The Black Soul of Katon
Hwanin led—no, dragged—the female spirit who had ceased her luminous thrashing away from the murmuring riverside and returned to the annex.
From there he guided her a short distance farther, to a jujube tree standing apart from the building.
Of late he had begun to sense something new: a faint warmth, or its opposite, a chill, clinging to certain plants and places.
In Korea the jujube tree was long regarded as a symbol of yang energy—an old folk belief born of its shape, its preferred soil, and the stories people told about it. Strangely enough, Hwanin could feel a weak, genuine warmth radiating from this one as well.
It was not only the jujube. Busy squares and streets carried a slightly muddy but still perceptible warmth. Jujube, pomegranate, persimmon, apricot, bodhi, dandelion, lily of the valley, lily, sunflower—each plant exhaled its own delicate shade of that same positive force. Riversides, lakeshores, willows, ginkgoes, and bamboo, by contrast, breathed cold.
If warmth lent a soul a measure of yang strength, then cold would naturally work the opposite effect. He had brought the spirit here in the hope that lingering near the jujube might ease some of the chill that clung to her.
“…….”
Hwanin studied the woman carefully. She hung limp, as though she had wept herself into exhaustion.
She had regained a human shape, yet the color of her spiritual body remained a gloomy black-gray. Empty eyes stared only at the night sky.
The souls he had seen until now had always been clothed. Those freshly murdered appeared naked; he had never encountered a spirit that had died of ordinary old age, so he could only guess. After death, once enough time passes, the spiritual body changes and clothes itself.
This woman’s garments, however, were little better than rags—torn open so that her breasts, the dark thatch between her thighs, and the cleft of her sex were all exposed. The clothing itself was not everyday wear but travel gear, sturdy leather cut for combat.
Hwanin’s eyes narrowed at the information her attire offered. In a calm, even voice he addressed her.
“Can you hear me?”
「…….」
“If I am to free you from your grudge, we must communicate.”
「…….」
“If you are able to answer, please—”
「…….」
He spoke to her again and again, yet received neither reply nor the slightest reaction. She had sealed herself completely away from the world.
“Hm…….”
Communication was necessary. In his time he had already encountered several hundred souls. Among the truly unusual he could count only four: Rua’s colorless, transparent aura; the Honjae; Avet’s blue soul; and the black soul before him now.
Rua and the Yulkam Honjae he had simply sent on without understanding. Avet, once purified, had granted him the power of soul communion before vanishing. The thought of what reward might come from pacifying this black soul stirred a quiet curiosity.
“Isilite. Go inside and rest.”
“No, Master. How could I sleep while you remain awake……?”
“You must train again tomorrow. Can you learn properly if you are exhausted?”
Isilite hesitated only a moment before nodding.
“If it seems I will become a hindrance, I will withdraw. Until then, I wish to stay at your side.”
“Very well.”
Turning his attention from her, Hwanin tested the spirit’s reflexes with several techniques—waving a soul orb before her eyes, whispering near her ear, calling her to wake. Nothing.
No reaction at all.
None of those methods had carried compulsion. He was reluctant to use force; even the light compulsion he had employed at the river had provoked a reaction like that of an Akryung. He had already used compulsion once more to calm her afterward. To touch her with it again felt as though whatever he had suppressed would erupt twice as violently.
Perhaps this total unresponsiveness is itself the result of that forced calming.
The only remaining option was to inject spiritual energy, yet he disliked the idea of direct contact. After a brief deliberation he took up the Soul Stick and pressed its tip lightly against the floating spirit’s chest, allowing the faintest thread of energy to flow.
A sharp crackle—
[Marte, please don’t do this. Why… why are you doing this……?!]
[No! Marte, help me! Marte!!]
[Aaaah……. Aaaaah!!]
[…….]
[Did you… did you hate me that much……?]
[Cough. I… I loved you more than myself…….]
[If I was a burden… you should have… just said so…….]
[Mar…te, Marte……. I love you. Love…… lo…….]
“……!”
Memories crashed over him like a sudden tide. Hwanin jerked the Soul Stick away at once, then frowned as raw disgust flooded his chest. It was the nauseating sensation of having lived another person’s experience through their own eyes.
In those memories the woman had been betrayed by her lover, gang-raped by five men, and finally murdered—her heart and belly carved open.
“Isilite. Bring paper and charcoal.”
“Yes, Master.”
Even while strangers violated her inside what seemed a windmill, the woman had trusted and loved the brown-haired fox-kin man who was her lover. She had never cast that love aside; even as he tore out her heart she had whispered that she loved him.
“Master, I’ve brought them.”
Yet the brown-haired fox had smiled with pleasure while killing the woman who still spoke of love. He had grown aroused, and over her eviscerated corpse he had spilled white seed, trembling with ecstasy.
With a rigid face Isilite handed over the paper and charcoal. Hwanin accepted them and carefully sketched the five men and the brown-haired fox from the vision—front and side views of each.
The five were almost certainly locals; their clothing before the rape had matched the everyday dress of the village men. The fox called Marte, however, was likely a traveler, just as the murdered woman had been.
When he finished the six portraits he realized the female spirit’s eyes were open and fixed upon him. At the river those eyes had held nothing; now they gazed at him with a mixture of pity, sorrow, and pain.
“Whatever you may say, I will find this man and leave him in the same state as you.”
「…….」
It was not pity for the woman that moved him, nor righteous fury at the shameless man who had discarded all decency. Hwanin’s capacity for empathy was not so generous that the murder of a stranger could enrage him.
There was only one reason.
She had forced disgust upon him.
When her memories poured in he had watched every moment through her eyes—a full proxy experience. By ordinary moral standards the fox-kin named Marte had earned death; the justification was more than sufficient.
Hwanin watched the woman as her sorrow deepened. She would lose her strength and pass on before long. He needed to move quickly.
“First, however, these five must be seized and punished. They appear to be of this village, so finding them should not be difficult.”
「…….」
At the mention of killing her lover the spirit had only grieved; at the mention of the five who had violated her, anger twisted her features.
Holding her gaze, Hwanin spoke to Isilite.
“Isilite. Go quietly and fetch Master Kantwi. Tell him there is an important matter to discuss.”
“Yes, Master.”
Isilite sprinted off and returned in less than ten minutes with Kantwi still in his nightclothes.
“Master Hwanin. An important matter at this hour of the night—what has happened?”
“A problem arose that must be resolved at once. I had no choice but to wake you. I apologize.”
After the apology Hwanin revealed his identity in a calm voice edged with restrained anger.
“You may already have guessed, but I am a Soul Master.”
“……Y-yes?”
“Have you heard the news of the Soul Master who appeared in Wayford?”
“Hah! Could it be that you yourself are that Soul Master?!”
“I am. I normally conceal my identity to avoid troublesome attention. Fortunately the blessing of aura makes concealment simple.”
“O-ohhh. By the Beast God……!”
Kantwi rushed forward and dropped to his knees before Hwanin, who sat at the edge of the wooden veranda.
“Forgive me for failing to recognize a Soul Master and for offering such inadequate hospitality!”
“Your hospitality has been more than generous, Master Kantwi. Please do not say such things.”
Hwanin helped him to his feet and looked him straight in the eye.
“You already have a fair idea why I summoned you.”
“I sensed that a Soul Master would not need the help of one such as myself without reason. Command me as you will. This Kantwi will accomplish anything within his power that you desire!”
Hwanin accepted a white hooded robe from Isilite and pulled it on as he spoke.
“In this village there is a young woman who was murdered unjustly. She stands on the brink of becoming an Akryung; if left alone she may even turn into a Honjae.”
“H-Ho-Honjae?!”
“Her grudge must be resolved. I must meet the person responsible for this village at once. Guide me.”
“Yes!”
Hwanin buckled on a dagger belt, hung the Celtic stone axe at his hip, took up the Soul Stick, and followed Kantwi with Isilite at his side.
Along the way he briefly explained to Kantwi what had occurred in the village.
“Heavens. That such a thing could happen here…….”
“It is not only Katon’s problem. In every city and village I passed on the road there were people who no longer feared the grudges of the dead.”
“The young these days especially have forgotten the fear of heaven. What is the world coming to…….”
When they reached the village proper Hwanin asked Kantwi to ensure that his and Isilite’s identities remained hidden.
“Even if a blade were at my throat I would not speak.”
“Thank you.”
“Not at all. It is an honor to be of even the smallest help in a Soul Master’s work of pacification. Ah—there, Homas!”
Kantwi called out to a dog-kin youth who stood chatting with friends in front of a tavern.
“Huh? Uncle Kantwi, what are you doing out at this hour?”
“I am escorting a Soul Master right now, so keep your foolish mouth shut! Run to the steward’s house at once and tell him a Soul Master is on the way!”
“……What?”
“What do you mean ‘what’?! Get to the steward’s house this instant and announce that a Soul Master is coming!!”
“Y-yes, sir!!”
“And the rest of you—fetch Rewil, Drika, Helmund, Gerey, Elwip…….”
He rattled off the names of the nine who had received the blessing of pacification and ordered them brought to the steward’s house as well.
“Understood?! Move as fast as you do when you’re raiding my orchard!”
“Y-yes!”
“We’re going!”
The young men bolted as though their tails were on fire. Kantwi watched them go, breathing hard. Despite his simple appearance he was sharp-eyed. He had realized that a Soul Master who hid his identity and performed pacifications would not ask for a guide without purpose, and that the man wished to gather more eyes. So he had bellowed in the village square until the noisy crowd of dozens fell silent at once.
Feeling the weight of every gaze settle on the two white-hooded figures, Kantwi bowed respectfully to Hwanin.
“Forgive the delay. This way.”
Some of the onlookers hurried off to spread the news; others trailed at a distance. Late though the hour was, the village began to wake.
Prisold, the donkey-kin steward of Katon Village—an Inyeo-jok dispatched from Parhist—had been about to retire when the sudden pounding on his door sent him scrambling into clothes and rousing his household.
“A Soul Master all of a sudden?! A Soul Master coming at this hour—what nonsense is this?!”
“Huff, huff. Uncle Kantwi said so! He’s bringing a Soul Master here right now!”
“Good heavens! Wife, have you woken the children? What? They won’t get up?! Flip the beds if you must!”
Unlike a mere official sent from Parhist, Kantwi’s family had roots as deep as the village itself. He looked after everyone’s affairs and gave freely; many respected him. He would never invent so outrageous a story.
“Steward! Steward! They’ve arrived!”
A village youth who usually handled odd jobs burst into the house shouting. Prisold herded his barely-dressed wife and children outside—and found more than a hundred people already waiting.
“……!”
Next he saw Kantwi, looking as rumpled as himself, and behind him two figures in white robes.
Is that the Soul Master?
Which of the two? The one farther back carried a warrior’s aura. Then the one without aura must be the Soul Master.
The absence of aura raised a flicker of doubt, yet Prisold knew that rare constitutions existed in which aura never manifested even after awakening. He swallowed hard and fixed his eyes on the taller of the two.
“Ah… er…….”
The one without aura stepped forward.
“Are you Prisold, steward of Katon Village?”
A pleasant mid-low male voice. Instinct told Prisold this was the Soul Master; he bowed deeply.
“I am Prisold, steward of Katon. On behalf of Lord Fenrir Justio Parhist, seventh-class polar-bear beastkin and lord of the Holy City Parhist, I oversee the affairs of this village.”
“I apologize for this sudden visit so late at night.”
“Apologize? Nonsense! The very fact that a Soul Master has come means something is wrong. It is I who should beg forgiveness!”
Forty years had passed since Prisold completed his education in the great city of Parhist and took up his post in Katon. Among the lessons he had learned was how to deal with those who claimed to be Soul Masters. Though he had taken a local wife, raised children, and largely shed the ways of the city, he had never forgotten a steward’s duty. Naturally he ought to test the self-proclaimed Soul Master who stood before him without even an aura—while still leaving room for the possibility that the man was genuine…….
That thought was shattered by what came next.
“Soul Master!”
“S-Soul Master… huff, huff… I heard you summoned us! Hah… hah.”
“Steward! You haven’t been rude to the Soul Master, have you?! That would be disastrous!”
More than fifteen people came pouring in. Some dropped to their knees beside the white-robed man; the older ones scolded Prisold as though he had already committed an offense.
“E-elders? What is the meaning of this?”
“This gentleman is a true high-ranking Soul Master capable of manifesting soul knights! If you have done anything wrong, apologize at once!”
At the village elder’s roar Prisold’s eyes nearly left his head.
What? A high-ranking Soul Master?
His ears rang as though filled with bees; his fingers and toes went cold and numb. What was a high-ranking Soul Master? One who guided countless souls to rest and purified even Honjae. One who traveled with soul knights and soul priests to places of war or plague where the dead lay thick, purifying and leading them onward. When a high-ranking Soul Master visited, even the lord of a holy city came out in person to receive him as an honored guest.
A holy-city lord whose face ordinary folk might never see in a lifetime—Prisold himself had glimpsed his own lord only once, on the day he received his diploma from the academy. And that lord would set everything aside to greet a high-ranking Soul Master. Why, then, had such a person come to this humble village……?
Had Prisold known what was about to unfold he might have fainted in peace. Lacking any gift of foresight, he merely felt his heart hammer as he addressed the Soul Master with extreme care.
“E-er… Soul Master……?”
No answer came. The hood hid the man’s face, yet the angle of his head suggested he was looking not at Prisold but past him.
What was behind him?
……His wife and children?
“Seize that one.”
“…?!”
Prisold’s breath caught as the white-robed warrior shot forward like lightning, seized his youngest son by the collar, and slammed the boy mercilessly to the ground.
Silence fell so complete that a dropped pin would have rung like a bell.