Ki-rat☆
With no work on the schedule today, I hopped in the car and headed slowly up to northern Seoul to visit the shaman grandmother I've known for ages. Our connection started back when I was born, when my parents brought me to her to read my fortune. While other shamans were slyly pushing me to receive a spirit, she dismissed it outright, telling my anxious parents there was no need unless they really wanted to. And sure enough, she later became the unofficial national shaman, so she was right.
The main reason I was seeking her out was that finding someone to host a memory construct—like using a dog corpse for Baek-gu—is easiest through her connections. Corpses aren't exactly easy to come by for humans, so when her apprentice, who handled possessions all the time, took to the construct like a natural, I couldn't help thinking she was prime kidnapping material if she weren't the grandmother's disciple. With those thoughts, I pulled into the courtyard.
They run a strict appointment system here except during elections or big national events, so it's never crowded.
"Hello."
"Hi."
The butler at the gate recognized my face and stepped aside, opening the door without a word. He must have the sight too—unscheduled visitors get turned away with a "Not the right time today" unless it's urgent. It's probably saved them from endless YouTubers pulling pranks or weirdos with bad intentions more times than I can count. But with me, it's like an express pass; he just lets me through.
"Grandma, it's me!"
I threw open the door without a care for whatever was going on inside. The people in prayer didn't even flinch at the noise. Only the grandmother, sipping warm coffee up front, looked up with a heavy sigh.
"Don't barge in yelling like that. My ears still work fine!"
"It's all for their training. Calm down—I even brought gifts."
"Tch. Still no sense of decorum, I see."
She always starts with complaints, but since it's partly my fault and her face doesn't look that mad, I keep teasing her every time. I sat in the spot right in front of her and offered the yuzu honey tea steeped in premium rock sugar. She'd been hinting for years that she craved sweet things in her old age, so she took it without protest.
"Mmm, real rock sugar, huh? I was half-sure you'd gotten scammed again."
"That's why I asked someone reliable. You think I'd fall for that?"
"You didn't poke around in their head to find out?"
"I'm a pacifist."
"Like hell."
Her powers aren't half-baked, so she knows my soul—or whatever passes for one—is a total void. That spirit of hers must have clued her in on me a bit.
"Cocoa here."
"Thank you, ma'am."
I politely greeted the woman in full hanbok handling reception and took a sip of my cocoa.
"So, why the sudden visit? I've got a client soon—spit it out."
"Lend me one person. Preferably someone good at hosting spirits."
"Tch... what mischief are you up to now?"
"Got someone to find in Japan."
She stared at me, face screaming disapproval. She still held a grudge from early on when I pushed her disciple pretty hard. Inserting a memory construct into a person—even for a top shaman—is a once-a-month thing at best. Doing it like it was breakfast and coming back half-dead had left a bad taste.
"'Find' meaning a corpse?"
"Dunno. Gotta go see for myself."
"Missing person, then. Damn, your skills are something else—sticking a construct into someone who might not even be dead."
Cases with unclear life-or-death status spook them even more. If the person got messed up and turned into a vengeful ghost, it'd be a bad influence on the disciples. Still, it'd make for valuable experience.
"How many days?"
"A week. Meet some folks there too."
"A week..."
She pondered, then snapped her fan shut with a tak. The disciples, eyes closed and muttering prayers, opened theirs.
"You heard us... Who's up for it?"
Neither the grandmother nor her disciples move for pocket change. Like how some PhD students drop out for jobs while others grind for academia, these folks study like lifelong scholars. They're a cut above the shamans who hit the mountain, get possessed, and immediately set up shop hawking rituals. So instead of flashing cash like some outdated bribe, offering the experience of tagging along with me was the way to go.
"I've traveled domestically plenty, but abroad? No clue. Never hosted a foreign spirit."
"It's experience all the same."
Domestic shamans do get foreign ghosts sometimes—plenty of Chinese and Japanese died invading Korea, and Korean War foreigners number in the thousands. The big issue? Communication. Even without the spirit, could you drop into some Southeast Asian tribe and translate an unknown language on the fly? Hesitation's natural.
"It's a missing Korean, so should be fine. And I'll line up a shrine priest in Japan too."
"Hmm..."
Still, nobody wants the hassle of going overseas if they can help it. As they mulled it over, the youngest woman on the far right—the baby disciple—raised her hand slightly.
"May I go? We've worked together before, so it'll be familiar."
"You?"
Seniors can't just clear their schedules for a week or more on short notice, so she figured it fell to her. Or maybe her priorities skewed toward cash over studies.
"Oh, and we're filming this time—cool if your face shows?"
"Filming? You with some TV crew?"
"Nah, my employee for YouTube. Clients are so suspicious these days, had to go with it."
People distrust shamans because ghosts aren't visible. One scam with a random doll "cursing" you, dancing around for 30 million won, and everyone's jaded. That's why they lean toward "prophecy" gigs.
"I've been on TV a few times, so no biggie for me. But ask the kids."
The grandmother wasn't some sedentary big-shot. She'd busted the "lowly profession" stigma from Joseon days by jumping into national and local events. Super open-minded. But she'd seen plenty blocked from marriage over video exposure, so she couldn't just greenlight it.
"I'm fine with it."
"Perfect. If your number hasn't changed, I'll text you."
"Yes."
Thrilled to have secured her, I sipped my lukewarm cocoa and caught up. I was still taking cases for thrills over cash; she was heading to Gangneung for a rain ritual, wrapping up some group job on the way—about a month total. When I asked if it was big, she said ghosts on the road killing people; had to see to know. I'd never properly seen a ghost myself—guess real vengeful ones exist.
—
I landed at Kansai International Airport with Hyeon-a, my filming employee. Forcing our way through the already muggy air, we loaded up the rental car and hit the gas.
"Whoa, Japanese parking's 8,000 won an hour? City center's 10,000?"
"Roads are wide and empty instead. You earn to splurge on this."
"Euu, boss lady as always."
I half-ignored her excited chatter over tourist guides—first time in Osaka—as I drove toward our goal. Had to hustle to recruit at the shrine before the grandmother's disciple arrived tomorrow.
We veered past Kyoto into Omi-shi, winding up the mountain overlooking Lake Biwa. Parked haphazardly midway up at the shrine, stretched my stiff driving muscles.
"I'll meet one guy inside—wait in the car. Don't wander; might run into bears."
"Got it."
This place was special in all the wrong ways—no filming allowed to avoid accidents. Not your average shrine with just priests and shrine maidens.
I crossed the quiet grounds, gave a slight bow to the guards. One opened the door; I slipped in quietly.
"Right into that room."
"Thanks for the guide."
Left the butler outside and entered. Heard low muttering inside.
"Said they'd be here soon—get ready, tch."
I peeked: eyes half-open, singing to a camera linked to his computer. My pal, the yakuza heir hiding as a VTuber.
"Ki-rat☆..."