Chapter 32
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 32
Chapter Title: Monster Tale Specialist Office: Centipede's Child (12)
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The centipede had reacted to Hanseol's name. This reaction made it even more certain.
“The centipede wasn't trying to eat or imprison Hanseol. On the contrary, it was probably trying to protect her.”
Otherwise, there would have been no need to react like that to Hanseol's name.
“That's irrelevant now. This thing was trying to kill you.”
Even at Taeju's words, Woli didn't budge.
Woli pressed down harder on the centipede with her foot.
The centipede twitched but didn't resist. Glaring at it, Woli continued.
“If we don't kill it now, who knows who else it might hurt?”
Taeju knew that “who” meant herself. Even so, he said they shouldn't kill it.
“Well, I provoked it first. It must have been pretty pissed off. Anyway, I'm fine now, aren't I? We subdued it without much trouble, so that's good enough.”
“So, you're going to talk to it? This thing?”
Woli asked incredulously.
To her, the idea of conversing with a centipede that had no mouth and only made horrific screeches was absurd.
“I'm against it. I say we just kill it.”
Woli tried to shake off Taeju's arm.
“Hear me out. This centipede doesn't intend to harm us anymore. There's a lot to explain, but... we really don't need to kill it.”
Woli didn't respond to Taeju. She kept one foot firmly on the centipede's head.
Even as they spoke, she didn't take her eyes off it. She wasn't blinking at all, showing no gaps whatsoever.
Taeju was at a loss. It was hard to tell her not to get angry on his behalf.
A brief silence followed, and finally Woli let out a heavy sigh before speaking.
“...Fine, do whatever. But I'm not changing my stance. If it moves even a little, I'll stab it right away. Even if the talk goes well, if it seems suspicious at all, I'll stab it. Hell, if things just feel off, I'll stab it.”
The latter part was pretty vicious, but this was fortunate enough. It was impossible to soften Woli's attitude further. Taeju himself was aware he could have died, so he didn't want to push for more.
“So, how do we open this thing's mouth? Are we going to torture it?”
At Woli's question, Taeju pondered. Without vocal cords, it would be hard for it to speak, and Woli wouldn't let it move to express anything through actions anyway.
“No need. I'll speak for it. I'll tell you everything you want to know.”
Taeju turned his head toward the source of the voice. Woli glanced that way briefly too, but her posture didn't change.
With a sharp edge to her tone, Woli snapped.
“You sound quite different from before.”
The voice belonged to Okbun. Her expression was calm, completely unlike the one she'd shown him earlier.
“Well, I couldn't just stand by and watch anymore.”
As soon as Okbun entered their view, the centipede suddenly moved. Woli pressed it down as if ready to shove the metal rod in immediately, but Taeju stopped her.
“No. Let it be.”
Okbun slowly approached the centipede.
Woli reluctantly lowered her weapon. Okbun slowly walked toward the centipede. The centipede slowly moved toward Okbun as well.
“Truth be told, I shouldn't even be coming over like this.”
Krurrrr...
The centipede let out a pitiful sound.
It wasn't exactly a cry, but it sounded like one.
“It's all out in the open already.”
Okbun drew near and hugged the centipede's head tightly as she spoke.
Fluid kept dripping from the centipede's mouth area, but Okbun didn't mind.
“Normally, we'd just leave it be... but I couldn't bring myself to.”
“That was the strange part.”
Taeju interjected.
“It was the one thing I was most curious about, the part you refused to explain until the end.”
After meeting Okbun, Taeju had one burning question.
“Just how old are you, and what exactly is your relationship with that centipede?”
“So, do you have some idea now?”
Okbun said, stroking the centipede. She looked more relaxed, as if she'd given up on something.
“I doubt we'll ever know your relationship with it unless you tell us directly, but I can guess what you are.”
Okbun slowly lifted her head to look at Taeju.
“My identity...”
“Those eaten by a tiger become ghosts bound to the tiger. You two don't seem quite that subservient, but the essence feels similar. You're probably one of the people it ate.”
Okbun gave no response, as if affirming it.
“But I still don't know why it listens to you, or why you treat it so affectionately.”
“Well, of course. That's a deeply personal story. Still, figuring it out that far is impressive enough.”
Okbun swallowed a groan as she said it.
“So, what now?”
“Now we do whatever we want. We won, after all.”
At those words, the centipede twisted what remained of its body—three-quarters gone.
Seeing this, Woli raised her metal rod again.
“Ugh, we're not killing it. There's no need to fight. Both of you, stop.”
“But it started...!”
Woli voiced her complaint, while the centipede seemed agitated too, but since it couldn't speak, Woli ranted unilaterally.
“It's getting threatening again.”
“No. It's just trying to protect you. It must have misunderstood what I said. Anyway, both of you, just pause for a moment.”
In any case, one monster and one human stopped baring their teeth at each other.
Taeju let out a light sigh.
“Fine, let's call off the fight, but if we stay like this forever, we'll be stuck. So, could you at least tell us the story?”
“What story?”
“Things like your relationship with the centipede, or its connection to Hanseol.”
“Do you really need to know? You can just do whatever you want with us.”
“Well, since we won, isn't it fine to do as we say? And hearing the story might change how we decide to handle you.”
Okbun fell silent for a moment, then spoke as if conceding.
“Fine. Then I'll tell you. How we ended up like this.”
* * *
Long ago, back when it was just a centipede. It was nothing special, merely a bit gigantic.
In modern terms, it might be called a mutant.
The giant centipede settled near human habitation.
It hadn't chosen the spot for the people; coincidentally, a village sprang up around it after it settled.
The large centipede was easy to spot, and naturally, people soon discovered it.
Amazed by the enormous centipede they'd never seen before, the people were shocked.
And afraid.
Rumors of the centipede spread quickly, and rumors always grow embellishments.
“There's a huge centipede living on that mountain!”
“There's a house-sized centipede on that mountain!”
“A massive centipede lives on that mountain—it's the king of centipedes!”
“That giant centipede is a fearsome being—don't mess with it!”
The people believed this, and thanks to the rumors, they left it alone.
And at some point, it became known as the “Centipede God.”
Thus, by sheer chance, the centipede became a god.
At first, becoming a god didn't change much beyond living longer. It grew larger and stronger over time, but that was it.
The centipede's first direct interaction with humans after becoming a god came from a sheer coincidence.
It drove off a beast that had invaded its territory.
By then, after many years, subduing a mere tiger was no challenge for the strengthened centipede—it happened occasionally before.
But that day was different. There were witnesses.
“The man-eating tiger was slain by the Centipede God!!”
Word of what it had done spread far and wide, and people began to revere it as their guardian deity.
People beseeched the god for everything: village peace, health, good harvests, protection, all manner of fortune and misfortune.
And coincidentally, after they started doing so, the village prospered.
Faith deepened, and the centipede grew ever stronger. It realized it gained power from its bond with humans.
Wisdom was born.
It had lived long, grown strong, and now wise. It gained the intelligence to understand human prayers and comprehend the role they expected of it.
‘Block outsiders entering the village.’
‘Protect people from beasts.’
In return, it could remain a long-lived, powerful being.
Harvests, however, had nothing to do with it. Nor did health. Those were beyond its control.
One year, famine struck the village.
It was inevitable. Even good farming years are followed by bad ones.
But the villagers didn't know why. They'd prayed to the centipede, yet crops failed— they couldn't understand.
“Aigoo!!! AigoOOO!!”
Laments echoed throughout the village. People began starving to death, and weakened immunity led to disease.
“The Centipede God is angry! We must show proper devotion!”
At first, it was dogs. Then cows, pigs, and such.
The centipede accepted what was offered and ate it. But crops still failed.
Someone said devotion was insufficient, angering it further.
“We've offered dogs, pigs, even cows—what more do you want?!”
“The most precious thing.”
The people believed that would surely improve matters.
A shrine was built at the centipede's lair. Called a ritual hut. They put more care into it than their own homes.
And there, a girl in fine clothes was placed. The daughter of the man who'd first insisted on offering the most precious.
“Father!!! Father!! Save me!!!”
The girl pounded on the door furiously, but the locked door from outside didn't budge.
Soon, the centipede descended and took the offering.
The next day, the hut was empty.
Only the vacant hut remained.
The people rejoiced that the god had accepted the tribute. They believed the famine would end.
And that very year, they had a bountiful harvest.
Purely due to natural soil cycles.
The land depleted, poor harvests followed for years, then recovered—simple as that.
But the ancients couldn't know such things.
All that remained was the belief: sacrifice a person, and bountiful harvests come.
‘When crops fail, offer a village maiden. Then bounty follows.’
Thus, the centipede became a god that both nurtured and devoured humans.
Accepting offerings granted bountiful harvests.
The man who first advocated sacrificing a virgin—his own daughter—became a village elder.
The village grew, prospered, and the centipede strengthened accordingly.
It stayed that way as guardian god and man-eating monster for ages unknown even to itself.
Across generations, maidens were offered during famines, and the centipede ate them without thought.
But times changed; agriculture alone couldn't sustain the village.
Offerings increased for prosperity, but no one wanted to offer their own daughters.
So the villagers began raising people solely to offer to the centipede.