Many years ago, Jae-hyun was no longer a shaman.
The villagers of a small settlement on the outskirts of Busan knew him only as an old farmer—quiet, bent by age, his hands permanently gnarled from decades of digging into stubborn soil. He lived alone in a wooden house at the foot of the mountain, where mist clung to the trees like secrets refusing to be spoken. His eyes, clouded with age, carried stories only the mountains understood—stories of spirits, blood, bargains, and power long buried.
To the world, Jae-hyun was ordinary.
To the unseen world, he was anything but.
And to his granddaughter, Jina, he was simply Grandpa.
I sat frozen as Yoon spoke, her voice calm but heavy, as though every word carried the weight of centuries. At first, I didn't realize the story was about me. I listened like someone hearing a folktale—distant, unreal. But the moment she mentioned my name, my breath caught.
I turned slowly and looked at her.
She was watching me closely.
Jae-hyun's granddaughter, Jina.
As a child, I loved spending summers with him. I remembered the scent of wet earth, the way cicadas screamed endlessly in the heat, and how the mountains seemed to breathe when the wind passed through them. I followed him everywhere, helping him water vegetables, pull weeds, and gather herbs whose names I never learned.
At night, he told me stories.
Stories of mountain spirits that guarded sacred paths. Stories of charms carved from bone and iron. Stories of beings that drank blood like water and walked among humans wearing borrowed faces.
Back then, I laughed.
I thought they were just stories.
One sweltering afternoon stood out more clearly than the rest.
Yoon continued her story
The sun had been merciless, the air thick and unmoving. You were weeding radishes behind the house when Jae-hyun suddenly coughed—a deep, violent sound that seemed to tear its way out of his chest. His body shook, and before you could react, he leaned heavily against you.
"Grandpa!" You cried, panicking.
He grabbed your wrist, his hand surprisingly strong for someone so frail. His skin burned—hot, like sun-baked stone.
"Hold my hand, little sprout," he whispered.
You obeyed without thinking.
The moment your palms pressed together, something strange happened.
A warmth surged through you—not painful, not gentle either, but powerful. It moved like liquid fire from his body into yours, spreading through your veins, sinking deep into your bones.
Jae-hyun's eyes widened in terror.
He never intended for it to happen.
Yoon's voice softened as she continued,
The old man had planned to pass his power to his son—your father. But your father wanted nothing to do with the old ways. He believed the world had moved on. He chose logic over spirits, reason over rituals.
So the power waited.
And when it finally moved, it chose you.
Jae-hyun was terrified.
He didn't know whether a child—his granddaughter—could survive carrying such power. Fear consumed him. Desperation followed. And so, in secret, he forged something ancient and forbidden.
The Saingeom.
A sacred blade—not meant to kill, but to seal.
Using forbidden rituals and his own remaining life force, Jae-hyun bound your power into the Saingeom, locking it away until the day you would be strong enough to wield it. The sword was wrapped in seals, hidden from spirits that would sense its presence like blood in water.
He entrusted it to your parents.
"Keep it," he told them. "Until she is ready."
Yoon turned fully toward me.
"Jina," she said quietly.
At first, your father didn't understand what it meant. He didn't believe in powers, spirits, or curses. But power—once transferred—always has a purpose. It never chooses randomly.
And now, this is its purpose.
My chest felt tight.
Jina, this school is infested.
Her words chilled me.
"Blood-sucking creatures," Yoon continued. "Not legends. Not myths. Beings disguised as humans. They feed quietly. Kill silently. Cover their tracks like smoke disappearing into air."
I remembered the black uniforms. The empty smiles. The students who never seemed quite right.
"They butcher people," she said. "And they vanish before anyone can understand what happened."
She grabbed my hands suddenly, her grip firm.
"Only you can see them for what they are," she whispered. "Only you can stop this."
My mind spun.
Shock, fear, disbelief—all of it crashed together. But buried beneath it was something else.
Recognition.
I had heard before that I was close to my grandfather. That I never left his side. That he trusted me more than anyone. I had loved visiting his village, even when everyone else found it dull and isolated.
But still—
I swallowed hard.
"How do you know all this?" I asked.
Yoon smiled—a knowing, careful smile.
"Your father told Eunwoo's father," she said. "That's enough for now."
She stood slowly, her movements deliberate.
"Don't worry about how I know, Jina. What matters is what you do next. The first step is removing fear. Fear clouds power."
She turned toward the door.
As she left, darkness swallowed her figure, and I couldn't help but wonder why she chose midnight to tell me all this. Why now. Why when my heart was already so heavy.
I was still lost in thought when the door opened again.
"Jina!"
Jan burst in and wrapped her arms around me tightly.
"I missed you!"
The sudden warmth startled me. I hugged her back instinctively, relief flooding through me.
"Jan," I said softly, pulling back to look at her. "Where have you been? I've been searching everywhere."
She smiled brightly, that familiar smile that always made things feel normal again.
"Oh, my best friend," she said. "I went out shopping with some friends. Birthday stuff, remember? I'm sorry I didn't tell you."
She climbed onto my bed comfortably.
"I thought maybe you needed rest after all those dreams."
Guilt stabbed at me.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a chocolate bar.
"I got this for you."
I accepted it, placing it on the table.
"Jan," I said seriously, lying down beside her, "you have to tell me when you go out. This place isn't safe anymore. Nothing here is."
She stared at me for a moment, then laughed softly.
"You worry too much."
As usual, she pulled the bedsheet over our heads, blocking out the world. In that small, enclosed space, we laughed quietly, whispering like children hiding from monsters.
For a brief moment, I almost believed everything was normal again.