Probing the Shadows (5)
“One more thing.” I tapped around my eyes with my fingers. “These eyes. They have no way to visually observe mana essence or mana power. Research based on observation is difficult for them. So even if our thinking aligns, our priorities will inevitably differ.”
They believe humans are the most superior beings in the natural world, and that they themselves are especially superior among them. They probably wouldn't stoop to sullying the greatest human wisdom—magic—with the primitive magic of lowly beasts and plants. Instead, they'll grope toward the distant Golden Age through their abundant relics and traditions. After all, London's Round Table bases all standards of magic on that very era.
Whose methods are more correct—mine or theirs? Time and results will tell.
“I understand the risk level is unexpectedly low.” Kyung-tae nodded. “Still, better safe than sorry. The kids who were in the 4th quarter comprehensive tactical training are just returning, so if you give the okay, I'll put them to work.”
“How many are we talking?”
“Hold on, hyungnim.” Kyung-tae checked his phone before answering. “191.”
“Too many. That's overkill for a quiet neighborhood—too conspicuous.”
“Got it. Should I pick the top twenty by grades and have them on standby?”
“Do that.”
I accepted the revised proposal. 191 was enough to raid a Mexican cartel outpost, even if a full frontal assault would be pushing it.
My organization's strike team members regularly undergo tactical training in the US. Plenty of countries offer training, but only America opens professional-level tactical academies to civilians. Of course, the US isn't stupid—they monitor these institutions through the State Department. But since every member of our action squad holds nominal positions at security firms, bodyguard companies, or private military contractors (PMCs), and we disperse them across multiple training centers, there's no cause for suspicion. Plus, plenty of centers don't ask about client identities if the price is right. The downside? It's pricey.
Take Kyung-tae here—he was a standout from one such program. His evaluations from veteran instructors always came with the highest praise.
Hypothetically speaking, I was confident our strike team alone could overwhelm even Japan's largest designated yakuza syndicate, the Sixth Generation Yamaguchi-gumi. Their boasted 11,000 renkō were meaningless cannon fodder against the qualitative superiority of my men.
Half of them are old geezers anyway.
As a criminal organization, yakuza might have some bite, but as a violence outfit? They'd peaked long ago. The nation had aged, and so had its gangs. No comparison to the Mexicans, who could go toe-to-toe with regular armies if needed.
Kyung-tae asked, “So, what's the exact location you're heading to?”
“The mushrooms are in Oregon, but I'm checking out California's Sequoia forest first.”
“Hey, could you mark it here?”
“Hand it over.”
Kyung-tae passed me his phone with the map app open. I traced the route from the national park in the southern Sierra Nevada, across to the national forest in eastern Oregon, and then to a small town in Utah.
Even though I'd planned it out beforehand, I couldn't recall the precise spots, so I had to look them up on my own phone too.
Kyung-tae tilted his head as he took his phone back. “Weird coincidence, huh? All these 'giant things' you mentioned are clustered in the US.”
I felt the same oddity. “Who knows. There might be more undiscovered ones in places like the Amazon.”
Either way, it wouldn't be good news for America. Those massive entities would soon become unknowns and potential threats proportional to their size. Not just America—any country with vast land and rich vegetation would face trials ahead.
The late dinner chat dragged on a bit. I checked the time. “It's late. Let's wrap it up for tonight.”
“Ah, got it.”
The two stood and brushed off their seats. It wasn't even midnight yet, but with my poor sleep quality, I preferred calling it early unless circumstances demanded otherwise.
Headquarters tomorrow. For now, my private suite was a standalone space with a Japanese garden.
After washing up and changing, I gazed through the sliding glass door at the snow falling beyond the eaves. Fine as flour particles, but it was visibly accumulating on the king bamboo joints and green leaves. Rare sight in Daegu.
I wished I could see this scenery more ordinarily. The Golden Age's Eye provided hyper-detailed vision—uselessly overpowered. Even closed, it pierced my eyelids. I could adjust it somewhat, but not block it entirely.
Until I got the hang of it, falling asleep was torture every night. And even then, nightmares would crush me awake soon enough. There were times I nearly lost my mind from sleep deprivation.
Now, seeing both surface and interior of everything was baseline. Focus, and I could trace nutrient and chemical signals from bamboo roots to stems to leaves. Visual overload.
The ancient relic granted me transcendent perception. Beautiful at times, but I often missed normalcy. Headaches from fatigue and info overload were daily.
Still, better than crowded places, which turned into writhing mysteries of guts and muscles. Even now, accustomed as I was, moments hit where my sanity frayed.
...Time for bed.
Tired of hesitating to lie down, I scolded myself. Dragging my eyes from the view, I slipped under the covers, trying not to dwell on impending nightmares. Fixate on that, and sleep was gone for the night.
What else to fill my head? Closing my eyes, I saw ceiling veins overlaid on my eyelids.
#3. The President (1)
The year had turned. Twenty-five days after the Daegu negotiations, on January 7th, I rode in a car driven by one of Kyung-tae's subordinates along a central California inland state highway.
Mana essence density unchanged. The monotonous road north from LA offered only vineyards and orange groves.
Kyung-tae, fiddling with his phone beside me to kill time, lit up at the sudden vista opening between low cliffs.
“Whoa. The scenery just flipped like that.”
I looked up from my tablet out the window. A lake shimmered blue despite receding water levels from successive droughts, hemmed by yellowed ridges—winter's chill at work.
“Too bad Suyeon-noona couldn't make it, hyungnim.”
“She'll join in a few days anyway.”
“Still.”
Suyeon was still in Korea, coordinating new-year operations for our subsidiaries and businesses as HQ secretary-general and policy chief.
A lot had happened in the interim. Camp Henry's Yanks signaled agreement on expanding trade. From January 2nd, our four-day organization new-year gathering let me brief mid-to-high execs on future policy. Fleshing it out fell to Suyeon and the staff, core cadres.
My picks' decisions were my decisions.
Kyung-tae turned to me, expectant. “So, what'd you think? The novels I recommended.”
“Eh.” I glanced at the tablet, then shook my head. “Not much help.”
“Really...?”
“I didn't expect miracles, so no disappointment.”
I rarely read novels. Wasteful reading—prioritizing emotion and thrills over knowledge, opposite what I wanted from books.
But mulling Kyung-tae's Daegu words, I wondered if novelistic imagination might aid foresight.
Real precedents exist.
In 2001, 9/11's Twin Towers collapse rocked global crime markets too. I'd subscribed to think-tank journals for market predictions, including the American Studies Association's American Studies.
Pretty sure that's where I read it: a short paper on cultural imagination of terrorism. A month post-attack, the Pentagon invited Hollywood execs for a commission. They demanded collective brainstorming: future terrorist targets? Execution methods? Countermeasures?
The author claimed it stemmed from a novel eerily mirroring the attack—even CNN mentioned it that day. Author: Tom Clancy.
Kyung-tae scratched his head. “Those were my pride-and-joy picks.”
“I wasn't after literary polish.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
A glance from upfront. Shotgun was a mid-level secretary office guy Suyeon sent as her stand-in. Title: deputy chief. Longer on the org payroll than her, even.
Same for the driver—senior to Kyung-tae.
I met the driver's eyes in the rearview. “Hong Young-sik. Something to say?”
“N-no, sir.”
“Spit it out. Don't dodge.”
“It's nothing, really. Just novel seeing the security chief treat you so casually up close.”
“It's the heart that matters, not the form. You lot lack self-confidence, so you can't internalize that.”
“Haha, spot on.”
Hong deputy chief chuckled awkwardly. “If I may defend us all—Chairman, you see through us, but we can't see our own insides. So we overfocus on surface courtesy, and caution bleeds into our actions.”
I nodded. “Not scolding. Caution's good... I meant if you can't loosen up fully, act like Kyung-tae—it's fine.”
“I'll step up.”
“Good.”
Obsessing over form doesn't boost efficiency. Was the old Imperial Japanese Army second-rate from lax discipline? Nah.
I'm irreplaceable in the org; my abilities grant untouchable status. No need to play nagging boss.
I paused, then shifted. “Used to working under Suyeon? Must chafe—she's way junior.”
Hong looked offended at the notion. “Chafe? The previous chief would've called it dereliction if I didn't back her, and you wouldn't misjudge people. She's just... emotionally arid. You know? Made her tricky at first—more daunting than awkward. Only the first year, though.”
“Glad to hear.”
Then, radio from the lead escort's driver via in-ear: passed the park entrance.
Wide gaps between lead/follow vehicles to avoid suspicion, but support reachable in under a minute if needed.
My car soon hit the entrance. Ranger took $35 toll, handed a pass. “Valid seven days. Affix inside front windshield—visible from outside.”
“Understood. Thanks, sir.”
“Enjoy your trip.”
The driver bantered naturally. The car sped toward the Sequoia forest beyond the mountains.