Crow Wings
A few days passed, and the eerie ozone scent and magical glow seeping from the cracks of the magic workshop door finally faded. Jinwoo cautiously pushed the door open, revealing a room utterly transformed from before. The ordinary wallpaper and flooring had vanished, replaced by smooth, light-devouring surfaces carved from what seemed like black obsidian. A taut veil of mana hung in the air, perfectly muffling all outside noise, leaving only a tomb-like silence.
In the center of the room floated the completed Magic Grimoire, hovering contentedly.
This place is now a perfect sanctuary, permitting no physical or magical interference without your will.
"Well done. You too."
Your first sanctuary is born. Here, your history—your empire—shall begin.
Jinwoo and the Magic Grimoire exchanged brief but meaningful congratulations. He headed straight to the refrigerator, spreading out the materials he'd gathered on the cold workbench.
Skinwalkers' creepy-textured hides, ominous clumps of pure-white Jang-san-beom fur, glass vials filled with coagulated monster blood. Now was the time to take his first true step as a mage.
His crafting process resembled assembling the world's most high-end custom PC, one of a kind.
First, he laid out the largest, most unblemished skinwalker hide flat on the workbench, like a mainboard—the foundation for all functions.
Next, he carefully placed the Jang-san-beom's white fur clumps on the corresponding shoulder and back areas. This was no mere decoration. It would absorb sound and refract light, granting perfect stealth—like a top-tier graphics card, silent as a ghost.
He adjusted their positions meticulously, ensuring the mana circuits aligned, slotting them in like a CPU into its socket.
Finally, he picked up the vials of blood. These would serve as power cables linking all components and supplying mana, while also acting as coolant to prevent overloads.
Pouring the blood slowly over the hide and fur, he drew out his mana like threads, weaving the materials together—not with needle and thread, but pure will and power. In a low, resonant voice that echoed through the entire workshop like an arrogant overlord's decree, he commanded:
"You were once lowly beasts that mimicked humans and fed on fear."
"But now, heed my call and be reborn as my shadows."
"Your hides shall be my armor, your fur my cloak of concealment,"
"and your blood the ink of eternal loyalty's covenant."
⟨ ARISE, MY FIRST CREATION! OBEY YOUR MASTER! ⟩
At his command, the materials on the workbench reacted violently. They writhed like living things, faint screams and whispers bursting forth.
The Jang-san-beom fur melted into the hide as if by its own will, seamlessly covering the shoulders and back in lush, ominous black feathers—like they'd always been one.
The skinwalker hide tailored itself to his form, cutting and stitching autonomously into a weathered, imposing longcoat and a pointed wizard's hat that shrouded the face deeply.
When the movements ceased, a perfect mage's robe lay on the workbench: black feathered shoulders, a ragged yet intimidating black coat, and a sharply pointed hat. It matched the attached photo almost flawlessly—a shadow incarnate.
Your talent, fused with my knowledge, has yielded perfection.
The Magic Grimoire explained the robe's powers.
The skinwalker hide grants perfect Camouflage and Stealth, concealing your form and presence.
The Jang-san-beom fur deceives not just physical sound, but even spiritual senses.
The blood, infused with their grudges, provides basic Protection against lesser anomalies.
Jinwoo donned the robe with satisfaction, feeling it cling perfectly to his body. He stood before the mirror. No longer a powerless youth—only an enigmatic dark mage remained. But something was still missing.
"The mask?"
To craft the crow mask, materials embodying both 'death' and 'wisdom' are needed. Impossible with current stock. Additional hunting required.
Right then, a notification popped up on his new computer's monitor: a popular post alert from the Mystery Gallery.
Recent surge in 'Eternal Nightmare' incidents across Japan. Government can't handle it, so they're outsourcing. Bounty: "Anything you desire" for any individual or group resolving it. Money, fame, even special rights (within legal bounds)... Isn't this aimed at Crow Mage-nim?
A predatory smile curled Jinwoo's lips as he read the post. A perfect hunting ground—and source of materials—had appeared. He pulled the robe's hood low and quipped to the Magic Grimoire,
"Perfect timing, eh? Let's head to Japan, snag some materials, and check out that Whirly Pity Studio I've only heard rumors about."
Such childish puppet shows pale before seeking other grimoires or ancient relics slumbering in that land. Far more productive.
The Magic Grimoire replied with its usual indifference, but Jinwoo caught the faint quiver of anticipation in the book's cover.
Analyzing 'Whirly Peter''s influence on modern humanity's collective unconscious—how such childish fiction generates 'mystery'—holds academic intrigue. Especially the archetypes symbolized by its four houses... Hm. Merely secondary, of course.
Jinwoo chuckled at the almost defensive addendum. Even an ancient grimoire of millennia, it seemed, had a weakness for novel spectacles.
The next evening, at Busan Port International Passenger Terminal.
Flying was suicide. His info was likely atop the NIS watchlist. To test the robe's prowess, Jinwoo chose a bolder, surer path: slipping through crowds like a ghost.
In a deserted alley near the terminal, he donned the new robe. Pulling the hood low, the world's noise receded, his presence thinning to mist. He shunned shadows, striding boldly into the throng of tourists and merchants bound for Japan.
The astonishing happened. No one saw him. The crowd parted naturally, as if he weren't there. Even brushed shoulders elicited only puzzled glances at empty air. The robe wasn't mere invisibility—it subtly warped surrounding light, sound, even perception, forcing brains to register him as "unworthy background" or "nonexistent."
He ghosted through the crowds to the departure gate. First hurdle: the ticket checker. Jinwoo passed without presenting anything. The staffer frowned briefly, sensing oddity, then shook it off and checked the next passenger.
The final, toughest gate: immigration. A stern officer demanded passports. Jinwoo walked silently to the empty space beside the booth. The officer's eyes passed over him, unfocused—like peering through clear glass, gaze hitting the wall behind. He rubbed his temple as if distracted, then waved the next person forward.
Thus, without hindrance or suspicion, he boarded the high-speed ferry to Fukuoka, Japan. Leaning against the deck rail, he watched Busan Port's lights recede. NIS nets, any tracking system—none could snare this shadow.
Beyond fooling their eyes—you've erased your existence from their primitive minds. To them, you are a ghost that never was, a fleeting breeze.
The Magic Grimoire's satisfied voice echoed in his mind. Instead of replying, Jinwoo wore a cold smile, envisioning the hunt in Japan, the bounty—and perhaps new "prey" awaiting.