Doctors, Patriots, and Terrorists (10)
As February dawned, the world was in turmoil over the emergence of multiple mutant coronavirus strains. The tiresome pneumonia outbreak from China that had ravaged the first half of the previous year was rearing its head again, this time with far deadlier variants signaling the onset of another global pandemic. Considering how the original strain had lingered like smoldering embers in many countries—refusing to die out completely—a second wave from these mutants might have been predictable.
Yet the responses from nations around the world, even from the so-called advanced economies, were nothing to write home about. The initial detections of the variants had come too late, and without exception, the early countermeasures had been sluggish. It was also the fault of fools who confused personal freedom with reckless indulgence. Watching it all unfold made one wonder: Are humans really this stupid as a species? A virus that provoked such questions.
From my position—preparing a biological strike on London as an insurance policy against worst-case scenarios—it was a complicated affair just to sit back and observe. The unexpected way infections spread like wildfire despite the influence of Mana Essence and mana power. The possibility that, by the time I needed to unleash my own biological attack, London's defenses would be stronger than they were now. And finally, my personal aversion to crossing certain lines.
In this climate, our organization's New Year's ceremony and the new recruit training program were group events that would have given any public health official a heart attack. A four-digit crowd by headcount had gathered at a sprawling, secluded mountain training center—ripe conditions to revive nightmares of mass infections from closed-off cults. And during the main event, we didn't even bother with pandemic masks.
Of course, we hadn't run the event without precautions.
"Those two just coming in now... yeah, them. Send them back. Tell them they're infected and need early treatment."
Before the ceremony kicked off in earnest, I holed up in a room overlooking the lobby, enduring the hassle of visually inspecting every single entrant with my own eyes. Not one person tainted by the plague's aura made it past the front gate.
The uninitiated—namely the "new hires"—muttered anxiously about how we should at least check temperatures. Most of them hadn't experienced magic firsthand and owed their lives solely to my capitalist authority, so they were doubly flustered by the veterans and executives casually doffing their masks with lines like, "No need to worry when the Chairman personally vouches for it."
Still, most went along with their handlers' directions in a whatever-happens-happens mindset. For the few who dithered, my message was relayed: "Your lives belong to me anyway—can't you follow a simple order like this?"
Those who still balked after that went through expulsion procedures. Useless as regular members, they'd either get indirectly employed as contractors under their recommender's or approver's responsibility—or eliminated to tie up loose ends.
During the subsequent events, I imprinted my presence as a Grand Magus on the organization. Displaying my magical abilities in a tasteful, non-vulgar manner. The most useful incantation for this was, naturally, the Life Incantation.
"⟨ Life Incantation ⟩"
Making the lame walk, opening the ears of the deaf, restoring sight to the blind so they could behold the world's light—miracles straight out of scripture. Even for organization members who'd experienced magic, these were unfamiliar forms they'd only heard about if they were low-ranking.
After performing these miracles, I declared to all watching:
I paused for breath, then continued:
There might be Round Table Grand Magi or demon worshippers who outdid me in niche knowledge, but no need to mention that.
21st-century science is miraculous by prehistoric standards. Magic was that for modern humanity.
That was my key message for this year's ceremony. Absurdly, we'd caught one idiot in the organization ensnared by a cult.
Full access to my magical capabilities was limited to mid-level executives and up, plus core personnel like the action strike teams and international ops. Secrets weaken with every additional knower. Even lower ranks knew something of my supernatural nature, so I'd been unworried about cults and new religions disrupting things. Figured they'd had their shots.
But.
"Having encountered you, hyungnim, actually makes them more susceptible. They've learned mysteries exist beyond science and common sense. If magic users are real, why not gods? Fortunes, taboos, curses go without saying."
Suyeon's blunt assessment of the incident. Meeting me had shattered their worldviews, creating cracks for cults to exploit.
She advised: "Tightening internal discipline isn't enough. I think the benefits of preventing mental contamination outweigh keeping secrecy as is. Why not make the entire organization revere you more?"
To my contemplation, she added calmly: "Sometimes, a cheap mystery masquerading as divinity appeals more than a superior one claiming humanity. If you don't properly showcase your power's supremacy, ignorant members could get brainwashed again. That's as risky as leaks."
Valid point. Humans lean on religion to conquer primal fears.
"Reverence for you becomes a lock on their mouths. Proven by those with high clearance who've held secrets. Pair it with reinforced training on our retaliatory power, and secrecy deepens."
Her insights rang true throughout, so I took her advice. Eye for an eye. Religious fanaticism met with religious awe.
Strictly speaking, my organization had always had cultish worship of me. Intellectually they got I was human; emotionally, many saw me as transcendent. Kyung-tae and Suyeon were the exceptions—which was why I cherished them more, perhaps.
The Life Incantation miracles at the ceremony yielded the expected results. Though I felt a subtle twinge that hair regrowth got the biggest reaction. Trivial compared to restoring permanent disabilities like blindness. Mere surface-level psychology to me, whose vision fundamentally differed. I couldn't isolate "normal" sight from the torrent of other data.
"Good day, everyone. On behalf of our organization, I sincerely welcome our new family members. I'm Hong Young-sik, Deputy Director of HQ Secretariat, handling your three-day new recruit orientation starting today."
After the morning's general ceremony, Hong Young-sik nailed his role in the mental indoctrination for newbies.
"Everyone here has personally contracted with our organization's great elder, the Chairman—either face-to-face or remotely. You've pledged your lives to repay a grudge using our and his power, in exchange for entrusting your remaining years to us. If that's not you, raise a hand?"
No hands. He pressed on before the silent audience:
"You were tense signing the contract, wondering what lay ahead. But probation showed: we're just a corporate group. Sure, some business skirts illegality, but society's flimsy laws—the 'rules for them' that failed you—are irrelevant."
"Disagree? Raise a hand."
No takers. I clearly read the crowd's seething empathy.
"You've seen your tormentors toy with the law via money, power, connections. Laws apply unevenly; even when enforced, victims get no real justice. Why should your new haven bind itself to that?"
"That's right!" A voice boomed from someone overflowing with emotion. Eyes turned, but the shouting middle-aged man crossed his arms, staring ahead unperturbed. Hong Young-sik nodded with a smile.
"The organization demands devotion and sacrifice per contract when needed, but otherwise protects you like family—especially in the magical realms outer society bungles while preaching patriotism and sacrifice."
Family... The rote term chafed me oddly, vaguely.
"Even if your kids face bullying or school violence, submit a request; after review, we intervene organization-wide. You might even handle it yourselves."
A light chuckle at his playful toss. "No joke. Our Chairman says superiors must oversee subordinates' lives. Someday, you'll extend the salvation you received to others as members. You'll take pride in it, guaranteed."
Hong Young-sik then shared real cases, with victims testifying firsthand for maximum impact. The peak immersion, to me, was when 89-year-old Hwang Mal-ja, our eldest member, recounted giving false testimony as a witness to aid another's revenge. Her statement sealed a police missing-person case as unsolved.
What better indoctrination? Then doctors, prosecutors, police brass, mid-level bureaucrats, bank managers, veterans, independence fighter descendants—types you wouldn't peg for mobsters—shared anecdotes and encouraged newbies.
If even Shincheonji infiltrated governments with believers, why wouldn't my scholarship org kids outperform them?
Hong Young-sik closed day one's session thus:
"As long as you uphold your contract duties and loyalty to the Chairman as organization members, we remain your eternal fortress and haven. Welcome again to our family. Thank you."