Chapter 14

“If what’s sitting on your shoulders is a functional brain, dodging a second hit after the first collision is only natural,” Choi Yook drawled.

“…” Mu-yeong smiled faintly.

“Since when was being a magnet for collisions part of your constitution?” Choi Yook demanded.

He had already caught on that something was fundamentally off about Seo Mu-yeong—a perception sharpened by Han Seo-yoon’s consistently “normal” presence by his side. Mu-yeong adopted a look of regretful sorrow.

Mu-yeong let out a soft sigh. “I wouldn’t know. Having grown up in an orphanage, there were no parents around to answer my questions even if I asked.”

“…”

“You know that very well, Section Chief,” Mu-yeong added in an upbeat voice. “The fact that I’m an orphan.”

Choi Yook snorted in disdain. “There’s no need to play the pathetic victim, Seo Mu-yeong-ssi,” he warned coldly. “Drop the weekend-drama protagonist routine—the brave orphan soldiering through a brutal world with plucky optimism.”

Mu-yeong laughed airily. “Pardon? As if I could pull off something as difficult as acting. Acting is for talents like Sijin. This is just my natural disposition.”

Flashing a bright, innocent grin, Mu-yeong added, “Still, hearing that you take pity on me is surprisingly encouraging.”

Mu-yeong gazed at him with shimmering eyes. Naturally, the gambit had zero effect on Choi Yook.

“So you refuse to give me a straight answer in the end,” Choi Yook noted flatly.

“Because I truly don’t know,” Mu-yeong reasoned with a shrug. “I suppose I’m just prone to bad luck. Or maybe it’s an omen absorbing misfortune so good things can follow?”

At the lighthearted quip, Choi Yook offered no further reply. There didn’t seem to be anything offensive about his choice of words, so perhaps the man was simply in a foul mood.

Mu-yeong briefly weighed how much nonsense Choi Yook’s tolerance would stomach. While the man willingly indulged Choi Sijin’s hysterics as endearing antics, where would he draw the line between Mu-yeong’s charms and intolerable cheek? Better shut up right about now.

As he focused quietly on driving, the highway tollgate marking the border of Mangcheon City loomed ahead. Passing through the tollbooths, a colossal sculpture of a salamander mascot greeted the travelers with open arms and a wide, ceramic grin.

“Mangcheon, the City Where Everyone Finds Happiness.”

The civic slogan carved at its pedestal was distinctly legible. Sweeping past the mascot, the undulating ridges of Mount Yeongno grew sharper, and traces of human habitation emerged alongside them.

Apartment complexes flashed by the highway shoulder before giving way to an elementary and middle school sharing a single concrete boundary wall. Colorful civic banners fluttered in the breeze from every streetlight and signal post.

Beyond lay rows of multi-family villas and detached houses, interspersed with roadside diners advertising hangover soup and hand-torn noodles. As thick greenery crowded the road and the number of hikers in vibrant outdoor gear increased noticeably, the navigation system chimed in a pleasant tone:

—”You have arrived near your destination. Route guidance will now end.”

Mu-yeong parked the sedan in the public lot before the trail entrance and stepped out, his habitual backpack slung over his shoulders. Choi Yook shadowed his movements from behind like a watchful warden.

In the past, no hiking trail had existed here. Foot traffic was sparse apart from believers visiting the shamanic shrine, yet now wooden staircases and manicured red-clay paths invited the public. Barefoot hikers trod diligently over the packed earth.

Following the crowd, Mu-yeong halted before the public restroom. This was the exact spot—where his grandmother’s house had once stood.

Shamanic rituals had frequently unfolded across the broad earthen courtyard. Even if his grandmother performed few rites herself, guest shamans regularly rented the sanctified grounds. Crossing paths with young Mu-yeong, they used to smile in wonder:

“Oh my, aren’t you adorable! Master, who is this little girl?”

Each time, his grandmother had merely shaken her head with an icy expression, and the visiting shamans retreated with polite care without pressing further.

Built from polished gray granite, the public restroom gleamed smartly under the morning sun. Leaving Choi Yook where he stood at a distance, Mu-yeong circled the exterior of the structure. Not a single fragment of clay roof tile remained upon the leveled grounds. The vegetable patch where cucumbers once grew and the towering tree that shaded the courtyard corner had vanished without a trace.

Truly, not a single shred of the past remained.

“Seo Mu-yeong-ssi,” Choi Yook’s voice cut across the silence.

Having briefly lost himself in memory, Mu-yeong started and turned around.

An unerring gaze pinned him in place. Standing one or two heads taller than the passing hikers, Choi Yook looked like a lighthouse sweeping its beam over a lone vessel. He stepped forward with steady deliberation, tightening the perimeter.

“Time to brief me on how you plan to begin,” Choi Yook ordered.

Halting directly before Mu-yeong, he gestured toward the public restroom with his chin, completely unconcerned by hikers steering wide berths around his imposing frame.

“The kid was never registered at this address. Never attended school. Checking missing person reports yields zero matches. There are simply no surviving records whatsoever. Even so, you have to track down where the kid went, don’t you?”

Steadying his breath, Mu-yeong managed a nod. It was only natural: whatever administrative traces might have existed had been snuffed out the moment the ritual candle went dark fourteen years ago.

Shifting into work mode cooled the residual heat in his thoughts. Mu-yeong inquired according to standard investigative procedure,

“How exactly did the fire start that day?”

“Arson,” Choi Yook stated impassively. He continued in an uninflected drone, “That was the police announcement: the shaman set the blaze intending a murder-suicide with the child, but ended up perishing alone. The report was called in before it spread to a forest fire, so there was no secondary damage.”

All mention of Yeongchwi Capital’s involvement had cleanly evaporated. How could an investigation be so utterly wretched? An exclamation escaped Mu-yeong’s lips unbidden:

“Wow, really?”

Though spoken aloud for his benefit, Choi Yook had already turned back toward the public restroom. It was peculiar that he wasn’t admiring the mountain scenery, yet if he was picturing the inferno of the past with quiet satisfaction, his fixed stare made total sense.

That impassive countenance overlapped with Chairman Choi Hak-gyun standing before young Mu-yeong all those years ago—the middle-aged patriarch who had clasped his hands and closed his eyes solemnly beside his weeping wife. Compared to him, Choi Yook stood with hands behind his back, younger and far more intensely defined. That made him seem like an even more insurmountable barrier.

Yet when a wall is too high, one can dig a tunnel, fetch a ladder, or take a detour. Since the world had never played fair, Mu-yeong had long discarded conventional approaches. Slipping past Choi Yook, he ambled slowly in the opposite direction toward the slope.

“Then the child most likely fled alone,” Mu-yeong reasoned.

“Unless someone was standing guard right outside, that’s the assumption,” Choi Yook agreed.

“An eleven-year-old girl couldn’t have made it far in the dead of night,” Mu-yeong pointed out, pointing toward the trailhead with a common-sense premise. “And if she wanted help, she wouldn’t have headed up into the mountains.”

Developing the theory, he continued, “Where could she have gone besides somewhere within Mangcheon? It seems logical to screen girls of that age group—checking who entered local shelters or registered fresh civil records back then. Anyone with burn scars would be an especially strong candidate.”

“Right. Someone already dug through all of that,” Choi Yook said, catching up to him in a few long strides. Turning his towering frame, he elaborated, “Just in case, he combed through Mangcheon, Suwon, Seongnam, Anyang, and eventually the entire country. When he whimpered about the staggering volume of names, I poured coffee down his throat, stayed up all night, and reviewed the roster with him.” A faint, mocking sneer parted his lips as if delivering the punchline. “After chanting endlessly that he couldn’t fathom how the kid escaped, he went wandering through these mountains in the middle of the night and plummeted off a cliff to his death. Recovering his corpse cost more than his retainer.”

Irritation bled through Choi Yook’s voice. Gauging his mood, Mu-yeong posed a delicate probe,

“Have you ever considered that the child might already be dead?”

If only Choi Yook embraced that conclusion, concluding this assignment would be effortless and the pursuit thrown completely off course. Six full years had elapsed since Mu-yeong had sought out Choi Sijin—more than enough time for someone to die.

Bringing an endless wild-goose chase to a close ought to be a welcome outcome for Choi Yook, too. After all, he was a man who openly complained about wanting to clock out early. Convinced this was the ultimate win-win, Mu-yeong added smoothly,

“You said everyone who searched for the child came to a terrible end. Then wouldn’t a helpless young child have met the same fate…?”

Before the sentence could finish, Choi Yook’s hand snapped out and seized Mu-yeong by the collar. Choking as the fabric tightened around his windpipe, Mu-yeong’s eyes met Choi Yook’s.

A bone-chilling dread struck Mu-yeong, catching him off guard. Even when apprehending his brother’s stalker, Choi Yook had displayed nothing beyond mild irritation; but just now, a predatory flash had ignited within his pupils. As that momentary glimmer died back into pitch-black void, Mu-yeong swallowed dryly.

Shrouded in cold menace, those eyes looked primed for execution. If Mu-yeong slipped up by a single syllable, being buried alive under clean dirt would be considered a merciful end. As he held his breath in absolute silence, Choi Yook spoke in a low murmur, “I asked you how you intended to find the child, Seo Mu-yeong-ssi. I never asked you to pass judgment on their life or death.”

“…” Mu-yeong could only wheeze for air.

“I spared your life assuming you were of use,” Choi Yook muttered, his tone arctic. “It wouldn’t do for you to prove so incompetent you can’t even comprehend a simple question.”

Choi Yook patted Mu-yeong’s cheek with an open palm—a casual, humiliating gesture that required minimal effort yet delivered maximal contempt.

“If you can’t grasp it through logic, memorize it: the child is alive.”

“…” Mu-yeong stood motionless.

“All you have to do is locate the missing child.”

Even having delivered the dictum, Choi Yook did not release his collar. Instead, his fist twisted tighter, constricting Mu-yeong’s airway further. His heart hammered against his ribs. Choi Yook was entirely certain of his survival.

How could he be so sure? Does their family possess some occult secret? Or is it because Choi Sijin threw endless tantrums demanding he be found?

Whatever the cause, six years was long enough for anyone to give up, yet their obsession was unyielding. Realizing his initial bluff had crashed and burned, Mu-yeong hastened to speak, “If digital records have been exhausted, we should pivot to an analog approach.” Fortunately, having experienced catastrophic failures since childhood, Mu-yeong’s knack for improvisation was remarkably resilient. As Choi Yook’s fierce glare bored into him, Mu-yeong added rapidly, “We ask the locals—starting with long-term residents living in this area. It might sound old-fashioned, but if we don’t know the child’s name or surname, it’s the only viable method left. What vanishes from administrative records often lingers in human memory.”

Choi Yook’s gaze sharpened.

“There are no residential homes near here, so what then?”

“There are public buildings, though,” Mu-yeong countered.

Rummaging through his jacket pocket, Mu-yeong held up his phone with a map application displayed before Choi Yook’s eyes.

“The Mangcheon Forest Library. Let’s start here. It’s close enough that we can walk.”