What Is Needed for Recovery
Jinseong immersed himself in sorcery for the sake of recovery. Like a gambler who strikes it big on his very first wager. Like a farmer whose first harvest brings a bumper crop and leaves him forever chasing that taste. Or perhaps like a merchant who stumbles into a fortune through nothing but luck. In that way, Jinseong resolved to become a sorcerer. And that vow endured until the world tore itself apart in war, until he dragged a body that was little more than a corpse and set himself aflame. Even with time rewound, walking the path of sorcery was only natural.
'Sorcery may wear many faces, yet it possesses only a single body. That is what we call obsession.'
Jinseong smiled as he pulled a plastic bottle from the refrigerator. Inside, a vivid crimson liquid reminiscent of rubies shimmered with an ethereal glow. It was viscous, yet it radiated its intoxicating fragrance as pure light, utterly untainted. Color was like paint melted from gemstones, and the scent carried the very essence of life, sweet beyond measure.
Blood. The fluid that flowed through veins to constitute life itself. Blood had always been a catalyst in countless sorceries. Symbolism mattered in magic, in summoning, and in sorcery alike. That was why astrologers affixed symbols and names to the stars and invoked them, why mages imbued elements and diagrams with meaning to work miracles through their circles. Sorcery, too, drew much of its power from the symbols extracted from its materials. The purer the material, the greater its worth; the same quantity could produce vastly stronger results.
The blood he held was top grade—certified 2+ by the Catalyst Cooperative. When one considered that anything above it commanded a price comparable to the same weight in gold, this was the finest specimen currently available to him.
Yet…
Jinseong placed the immaculate blood—laden with the added symbolism of a maiden’s essence—back into the refrigerator.
I require trash.
Catalysts were better when pure. Gemstones had to be flawless. Blood grew more potent the more innocent its owner. Fresh corpses were preferable. Treasures should carry no lingering grudges, and artifacts needed a history of proper use. Jinseong’s desires, therefore, ran directly counter to every established principle.
What he wanted was refuse. Objects that could not be traded through normal channels—things that were not even recognized as objects of trade. In culinary terms, the scraps of vegetables discarded during preparation; in carpentry, the sawdust that fell away as the blade cut.
Jinseong rose with his hands pressed together in formal salute. He moved about the room, searching for suitable clothing. The first item he selected was a pair of black trousers.
Crack.
He bit his own ring finger. Though the bite seemed light, blood flowed without pause. Using the steady stream, he began to draw a pattern on the fabric behind the knee. It was neither proper Chinese characters nor a recognizable image—merely something that resembled a child’s wild scribble. Yet it echoed the ancient seal script used by shamans for talismans, and even the shapes of oracle bones from ancient China.
Two horizontal lines, one at the very top and one at the bottom. A single vertical stroke running between them. And between those, a figure shaped like the Korean letter ㅅ. Taken together, the character was known as mu—shaman.
"To touch the earth, the legs must stand firm. Yet what moves those legs is not unyielding bone but the flexible hollow behind the knee. Therefore, history shall dwell in every single step."
In ancient China, gait had been considered paramount. The martial arts that sought to govern the body and attain transcendence taught footwork before any weapon technique. Those who studied the Taoist arts learned how to plant their feet upon the ground before they were taught to read the heavens or inscribe talismans. The obsession with footsteps, according to the oldest records, originated with King Yu of the Xia dynasty—the first hereditary monarchy in China. Son of Gun and chosen by the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, Yu was said to have mastered sorcery and the Dao so completely that his every step produced divine wonders. His bearing was likened to that of a transcendent being.
On the Korean peninsula, however, the focus had been different. Those who sought transcendence through the body obsessed over breath and the rhythm of the legs. Those who pursued it through sorcery fixated on the very concept of movement as a means of travel. Summoners emphasized the pillar that connected earth and sky, and that principle became the foundation of modern summoning arts in South Korea.
What Jinseong had inscribed upon the trousers was a relay device connecting heaven and earth. The character mu itself carried the meaning of a person who bridged the two realms; no better symbol existed for a medium.
"Om—"
Once the pattern was complete, Jinseong focused his mind. The design began to resonate, darkening to pure black and spreading through the fabric like veins. In the end it vanished entirely, leaving behind only a tiny hole at the back of the knee.
Jinseong changed into the trousers, opened the window, and stepped onto the windowsill. From there he took a single step into empty air.
His leg plunged into an ocean of atmosphere. His body began to fall under its own weight—until the space itself folded with a soft creak. When it unfolded again, Jinseong stood on a small hill behind the mansion. The distance covered in a single step was ten ri—roughly four kilometers.
"Om—"
To traverse more than ten ri in one stride. This was an advanced sorcery born from Korean sorcerers’ singular focus on the leg as a tool of movement, pushing the very concept of “means of travel” to its limit. Many called this technique Chukjibeop.
Having reached the rear mountain through Chukjibeop, Jinseong closed his eyes and spread his senses. With hands still clasped, he drew the earth’s energy upward through the symbol inscribed on his trousers. From the sky, the stars—hidden by daylight yet undeniably present—spoke to him. After he had stood there for a short while, the stars whispered through their light and the grass through its trembling.
It is here.
The instant he heard the whisper, Jinseong’s hand shot out like lightning and seized the empty air.
Shaaak!
What he pulled from nothingness was a snake. Black-bodied with yellow bands, it writhed and screamed as though caught in an invisible grip.
Shaaak! Sssaaak!
The snake, now firmly gripped behind the head, hissed with venomous fury. Driven by a fierce will to survive, it tried to coil around his arm and constrict, but Jinseong’s forearm—tempered since his youth through both sorcery and physical training—felt no more pressure than if a mere garden snake had wrapped itself there. He stared at the creature for a moment, then twisted its neck with a sharp crack.
Crunch.
Even without its head, the body continued to writhe and squeeze. Jinseong peeled it off by force, then brought the still-skinned corpse to his mouth.
Crack. Crunch.
The taste was not bad. If he were to be precise, it was excellent—like a perfectly chilled sashimi blending chicken and white fish. Many people in Korea avoided snake due to disgust, yet in various parts of the world it was considered a delicacy. Some even ate it raw and praised its flavor. In Korea during the 1970s and 80s, the belief that raw snake improved virility had led many to catch and consume them on the spot, often resulting in parasitic infections that caused untold suffering.
And that was precisely why Jinseong was eating the snake raw now.
After devouring the body, Jinseong picked up the decapitated head—mouth still agape—from the ground, slipped it into his pocket, and closed his eyes once more.
Shaaaaak!
The next creature he caught gave off a pungent, spicy aroma. A brown snake. It carried the faint, nose-prickling scent characteristic of venomous serpents, reminiscent of acacia. Its black-brown base and pale brown stripes radiated a ferocity equal to its considerable size.
One bite and death came before seven paces. Also known as the seven-pace snake, this terrifying creature had earned a dreadful reputation among novice martial artists training deep in the mountains. Even now, in an era when detoxifying magic artifacts were widespread, it still demanded caution.
Crunch!
Jinseong twisted its neck and began eating it raw, just as before. Unlike the previous snake, a spicy fragrance lingered in his nose like seasoning. It felt exactly like dipping sashimi in wasabi. He consumed the serpent—easily weighing more than a kilogram—while seated exactly where he stood.
Then he retrieved the fallen head and murmured,