CW: Explicit language, blood/self-harm, ableist language, mentions of physical/emotional/mental abuse, mentions of alcohol abuse, mentions of vomit.
The charred carcass of Dasom’s house is gone. In its place is a simple taun wood structure, rudimentary and small, yet very well-built. There is no sign of an inferno ever occurring here. Greenery had even found its way to the usually barren land, almost tauntingly lush and verdant.
In a way, this makes him feel worse. It’s as if Dasom had been entirely erased from the world. Like Kahin’s sins had been washed clean. And that his suffering, his scars, were gained for naught.
He exhales through his teeth, hissing out a thin stream of air. Cold sweat makes his shirt stick to his back. Fear petrifies him to the spot. He can’t bring himself to approach this new structure – not while the feelings of desecration lingers.
“Who is this ugly child loitering outside my home?”
Rin turns to see the old witch sitting in her usual rocking chair, tossing grains to her godsdamn chickens. He scowls and kicks her fence, sending the chickens squawking and scattering in a panic. “Still alive, you wrinkled old prune?”
“Unfortunately – if it means seeing that unpleasant face,” Nuwa barks back.
He narrows his eye at her, but in truth, he isn’t at all angered. The way she looks upon his scarred visage is just as she had before. There’s the same disdain, the same irritation, the same dismissive grumpiness. It comes as a relief to the youth and he deftly hops her fence.
“What are you doing, child?” she shrieks, tossing grains at him with a rather strong hand. Seeds scatter in his face even at this distance. “This old woman has nothing for you to steal! Scram!”
He raises his hands to shield his face as he approaches, flinching for every toss. Grains shower down upon his head, sticking to his loose locks as they fall. The chickens start to eye him with interest.
“I’m not here to steal anything!” he snaps, snatching the grain bag from her hands as soon as it’s within reach. He tosses it aside, letting it spill in the garden bed. Feathery white balls zoom from their scattered positions to the spilled bag, eager for the unexpected bounty.
The old woman slaps his arm with her bony hands and he flinches, the blow surprisingly painful. “If you overfeed them, they will get sick–”
“Nuwa,” Rin cuts her off, tone austere. This catches her attention and she falls silent, glaring up at him in begrudging expectation. “I need your help.” His lips purse, those four words tangibly, physically painful to push out.
She clicks her tongue and leans back in her chair, starting up a light rock. The fact that she’s not shrieking at him is indication that she is willing to hear him out.
Rin continues on, encouraged. “I need to know more about exorcisms.”
“You already know this,” Nuwa grumbles, fanning herself lazily. “Did you lose all that precious knowledge along with your eye? Hm?”
He sucks his teeth in irritation. Nuwa most certainly knows more than anyone how to get under his skin. “I need to know how to exorcise someone without harming their soul.”
“Impossible.”
“There must be a way–”
“There is no way.”
“You’re not even listening–”
“I am listening,” Nuwa sighs, squinting up at the youth. “And I am telling you, there is no way to do this. The spirit attaches itself to the victim’s soul. Like how extracting a leech would inevitably cause a bleed, when you extract the spirit, there will be harm done to the soul. Must I reteach you the rudimentaries of exorcisms?”
In place of anger, weariness sweeps over Rin. He lightly rubs his scarred cheek, ruminating on the old woman’s words.
Nuwa puffs another sigh as she struggles out of her chair. A gnarled hand claps her aching lower back. The other hand gestures for Rin to follow. “It is much too hot outside. We will go in and take tea.”
When they step inside, he sees that Nuwa’s house is in orderly chaos. The main feature is the large fire pit, around which there are countless feeds for all types of animals. Bags of grain, seeds, hay, crates of fruit and vegetables – most old and bruised, and a bin of soil which writhes with worms and other assortments of wriggling bugs.
While it’s usual for houses to have smoked and cured meat hanging in their kitchens, not a single shred of meat can be seen here.
The large kitchen and reception area splits off into two other sections of the house, assumedly where Nuwa and Bo bathe and sleep.
“Child,” Nuwa calls as she steps over the threshold. “Boil some water, we have a guest.”
The giantess is stoking the fire as she tends to a large pot of stewing vegetables and stock. She glances up at the sound of the old woman’s voice and freezes when she lays eyes on Rin. There’s a moment of shock, sadness, and anger, flitting past her features in quick succession, before schooling back into gentle passivity.
“Rin,” Bo rumbles, giving him a nod. “How do you fare?”
“Fuckin’ fantastic, how do you think?” Rin retorts, throwing himself down by the stone walled fire. He picks up a bruised apple and bites into it. The flesh is very sweet but dry.
“Your wounds–”
“Are fine, and none of your concern.”
Bo stares at him for a moment longer before giving another nod. She returns her attention to the stew, lifting the cutting board to slide in a handful of chopped onions. “What kind of tea would you like to drink?” she asks Nuwa, wiping her hands on her rather cute Northern-style apron.
“Pani kum tea would do nicely,” the old woman groans, easing herself down into (another) rocking chair by the window.
“Of course, Nuwa.”
Within moments, the tantalising scent of cardamom, ginger, cinnamon, and black peppercorns effuses through the house as Bo prepares the Western tea.
“While you were dithering about, we buried your mother in Hanjuyang Cemetery,” Nuwa says, closing her eyes as she rocks. “You should pay your respects before you leave the city.”
We’re sorry for MTLers or people who like using reading mode, but our translations keep getting stolen by aggregators so we’re going to bring back the copy protection. If you need to MTL please retype the gibberish parts.
“There’s no need for that,” Rin mutters, shadows gathering upon his face. He squeezes the apple and rolls it in his palm, suddenly without appetite. “The graveyard here would have been fine.”
“Ktfrf rblir tjnf yffc xcbkc ab fcagjq rbeir. Ljcpesjcu Jfwfafgs tjr cb ecwjgxfv ugjnf, rb atf rbli lr bo ubbv dejilas. Qbeiv sbe tjnf sbeg wbatfg reoofg fnfc lc vfjat?”
“Ktf tberf. Tbe vlv atja?”
“P vlv cba,” Rekj tewr, rwlilcu rjufis. “Ufgtjqr sbeg wbatfg tjv oglfcvr sbe kfgf ecjkjgf bo.”
“Friends?” Rin snorts in disbelief. “If she had any friends, they wouldn’t have left her to rot. What use is a house after she’s dead?”
“Do you truly believe you have been abandoned?” Keen eyes open and bore into his own. Uncertainty blooms.
“…who are her friends?”
Nuwa huffs through her nose and closes her eyes again. “That, I do not know.”
The Southerner serves them the pani kum tea and settles down with her own cup at the circular Southern style table, the painted colours vivid and wild.
“How did you know that I was thinking about leaving?” Rin shoots Nuwa a sharp look, gut rolling uneasily.
“Hm. I am a witch with vast ability. Think a small detail like that would escape me?”
Rin rolls his eye and bites savagely into his apple. “If you had vast ability, you’d be able to give me a proper solution.”
“You are trying to save your noble boy.”
“…”
“He is possessed by a powerful spirit. One with a deep connection to him.”
“A blood relation?” Bo raises, cradling her cup thoughtfully. ‘Or perhaps someone he had been in a prior relationship with.”
“His mother,” Rin says, pulsing his jaw. “Apparently she disapproves of my presence. For whatever reason.”
“I can imagine, very easily, why that is,” Nuwa emphasises, lips quirking.
Bo chuckles lowly. “As can I.”
“Look, do you have a solution or not?” Rin snaps, patience thinning.
Nuwa hums, intentionally drawing out the suspense.
“…please,” he adds, emphatically.
“There is one way that has been largely untested.”
Rin straightens his spine. “What is it?”
“In order to preserve your noble’s soul, you must confront the spirit from within, rather than drawing her out. This way, when you defeat her and perform Izayoma’s Call, you can be more precise and your noble’s soul would remain intact.”
“That sounds perfect,” he says, grinning. “I’ll do that, then.”
“This is not a trifle, child,” Nuwa warns, lashes parting to reveal two stern slits. “What I am speaking of is not magic for exorcism, but one for soulwalking. If anything should happen to your tether, the consequences are for life.”
“Soulwalking?”
“I have known only one witch who could do so naturally. To send their soul outside their corporeal form and travel through space and inner worlds.” She clasps her hands together upon her lap, chair creaking with every slow rock. “I have simply discovered a way to replicate such magic, albeit without much finesse.”
Rin scoffs and tosses the apple core into the fire. Flames leap and pop in excitement. “Ah. I got one foot in the underworld anyway.”
“If your tether is harmed or detached in any way, you will not be able to return to your body.”
“Fine. I was getting sick of it anyway.”
“You do not understand the weight of the consequences–”
“I do,” Rin says, evenly. His eye holds a resolute glint. “I understand.”
Nuwa purses her lips. “And you still wish to go ahead with it? Despite the risk to yourself?”
“I do.”
“This is most uncharacteristic.”
Rin gives her a narrow look, but doesn’t bother to protest. She’s right, after all.
“I disagree, Nuwa,” Bo says, giving the youth a wide smile. “I think it’s quite characteristic of Rin.”
“How do you figure?” he scoffs.
“I’ve known you since you were a babe,” the Southerner chuckles. “Who else knows you as well as I?”
He’s not quite sure of her meaning, or whether she’s jesting at his expense. Regardless, he dismisses her words with a scowl. “Just tell me how to do the godsdamn magic, Nuwa.”
“Unlike what you would expect, this is not soul magic. The witch I know uses soul magic – however my shoddy replication is only possible through blood magic. While he is able to direct his soul outside of his body, my replication is about moving the body from the soul. I use blood magic to do this because it has to do with the separation of the flesh itself,” Nuwa intones, fingertips pressed upon each other. “Soul magic is sourced from the gods. Blood magic is sourced from the carnal, or Daejimo, the breath of the earthly realm. While blood magic is a direct descendent of soul magic, one cannot use soul magic to achieve what blood magic can. It is like trying to create air from fire. One can use air to feed a fire, but fire cannot generate air.”
“How do you use blood magic? I’ve only ever used soul magic…at least, I thought I could only access soul magic.”
“I taught you the fundamentals of soul magic, which anyone with a magical core must learn in order to access their mana. You do have the ability to learn all types of magic, though to do so is not only difficult, but also requires a great amount of sacrifice. Magic does not come free. It is not a gift, but rather a contract.”
Nuwa stabs her finger with her thumb nail, drawing a single bead of blood. She raises her hand and a shallow red glow lumines her flesh. Rin stares, enraptured.
“To use blood magic, as the name suggests, you must shed your own blood – the essence of life.”
The bead of blood swirls into the air like a miniature tornado, the stream of blood as thin as a thread, delicately spun.
“Once you have offered this sacrifice of blood, you must focus on detaching your flesh from yourself. I like to visualise my flesh, my body separating from me, like a snake sheds its skin. Be mindful however – once you have detached your flesh from your soul, you will only be able to return by your tether. If anything should happen to this tether or if you should wander too far, your soul will be trapped between the earthly realm and the underworld. Your body will fall into a state from which it will never recover from.”
The bloody thread slows to a stop and dissipates in a puff of crimson smoke. Sluggishly, the thin stream of smoke curls and slithers through the air before burrowing deep into the ground.
“Do you understand now why no witch attempts such magic? The sacrifice is great and the consequences are greater – moreso if you fail. It is much safer to allow the victim’s soul to be damaged.”
“And is there a call?” Rin asks, impatiently waving away her warning.
“There is,” Nuwa nods. She sings then, a short and simple melody with arcane words of old, inciting memories of Daejimo’s virgin lands, untouched soil and pure carnality, flesh upon flesh.
He repeats after her, stumbling over only a couple of words. His voice is sonorous and clear, like the equable surface of White Lotus Lake, undisturbed and silken smooth.
A few more tries and he has the call down perfectly. Nuwa grunts and nods in begrudging approval. “You have always had a talent for calls,” she mutters, starting up another creaky rock. “The name is in the works, but for now it is known as the Soulwalker’s Call. Nothing too creative.”
“You made this call yourself?” Rin starts, eye widening.
“I did,” the old woman smiles, rather pleased with herself. “I dabble in compositional magic in my spare time.”
Bo hums, smiling broadly. “Nuwa is the most powerful composer in the East, if not in all the territories.”
“Well, there are only two other composers in living existence,” Nuwa tuts, though she seems happy by Bo’s input.
“Nuwa,” Rin cuts into the conversation, frowning. “Is it common to have visions of possessive spirits?”
“Visions?” Both women exchange looks. Nuwa stops rocking and leans forward in her chair, peering at Rin with interest. “What kind of visions?”
The raven rubs his nape, uncertainty scattering his response. “…I’ve been…having dreams…when I’m asleep and when I’m awake. It’s mostly been about Jun’s mother…back when she was alive.”
“Your visions have been about the past? And only about this woman?”
“Yeah,” he lies, thinking of the visions about himself and the Last Cycle. “I think it has to do with why she’s still here. But I still can’t figure out why she’s possessing Jun.”
“Hm. She may find you a threat and wish to take control of the situation. Many possessions stem from the spirit’s desire to affect the tangible world.”
“But did she have to possess her own son? She’s making him sick.”
“Those of our own bloodlines are the easiest to possess, especially those of a parent and a child.” Nuwa idly raps the arms of her chair with restless fingers. “Visions are uncommon, if not exceedingly rare. I believe when Dasmon died, you had inherited her magic as the eldest of her line.”
Rin’s mind goes blank. He blinks at the old witch for an eon, trying to process her words. “Dasom was a witch?”
“She was not,” Nuwa sighs, the weary lines in her face deepening. “Your mother did not wish to practice her magic, or rather, she was mentally incapable of doing so.”
“Her madness,” Rin mumbles, raising his legs to hug. His gaze is distant as he glances out the window. He can see a sliver of blue and the peak of Dasom’s house. Or the structure that’s replaced her house.
“Yes. Because of her illness, she could not exert any control over her magic. And as she deteriorated, so did her power.”
“What is her magic? Where does it come from?” Anger simmers beneath his words. Anger and the sickening feeling of betrayal. How could Dasom not tell him any of this? How could he not know such an important fact about his own mother? Had the rift been vaster between them than he’d remembered?
“Her magic comes from the ether, the nexus in which the heavenly realm occupies. It is outside of the gods, outside of Daejimo and the underworld. It comes from the stars and perhaps beyond. Out of all the magic, those sourced from the ether are most mysterious and taxing. It is no wonder then, that to gain such forbidden knowledge drives many to madness. I wonder then, if your mother’s madness is simply an inherited illness through lineage.” Nuwa pinches the lobes of her ears as she contemplates. “Whatever House your mother is descended from must have once been an authority in this world. Whether that is from the Last Cycle or in the early history of this one.”
“And when she died, I inherited her magic.” He feels numb and detached. When Dasom pushed him out of the burning house that night, he had experienced an excruciating pain like no other, seeing histories and futures that were wholly unrecognisable to him. They must have been the visions that she, and her ancestors, had experienced. One day, if he has a child of his own, he too would pass this on. He can’t quite remember what he saw that night, but he can feel it in his subconscious, as heavy as osmium pure.
And of course, there’s Luna. Whether he is a god or not (and whether he is who he says he is), Luna’s soul magic courses through his veins and fills his core. For whatever reason, this entity had chosen him to inherit his magic – but if what Nuwa says is true, then Rin is yet to see what the price is for such an inheritance.
***
After staying for a bowl of stew, Rin heads to the People’s District, accompanied partway by Bo. They pause at the newly built house for a while before continuing up the road. Bo doesn’t need to ask the raven for his thoughts. By the way grief flickers in his remaining eye, the giantess knows that his wounds are still too raw to approach the house.
“This noble friend of yours,” she rumbles, taking long, easy strides to Rin’s hurried steps. “Why do you go to such lengths for him?”
“Such lengths? What lengths? There aren’t any lengths. Not anymore than I usually go.”
Bo huffs amusedly, the corners of her mouth twitching. “You have feelings for him.”
“Hm. He’s pretty enough, I suppose.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Oh, I know what you said.”
Rin slows his pace. The dirt road opens out into the main street, where vibrant throngs heave and coalesce. Even in such chaos, the giantess and the scarred Rat draw much attention.
Countless faces hover before his blurring vision. Sneers, jeers, repulsion and disgust, that’s all he sees, like a loathsome Rorschach, patchwork antipathy.
“I am glad you have him,” Bo says. “It has been a difficult time for you.”
“Has it? I haven’t noticed.”
“Will you be visiting your mother?” Bo rests her giant hand upon his shoulder, giving him a comforting squeeze.
“Must I?” Rin snaps, shrugging off her hand. “Why does everyone want me to visit her? She’s dead, isn’t she? So what’s the point?”
“It is for you, more than for the dead.” The Southerner retracts her touch and tucks her hand into her pocket. “Paying respects to a loved one after their death not only honours their memory, but also helps with the grieving process.”
“I’m moving on,” Rin says, curtly. “At least I would be if everyone stopped reminding me about her.” He scoffs and kicks at a stone, sending it skidding down the street. “She wasn’t even a good mother. What am I supposed to be grieving anyway? Being told how monstrous I am? Having to pay for her drinking habits, or waking up every morning, expecting to find her dead? Sure, I’ll miss all of that. The fondest of memories.”
“And yet you ran into a fire to save her.”
Rin increases his pace, hiding his expression from the giantess. “And look what it got me.”
“You are a good man, Rin.”
He barks a laugh, near giddy with anger. Spinning on his heels, he slams his hands into Bo’s firm torso, shoving her back. She’s as sturdy as a redwood tree, however, so she simply stops mid-step, staring down at him with a knitted brow.
“I don’t need that,” he growls. “Goodness won’t feed me or give me coin.”
“No, but it is important–”
“Not to me.” Rin exhales sharply and knocks his fists into her shoulders again. “I can walk by myself.”
Before she can protest, he quickly turns on his heels and stalks down the street, not stopping for anything until he reaches the border between the Slums and the People’s District.
His steps slow as he passes the Sweet Brier Inn. Memories of last summer flicker. He doesn’t even remember who he was back then. There is nothing before Jun, at least nothing worth keeping, and this terrifies him more than his own mortality.
***
“He’s headed for Iris,” Bo announces as she trudges back inside. She stomps the dust from her boots before crossing the threshold, her great form hunching over to avoid hitting the lintel.
“The boy’s not giving up on Kahin.” Nuwa spoons her second helping of stew into her mouth. She licks her lips and hums in approval. “He has tenacity and determination. But he’s just as prone to fall into obsession, just like his mother. We must keep an eye on him. Ensure that he doesn’t sink too deep.”
“You have the birds on him, Nuwa. You needn’t worry.” The younger woman bustles around the fire, snuffing out most of the flames with a firepoke to ease the heat inside. “I’m more concerned about this exorcism. Is it wise to let him go through with it?”
“Did you see the look on his face?” Nuwa chews slowly, savouring the flavours. “If I didn’t tell him of this method, he would have tried something far more stupid and dangerous. Anyway, if something goes wrong, the birds will tell us.”
Bo pokes through the embers, losing herself to her thoughts. “His injuries are far worse than I’d expected. Is there anything we can do? Even if just for his eye?”
“What has passed has passed. This is but another trial he must overcome.”
“I fear this might run deep. It could become pathological–”
“What is our purpose here, child? Am I furniture? He will be amply guided. Now stop your fretting and pour me another cup of tea.”
“Yes, Nuwa.”
As she refills the old woman’s cup, Bo continues to silently worry, her heart-shaped face creased deeply. Nuwa gives her cheek a light pinch, bringing her back to the present. “What is out of our control, we must set aside. What is within our control, we have adequately addressed.”
Bo gives her a furtive smile and murmurs her affirmation.
“Tell me how your father is doing, child.” Nuwa sips her tea loudly and smacks her lips. “Ah good meal, good meal.”
“Father is well. He is visiting the Blue Plains, enjoying himself I’m sure,” Bo gives her old friend an affectionate look, eyes in glimmering crescents. “With his preparations, we should be able to visit the Plains ourselves without issue.”
“There has been a delay. He should have returned days ago, no?”
“Yes, he should have.”
“I assume it must have something to do with the boy.”
“Do you suppose they met?” Bo squats down beside the fire, stirring the simmering stew.
Nuwa scrapes the bottom of her bowl and licks her spoon. She smacks her lips again in satisfaction and sets the bowl aside, turning her focus to her tea. “I don’t see why he would ignore such an opportunity. Did you see his ring?”
Bo’s eyes widen. “Ah. Then it won’t be long–”
Nuwa smiles, cupping her tea in both hands. “No, not long at all.” She gazes out the window. The newly built house across the road remains empty. Windows shuttered and dark. She wonders when she will next see those windows glowing with light and her chest begins to ache. “I’m getting too old for this,” she grumbles, before taking a sip of her cold tea.
Woooow, so beggarman is bo’s father? And bo and nuwa are members of the rebellion too??? 🧐🧐
Huehuehuehue strokes beard In due time, in due time! Thank you for reading!!!😚 <333
Wait so-
Rinnie be careful T_T don’t lie so much
Thank you for the chapter!! ❤️❤️
LOLL thats like asking him not to breathe V_V Thank you for reading!! <333