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TO&FQ: Book 3: Chapter 15 (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-08-01 12:57:41 +0000 UTCChapter 15 - The Devil Dances at Midnight
Neutral men are the devil’s allies.
- Edwin Hubbel Chapin
The dark-haired woman looked over the curious dark display that to this day she could not believe held so much information. Even though she had lived in this world for some time now, the new Myeong Mirae could scarcely believe such a thing held more knowledge than the greatest of libraries. Had she possessed such a device in her former life, conquest would have been a thing of her simple will.
And she had found him. The man from one of her dreams—the broken sword, the wolf crushed by the march of time, and a world that no longer needed him.
Kang Daeshim, a soldier who had risen to a general from the last war this country had faced. A leader of men forged in the fires between life and death. War, true war, would always bring out the worst, and sometimes, the best in humanity. Now reduced to whispers and pity, a man whose mind had cracked not beneath the weight of battle, but in the silence that followed it. Peace had undone what war could not. It was disgusting how this country treated its heroes; she would see that it was fixed.
“I don’t have time to read all of this… give me the salient points only, Ms. Kim,” Myeong Mirae commanded with an imperious wave of her hand as she handed the tablet to her current secretary.
Ms. Kim cleared her throat, eyes moving smoothly down the tablet as its dark screen scrolled beneath her manicured fingers. “Mr. Kang has no family at all… never married, no children. A cursory investigation reveals that he earns a “living” by collecting scrap; cans, cardboard, and copper wire. Most mornings, he wheels a battered handcart to the district recycling depot and earns barely forty thousand won.” She paused. “His address is a shack in Guryong Village, Gaepo-dong. The entire settlement is scheduled for demolition; final evictions may begin early next year.”
Myeong Mirae’s lips compressed. “A man who once commanded legions… reduced to this. It is obscene.” She began writing down some instructions on some paper before handing it to her secretary. “Bring the car around. Two security vehicles, unmarked. We leave in ten minutes.”
“But, Mrs. President, are you sure that…” Kim started to voice in protest.
But whatever Ms. Kim read on the paper she was given made her eyes widen and stilled her tongue. She pivoted and strode off to obey. Minutes later, the convoy rolled out through the Blue House gates onto Cheongwadae-ro, slipped along the walls of Gyeongbokgung, and dropped onto Sajik-ro before pouring south into Gwanghwamun Square. The boulevard carried them past the ministries and hotel fronts, a straight river of traffic that widened and brightened as they pushed toward the Han River, as the President’s detail made their way to the home of one of the country’s heroes.
Eventually, the skyline sagged into cinder-block workshops, their paint blistered by exhaust, and a final turn led them onto a rutted service road. Corrugated rooftops crouched beside a luxury apartment’s marble forecourt like a rag bundle left on polished tile: Guryong Village, the shanty at Gaepo-dong’s edge where Seoul’s modern beauty fades into tin and tarps.
Dust drifted above the alleys while smoke from charcoal braziers clung to sagging power lines. Elderly women in sun-faded visors stripped labels from plastic bottles; a gaunt dog nosed through a patch of rubbish. The driver eased to a stop, and Mirae lowered her window. Before them stood a small shack. Rust-flecked tin formed three walls; the fourth was a quilt of election posters layered so thick they served as siding. Flattened cardboard was cinched beneath a blue tarp, and a pair of worn combat boots rested beside a dented washbasin. Inside the property, everything was arranged with soldierly precision: a rolled blanket, medals tucked into a plastic tackle box, and on a fruit-crate table, a field radio gutted for parts.
A length of chain hanging from the eaves rattled in the breeze. Deeper in the alley, a handcart clattered, the general returning with the day’s haul. Mirae shook her head as her door was opened by one of her men, and expensive designer heels stepped onto the dirty pavement.
“Time to pay a debt the nation forgot,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on was old man emerging from the narrow path that led between the shacks.
He was weathered, like leather left to the elements. Once tall, he had thinned and stooped, tugging his cart along the rutted path. Only the eyes defied the years—dark, alert, flicking from shadow to shadow as if tracking enemies long since vanished. At last, they found the young woman in a black designer dress before him. He straightened, sping popping, drew a steadying breath, set down the cart’s handles, and stepped toward the President. Mirae’s guards moved to block him, but she raised a hand, and the men stood down.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Kang said, his voice gruff and thinned by time. He nodded toward the doorway. “You’ll be wanting to come in.”
It was not the welcome Mirae had imagined. She checked her escort with a glance; they looked ready to follow. “Secure the perimeter,” she said, and went in after him.
Inside, the old soldier fumbled with practiced economy, reaching for a dented kettle and setting about to make tea. Mirae said nothing. The shack held the hush of places that have learned to be small. Kang set the dented kettle on the burner and thumbed it on until the flame caught with a brittle click. Slowly, the thin walls of the dwelling settled back into their soft creaks as the water boiled.
She folded her hands and lowered herself onto a thin cushion at the low table. The surface was a scuffed board on milk crates, wiped to an old soldier’s fastidiousness. He measured leaves from a plastic jar, tapped the last grains from the lid with a knuckle, and set two chipped cups within reach.
When the water trembled at a near-whistle, he lifted the kettle off the flame to let it settle, then poured a breath to rinse each cup, turning them in his palms and casting the water into a basin. Only then did he brew a short, careful pour that colored the liquid the weak brown of old brass. The scent was plain and honest.
He brought the first cup to her with both hands. She inclined her head and accepted it the same way. “Thank you, General,” she said, voice low.
“I know you,” he said simply.
“I don’t doubt it. Most of this country does,” she replied with a small smile.
He answered with a bitter one of his own, fine lines bracketing his eyes. “From the first time I saw you at Osan, I knew you’d come. I didn’t think you’d take so much time, Reaper.” He lowered himself onto the cushion opposite her, his expression turning grave.
The woman kept her features composed, though the name he had given her pricked at her sensibilities. Was senility, or perhaps something else? She let him go on. Time was precious, but men revealed more when given room.
“I have always fought in your shadow. Everywhere the bullets flew, when men were dying by the dozen, I expected you,” he said, gaze shifting to the cloudy window that leaked a thin light into the room. “I’m glad to meet you like this, and not fouling my sheets. You took my friends from me—and all of their hopes and dreams with them. It would have been easier to lie down and follow them… but I sent men to die, wishing I could have stood beside them. I think I have defied you too long.”
There was no apology in his voice, only a wistful weariness. President Myeong had seen enough veterans’ testimonies to recognize the usual litany of terror and grievance. This one still lived inside the war; it had never released him. It had been his only place of solace. The place where, amidst all the flowers of death, he had been most alive.
A thought flickered through her, quick and sure. “You’ve always been in love with Death, General,” she said softly. “In war, you could drink your fill.”
He did not deny it. Guilt tightened his mouth as he lifted the cup and took a slow sip.
When he set it down, his expression hardened. “I sacrificed even the small, ordinary things for this country. You took that from me—but I hold no bitterness toward you. I took the joy from it myself. And for what? What did I get?”
“Come with me, General. It’s time. I’ll show you what you fought for.”
“I am ready,” he said, as if hauling something heavy up from within, gathering the shreds of pride until they sat square on his shoulders.
Mirae rose first, smoothing the crease of her black skirt; he followed, steadying himself with a hand on the table. She placed her cup down with care so it would not rattle with all the grace of a queen. Kang reached for a sun-faded cap hanging from a nail by the door. The shack breathed its small, familiar breath as they stepped out.
The perimeter had tightened around them: plainclothes agents at each mouth of the lane, a radio’s low hiss, black sedans idling like patient animals at the curb. Neighbors watched from behind curtains of bead-string and torn insect screens.
The old man followed Mirae two paces behind as they walked to the lead car. An agent moved ahead, opened the rear door, and stood back. Kang climbed in with the stiff dignity of a man reporting for orders. Mirae followed him into the same car, the air inside cool. The agent leaned in to check the surroundings for a moment, then swung the door shut with a firm, padded thump.
The old man never looked back at the shack that had sheltered him in peace. The convoy eased away, tyres whispering against the cracked concrete.
***
Mirae felt her ears pop, an uncomfortable feeling, as they ascended to the 123rd floor of the tallest building in Seoul. Besides her, Kang trembled as if he were soon to face judgment. The floors ticked past in silence. Then there was a ping as the doors slid open with a whisper.
A cool draft greeted them—air not of the streets below, but thinner, cleaner, more reserved, as if it too had climbed this far just to breathe. The room was dim and polished, soundless save for the hush of security boots behind them. Mirae led him forward without a word.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped the observatory in a crown of crystal, and beyond them, Seoul unveiled itself in its fullest majesty. Night had fallen, and the city no longer looked like a place of people, but a living constellation sprawled across the bones of the land. The Han curved like a black dragon in slumber, the bridges its ribs pulsing with motion. Skyscrapers pierced the haze like obsidian needles wrapped in gold. Traffic flowed in glowing veins; every stoplight blinked like a heartbeat. The metropolis was not asleep. It was merely dreaming with its eyes open.
Kang approached the glass slowly, as if it might vanish beneath his touch. His breath caught again, not from awe this time, but disbelief. His reflection in the pane looked small, almost ghostly, just another spirit looking down at the country he’d bled and sacrificed his comrades for.
“This,” Mirae said, her voice quiet but carrying. “This is what they died for. What you, General Kang, fought for. A land where a man can speak without fear. Where a vote weighs more than a bullet. Where there is the rule of law. Freedom. Democracy. The Republic, imperfect and alive.”
Kang’s breath caught. His hands pressed against the thick glass as if it were the only solid thing left, and the tears came—hot, unguarded, cutting tracks through the grit of the day. “I never truly knew,” he whispered. “Out there… it was smoke and orders and maps. I thought you came to collect. I thought—” He broke off and shook his head, ashamed of the sob that tried to climb his throat. “Reaper, I didn’t see it. Not like this.”
Mirae let the silence stand a moment, letting the city speak for her. Then she turned to him, eyes dark as the river. “The Republic asks you to serve once more. The war is not yet over.”
He laughed without mirth, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand. “As much as I’d like to rampage across the fields of war, my time is past. My legs are shot, my hands shake. I am no warrior, just an old man who pushes a cart.”
“Irrelevant,” she said. The word landed like a gavel. “Will you serve?”
He looked at her as a condemned man might look at judgment—afraid, yes, but hungry too. The night lit one edge of her cheekbone and left the other in shadow, and he seemed to see in that chiaroscuro the figure he had carried through years of gunfire. “If you are Death,” he said hoarsely, “then take me where you will.”
“I have a way to make you fit to fight,” Mirae said. “If you have the will. One last time. One last great battle for your country.”
The old soldier squared himself by degrees, pride knitting his bent frame into something almost tall. He stared out over the glittering sprawl—the bridges, the towers, the living weave of it—and nodded once, as if saluting an unseen standard. “I will do anything,” he said. “If you’ll let me kill once more.”
“Then rise, General,” said the Reaper he mistook her for, and the President she truly was. “There is a place we must go to fulfill this pact you have sworn to me.” The agent closed the car door behind them with a soft, final thud, and the city’s light glimmered along the river like a fresh-drawn blade.
The old man was the key. For all her brilliance and cunning, even a queen needs a general to lead her armies. She would not make her old mistake here.
