7C | Chapter 01

“Leave Youngrang¹ here.”

The boy was dressed in an odd combination, a neatly pressed school uniform with a faded pale blue magoja² over it. The bag in his hand looked as heavy as a rock, and his sweat-drenched pale cheeks still bore traces of childishness. His small hand, which had slid open the paper door, trembled slightly, and perhaps it was that tremor that kept anyone in the room from immediately scolding his audacious behavior.

Yoonjae didn’t know what “Youngrang” meant, but since the boy had spoken to his father and the shaman’s gaze had immediately turned to him, he guessed it must be referring to him. The shaman³ was an elderly woman whose face sagged with deep wrinkles. She looked too frail to lift a finger on her own, yet her eyes, buried within those thick creases, gleamed sharply even in the dimly lit room.

“What kind of nonsense is this?”

The shaman’s voice was hoarse as she kept her gaze fixed on Yoonjae. They were seated in the deepest part of the inner quarters of a temple, halfway up Seonrak Mountain, a place unreachable by car, requiring a solid hour of hiking up steep paths.

To get here, Yoonjae had endured two hours in a car, an hour of climbing, and passing through gates that wouldn’t open unless someone let him through. Every step of the process had been irritating, but his father wasn’t the type to retract an order once given, and now that they had already left Seoul, there was no way for Yoonjae to escape alone.

Two hours had passed since his father had knelt before the shaman, engaging in an incomprehensible conversation that felt like some rural farce. After a full day of riding and climbing, then kneeling for hours, Yoonjae had no desire left except to collapse and sleep. It was then that his father pulled a thick envelope from his coat. Yoonjae didn’t know for sure, but it seemed like a signal that this ordeal was finally ending.

And then the strangely dressed boy had kicked open the door and stormed in.

“I told you today was for an important guest,” the shaman added.

The boy bowed his head deeply. Then, suddenly, he set down his bag and knelt. His eyes remained fixed on Yoonjae’s father.

“Leave Youngrang here.”

“Jun-ah.”

“If you take him outside this house’s geumjul line⁴ now, he will die.”

Yoonjae saw his father’s profile stiffen visibly. He turned to the shaman with a questioning look, and the old woman sighed as if the world had collapsed.

“Leave him.”

“…What?”

“If that child has said what he saw, then he must stay.”

Yoonjae blinked slowly. He didn’t fully grasp the situation, but he could tell. This had turned into something deeply troublesome, awkward… and utterly messed up.

***

Lee Jongil was a former special forces officer, Army Chief of Staff, and the ruling party’s leader. He was a man of considerable prestige.

Graduating from the Tri-Service Academy and rising to the rank of Army Chief of Staff alone was enough to mark him as an exceptional figure, but what catapulted him to stardom was an incident two years ago. An attempted terrorist attack at a campaign rally just a week before the presidential election.

As then-candidate Park Woonho finished his speech and stepped down from the podium, a young man suddenly pulled out a hatchet and charged at him. The one who blocked the axe barehanded and threw the assailant to the ground was none other than Assemblyman Lee Jongil, who had been present at the rally.

The scene was captured live by journalists’ cameras, and Lee Jongil’s dignified, handsome appearance and seamless movements were edited like a scene from a movie or drama, replaying on news broadcasts for days. Naturally, the public became obsessed with his every move.

The ruling party wasted no time embellishing his life story. They highlighted his rags-to-riches tale of rising to the military’s pinnacle despite not graduating from the Korea Military Academy, and even spread the touching story of how, after living alone for decades, he reunited with his childhood sweetheart and married her in his forties. Of course, they made sure to emphasize that he and presidential candidate Park Woonho had been inseparable friends since childhood.

But what spread most virally on youth-dominated SNS and forums was the story of Lee Jongil and his wife. Forced apart in their youth due to poverty, he became a soldier while she married someone her family chose. Unable to forget her, he remained single until becoming a colonel, only to reunite with her by chance and finally marry.

A self-proclaimed confidant of his wife, Kim Eunmi, leaked to the press that after their separation, she had married a man chosen by her family, but was divorced after ten childless years. Lee Jongil, already in his forties, convinced her that such things didn’t matter, and they married. Astonishingly, within a year, she gave birth to a son, and the following year, he was promoted to brigadier general.

After the hatchet incident, he openly expressed his love for his wife and son in interviews. When asked, “Didn’t you think your life might be in danger?” he replied, “For a moment, my wife and son’s faces flashed in my mind. But I had already moved. There was no turning back.”

—Any words for your wife and son?

A young reporter’s smiling request made him laugh sheepishly and wave his hand.

—I’ll tell them myself when I get home.

Soon after, rumors spread across SNS and forums that Lee Jongil’s precious son was a stunningly handsome boy who took after his father, a prodigy set to enter a prestigious foreign language high school. A blurry long-distance photo of him in a renowned international middle school’s uniform was attached. Even in the poor resolution, his striking features drew comparisons to idols, sparking debates about his height and looks. Before the chatter could die down, Park Woonho was elected president, and Lee Jongil became party leader.

“That was the year the boy turned sixteen.”

The shaman pointed a gnarled finger at Yoonjae, who sat with a displeased expression. The boy remained kneeling in silence.

“Do you understand what that time meant?”

The boy nodded slowly. His ink-black eyes remained fixed on the floor.

“Then you must know what your actions yesterday disrupted.”

“Yes.”

“Starting tomorrow, purify yourself during the in-shi hour⁵ and pray for seven days. I don’t know if that’ll be enough to ward off the calamity, but we must do what we can.”

With that, the shaman rose. The boy stayed motionless, head bowed, until she slid the door shut behind her.

A cold wind rushed through the gap left by the old woman, making Yoonjae frown. He clicked his tongue silently and hunched his shoulders until the boy lifted his head and asked in a clear voice.

“Cold?”

For a moment, Yoonjae was at a loss for words. Was he talking to me? There were only two of them in the small room.

“Uh… yeah, a little?”

The boy stood up at his awkward reply.

“Then I’ll get more firewood.”

The lanky boy was at least a head shorter than Yoonjae, probably no older than a middle schooler. Narrowing his eyes, Yoonjae followed him out.

“Stay inside. You said you were cold.”

The boy, slipping on his shoes, turned and repeated himself. Yoonjae tilted his head in annoyance but finally stepped back inside.

“…Uh, how old are you?”

“Me? Sixteen.”

So, a middle schooler after all. Yoonjae forced a smile. “I’m eighteen.”

“I know.”

“……”

That’s it? Without waiting for further questions, the boy headed straight for the kitchen. His back, carrying an armful of neatly split firewood to the stove, looked practiced. Trailing behind, Yoonjae replayed the day’s events in his mind.

He knew his father visited shamans. After being elected to the National Assembly, he sometimes disappeared for days at a time for prayers. Yoonjae had assumed it was just the usual superstitious nonsense adults believed in. His parents never talked about shamans or hung strange talismans at home, so he never paid it much mind.

But today, for the first time, his father had brought him here. And then, at this kid’s word, he had left his only son behind without a second thought.

“There’s no spare room right now, so Jun will stay with you.”

The “room” Yoonjae was led to might as well have been outside. It was October, and the mountain night was bitterly cold. The thin paper door did little to block the wind. Just stepping outside felt like facing a nightmare of freezing exposure. As he stared blankly into the distance, the boy returned from gathering firewood and asked:

“Need anything else?”

“……”

“If you’re hungry, I can get you snacks.”

Snacks? Yoonjae let out a disbelieving laugh.

“No thanks on the snacks, but I have a question.”

“Yeah?”

“What should I call you?”

Be polite to everyone. Remain humble and gentle. Even if they’re younger, even if they’re just a toddler learning to walk. Address them respectfully. These were principles drilled into Yoonjae since he could first speak.

But he couldn’t just let this slide. Everything about this situation grated on him. Not only was he being abandoned at a shaman’s house instead of returning to his comfortable home, but he was now being treated like a child by some green brat.

Unable to hide his sarcasm, he asked, and the boy fell silent for a moment. Then, tilting his head, he gave an unexpected answer.

“You don’t really need to call me anything…”

“……?”

“Once the guest room is ready, we won’t see each other again. But if you must… guests usually call me Dongja-nim⁶.”

As the boy put away the remaining firewood, Yoonjae crossed his arms and pressed his tongue against his cheek. He still didn’t understand why he’d been dragged into this, but the only person who could ease his frustration right now was this boy.

“Okay… but, Dongja-nim.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t people usually share their names? That shaman…no, manshin-nim called you Jun.”

“Jun is my childhood name. Only Grandmother⁷ calls me that. It’s not for guests.”

“……”

“Were you curious about my name? Then you should’ve asked directly. You asked how to address me, so I told you what others say.”

Well, excuse me. Suppressing his sneer, Yoonjae looked down only to meet the boy’s steady gaze. His dark eyes were calm, like deep water. And so, Yoonjae knew: the boy was waiting for his answer. Did you want to know my name? Ask directly, and I’ll tell you.

“…What’s your name?”

The boy blinked slowly, deliberately.

“Youngso.”

The autumn night was bitterly cold, and there was no one else around.

“Baek Youngso.”

And so began a fateful entanglement. Or so Yoonjae would later remember.