The Thirty-Seventh Assignment: An Axe Handle in the Immortals' Game ①

May 12, 2018. Saturday.

He looked up. A dense bank of cloud had smeared the sunlight into a dull haze. He looked down. A dense bank of fog had laid itself softly over the earth. Gray, in every direction — so thick that a single misplaced step felt as though it would send him plunging into the void. Yeoni turned in a slow circle, his face a study in blank disbelief. Nothing in his expression suggested he had come here of his own accord. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow.

"Where on earth is this?"

Today was supposed to be an ordinary delivery day. The address had been out in the countryside, true enough — but he had never once imagined he would end up trapped in a sea of clouds. One startled blink, and he was caught. Bewilderment had long since tipped over into confusion.

I want to get out, but...

The forecast had promised clear skies. The weather around him now was anything but. Yeoni stopped the foot he had been about to put down. The fog swallowing his shoes gave him the uncanny sense that he was walking on empty air. Frowning, he scanned every direction.

Still nothing.

This is insane. Has a ghost shown up or something?

How had he ended up in a situation like this?

To answer that, one had to go back several days.

May 4, 2018. Friday.

The same place, several days earlier.

Suchan, second-in-command of the Rebel Faction, had arrived first. On a ridge of the nearby mountain he let out a long, thin sigh, unease written plainly in his eyes. His footsteps were stealthy, catlike. Had his senior Gangnim seen him, he would surely have scolded him for looking so drained.

Good thing I didn't come with him.

He had reason enough to be tense. He was here to pull a certain someone — a very capricious someone — into Gangnim's cause. They needed reinforcements. Exceedingly powerful reinforcements, at that.

Gangnim's failure had landed harder than anyone had expected. Days had passed, and the unrest still had not settled; a few of them had even begun voicing their discontent quite openly. The only way to turn it around was to produce results, and the being they meant to recruit this time was the key that would deliver them.

I hope he's in today, at least.

This was already his tenth visit. The being in question was so willful that getting an audience was no small feat. If this attempt turned up empty as well, he likely wouldn't be able to come back for a week. He swept the ridge with a hopeful, almost pleading gaze.

Aha. He's here.

Fortunately, today the seat was occupied. Suchan looked at the great boulder on the ridge — and dropped into a full prostration. It was a thoroughly suspicious gesture, coming from nowhere and meaning nothing, or so it would have seemed. But the bow was not unprompted. A voice answered him.

"Young Suchan, is it? I hadn't expected you to come so quietly."

"Yes. It has been a long time, Elder."

A man appeared silently from the boulder. A long staff of wood, hair and beard hanging to his waist, thin eyes half-hidden beneath heavy brows — an old man in every particular. His Taoist robes fluttered as he stepped forward and came to a halt before Suchan.

"How many decades has it been? Since you last came down to the mortal realm yourself, I mean."

"The first time since a hundred years ago. I have been too busy to pay my respects. Forgive me."

Suchan kept his head bowed. He needed a favor, yes — but he would have shown this courtesy regardless. This old man was the master of these mountains and rivers. A guest owed him that much.

"Busy, yes. I imagine you were. I have heard the rumors. Including that little uprising you started seventy years ago."

The old man opened his eyes a fraction. Between the wrinkled lids, a pair of golden irises shone with startling clarity — as brilliant and bright as if the sun itself had been plucked out and set into his face. Suchan shuddered. It felt as though every corner of his mind was being read.

"I have nothing I can say to that."

"You and Gangnim both — a pair of Grim Reapers who simply will not be reasoned with. Don't you think this tantrum of yours has gone a bit far? The Bodhisattva and the Ten Kings must be worried half ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to death. Heh heh heh!"

The tone was warm, familiar, the way one might speak to a small child. To look at him, he might have been anyone's neighborhood grandfather. And yet to Suchan he felt sharper than a drawn blade. The air wrapped around him proved it. If the warmth had been genuine, it would not have been this cold.

"So. You mean to foist that same tantrum off on this old one now, do you?"

At last the old man dropped the mask. The brightness in his eyes crossed over into a scorching glare, and his face hardened as if it had been set in stone. Suchan stood silent, without so much as an excuse to offer. The kindly manner from before had been a front; the old man had known the purpose of this visit from the start.

"Tell me. What reason has this old one to play along with you lot's little games?"

"It is not a game. We are only—"

"Do not try to force a position upon this old one. I have known the Bodhisattva and the Ten Kings far longer than you have been alive. Do you truly believe they have given the matter no thought? You speak of principles, but you ought to consider that those principles of yours may simply be arrogance. After centuries of service, how can you still be so foolish?"

The old man cut the offered excuse clean in two. Dismay settled over Suchan's young face. He had come prepared for a difficult conversation — but this stubborn Elder was more intractable than even that preparation had allowed for. One wrong word, and he could be turned away on the spot.

He had to persuade him. Somehow.

"Please — if you would only hear me out. If you listen and still find it wanting, I will leave. I ask only for the chance."

"I fail to see why this old one should grant you even that."

"If you would grant us this request — whether we succeed or fail — I will never raise the subject again. I swear it upon the Samdo River. If you tell me never to show my face here again, I will obey even that."

The old man had come on strong, so Suchan came on strong in turn. The words poured out of him like fire from a machine gun, and then he bowed his head once more. His forehead pressed against the rough stones.

Obstinate old wall!

The old man's face went pale. To swear a Samdocheon Oath at the first pushback — had the boy's mouth always been this reckless? Or did he simply take the matter that seriously? Either way, it was hard to understand. When had they stopped being able to trust their elders...?

"You want this favor badly enough to go that far?"

After a long pause, the old man asked it with open skepticism, fully prepared to refuse at the slightest hesitation. But Suchan lifted his head the instant the question was out. A hard, settled will sat in his round eyes.

"Yes. I do."

"Hmph."

A curious look crossed the old man's face. Judging by those eyes, the answer would be the same no matter how many times he asked. In other words: the boy was in earnest. Only then did he let his anger cool, and sink into thought. It felt unkind to refuse someone that sincere.

"Tell me what you want, first. I shall decide whether to refuse or accept once I have heard it."

He would listen to the circumstances, at least.

"Thank you. Thank you, Elder!"

The explanation was a long one. It had to be. He needed to tell the old man everything about Yeoni, from the first detail to the last. The old man listened with his eyes closed, his expression so blank it went beyond composure into something like numbness. Even the news of the first postal worker ever to come from the Living World was not quite enough to startle him.

"So. You want this old one to draw the mortal brat into my domain? And then persuade him to stop delivering those letters?"

"Just as you have heard. The preparations to lead him this way are already in place. Whether you accept or refuse, I leave that to you, Elder."

Suchan squeezed his eyes shut. He had never been in a position to compel or command. A refusal would be the end of it. He could only hope the thing would go well. The once-fresh forest darkened under a heavy silence.

"A mortal brat. A mortal brat..."

The old man turned the proposal over and over on his tongue. The deepening of his wrinkles suggested it sat poorly with him. Suchan broke out in a cold sweat, and the oppressive air grew steadily colder. The tedious standoff was just beginning to stretch when the old man spoke again.

"You said it would not matter even if I failed?"

"Yes. That's right."

"Very well. I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠accept."

At last, the old man gave his consent. Suchan's locked expression eased. But the old man was not finished. He added, calmly:

"There is a condition, however. I will only do this if you accept it."

"What is it? I'll do anything."

Suchan answered in a rush, pride and everything else thrown overboard. The old man found that desperation almost pitiable. Was this truly a matter that demanded such total commitment? Still, he had already agreed to help, so he confined himself to a brief warning.

"Your heart is running hot. Do not give your permission so easily. You have no idea what condition this old one might set, or how."

"......"

"I don't doubt you have your reasons. At any rate, the condition is simple. Leave the method of carrying it out entirely to me, and raise no objection to whatever I choose to do. That is what I want."

He had dressed up don't interfere in rather elegant language. Suchan hesitated, perhaps considering the what-ifs — not that he had any real way to refuse. He accepted the condition without further protest.

"I understand. I accept the condition."

"Good to see you've kept that forthrightness of yours. A pity the direction it's pointed has changed."

The old man could not resist a parting barb. Suchan's abrupt transformation clearly sat very poorly with him. Suchan answered the scolding with a bitter smile. He did not seem especially fond of his present self, either.

"Once the Underworld is set back to rights, my senior and I will go back to the way we were."

"Will you, now. Once a thing has changed, it does not easily change back. All the more so when the change runs deep."

"I believe it can be done, if we work hard enough. It always has been, until now."

To that last, worried remark, Suchan answered with something that might have been a vow or might have been a comfort. Then he rose slowly from his place. He had achieved his purpose; it was time to go. As he turned, the old man lifted a hand as if to call him back.

"Won't you stay a little longer? Grim Reapers cannot enter this old one's domain as they please, in any case. You'd be welcome to rest before you go."

Suchan looked back. Something other than resolve and desperation had risen to his face. It was regret. He shook his head, slowly.

"I'm afraid I have work to attend to. If I stayed any longer, I'd only be a burden. I'll take my leave. Forgive me for imposing on you."

And with that, he walked away without a backward glance — deliberately, so that no lingering attachment would have a chance to take root. The old man could not bring himself to stop him. He watched Suchan's retreating figure in silence. Those golden eyes, which had been nothing but brilliant, dimmed as though a shadow had fallen across them.

"You and that senior of yours were always stubborn as mules. In the old days, it was stubbornness of the better kind... I'm no longer certain what kind it is now."

He was looking not at the present, but at the past. At the Gangnim and Suchan of long ago, when they had only just become Grim Reapers. Their youthful faces were still vivid in his mind. How gladly he had watched them strive and learn. How faithfully he had cheered them on and encouraged them!

"I have a feeling it will be some time before we meet again."

Today, those memories felt as though they were fading.

No — not a feeling. A premonition.

Some time later. The Underworld Post Office.

"The assignments for today haven't been decided yet, have they? I'll take care of it."

"Soyang, is it? All right. I'll leave it to you."

A low-ranking clerk volunteered to handle the letter assignments. It was a thankless job, so the seniors handed it over without a word of protest. Hands were always short; no one could afford to be picky about who did what. And so not a soul noticed.

So it's finally time.

Not a soul noticed that this low-ranking clerk was a mole who had been lying quietly in wait for decades, in league with the rebels.

Gimpo, huh. That's a ways from Mount Mani... Well, if it's an Immortal we're talking about, it should be fine.

There happened to be a letter bound for Gimpo — a spot just across the water from Ganghwa Island. A little ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠far, perhaps, but He would have no trouble laying a trap from there.

In the moment before he assigned the letter, Soyang hesitated. He had met Yeoni a few times himself. That gentle manner, that youthful face — they left an impression every time, and a fond one. It was hard not to feel guilty. Even so, he managed, with some effort, to shake the hesitation off.

I can always apologize later. If I ever get the chance.

Everything was for the peace of the Underworld.

That was a principle he could never abandon.