
"What the fuck does that mean? You're saying the library itself did it on purpose?"
"More precisely, a few individuals affiliated with the library. A small group passing it down through generations, it seems. Over centuries, no less, so even academia didn't notice. If I hadn't found evidence, I wouldn't have pieced it together either."
"Evidence?"
Parm's eyes fixed straight on Jin-cheol. Meeting that moist gaze, Jin-cheol tilted his head.
"Me?"
"Yes, you. Neither Esai, Olrog, nor Baika. Not Kampoeni or Lavito either. A race I've clearly described in fragments of the forgotten empire's records. Without knowing you existed, I'd have dismissed it as some odd description of a peculiar figure. You look human enough, after all. So my hypothesis? The empire's ruling class looked like you."
Calling a human 'human-looking'—what an insult. Jin-cheol let out a hollow chuckle and lifted his glass. He downed it in one gulp, then refilled it.
"It's some wild shit, but... all you've got is guesses? No hard facts?"
"That's right. If I marched into academia with this theory now, they'd call me a madman. You're the only visible proof, but I can't parade you around like some circus freak."
Parm lifted his glass and sipped it through his mask. Jin-cheol grinned and topped it off.
"Then if shit hits the fan later, let's run a circus together. I'll do the tricks; you pick up the coins."
"A circus?"
"You know, those traveling shows with weird folks and freak skills nobody's seen before."
"Ah, a performance troupe? Haha, well, with your looks, even getting in as a lowly performer might be tough."
Is that so? Fair enough—in a world where dogs walk on two legs, you'd need to be downright bizarre to make coin just from gawking.
"Anyway, I learned the most recent culprit from those records is right here in Siol. That's why I came back—to meet him."
"Oh? In Siol? Mind if I tag along?"
Jin-cheol perked up, but Parm slowly shook his head.
"He's deeply tied to Siol's seven great houses, especially under Shionos's protection—a renowned historian. Meeting him requires solid academic endorsement. Without it, you won't even cross his doorstep. Udim's already set as my assistant, but you..."
"...Ah. So he's one of those high-and-mighty types who needs a fancy degree on your head just to deign a chat?"
"That's... sorry, Jin-cheol. Not meant to belittle you."
Jin-cheol laughed it off. "No need to apologize. My head's light on ink anyway—fact. And you'll fill me in later, right?"
"Of course. It's about your race, after all. I wouldn't have even looked without meeting you."
"Good enough. I'll wait for the summary. So, what's this lofty bastard's name?"
"Bildo Bell. Even when I was studying at the university, his name rang bells—a famous scholar. Especially known for papers on the chronological power dynamics between Siol and Jipain."
Bildo Bell. No surprise he was a stranger—two months haunting Siol's back alleys, and his circle was boozehounds and gamblers. Unless some academic bigshot slummed it here, Jin-cheol wouldn't know him. Still, if the guy was around now, he'd grab him by the collar and shake out what he knew.
Jin-cheol shook off the thought. "Heading out today?"
"No, tomorrow."
Jin-cheol grabbed his glass at the reply. "Then drink with me tonight."
"Haha, that's half the reason I came. You seem rougher than I expected... but sure, one more."
Jin-cheol turned to the silent Udim. "Grab a glass, asshole."
"Khrung."
Udim lifted his at the prod. Jin-cheol, Parm, and Udim clinked glasses. The three men spent the next while trading dumb jokes over drinks.
*
"Fuckin' moon's bright as hell tonight."
Jin-cheol muttered it through booze-soured breath, gazing at Siol's night sky. A full moon gleamed, stars twinkling thick. Among memories of night skies, there was that aching Siberian chill where even starlight bit cold in Manchuria. Under that icy glow, humans shelled and bombed each other daily. But this sky felt warmer. Despite the city's glaring lights stinging his eyes, the moon and stars cradled the glare tenderly.
Time heals even the scars humans tore in the night sky, it seemed.
Lost in needless sentiment, Jin-cheol meandered moonlit back alleys toward his lodging, post-drinks with Parm and Udim.
"Damn, that guy's got a mouth for bullshit..."
Traces of humans found? But someone erased them? What the fuck? Why?
Reasons did bubble up. How monstrous humans were—splitting by nation, ideology, gleefully slaughtering kin. In his war's late stages, unit massacres ignored flags. Hate and loathing sorted humans by parents' flags or skin, machine-gunning without hesitation. Would the fourth war change that? Maybe this era's descendants preferred wiping out those extinction-level monsters.
Ishanka herself saw a scrap and pegged a demon in his head.
"...Fuck it all. People not learning their lesson ain't my fault. I was busy surviving solo in that hellhole..."
Why the hell am I even brooding on this? Laughing at his mopey drunk ass, Jin-cheol cackled. Staggering boozily, prime drunkard material.
Then his steps halted.
Someone stood in the narrow alley ahead. Jin-cheol narrowed his eyes. Moon-shadowed, a black silhouette like a doll—threatening to most. But his eyes pierced it.
"...Rockhead?"
"Dol Jumeok!"
The gloomy shadow barked at Jin-cheol's words, stomping forward into moonlight. An Olrog—Dol Jumeok, the nickname from today's Golden Whale brawl.
"What? Waiting for me here?"
"Heh heh heh. Yeah. Knew your lodging's this way. Knew you'd pass. Should've thrown the damn fight. Metidoti's pissed as fuck because of you—"
"Damn, your speech is smooth. Know an Olrog named Udim? That fucker's got words but plays dumb. Gotta grill him sometime."
Dol Jumeok stared blankly, then realized his line got cut and resumed. "...Metidoti sends regards... since you keep ignoring him, to teach a lesson... so if I say this, you'll..."
Stumbling after the interruption, he faltered. Jin-cheol smirked, hands pocketed, leaning cocky.
"Nah. You're a proper Olrog—brain stuffed with muscle, dumb as rocks."
"...I ain't dumb!"
"Puhahaha!"
"Y-you bastard!"
Dol Jumeok flushed beet-red. Jin-cheol just shook his head, chuckling.
"Quit the bullshit, kid. Go home, wash your feet, crash. Don't wanna step up and—"
Jin-cheol's face hardened. His eyes flicked to the opposite alley mouth. A sinister Esai in black slunk out, long blade gleaming blue even in gloom.
Seeing it, Jin-cheol muttered, "Metidoti sends regards, huh?"
Metidoti—Siol underworld boss, kingpin of harbor fistfights. Weeks back, he'd demanded Jin-cheol, the new champ, throw a match. Jin-cheol blew him off.
"Heh heh! You're fucked now! Pinched front and back in this narrow spot—still champ-strut? That blade'll carve you—"
Dol Jumeok's finger-pointing halted, mid-taunt. Not interrupted this time. Shadowy eyes glared from the gloom—a killer's gaze. Death-cloaked hunter's stare. Blade-sharp eyes gleamed ferociously in the murk.
Dol Jumeok's breath caught, words devoured. Prey-frozen before predator, body locked in terror.
The killer spoke. "121st century, and idiots still pull idiot shit. Guess I need a chat with Metidoti."
Then the rear blade-man charged—sliding shadows like vengeance-worshipping assassins, short-needle style.
Dol Jumeok knew him: Metidoti's deadliest bladesman. Over ten kills to his name.
The blade flashed like light toward Jin-cheol's back. No—optical trick; Jin-cheol spun left, dodging, elbow-smashing the temple. Thwuck—assassin reeled. Late ting, metal headgear clattered off his forehead.
Blood poured, face a mess. He blinked, baffled, backing up.
Jin-cheol strode forward. Staggering killer thrust desperately. Jin-cheol leaned back, slapped the flat aside. Blade skidded into alley wall. Jin-cheol's hand-ridge snapped the blade—clang.
Killer's eyes bulged. "Wha—"
Jin-cheol's left grabbed his face, slamming into opposite wall. Thud—stone chips, dust. Limbs splayed, twitched, slumped.
"Uh, uhh..."
Dol Jumeok gawked dumbly. Jin-cheol turned slowly. Dol Jumeok quivered lipped, frozen as he approached.
"Hey."
"Y-yeah?"
"Tell Metidoti I'll drop by soon. Block me if you can."
"...Huh?"
Jin-cheol's eyes narrowed. "Not that dumb, right?"
"N-no! Not that dumb! Dol Jumeok ain't!"
"Then scram."
Dol Jumeok bolted, tripping in panic. Jin-cheol sighed. Smart ones avoid face-time when he hits Metidoti. Otherwise? Not his problem.
He glanced back: snapped blade, wall-smashed corpse. Beyond, dark alley crammed with bodies—foe and friend mingled in blood-soaked field. Pale dead eyes stared blankly.
Meeting them calmly, Jin-cheol spat on the ground and walked on. Alley held only the unlucky killer, ghostly under moon.
Stepping firm, no hesitation. No bluff—that message to Metidoti. Jin-cheol wasn't saintly enough to forgive assassins sans payback. Time for the cornered rifle to roar again.
Reaching lamp-lit main street, flagstones even underfoot, Jin-cheol halted slow.
Someone stood dead center ahead, staring. Slender, hooded figure. Jin-cheol tilted head—likely female Esai build.
She lifted her head. Forehead circlet sparkled.
"New face..."
Thought Ishanka at first—then no. Her mouth opened.
"Kang Jin-cheol? Right?"
Clear, bright voice—schoolmarm, not killer. Jin-cheol sensed caution over malice.
"And who're you, asking?"
"Haeta of Sandesiya."
Sandesiya? Far from Siol, right?
"What? You from Metidoti too?"
"Don't know Metidoti, but you're not who I'm after."
"Then..."
Jin-cheol's face hardened again. Spine-chilling premonition prickled.
Instinct flaring, he yanked waist-hidden pipe pistol, spun, aimed.
Then dumbfounded.
"...Kampoeni?"
There: chest-high Kampoeni, fluffy fur like Tobi. Differences—flashy earrings, loose robes, wide belt, shoulder bag, long pipe in mouth, waist-high staff in hand.
"What the—?"
Ear-jingles chimed. Senses screamed. Jin-cheol reflex-yanked hand back—light-beam grazed pistol.
"...Huh?"
Halved gun in view. Split-second slower, fingers gone.
Gaze to pipe-puffing Kampoeni—grinning amused.
"Oho. Dodged that? Sharp instincts, friend."
What the fuck—a Kampoeni bladesman?