The Proof and the Divine Blade

Ten days later.

"Hello, hello! My dear Sarang-gwi fam!"

Yoon-sang studied the chat window with a faint smile on his lips.

That smile looked so deep—the smile of a man who had been through many and great troubles—that the seething chat gradually cooled.

"Aigoo! No, no, it's nothing like that. Let me explain it all for you, one thing at a time, my dear Sarang-gwi."

Yoon-sang held the camera's gaze for a moment, then went on.

"First off—yes. I did meet him."

"And he was real. Real, really ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠real, for real—no cap."

Yoon-sang let out a long breath and sorted through, in his head, everything that had happened in Gangneung.

Man, it had not been easy to get the words ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠out.

The guy who used to stick his nose into haunted houses had taken part in a Yeonggam-nori—the Elder Dokkaebi Feasting Rite—recorded the voice of a dokkaebi, and seen a human being possessed by a Great Dokkaebi with his own eyes.

"Folks, I'll show you the proof a little later in the stream."

Word always travels fast.

The moment Yoon-sang hinted he had something to show, it spread in a heartbeat, and a flood of viewers poured into his stream.

"Man... seriously, that hyung-nim of mine. He really is something else."

Murmuring to himself, Yoon-sang laughed without a sound, then opened his mouth.

"First, let me tell you how I met him in the first place. Listen up, everyone—this is going to be better than any ghost story you've ever heard."

"Nope. Trust me—it's something none of you could ever imagine. For real."

Sinking into his memories, Yoon-sang unwound the events of that day.

The first time he had ever laid eyes on Kang Hyeong-seok, at that bus stop—how, unrecognized, he had ducked out of sight in a flustered hurry, then tailed the man through the village only to walk straight into him.

"...And then I showed him the video, and this man just starts marching straight up the mountain. On that pitch-black night."

"Of course! We got super close. I'm not kidding. Really."

"Ah, we're... we're not quite at that stage yet..."

The viewers reacted to every last little thing with razor sharpness.

The stream went on to log its highest viewer count ever, though neither Yoon-sang nor his audience noticed—absorbed as they all were in the broadcast.

You could call it a show carried on nothing but one man's gift of gab.

But this was Yoon-sang's own lived experience, the tale of Kang Hyeong-seok—the man at the center of every rumor raging online—so its sense of presence and sheer entertainment stood in a league of their own.

"All right, time for the big reveal. This is a file he recorded himself, inside that cave. And for the record—the distortion is only on his voice. The dokkaebi audio is completely untouched!"

"Everyone, this isn't the end. I'm going to turn the volume up on this part and play it again. Listen closely."

Explosive reactions erupted across the chat.

Plenty of people said it was terrifying—but then, this was a crowd that had gathered precisely because they loved horror.

It felt as though the warm, festive, everyone's-having-a-great-time atmosphere would carry right on until the stream ended.

"And then there was the Yeonggam-nori we performed. That's the ritual for calling a dokkaebi. And folks—it actually worked."

Yoon-sang beamed brightly at the ceaseless flood of viewer reactions.

"He got possessed and went straight for the raw pig innards—scooping them up with his bare hands."

Yoon-sang had no idea.

No idea what his words were about to set in motion.

Clatter.

Shin Jeong-ah, who had been eating ramyeon while watching the stream on her phone, dropped her chopsticks.

"Wh-what?"

Shock had turned her face a sickly green, but on the screen Yoon-sang simply went on beaming, bright and oblivious.

"It was incredible. There's no way it was acting—just watching it turns your stomach. It was raw offal. Bloody, still reeking. And he was shoveling it down like a man who hadn't eaten in days..."

Shin Jeong-ah, frozen stiff as stone, quickly clapped a hand over her mouth.

Then, half sobbing, she bolted for the bathroom.

Vrrrooom.

Kang Hyeong-seok drove toward Lee Geum-kyeong.

His expression was calm and mild, but his eyes brimmed with life.

Part of it was the growth that came from surviving something enormous. Part of it was simply how glad he was to hear from Lee Geum-kyeong.

The Sinjangkal—the Divine General Blade—was finished.

He had heard that at the break of dawn, the blacksmith himself had delivered it to Lee Geum-kyeong before turning straight back home.

If only he could have seen his face, even once.

Whether out of lingering embarrassment over the sickle he had once brandished at him, or for some other reason entirely, the man had left in an awful hurry.

The engine sputtered into silence as Hyeong-seok pulled onto the flat ground in front of the main house, parked, lifted the two shopping bags from the passenger seat, and stepped out.

"Young Master!"

Cheong-geum had come to greet him almost before he was out of the car—then, catching sight of the bags in his hands, she gave him a puzzled look.

"What are these?"

"I brought a few gifts."

"Aigoo! You really could have come empty-handed..."

"Now how could I? Here—some clothes for you, Miss Cheong-geum, and snacks that Teacher is fond of."

When Hyeong-seok held out the bags, she looked deeply, genuinely touched.

"I shall treasure them."

"Just wear them in comfort. They weren't anything expensive."

"Now, what kind of talk is that."

Cheong-geum smiled as though the heart behind the gift pleased her more than the new clothes ever could.

Then she walked with him to Lee Geum-kyeong's quarters and knocked on the door.

"Teacher, the Young Master is here."

"Enter."

"Yes, ma'am!"

Cheong-geum swung the door wide open, and Lee Geum-kyeong welcomed the two of them, a smile already resting on her lips.

"You've had a long road, coming all this way."

"Not at all, Teacher."

Hyeong-seok slipped off his shoes, stepped up into the room, and sat down before her.

Cheong-geum served the tea as she always did, and when the clean fragrance of green tea had filled the room, Lee Geum-kyeong held out a single envelope.

"This is...?"

"The one who made your Sinjangkal asked me to pass it on."

A letter.

Hyeong-seok received the envelope with both hands and drew out its contents.

The stationery was folded with immaculate precision—not a single crease marred it, as though it had never once been taken out.

A soft rustle.

Unfolding the page, he read, unhurried, the characters pressed deep into the paper by a heavy hand.

The letter went as follows.

The letter was rough.

The sentences were anything but graceful.

And yet the feeling held within them was deep, and utterly true.

With a faint crinkle of paper, Hyeong-seok folded the page closed again, emotion rising in his face, and Lee Geum-kyeong spoke to him.

"Such is the work we do."

"This is the first time I've ever received a letter like this."

It was not the kind of experience this day and age offered. All the more moving for it—and all the more reason his thoughts grew so heavy.

As if she understood that feeling exactly, a soft smile touched the corners of Lee Geum-kyeong's mouth.

"We save people. Every once in a long while, a letter like this finds its way back to us."

Cradling the letter protectively in his hands, Hyeong-seok answered.

"Yes."

"You saved two people."

"What I did was a small thing."

"You redeemed their lives. You pulled them back out of despair."

…

"That is your path."

He knew it was no easy road.

He knew it was not work just anyone could do.

And he knew, too, that it was a burden to be carried with weight and with care.

"I will keep it close to my heart."

Then came the next words.

"I hear he hammered that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠uncheol—the meteoric iron—day and night, without once resting."

Lee Geum-kyeong's voice had slipped into something soft and familiar, like a grandmother's.

"His heart is in it. With his blessing woven in, it has become a true divine object. Your eop."

The word eop carried the meaning of destiny—and of fate.

It meant an attainment won through Hyeong-seok's own striving; it meant a divine object brought to completion through a bond between people.

Hyeong-seok gave a solemn nod, and Lee Geum-kyeong held out a box wrapped in cloth.

He did not need to ask what it was.

The Sinjangkal.

A divine object forged by a blacksmith who had hammered uncheol through ten days and nights without rest, for the man who had saved both him and his daughter.

"Unwrap it, child. It is yours."

Hyeong-seok reached out, careful and slow, while Cheong-geum, seated with her back against the wall, watched with eyes brimming with anticipation.

With a soft rasp of cloth, he began unwinding the wrapping—every movement measured, deliberate.

When the last knot came loose, a handsome birchwood box lay revealed, and Hyeong-seok, exchanging a single glance with Lee Geum-kyeong, lifted the lid.

There, resting within, was the Sinjangkal.

"May I take it out?"

"It is yours. You need no permission from me."

Hyeong-seok drew the Sinjangkal from the box and closed his hand around it.

It exuded an air at once refined and extraordinary.

The scabbard and hilt were wrought of jujube wood, and the wangmaegi—the ornamental collar where scabbard met hilt—was cast in silver.

A touch shorter than his forearm.

With a clear ring of steel, he eased the blade a little way free—then stopped his hand at once.

And then he met Lee Geum-kyeong's eyes.

His gaze asked whether it was all right to draw it fully, and her slow nod was the answer.

"Hoo..."

Gritting his teeth, Hyeong-seok began—very, very carefully—to draw the Sinjangkal.