Chapter 33
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 33
Chapter Title: Monster Tale Specialist Office: Child of the Centipede (13)
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Okbun’s parents had passed away from illness. It was a sickness born of starvation.
It was all because of poverty.
Okbun was left alone in the world with her young brother.
She was only seven years old at the time. There was no way for her to care for her brother, and no adults to protect her.
Okbun knew what her future held. She also knew that if things continued like this, both of them would die.
At least one of them had to survive.
In this village, the only way to save her brother was obvious.
She would become the sacrifice.
Okbun sent her brother to be adopted by a kind-hearted couple in the village, on the condition that she would take their place.
The couple said they would raise her until the very end, but Okbun refused.
She declared that she would live in the shrine.
She would grow attached to the place and want to stay. She wouldn’t want to leave.
She needed to get used to the place that would become her end.
The villagers were taken aback.
It must have stung them that a young child was volunteering to enter that place.
They suggested she could live in the village until the day came.
But Okbun wouldn’t budge.
Okbun stood before the shrine. She bowed with a dignified posture.
“My name is Okbun, and from today onward, I will be in your care.”
Okbun opened the door and stepped inside.
All the girls who had become sacrifices before her had gone in weeping. Some had even fainted.
She was the first to ask if she could enter on her own two feet.
“Is the god who lives here?”
Okbun looked around the inside of the shrine.
It wasn’t a place meant for humans to live. It was painted vibrantly, but covered in dust. There were no furnishings for people.
Okbun began cleaning.
It was the place where she would live and where she would meet her end. She didn’t want to live and die in filth.
It took her a full day to clean it the first time.
“Whew, I’ve gotten rid of most of the dirt. Even a god ought to do some cleaning.”
Okbun muttered to herself. She didn’t think the god was listening.
In truth, it was more like words to push away her fear.
“I will live here from now on. My days are numbered, but I came here because I want to live well until then.”
It wasn’t something a mere seven-year-old should say. Her tone was far too mature. And it was a mantra to drive out the fear within her.
Young as she was, Okbun had to accept her fate.
Okbun fetched a blanket from somewhere and lay down, covering herself. Exhausted from cleaning all day, she fell asleep soon after.
The centipede had heard every word.
At first, it thought she was just another offering, but it realized she was younger than the usual ones. It also knew the famine hadn’t yet struck.
Humans had visited briefly for trivial reasons before.
The centipede assumed Okbun would leave soon as well. But she stayed and kept living there.
Okbun chattered every day.
“Yesterday, I found a jade-colored stone in the mountains. It’s not real jade, but the color is so pretty.”
“Rain today is a good thing. The crops will do well this year.”
“Yesterday, I accidentally put out the fire. If I were married with a mother-in-law, I’d have been in big trouble.”
“Another bountiful harvest this year. It must be thanks to you. I’m grateful.”
Time passed, years went by, but the girl didn’t leave. For the first time, the centipede watched a human girl grow up.
The child was always bright and noisy.
She grew taller. Her breasts developed. She grew visibly day by day.
Time flowed slowly, but her growth felt instantaneous.
The day the centipede first smelled blood on her, it thought she was hurt. But it wasn’t. It was her first menstruation.
Okbun shed tears inside the shrine for the first time.
It was the first time the centipede saw her cry, the first time it heard her call for her mother.
It felt flustered, strange.
That day, for the first time, the centipede revealed itself to Okbun.
Its body was enormous, nearly filling the room. With its pitch-black form blocking the walls and door, it appeared but didn’t know what to do. So it simply stared at Okbun’s face.
Okbun’s face was a bit flushed, but her eyes were pitch black. The centipede, seeing human eyes so closely for the first time, found it intriguing.
Okbun flinched in surprise. She hadn’t expected the centipede to actually appear.
Thinking it was her end, she closed her eyes. But the centipede didn’t devour her. It just stayed quietly by her side.
After a long while with no change, Okbun opened her eyes. But she was still too scared to speak.
Rain pattered outside. It was a steady drum of droplets. Okbun spoke first.
“Have you come to eat me?”
It was the first question a human had asked the centipede. Not a plea or request, but a question.
The centipede wanted to answer but didn’t know how. It pondered for a moment.
At last, it shook its head slowly. It was imitating a human gesture it had seen before.
That was the centipede’s first conversation.
Okbun was amazed not just that it had appeared, but that it had answered. Her gloom vanished.
“Then, have you come because I’ve dirtied your abode and you’re angry?”
The centipede shook its head again.
“If not that, then I’m curious. Have you come to comfort a girl?”
The centipede started to shake its head but nodded instead.
Without realizing it itself, it recognized from her question what it had intended.
It had come to comfort her.
Okbun burst into laughter. The idea of a house-sized centipede appearing to console her was hilarious. The centipede remained flustered, staying still.
“No, I’ve never even thought of such a thing—it was rude of me. But I see. Today isn’t my last day, then.”
The centipede nodded once more. Okbun laughed again and asked if she could lie down. Her stomach hurt.
The centipede nodded again. Whether she sat, stood, bowed, or whatever—it didn’t matter to it. Okbun covered herself with the blanket and lay down.
The centipede curled up as well, coiling into a ball without disturbing her as she slept.
“Sometimes, just having something nearby is comfort enough. You must know, having lived so long.”
Okbun murmured that just before falling asleep. The centipede stayed by her side until she was fully asleep.
That was their first meeting.
And if there was a first, second and third were easy. Whenever the girl was alone, the centipede would appear.
It was intriguing, and surprisingly fun. Through Okbun, the centipede learned what humans were like.
Okbun rarely went to the village. She roamed freely, tending to her own affairs. She was often alone. Sometimes she picked up stones or pocketed pretty things.
Since everyone knew she was to be sacrificed, no one asked much of her.
“You have no intention of helping?”
That day, too, Okbun was grinding a pretty stone she’d found.
The centipede nodded at her words. It couldn’t help with breaking or grinding stones.
Instead, it caught a mountain beast and gave it to her, meaning for her to have a proper meal.
The girl grunted as she hauled the beast to the village. All she got in return was a few days’ worth of meat.
“Thanks to you, god, dinner will be quite plentiful today.”
The girl thanked the centipede.
Without accepting the thanks, it left. It was such an easy task for it that the gratitude embarrassed it.
After that, the centipede often brought wild boars or other beasts for the girl.
In its own way, it cared for her.
Watching the human—the girl Okbun—was endlessly entertaining for the centipede.
She cherished useless things while casually giving away valuables. She worked hard at seemingly pointless tasks, yet skimped on necessary ones and suffered later.
The centipede watched the girl’s life.
* * *
The girl grew up and became a woman, old enough to be called one.
She knew her end was near. It was something she had prepared for.
But the one who wasn’t prepared was the centipede.
The centipede knew a famine would come in a few years. The people hadn’t realized yet, but it understood soil fertility. It had learned it naturally from being worshipped as the god of bountiful harvests for so long.
The centipede had worked to ensure good harvests. Thanks to it, the villagers lived for a long stretch without famine.
But it couldn’t hold it off forever.
In the end, famine struck the year Okbun turned twenty.
It was the longest period of plenty since the sacrifices began, but it had come to an end.
The villagers came to the shrine.
“The time has come.”
The village head said solemnly. Okbun nodded.
“I see.”
She could tell from how the crops looked. She had known it was coming.
Were they afraid she’d run? It was almost funny to see the whole village gathered.
But she could see something because of it. Okbun spotted her brother.
He was crying. She told him not to cry and hugged him tightly once.
Okbun dressed neatly. She pinned up her hair with a hairpin after entering the shrine alone.
Night fell, and she still sat in the center of the shrine.
The centipede couldn’t appear. It couldn’t bring itself to.
But Okbun already knew it was there.
“Do you remember this hairpin? I made it by grinding that pretty colored stone I’d set aside before. You brought meat back then.”
Okbun spoke to herself. Like the day she first came to live in the shrine, she kept muttering.
“I wanted to dress up like this at least once. But while I could get meals, there was no way I’d receive money or jewels. So I made it myself. It’s crude, but I think I did a decent job.”
As she said that, Okbun glanced around the room.
Unlike the first day, there wasn’t a speck of dust. She was satisfied with the cleaning. Okbun smiled.
“I know you’re watching. Come out.”
It was true. The centipede was watching and listening to everything.
The centipede revealed itself hesitantly. It looked shrunken, like a scolded child.
Okbun couldn’t help but laugh. It felt just like their first meeting.
“We both knew this day would come, didn’t we?”
It was the predetermined end. With famine upon them, the centipede had to eat a human. It couldn’t refuse now.
“My family fell apart. Because of the famine. Well, not just the famine—my mother fell ill then, and my father’s mind broke because of it. But without the famine, maybe it wouldn’t have happened.”
Okbun smiled bitterly.
It was a tale from her very young days, over ten years ago now.
“Eat me. That will end the famine. It’ll mean fewer people like me have to suffer.”
The centipede still hesitated.
It was unprecedented. Even the centipede didn’t know why.
But she was right. It hadn’t thought of it before, but devouring Okbun was its duty. It had to eat.
Okbun closed her eyes.
“I won’t open them again. Don’t hesitate. The longer you delay, the longer my fear lasts.”
Okbun never opened her eyes again.
The centipede hesitated a moment longer, but it couldn’t drag it out. She was pretending to be resolute, but surely trembling in terror.
The centipede recalled the terror of death it had felt long ago.
Back when it was nothing, struggling desperately not to die.
The maidens it had devoured before were the same.
It was natural.
Rather, Okbun accepting death so calmly was what the centipede couldn’t comprehend.
‘If only she’d run! If she’d resisted! Then I could have let her go.’
Kiiiiiiiiiiiiik!
Okbun did not run.