[CYM] 13 – Stories

“Today, I...”

Still, she found some solace in having someone to talk to during such gloomy times.

What could she say to please this man?

She had already told all the stories she had, to the point of exhaustion. Even embellishing her mother’s heroic tales as if they were her own had its limits. Her pitiful pretences were growing day by day, almost enough to weave a novel.

As she pondered while tapping on the sewing materials, a suitable topic came to mind.

“I heard a story from my mother when I first came here. It’s said that Muritmaegol is guarded by a powerful deity, but it’s not considered a fortunate land.”

“Why is that?”

Every village has its guardian deity, but the one protecting Muritmaegol is unquestionably the deity of the Soru River. Called the river of unexpected riches, simply setting sail on the Soru River meant certain fullness of the ship, but also, the Ki family gained a tremendous fortune by selling the river’s water, thus earning the title of a grand household without refute.

The Ki family patriarch believed that the river deity had arranged for the rescue of his son who had fallen into the Soru River during a boat ride. Such was his devout reverence for the Soru River deity that he offered grand annual rites in its honour.

In front of the son of that devout follower of the Soru River deity, she had to ponder for a long time before she could bring up the main topic.

‘You know, a long time ago, human sacrifices were prevalent in Muritmaegol.’

‘Wasn’t that a vicious custom banned over a hundred years ago?’

‘There was a belief that if one offered a living soul and prayed to the deity of the Soru River, their wishes would surely be granted. Because of that, for many years, hundreds were thrown alive into the Soru River—young children, elderly parents, it didn’t matter. Rumours circulated that some had their wishes fulfilled, but I’m not sure if it’s right to worship a deity that incites human greed, no matter how powerful that deity’s spiritual energy might be.’

She recited her mother’s words exactly as they had been told to her in the past.

“There’s another reason why Muritmaegol is dangerous.”

“What is it?”

“It is said that the resentful spirits of those poor souls who became sacrifices have piled up as deep as the river. A vile stench boils up from the bottom of the river. Demons are born from human resentment, immorality, and malice, aren’t they? It is said that if a powerful demon were to be born on this land, Muritmaegol would be its starting point.”

“When will that be?”

The young master asked with eyes brimming with excitement.

“I don’t know. Once it accumulates enough power, it will crawl out. The disaster that will strike then is said to be too terrible for words. I wish it would just stay submerged and sleep with its head under water forever.”

Even as she spoke, she felt a chill run down her own neck at this eerie story.

She knew that the more malignant the malice, the more powerful the demon that is born. During the Demon Suppression War a hundred years ago, most of the high-class demons were sealed or destroyed, and for a while, the occasional appearing demons were of a level so insignificant that even soldiers who had not polished their swords could strike them down.

It was a prediction that the unstable peace would soon completely sink.

“These are troubled times.”

She informed the young master, meaning to say he should be aware of the way the world works. The current state of affairs was just so. Human desires knew no bounds, and those less than beasts stirred the nation into chaos.

Parents and children turned on each other, and lowlifes coveted official ranks and treasures, causing endless strife and an air of war to linger. Monsters popped up everywhere, and rumours circulated that people were dying.

Three days ago, there had been a murder. The neighbouring landowner had killed his deformed father and fled. It was said that he ground up the flesh to conceal the evidence.

Human atrocities fattened demons, and if luck was foul, perhaps a young demon was growing somewhere at this very moment. Of course, such stories were beyond the knowledge of the young master, who lived oblivious to worldly concerns like a true sage.

“Young master?”

“I’m listening.”

He seemed to take her serious story as if it were some kind of joke.

She entertained the young master, who enjoyed her tales, with stories of the village’s peculiar customs and anecdotes of unkind neighbours. Even though her jests rarely brought a smile, and despite her emotional storytelling, he listened so impassively it was hard to tell if he was human, but she always felt he was attentive to her.