Rest
In China, when people think of the roughest and most terrifying organizations, most recall the Communist Party or the Triads. No matter which one, sticking your neck out clumsily would get it chopped off in an instant. But even those two pale in comparison to the most fearsome group of all: the warlord villages scattered across the entire country. Born from millions of soldiers who banded together during the fall of the Qing Dynasty and the birth of modern China and Taiwan, these communities—traced back to the Eight Banners of the Iron Nation—united solely by their soldier identity, wield a power and brutality no faction dares touch lightly. Every time a new chairman rises, they try to dismantle it, and every time, they fail. The easiest way into this nexus of connections? Become actual family.
"Father-in-law, sir, please think of my mother."
"Hmph... What do you expect me to do with people who are long dead?"
They usually married within warlord families, but every now and then, they'd bring in an outsider like this. Back in the day, with death lurking everywhere, solidarity was everything. These days, though, mixing in smart, money-making types wasn't so bad.
"But if it ends like this, wouldn't it be the ultimate filial impiety?"
"Filial impiety, huh. Yeah, it would be."
A promising young man who started as a lowly slave with nothing, now a section chief at a major corporation, kneeling and bowing—it wasn't a bad sight. Especially since the company he worked for wasn't entirely unconnected to the warlords. And the old man, his father-in-law, liked the kid's vengeful streak.
"So, what do you want me to do?"
"Just pay them back exactly what they did to us. That's all."
If he were just a regular guy, he wouldn't come all this way to kneel and beg. Someone he couldn't handle must be tied up somewhere, forcing his hand. No way a Party member would trek to Korea for a job, so the options were clear. Simple enough—they'd once wiped out the Triads on Party orders.
"I leave it to you."
"By the way... they call her a shaman? Was that woman's power really that good?"
"Yes. She found the place right away, even though I'd never been there before."
"A skilled shaman, eh..."
The old man scratched his chin, listening intently as his son-in-law explained the circumstances of finding his mother. Anyone with real ability was worth remembering. Especially if they communicated well. Curses pierced through ideology, creed, and race alike.
- When you witness a death or see a corpse, the first thing to do is calm your mind. Staring at a body up close is no good for the faint-hearted—it could lead to nightmares or, as folk beliefs warn, possession by a ghost. So for first-timers, downing booze or popping a cheongsimhwan pill to steady the nerves is the standard protocol.
One had seen countless corpses, so it was nothing. Hyeon-a seemed unfazed too. She claimed exposure from browsing communities online, but just in case, they took a rest day. It doubled as granting her request to hit the cosplay event in Ilsan.
"Boss, got plans this weekend?"
"Not really, aside from cuddling our cute Baek-gu."
"No plans? Wanna come to the cosplay event with me?"
"Cosplay? You mean that thing where they wear weird lingerie and pose for pics? Pass."
"Why? We're not dressing up ourselves—just spectating. Nothing beats ogling bodies and otaku energy."
"Hmm... Feels kinda sticky."
"Ah, come on—just once, and you'll get hooked."
With bosses and employees hiking together elsewhere, tagging along for some cultural fun sounded plausible enough. Her Vtuber habit had spilled into anime interest. Dismissing it as kid stuff overlooked the cash flying around for figures and cards.
"Gotta line up early tomorrow, right? Come to the office in the morning."
"Whoa, you're driving me? Sweet!"
Suspicion flickered—had she sweet-talked her way out of an early subway ride? Otherwise, why celebrate a ride she'd assumed was guaranteed?
"Tch..."
Maybe tell her to meet at the venue. But no.
"They have a separate entrance for cosplayers, so going with me skips the line."
"I'm not cosplaying."
"One friend can tag along. Can't do makeup alone anyway."
Hyeon-a didn't know it, but Seo-ah could waltz in anytime. Capitalism's weapons: cash and connections. Still, flashing too much might invite clingy "do it with me" pleas, so she played along. The next day, after sending Baek-gu—mid-play with the tiger figurine—to Manager Uncle's place...
"...Huh?"
"What do you think? Kinda suits me?"
She wore a black bra baring decent cleavage, shorts so tiny they could pass for underwear, and a baggy jacket unfit for the weather. In hand: mint-green wig and colored lenses for on-site. Seo-ah scanned anime chars but drew a blank—too many lookalikes, distinguished only by hair color, and multiples at that.
"Which character?"
"You don't even know this? Super popular cyberpunk one lately."
Still clueless, Seo-ah got shown the image. Comparing phone screen to real life highlighted the challenge. The art blended robot and kid vibes, but Hyeon-a—a tad shorter than Seo-ah—had a body that screamed anything but child. Her face evoked early twenties, ripe and mature.
"Get in the car. Gotta go early, right?"
"You should cosplay too, boss. No heavy makeup needed—you'd photograph great and flaunt that figure shamelessly."
"No thanks. Videos show crowds mobbing for pics nonstop."
"Still..."
Hyeon-a trailed off, eyeing Seo-ah's outfit top to bottom. Tight, revealing or flowy stuff for peers? Not her vibe. She favored crisp office-suit looks—tailored pricey ones, soft and light, comfier than sweats. No fussing over colors or matches.
"Y'know, tie your hair back neatly like that, and you'd nail the producer vibe from an idol anime."
"What?"
"Be real—no one shows up to an otaku fest in a suit. They'd peg it as basic cosplay."
Ignoring Hyeon-a's forced connections, Seo-ah buckled her into shotgun and peeled out. European SUV heft shone on outings—others yielded defensively, easing lane changes. Parked in the vast lot, Hyeon-a donned wig and lenses. Final touch from bag: bunny ears.
"Perfect."
Admiring her reflection in the window, she dragged Seo-ah to the cosplayer-only entrance. Quick-entry hopefuls like her mingled with casually dressed groups and hardcore types in self-sewn outfits, makeup pristine, prepping nearby.
"Hi! Long time no see."
"Oh, hey."
Seo-ah slipped inside while Hyeon-a chatted with acquaintances—apparently their own community. Entry time hadn't hit, so the hall was spacious. Booths buzzed with setups: draping cloths for self-made books and stands. Tempting, but pricey for dust-collectors.
She zipped out before the general line flooded in.
"Boss, where'd you go? Out already?"
"Scouted inside."
"Already? Bull."
"Ugh, look at that line. Packed sardine hell."
"Hide in the cafe next door then. Grab a laptop—no one bugs long-sitters."
Adjacent building housed unrelated biz, but events drew crashers, headaches galore. They booted weird cosplayers and plaid-shirt dudes, but normal attire like hers? Maybe fine.
"Crowd thins in two hours—come then. Real party's after."
"Saw something?"
"Cosplay judging with cash prizes. Fun to watch."
"Alright..."
Clearly hooked, Hyeon-a vanished into the surging otaku tide, vibe worlds apart from Seo-ah's. Watching her melt into the building, Seo-ah pondered the appeal of browsing wares amid throngs. Laptop in hand from the car, she shrugged—why not feel the festival? Shut the door, followed.
Instant regret. Sticky breath grazing the nape? Pure filth.