Chapter 34

Choi Yook broke the heavy silence. He set his glass down with a faint click. “She is alive and well, and you’re going to find her. If she isn’t, there’s no reason for you to go on living either.”

“…”

Choi Yook tilted his head, regarding him coldly. “You seem to forget what you’re doing from time to time, Mu-yeong-ssi.”

“I’m… sorry,” Seo Mu-yeong whispered.

Seo Mu-yeong swallowed the lukewarm sake pooling down his throat. He finally understood why Choi Yook had flared up in anger.

The cause was a breakdown in communication. Because Mu-yeong himself had genuinely ‘gone wrong,’ he had carelessly spoken of the child ‘going wrong’—unaware that the phrase was also commonly used as a euphemism for ‘dying.’

That choice of words had struck a nerve with Choi Yook, who was utterly convinced the child was alive. Since Choi Yook could not possibly have developed sudden sympathy for the girl, this had to be the only reason.

This is the second time, so he’s bound to be even more pissed off. What do I do? The stillness filling the room pressed down on him like a suffocating menace. Mu-yeong did not even dare rub his throbbing wrist. Choi Yook brought his cup to his lips.

Choi Yook scoffed under his breath. “If holding shamanic rituals like that could hurt or kill people, I would have dropped dead from a curse a long time ago. Why is a man who possesses enough pragmatism to pray to whatever god strikes his fancy suddenly acting so naive?”

Seo Mu-yeong paused halfway through raising his head. Choi Yook’s assertion was completely unexpected. His attitude differed entirely from the reaction Choi Sijin and his parents had shown fourteen years ago.

Back then, Choi Sijin had experienced the efficacy of the ritual more vividly than anyone else. Kim Jeong-seon had wept in reverent gratitude, and Choi Hak-gyun had even clasped his hands in solemn prayer.

Yet Choi Yook did not merely distrust the effects of religious rituals—he outright ridiculed them. As though he alone lived in an entirely different world. Like someone who had never witnessed the miraculous phenomenon of his younger brother being instantly cured.

Was it simply because he hadn’t been present when the ritual took place? Even so, harboring this level of cynicism was bizarre.

“Still…” Overcoming the oppressive tension with difficulty, Seo Mu-yeong pressed on, “Sijin recovered all of a sudden. He was terribly ill in the past, but now he’s completely fine.”

Choi Yook replied bluntly, “Because he had surgery.” He poured sake once again into his clean, emptied glass.

“Do you have any idea how much bizarre shit the entire family pulled to cure him when he was little?” Choi Yook said with a grim sneer. “Holding shamanic exorcisms for days on end through the night was the tamest of it. Not that anything ever changed. I told them over and over to stop with the pointless nonsense, but not a single soul listened.”

Seo Mu-yeong could offer no reply. “…”

Choi Yook scoffed dryly, “He survived simply because he met a surgeon with good hands. There’s no such thing as miracles in this world. It isn’t the mythical age where a bear eats garlic and turns into a human.”

There was not the slightest tremor in his matter-of-fact expression. Seo Mu-yeong stared at him blankly. To say he had lost his words would be an understatement.

Could it be? Was it really possible…?

Choi Yook did not appear to know what kind of ritual Choi Sijin had undergone.

Absent from the ritual itself, Choi Yook had remained completely in the dark about it ever since. That was also why he didn’t know the real reason behind searching for the ‘long-term missing child.’ Choi Yook genuinely believed that Choi Sijin had regained his health after undergoing major surgery by some renowned physician.

It wasn’t a charade meant to deceive Seo Mu-yeong. If it were, he wouldn’t have spoken with such biting sarcasm, out of fear that inviting bad luck might cause his brother to fall frail and sickly once more.

The sneer on Choi Yook’s face was genuine. Therefore, that belief, that claim, had to be genuine as well. Even so, Seo Mu-yeong had to ask to make sure.

“When did Sijin… have that surgery?” Seo Mu-yeong asked carefully.

Reading his mood, Seo Mu-yeong quickly followed up. He offered a tentative smile. “As you know, Section Chief, my condition is a bit unusual, so I tend to believe almost anything easily. But I take things back just as easily. So… couldn’t you explain it just a little more?”

Choi Yook tilted his cup back, looking down at Seo Mu-yeong, before setting the glass down onto the table. He replied flatly, “When Sijin was eleven, in early March. Right when the new school semester was starting.”

“…”

Choi Yook traced the rim of his glass. “I remember because he threw a huge tantrum clinging to the telephone, crying that he wanted the surgery sooner so he could go to school on the very first day of term.”

That had been the exact time. The day Choi Sijin’s family had come looking for Seo Mu-yeong. A date that could also be deduced from Yoon Hee-sook’s journal.

Seo Mu-yeong became almost certain that Choi Yook truly knew nothing. Even so, he had no choice but to keep probing.

“Where was Sijin so sick in the first place?” Seo Mu-yeong inquired. “What kind of surgery did he have? At which hospital?”

Even though the probability of Choi Yook lying was low, Seo Mu-yeong clung to the possibility. The momentum of his hatred toward Choi Yook was simply that powerful. It was not merely because hating someone more was far easier and more tempting than hating them less.

Whenever Mu-yeong was drawn to Choi Yook’s uniqueness, he had to deny himself. The eldest son of a family he wouldn’t feel satisfied even slaughtering happened to be the only one who could see him, and finding comfort in that gaze churned his stomach. That was why he wanted to confirm a solid reason to despise the man, so he could loathe him with an easy conscience.

Choi Yook picked up a piece of sashimi and chewed it slowly. An irritated look gradually crept across his face.

“He was just sick all the time. More diagnoses than I could count. That hospital didn’t allow visitors, so I couldn’t go, and I don’t know its name.”

“Could you usually not visit whenever Sijin was hospitalized?” Seo Mu-yeong asked.

“I always went, normally. But—”

Choi Yook cut himself off. The downward gaze he leveled was as chilling as a honed blade. His eyes darkened. “So what?”

“…”

Choi Yook demanded sharply, “What answer do you want to hear? That because I didn’t observe the surgery myself, it never happened?”

The pointed question snapped back, piercing Seo Mu-yeong’s true intentions. How could he possibly shatter a conviction so formidable? Seo Mu-yeong waved his hand with a placating laugh.

“No, it’s just that hearing you talk made me want to know more,” Seo Mu-yeong replied, softening his voice. “I didn’t know much about Sijin’s childhood, so I ended up asking before I realized it.”

Only now did Mu-yeong feel he understood Choi Yook a little better. Fed up with shamans since childhood, Choi Yook didn’t merely disbelieve in shamanism—he loathed it.

That explained why he had written off the grandmother as a wicked person. Because she was a shaman, she had to be a malicious fraud, and any other reasons were simply tacked onto that prejudice.

Mu-yeong could also see why Choi Sijin’s parents hadn’t brought Choi Yook to the scene where names were bought and sold. They couldn’t risk bringing misfortune upon such a crucial ritual, so they likely brushed him off with an excuse about major surgery and kept him away. When Choi Sijin returned, Choi Yook probably hadn’t sensed anything amiss.

He loved his brother too much to notice any subtle difference in a name. Even if he knew Choi Sijin was a foul-tempered brat, he would have assumed it was only natural for people to be unable to take their eyes off him.

Any lingering dissonance would have been crushed beneath his contempt for shamanism and his faith in science. Choi Sijin was a pitiful victim who had suffered at the hands of quacks since childhood, and now, through the power of advanced medicine, all that remained was for him to live happily. What a moving, tear-jerking narrative.

Seo Mu-yeong retrieved the water glass from the edge of the table and poured sake into it with a casual flourish. Raising the glass higher, he coaxed, “In any case, I misspoke terribly. Lapping it off the table like a dog didn’t sit right with me, so I’ll drink from the glass instead. Would that be acceptable?”

Having delivered his notice, Seo Mu-yeong dumped the alcohol down his throat. Even as the cool sake rushed down his gullet, his chest felt as stifled as if blocked by a boulder. It was because of one more truth he had learned, beyond Choi Yook’s revulsion and disbelief toward shamanism.

Choi Yook was not an object for Seo Mu-yeong’s revenge.

He had known nothing and done nothing across the entire context before and after Seo Mu-yeong’s name was stolen. The man who seemed most likely to have blood on his hands was, astonishingly, the most innocent party in this affair. Mu-yeong could curse him for having it easy, but that was the extent of it.

In other words, what he thought was the plumpest sweet potato in the patch turned out to be just a stone. Seo Mu-yeong felt deflated and drained. After the boiling fury cooled into an awkward chill, what washed over him was pure futility.

All this time, Seo Mu-yeong had feared clashing with Choi Yook, yet relished it. Childish and petty as it was, bickering with Choi Yook had been his only avenue to vent the hatred that had festered for over a decade. Choi Yook was not only capable of seeing him, but was also the sole target of revenge with whom Mu-yeong shared meaningful interactions.

Yet now, he could no longer hate Choi Yook with blazing intensity. Nor could he comfortably like him, either.

After all, he was still Choi Sijin’s older brother, and he treasured him. For a mere stone, he was colossal, and he would stubbornly block Mu-yeong from digging up the most important sweet potato.

It would have been wonderful if people fit neatly into clear categories—like, hate, or total stranger. But Choi Yook was an anomaly who shattered every tidy box Seo Mu-yeong had constructed. The tangled reality made his head throb.

Seo Mu-yeong drained the glass in rapid gulps. Choi Yook, who had been watching this display, rose from his seat. Rounding halfway past the table, he stepped close and seized the hand holding the glass, yanking it toward himself.

“You’re sharp and quick on your feet, Mu-yeong-ssi,” Choi Yook murmured. Assessing Seo Mu-yeong at a leisurely pace, he added, “The trouble is that you repeat the same mistakes. Whether that’s because you’re dim-witted or doing it on purpose is something I’ll have to consider.”

“The trouble is that you repeat the same mistakes. Whether that’s because you’re dim-witted or doing it on purpose is something I’ll have to consider.”

It was as good as saying that if Mu-yeong touched upon the child’s life or death one more time, it would be deemed intentional. The force crushing Mu-yeong’s entire hand squeezed his palm flat, making the metacarpal bones ache.

Choi Yook poured sake into the glass. The tumbler that had barely shown its bottom filled once again with clear liquid. Setting the bottle down, Choi Yook gripped Seo Mu-yeong’s chin and pulled him forward.

That much had become somewhat familiar, but what followed was entirely unanticipated.

Two thick fingers pried his lips apart and thrust into his mouth without hesitation. Seo Mu-yeong froze rigid, unable to twitch a muscle. Meanwhile, Choi Yook pinched and released Mu-yeong’s tongue with his fingers like a pair of shears.

Choi Yook murmured in a low rumble, “Misspeak one more time…”

A rough finger curved like a hook, prodding at the tender flesh deep inside. As the soft mucous membranes were relentlessly provoked, a wave of nausea hit, bringing tears to his eyes. With an expressionless face, Choi Yook pressed steadily against Seo Mu-yeong’s throat.

Choi Yook’s thumb grazed the corner of his lips. “Your greatest wish is probably to suck Sijin’s cock once, Mu-yeong-ssi.”

Seo Mu-yeong could only stare, breathless. “…”

Choi Yook sneered down at him. “I can help make it easier for you. Even if you’re a virgin with pathetic technique, you can make up for it in other ways.”

The tips of Choi Yook’s fingers slowly stroked across the even row of teeth.

“All I have to do is rip every single one out.”

Even before the words ended, hostility flared through Seo Mu-yeong’s mind. The rush of adrenaline made his vision dizzyingly sharp. He raised his head. Two fingers dug all the way to the knuckles into his mouth, blocking his throat.