The Unquenchable Thirst
He hadn’t stopped no matter how desperately Mu-ho screamed and called for him. Yet the instant the conversation turned to a human, he finally halted.
He turned his head with deliberate slowness toward Mu-ho.
The gaze that met his was so icy it felt as though his entire body might freeze solid, yet Mu-ho tightened his fists and spoke.
Because it had lingered so long inside a human vessel, Shin-wol’s fox marble had grown noticeably frail. So weakened that it was barely visible even upon close inspection, it would soon dissolve completely from her body.
The temperature around them steadily plummeted, but Mu-ho ignored it and pressed on.
……
Mu-ho ground his teeth together.
He spoke with the full knowledge that these words might cost him his life. Should Shin-wol unleash his true power, Mu-ho would not last even a few minutes before collapsing. Yet he had to speak them.
The way Shin-wol regarded that human was anything but ordinary. He shuddered to imagine what the ancient fox might do once they left this place.
Risking death itself, Mu-ho wrenched the rest of the warning from his throat.
Blood dripped steadily from his clenched fist.
Long ago, Shin-wol had been more beautiful and noble than any other being. Despite his vast power he never boasted, and to those who admired him and drew near, he offered his teachings without stint. He had possessed a heart as broad and generous as the sky.
Mu-ho knew they could never return to those days.
On the day the human betrayed him—when Shin-wol first shed blood and fell—Mu-ho had stood beside him, powerless to act. Had he only given in to rage and hatred, he would have hunted down the fleeing girl and torn her apart while she still breathed.
The words Shin-wol had murmured that day rose like haze inside his mind. Swallowing the wild emotions clawing at his chest, Mu-ho spoke once more.
For interfering with causality, Shin-wol had received punishment. But assimilation with the evil god was an entirely different order of sin. Any being who merged with it was meant to burn in the fires of hell for ten thousand years, no matter the reason.
The sole mercy was that reversal remained possible. If he abandoned the heavenly path and began anew, forging his marble from the beginning, two thousand years of ascetic cultivation would be harsh—but still better than ten millennia of infernal flames.
If, during that long penance, he repented and earned Cheon-sin’s protection, even the evil-god portion might be purified in time.
As these thoughts turned in his mind, a frigid voice drifted from the distance.
“So?”
“Does that pose any problem?”
Shin-wol’s lips curved into a smile. It was the same gentle expression he always wore, yet his eyes held no trace of warmth.
“Even should the marble’s lifespan run out, this child will not die. Because I have made it so.”
The first statement alone was enough to shatter one’s sanity; the second was worse.
Mu-ho’s mouth opened and closed without sound.
“If necessary.”
No answer came.
“Haha.”
Mu-ho laughed like someone who had lost his mind.
“You really are insane, Shin-wol.”
Was there any phrase more fitting?
His gaze drifted to the sleeping Yeo-won. He had sensed her energy was faint yet strangely distorted; now he understood why.
“Avert your eyes. Before I burn them from your skull.”
Despite the savage threat, Mu-ho laughed like a madman, then his face suddenly darkened.
That explained everything—the marble’s fading power, the uneasy feeling he had sensed from her.
“Yes. That way her lifespan will lengthen. She will receive the full life force accumulated in the marble over hundreds of years…”
Muttering almost to himself, Mu-ho pressed hard against his temple, squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again.
Even as he asked, Mu-ho could already foresee the answer. Shin-wol offered a meaningful smile.
“This child’s wishes are irrelevant. She need only remain at my side and do as she pleases. For her, it will not be such a terrible fate.”
Just as he feared. His dark premonition had never once been wrong.
Mu-ho hesitated, then spoke with care.
“Humans are not like us. Their frailty is not only of the body but of the mind. They lack the spirit to endure eternity.”
“It does not matter.”
In a single breath Shin-wol’s smile vanished. His voice dropped to a low, animalistic growl.
“So long as I may keep her beside me.”
Madness burned in those beast-like, glittering eyes. Mu-ho spoke with genuine pity.
“Run, you say.”
Shin-wol gave a soft, mocking laugh.
“That, too, would not be so bad. To offer hope and then snatch it away could prove an entertaining diversion.”
Shin-wol gently stroked the hair of the woman cradled against his chest.
Did she have any idea what conversation passed above her sleeping form? Did she understand that the arms holding her would become an abyss?
Looking at Yeo-won’s peaceful, unknowing face, Mu-ho felt something he had not experienced in centuries—true sympathy, true pity.
While he watched her in silence, Shin-wol snapped his fingers. Fire ignited in Mu-ho’s eyes. The moisture evaporated instantly, bringing blinding agony.
With a sickening sizzle, Mu-ho clutched one eye and screamed.
“Aaaagh!”
“Everyone treats my warnings as a joke. This is precisely why words alone are useless.”
Mu-ho channeled his spiritual power, forcing the invading force back, and drew a ragged breath. Shin-wol smiled faintly and murmured,
“Are your questions satisfied? Then go and deliver the message to Cheon-sin.”
“Had I meant to silence you, I would not have troubled myself with this tedious chatter.”
He flicked his hand dismissively. Even after committing an act of treason, he still appeared refined—perhaps because of the innate dignity that had always been his.
“You still have more?”
By now Mu-ho had nothing left to lose. With holes burned through his body and one eye ruined, fear had become irrelevant.
Shin-wol hummed thoughtfully and stroked his chin, as though the question genuinely puzzled him. His gaze fell to Yeo-won, who gave a tiny twitch in his arms, and a simple smile touched his lips.
“Because this child can play janggi with me.”
“Janggi?”
Mu-ho’s eyes widened. He struggled to mask his astonishment and asked again.
“If she’s interesting enough to hold your attention, she must be skilled.”
“No. She is terrible.”
The instant reply left Mu-ho speechless. Shin-wol lowered his head, rubbing his cheek against Yeo-won’s forehead as he whispered,
“Yet she never gives up. Even Mun-a lost interest quickly. No matter how often she loses, she continues… and continues…”
His golden eyes glazed with rapture. Mu-ho could not fathom the meaning behind the words, and Shin-wol offered no further explanation.
Yeo-won whimpered in her sleep, annoyed. Shin-wol’s face bloomed into a radiant smile.
“This time, I shall be able to savor it for a very long while.”
It was a pure, innocent smile that seemed impossible on the face of one tainted by the evil god.
“I have no need of it. That promise will become meaningless soon enough.”
“She will grieve for a long time, but that does not matter. In fact, it may even be preferable.”
Shin-wol pressed his lips to Yeo-won’s forehead, then drew back and whispered,
“Affection fades quickly, but hatred lingers. It does not vanish easily.”
His voice was thick with thirst. Looking at him, Mu-ho felt his chest tighten with realization.
Shin-wol had been tormented by thirst all this time.
And the one who had finally quenched it was this very human.
He looked like a man who had stumbled upon an oasis in the middle of a desert.
While the thirst remained, he might not have noticed its depth; but once he tasted water, the craving only grew sharper, the longing more ferocious.
This human had taught an ancient gumiho the very human emotions of greed and obsession.
He would fight with everything he possessed to protect the oasis he had finally found, and Mu-ho knew he could not stop him.
With his mask cast aside, Shin-wol was both hideously ugly and breathtakingly beautiful—an existence wrapped in primal terror.
“We seem to have enjoyed quite the conversation. I should take my leave.”
The spell Shin-wol had placed on Yeo-won was not particularly strong. A simple hypnotic suggestion, it would release her soon. He had been careful not to use more power than her body could bear.
Without a backward glance he turned away.
As though weary of further questions, he tore open a portal by force.
Only then did Mu-ho realize Shin-wol had been indulging him. He had answered every question merely as a convenient way to deliver his message to Cheon-sin.
Beyond the rift lay the mountain path of Mount Gonok.
Just before the portal sealed, Mu-ho forced out his final words.
It was not that the mistake could no longer be undone—it had already gone too far to undo.
Having realized it too late, Mu-ho laughed in hollow despair.
He suspected that day would not be long in coming. The marble’s presence in Yeo-won’s eyes had grown so faint that assimilation would likely finish within a short span of human time.
The rift Shin-wol had torn open had shrunk to the size of a pinhole. Through that tiny gap drifted a low voice, almost like a hummed melody.
“That is precisely what I desire.”
Even after the portal closed completely, Mu-ho remained frozen in place, stunned.
“Meow…”
At some point the cat had come to his feet and cried pitifully. Mu-ho offered it a bitter smile.
“Yes… it is pitiful.”
He reached down and gathered the cat into his arms.
Indeed, there was nothing else to say. It was simply pitiful.
That human’s remaining life would never know peace. All Mu-ho could do was sigh, his heart heavy with sorrow.
“How am I supposed to explain this to Cheon-sin?”
He felt a twinge of self-pity as well, for having been dragged into this nightmare.