Chapter 34
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 34
Chapter Title: Monster Tale Specialist Office: Centipede's Child (14)
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It had done this dozens, perhaps hundreds of times before.
But never had its jaw felt so heavy.
The centipede watched as Okbun's soul slipped free from her body. It had seen this before but brushed it off without a second thought.
Okbun's soul was larger than the others'. Yet like all the rest, if left alone, it would scatter and fade away.
It couldn't allow that. It couldn't just let it dissipate into nothing.
The centipede gathered Okbun's soul. It held it fast, refusing to let it wander off anywhere. It gripped the soul tight, ensuring it wouldn't scatter in any direction.
How many days passed like that? The soul's form began to stabilize. Its shape started to reform. But it still lacked any will of its own.
For months, the centipede did nothing else, pouring all its effort into keeping the soul intact.
Longer than it expected, the centipede kept the soul bound in place.
Preventing it from going anywhere, the centipede cherished Okbun's soul.
While the centipede strained silently like this, the village naturally enjoyed a bumper crop. The people gave thanks to the centipede.
But it wasn't the one deserving of their gratitude.
‘Why don't people thank the girl?’
Crunch, crunch.
After living for so many ages, the centipede finally had such thoughts.
The next year, another virgin arrived. She would be offered to it if famine struck.
A woman sold for money.
The centipede recalled Okbun's words.
‘Eat me. That way, fewer people like me will come.’
But no. As long as the centipede existed, someone would have to keep dying.
As long as it was there, someone had to.
From some point on, the girl began raising a toad. It must have been lonely, just like Okbun.
The toad grew alongside the girl, becoming quite large.
Perhaps it was a being like the centipede itself at the very beginning.
‘Just a little big and utterly ordinary.’
Another ten years passed, and famine came. Events unfolded exactly as they had with Okbun.
But there was one difference.
The virgin had the toad, not the centipede.
And that toad stood against the centipede.
Naturally, the toad was weaker. But to protect the girl it had lived with, the toad spewed blazing venom. It burned its entire body to shield her.
In the aftermath of the clash between their poisons, the virgin fainted.
And the victor of that battle was, naturally, the centipede.
Yet as it watched the toad struggle to protect the unconscious girl right up to the brink of death, the centipede couldn't be sure it had truly won.
The toad died standing before her, guarding her to the very end, never giving up.
That was no defeat in death. So it felt.
After that, the centipede vanished from sight.
People spread tales that the centipede had died alongside the toad.
And in that spot, a vast marketplace sprang up.
The people named it Centipede Market and spread the story of the toad that repaid its grace far and wide.
* * *
The centipede drifted on like air, like wind, like a god, like a yokai, flowing silently as water. Then one day,
"God, what a wondrous thing."
Okbun's soul opened its eyes.
"I never imagined I'd open my eyes again."
The centipede was grateful to meet Okbun once more. And Okbun could feel that gratitude at the same time.
They were one, yet two distinct beings.
Neither the centipede nor Okbun understood their situation, but they simply gave thanks for what had been granted.
"How is the village now?"
The centipede conveyed that the village was thriving even without it.
There was no need to nod or shake its head anymore. A mere thought transmitted their feelings.
"That's truly wonderful."
Okbun nodded.
Okbun's awakening didn't bring any great changes. With nothing binding them, they continued wandering the world like the wind.
Okbun visited her hometown once. Time had flowed on; her little brother was long dead, but his grandsons lived well. They left without a greeting or blessing. Yet smiles lingered on their lips.
After that, it was a journey without a fixed path.
They left their original land, visited vast continents and tiny islands. Time slipped by.
Great wars raged several times, and nations rose and fell. Now boxes rolled about on their own without horses.
The world changed swiftly, and the two watched those changes together.
As ages passed, mysteries nearly vanished entirely.
They had wandered the world for a long time and witnessed mysteries being denied and fading away.
The last tiger on the peninsula died by gunshot, and smallpox was eradicated completely.
Had the centipede guarded its place until the end, it too would have vanished.
Ironically, by abandoning that place, the two survived.
They endured as a tale that was neither god nor anything else.
The journey spanning decades, centuries, was long and joyful. Watching people was amusing.
And little by little, they grew envious of those people.
At some point, they yearned for a place of their own. After much deliberation, they returned to where it all began.
And nearby, they found it.
"Waaah!"
It was winter, the first snow falling. They saw a newborn abandoned on the roadside.
They had occasionally seen such sights in the old days, but never paid them much mind.
Yet this crying child was different. Its eyes met theirs.
A blue aura swirled around the child. Okbun recognized it as a gift. Some children could see souls from birth.
Had their eyes not met, they might have passed by. But now their hearts were tugged. Likely because those tearful eyes recalled her little brother.
Without realizing it, Okbun scooped the child into her arms.
"God. I want to save this child."
It was Okbun's first true wish to the centipede.
"I want to raise it until it can stand on its own as a child."
The centipede couldn't agree readily. If they stayed silent like this, they could endure for centuries with ease.
But taking on this child, they might not last twenty years.
That was why the centipede showed a hint of reluctance. But Okbun shook her head.
"What meaning is there in such a life? We've lived long enough. I... don't want to watch this child die."
They had considered sending the baby to an orphanage.
But a child who sees ghosts is easily possessed by them. The world called it mental illness, and Okbun knew all too well how people treated a parentless child deemed insane.
So she wanted to teach it discernment until it reached a certain age.
"If we raise it for ten years, we'll burn through half our lifespan. If twenty, we'll have to fade away. Even so, I want to save this child."
The centipede was afraid. Not of its own end, but because exhausting its power would end Okbun's life.
"I'm fine. I want to spend my remaining days as this child's protector."
Okbun said this as she embraced the centipede.
They were one. Thus, what Okbun thought, the centipede thought. What Okbun desired, the centipede desired.
In the end, the centipede had no choice but to follow Okbun's will.
The centipede and Okbun ventured deep into the mountains—a peak untouched by humans now.
The centipede found a shrine sealed away long ago. A place it now found nostalgic.
They remade the shrine into a livable home. They planted wards to keep external evils at bay, erecting a barrier.
Creating that barrier consumed every last scrap of the faith and belief they had accumulated until then.
Even so, it would hold for at least fifteen years. The centipede had lived long and devoured many. This time, it would spend it all to save just one.
The centipede grieved that Okbun would vanish soon. Aware of this, Okbun smiled—not the serene smile from their wanderings, but the mischievous grin of her childhood.
"Don't grieve. What more joy could there be in drifting through the world like this? We've seen our fill, enjoyed our fill. We've beheld what we never should have, experienced the impossible. How fortunate is that? So I'm content."
It had been ages since the centipede last saw such a smile from Okbun. Because of that, it couldn't allow itself more sorrow. It resolved to let her have her way.
The child's growth was swift. It started with barely rolling over, then soon took its first steps. Before long, it spoke and ran about, learning to tell edible things from those that weren't.
The centipede marveled at it.
Clearly a helpless thing that knew nothing upon birth, unable even to walk, seeming lesser than any beast. Yet in no time, it had become a full-fledged person.
"Hanseol."
Okbun named the child Hanseol, for the heavy snow the day they found her.
"Yes, sister."
Okbun had forbidden her from calling her mother.
She wasn't worthy of such a title, and Hanseol's true mother—the one who bore her—was someone else.
So Okbun taught Hanseol to call her sister.
"Until I vanish or tell you otherwise, never set foot outside."
"Outside?"
"Yes. One day, you'll go out there too."
Okbun taught Hanseol what the outside world was like.
She sometimes ventured out to experience the changes firsthand. Someday, this child would have to live out there, away from them. For that day, Hanseol needed to understand it.
"When I go outside, I want to visit the market with you, sister!"
"When you go out, you'll go alone. Sister won't be able to join you then, Hanseol."
"Huh, without sister?! Then I won't go!"
Okbun chuckled softly. It was endearing and admirable, the way she thought of her.
But knowing they couldn't remain like this forever, Okbun felt a pang of bitterness.
Perhaps she had been too greedy. Unable to resist the child's whines for just a little more time together, they had come this far.
But they couldn't go on like this. Hanseol would have to return to the world of humans someday, and their own time was running out.
Even so, they had achieved their goal. Over the long years, Okbun had sealed shut Hanseol's eyes that saw ghosts.
While raising her, Okbun had thoroughly concealed the existence of spirits. Even from the centipede.
An unused organ weakens. The same went for ghost sight—if left unused, it would atrophy. Just a bit longer like this, and Hanseol could live as an ordinary person.
Okbun believed it firmly.
Now it was time to let her go.
"How many more days will the barrier hold?"
One night, after much time had passed, Okbun asked.
But even the centipede, who had created it, couldn't say for sure. It only knew the end was near.
A few months? A few weeks? The limit was closing in.
Raising Hanseol had brought joy, but now Okbun knew she could delay their parting no longer.
The barrier's maintenance had stretched past fifteen years, nearing twenty.
To Okbun, Hanseol had always seemed like a child, so she had held on too long.
"So much left to teach..."
Okbun sighed. But now at the end, there were no other options.
Okbun told the centipede it was time to send Hanseol outside. The centipede let out a mournful keen.
First, Okbun would vanish. If that didn't work, the centipede would reveal itself and scare her out.
A few days later, Okbun disappeared.
On the first day, Hanseol simply guarded the house. She seemed to believe Okbun would return soon.
On the second day, Hanseol wandered about, searching for her. Seeing this, the centipede decided to give her a little fright to drive her outside.
Slowly. Ever so slowly.
At first, only sounds. Hanseol tensed, glancing around.
The centipede made the noises louder. Startled, Hanseol bolted.
The centipede pursued. It herded her toward terrain unlikely to cause serious injury, moving as slowly as possible out of worry for the constantly stumbling girl. If she tired, it lingered nearby to let her rest. If she veered off path, it made noise to guide her right.
Hanseol ran remarkably well. The centipede could hardly believe this was the same infant who had nearly frozen to death.
In the end, Okbun had been right.
This child's life held more value than their own centuries.
In that instant, Hanseol's eyes met the centipede's. In them, it saw terror and despair—like the eyes of the virgins from long ago.
Those eyes were the centipede's nightmare.
The very eyes Okbun had kept hidden from her until the last.
Without thinking, the centipede let out a chirr. Something like a sigh.
Okbun comforted it.
"It couldn't be helped. There was no other way to make her leave. Birds must leave the nest, after all."
The centipede felt a slight easing. But it was only temporary.
In the end, what tormented it was its own deeds.
All those it had devoured had eyes like that. The worst part was that it couldn't even remember them. How many had it eaten? How many times had it repeated this? The centipede itself didn't know.
"Don't torment yourself so. Humans have their own ways, and mysteries have theirs. You embodied mystery itself. And after gaining a human heart, you took not a single life—defying your very instincts. That's something to respect, not regret."
With Okbun's final words, the two returned to Hanseol's former nest. An empty space.
Compared to the lives they had lived, the time spent with Hanseol was but a fleeting moment. And yet the void it left was immense.
The centipede saw no need to dismantle the barrier. It could extend their lives a bit longer, but they had no desire for that. They simply wished to fade away like this, bringing their long journey to a close.
But the next day, Hanseol came back.