“Recently, a new religion has been expanding its congregation with fervor across the southern Gyeonggi region.”
Specifically, it is a sect that follows an otherworldly being called [Wizard King].
They claim that the great prophet and spiritual guide known as Kim Sinhwa declared the commandment, “Those who wish to board the Ark of the [Wizard King] must perform filial piety and service.”
“In addition, among the criminal organizations in northern Gyeonggi, some assert that their boss is [Kim Sinhwa the Destroyer]. And there are those who say they saw Kim Sinhwa’s ghost in an abandoned house.”
At this point in the explanation, even the “high-ups” wear expressions that show they are straining to follow this absurd [Kim Sinhwa Legend].
Among them, the one who resembles a grapefruit flushes even redder and speaks.
“Team Leader Yang Seoho. We know of your fame and achievements—also the role you’ve been playing at the Immigration Control Office. But isn’t the presenter here the Director, not Team Leader Yang?”
Though commonly called the Immigration Control Office, its formal name is the Korea Immigration Service.
Their normal duties involve managing and supporting foreigners entering and leaving Korea.
They still perform ordinary foreigner management tasks in good order.
However, within the Immigration Service exists a separate team for managing the non-ordinary: extraterrestrials, aliens, monsters, mutants, cryptids, and mythic entities collectively called “paranatural beings.”
This team wields greater power, scale, and budget than the parent Immigration Service, yet it operates under multiple layers of constraint.
The “high-up”’s unspoken point was clear to Yang Seoho:
Do you want to exceed those constraints? If you wish to enjoy the powers we have granted, you must also abide by our regulations and protocols.
Yang Seoho tapped the corner of the table where he sat, feigning distraction.
Tap tap—
“Then at least increase the personnel. To verify whether Kim Sinhwa is one person or six, or whether any bizarre event is simply labeled ‘Kim Sinhwa,’ my own fools alone are insufficient.”
“As I said before, no further personnel increases can be made. This was decided by the committee.”
The same response as always.
Before Yang Seoho could reply, his fingers answered for him, tearing at the desk’s edge.
Creak—
“Ugh—”
The “high-ups” turned pale and gasped for breath; the Director nearly fainted. Yang Seoho placed the torn corner back on the desk casually and said,
“I’ll repeat what I said last time. The era of flimsy peace is over. At this rate, we will soon face a crisis akin to immediate post–Great Collapse chaos.”
“...An important point. We will review that seriously.”
“Review? That’s fortunate. May I be excused? I need to interrogate the cultists of the Gourmet Expeditionary Corps we captured the other day.”
With that, Yang Seoho strode out of the conference room.
Bang.
The door shut.
An uncomfortable silence followed.
It was a posture no mere civil servant should display, but Yang Seoho does not exist to resolve commonplace tasks.
“That monster had the nerve to—”
A mutter echoed. Though intended quietly, it carried far in the acoustically designed room.
Coughs and rebukes rang out: Was that not something you should have said while he was here?
At last, the “high-ups” resumed their chaotic murmurings: denouncing Yang Seoho, criticizing the Director for failing to control a single team leader, and fretting over the phenomenon called Kim Sinhwa. The futile debate dragged on.
“Will Yang Seoho actually cooperate?”
“Should we grant him the additional personnel he wants?”
“No. He’s already hard enough to control; what if he grows stronger?”
“He’s just a monster to fight monster. Better to keep him underfed.”
“And there’s no budget anyway.”
“In any case, we should identify what this Kim Sinhwa really is.”
“I’d prefer if he were a friendly entity. That seems possible.”
“Whatever he is, we should confirm quickly and either rein him in or eliminate him.”
“Indeed. The number of those called ‘Kim Sinhwa’ might even be increasing.”
“Hmm. The proportions are fine. Next—”
I gazed at the cube floating beside me.
Within the cube, the blue liquid moved mysteriously, forming small waves—like an imprisoned Eastern painting.
“First, the condition is normal. Increase the flesh mana density by 3%, divide the core’s permanence into quartiles—”
Simultaneously, dozens of notebooks hovering to my left filled with inkless text in bursts. The paper’s composition changed color to inscribe the pages all at once, keeping pace with my thoughts.
I extended my right hand, steeling my will.
“Place three A-grade magic crystals.”
Red crystals lifted from a shelf and moved to my designated positions.
“What’s this? Some low-grade ones mixed in?”
I snapped my fingers, and the inferior crystals returned to their slots as replacements rose.
“And next—”
The grimoire beside the notebooks flipped to the next page. Though I had memorized its contents, these grimoires in this world held power beyond mere knowledge; merely opening to certain pages conferred benefits.
“How do you feel?”
Kkikirik—
A skeletal golem lying in a stone coffin signaled.
“Good. Then let us begin.”
Kkikirik—
Not the combat golem I usually employ, but a more generic servant golem.
“Now, everyone, enter. Slowly.”
Glurrr—groan—
The flesh chunks, adjusted by mana, slithered into the coffin.
It was no small amount—more than enough to overflow the coffin once filled.
“This will become your flesh—”
Following my moving hand, the cube flew toward the coffin.
Seo Cheonseul called it poison, but it was the mana gathered over decades by dozens of cultists who had devoured countless creatures and monsters.
It could become a powerful medicine—or be used in entirely different ways.
A droplet of the cube’s liquid leaked from a corner. I needed only one drop.
Plop—
A single drop fell into the coffin.
“This shall become your blood.”
Focusing mana into my eyes, I examined the mucilaginous interior.
The condition was excellent.
I took one of the masks and placed it atop the flesh.
It was the three-eyed mask seized from Heein—one that conferred invisibility.
“You shall now walk the darkness, born again as an assassin emerging from shadows.”
I kissed the mask and breathed mana into it.
Groan—glurp—
The mask slowly sank into the flesh.
With a grinding sound, the coffin lid closed.
The lid, too, was stone. This mansion housed many such stone coffins—Huh Joo, the previous owner, must have used them in various necromantic experiments.
“Well, it’s no different for me.”
I released mana toward the sealed coffin and turned the grimoire to its next page.
[Dream Hearing Dao Hidden Forgetting Sutra (夢裏聞道謐忘經).
A treatise on the secrets of life, death, and reincarnation. It vividly depicts the afterlife and dreamscapes, describing paths to liberation.]
I had acquired this grimoire from the Mi-Go laboratory during the curtain call. I researched its references to reincarnation and the afterlife, hoping for an escape from the Cthulhu World, but found no aid.
However, its overlap with Huh Joo’s research proved unexpectedly useful.
Next came the incantation. It could be omitted as a trait, but since it influenced the golem’s emerging self, it could not be skipped.
“Hmm.”
I cleared my throat briefly.
“སྐབས་འདིར་ཁྱེད་ལ་རང་ཉིད་ལ་རྒྱུས་ལོན་བྱེད་དུ་བཅུག དེ་ནས་དེ་མུ་མཐུད་དུ་འདུག་ཏུ་འཇུག་དགོས།.”
Was that pronunciation correct? I wished the grimoire had phonetic guides.
Bubble bubble bubble—
I murmured plausibly. The response began immediately as I wove the moving mana into a complete spell.
[Spirit Form Mutual Transfer (靈體相轉移)]
Kiiiiiiiiing!!!
Light flooded the basement.
Groan—
Now in the coffin lay a fully formed humanoid.
Wearing the three-eyed mask, the same build as me—a humaniform lifeform.
I bowed and breathed into its lips, then said,
“How do you feel now? You are no longer a golem.”
Yet it was not quite human—more like a homunculus.
“......”
The homunculus attempted to turn its head toward me, but its neck twisted and crushed.
“!!”
“Oh, don’t be alarmed. It isn’t fixed yet. It needs more maturation—about a month. Until then, remain lying still.”
Without replying, it returned to its original posture.
“Good. Sleep a little longer. I will name you once you are complete.”
Glurrr—
The coffin closed again. I swept it into a corner of the basement, where two identical coffins already stood.
“Hmm, now I need no [Recognition].”
Using [Recognition], I could skip the intermediate steps and finalize it instantly. This time, I tested completion without that cheat.
I involuntarily trembled.
The homunculus had somehow triggered my phobia.
[Madness – Doll Phobia]
“Hmph. At least it does not manifest through mere analogy or association.”
Conversely, it meant that even similarity or association could induce a tremor of fear.
Thinking of Madness brought a slight headache.
In any case, this Madness was one I could simply avoid.
My phone rang suddenly.
“Who is it at this hour?”
But I didn’t know the time. How long had I been in the basement?
I grabbed the smartphone on the table.
“Ugh, it’s morning?”
It was 11 AM.
I had surely come down after lunch. Time hadn’t reversed—so I must have been here 23 hours. Perhaps 47?
No—if it had been 47, Huh Sanghyun would have come down nagging me. So 23 hours.
“Hello?”
—This is Kim Sinhwa! Your exclusive broker.
Park Gwangrim. He sounded unusually pleased.
“Hmm, exclusive? I’m not exclusive.”
—Oh, is that important?
It is extremely important.
“If you keep calling yourself exclusive, Tudor will find out and your lifespan will shorten considerably. Is that okay?”
—Ugh, point taken.
“So what’s the matter?”
—The gladiator robot you lent me this time? He’s much better than the multi-armed fellow last time.
“Good to hear.”
It’s not a robot but a homunculus—yet semantics matter little.
—So this mission wrapped up smoothly. I’ve deposited the fee, minus commission.
“Excellent.”
The auto-hunting system.
Originally a management feature—hiring fixers or apprentices in-game. Too buggy, too low NPC survival, so largely unused.
I had Park Gwangrim experiment by using my golems. Surprisingly profitable.
Beyond the golems, Park Gwangrim {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} himself was a competent NPC.
‘If only his betrayal rate weren’t so high, he’d be perfect.’
—Should I keep referring to him as “Kim Sinhwa”?
“Yes. Kim Sinhwa works. I want more fame, so keep selling my name.”
