“So I guess appearances really are deceiving—just like the rumors say, you’re a truly vicious person, yooong! Why would you, Immortal, keep such a bad person as an employee, yooong? Please reconsider this decision, yooong!”
As the Hexagonal Tree’s emotions fluctuated, its leaves began to tremble violently, gradually turning a vivid red. Dojin could only stare back in bewilderment. Iri let out an awkward laugh and gently soothed the agitated Hexagonal Tree.
“Calm down. You’ll end up dropping your leaves at this rate. Dojin didn’t do it on purpose, so please forgive him.”
“No, fuck, what did I even do?”
“Dojin. The Hexagonal Tree’s roots come from a jujube tree.”
“…Well, if you don’t know, you can make mistakes, right? Anyway, Wia are so damn picky. Tsk.”
“Dojin.”
“I’m sorry. Please forgive me just this once.”
Dojin jutted out his chin dramatically and offered an apology with a delinquent-like attitude. The Hexagonal Tree shook its single branch violently, but finally calmed down only after Iri offered to pour it another cup of tea.
This time, Dojin brewed the tea carelessly. Since it was mo-yeonsil tea, even a rough brew tasted excellent. Only after the Hexagonal Tree had eaten its fill of tiny insects did its mood finally soften.
“Shall we take a look at your branch now?”
“Let’s dooo it, yooong.”
The Hexagonal Tree wriggled its roots across the tabletop and crawled over to sit in front of Iri. Iri gently stroked the branch with his fingers, carefully examining the part that bore only three leaves and had stopped producing any more.
Beside them, Dojin prepared the ‘Feather Flute’, which had just been fully tuned. The musician had called yesterday to say the tuning was complete, and Dojin had brought it back. Supposedly, it produced the most beautiful sound in the world—he hadn’t heard it yet, so his expectations were high.
“It looks healthy. How tall would you like the branch to grow?”
“If it has too many things hanging from it, it gets heavy, yooong. It doesn’t need to grow any longer—just make a few more leaves sprout, yooong. People keep teasing me about hair loss, so I’m stressed, yooong. If someone’s balding, shouldn’t you worry about them instead of making fun of them, yooong? I’m so upset that even this one’s about to fall off, yooong.”
“Alright, I get it—so don’t touch it.”
When the Hexagonal Tree lightly poked its precariously hanging leaf with its roots, Iri quickly stopped it, afraid a disaster would unfold right there.
“Then I’ll begin.”
At last, Iri picked up the ‘Feather Flute’. The towering Dojin and the tiny Wia both gazed at him with eyes full of anticipation.
Iri placed the end of the ‘Feather Flute’ to his lips and blew.
And what reached Dojin’s ears was—
Iri’s singing voice.
Once, long ago, on a moon-bright autumn night, Dojin had taken a walk down an alley with Iri. Back then, Dojin had been about seventeen or eighteen, and Iri had seemed like nothing but a full-fledged adult. A person so lofty and formidable that his mother, father, grandfather, and grandmother all treated him with utmost respect. Despite his small frame compared to other adults, he felt larger than anyone else—an enigmatic presence.
That large yet small Immortal had apparently been in good spirits during their walk and softly hummed a verse of a popular song that suited the autumn night.
Iri was someone who knew how to savor life’s pleasures. That wasn’t the first time Dojin had heard him sing, nor would it be the last—but to Dojin, that moment lingered as if it were both the beginning and the end. A moonlit night… a clear, gentle song echoing softly. A beautiful memory that could only ever be created in that place, at that time.
That same song was what he was hearing now.
With his eyes closed, Dojin immersed himself in the sweet voice.
When Iri finished playing the flute, the singing stopped.
Dojin opened his eyes to find Iri smiling at him.
“What kind of sound did you hear? You seemed to enjoy it quite a bit.”
“Your singing voice, Master. So this curio lets you hear the best song you’ve ever heard in your life, doesn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Then what song did you hear, Master?”
“A song I heard a very, very long time ago…”
“How long ago? What year, what month, what day, what hour, where, and who sang it?”
“Even if I told you, would you know? More importantly, it seems the Hexagonal Tree is satisfied too.”
Only then did Dojin look down at the small yokai, whom he’d momentarily forgotten.
The branch, once as thin as a toothpick, had thickened to about the width of a pen. It had grown longer, and now six leaves hung from it. They were a vibrant, healthy green.
And yet, instead of celebrating, the Hexagonal Tree began to drip tears.
“Oh dear. You can’t let the moisture inside your body escape. Dojin, go fill the spray bottle with water.”
“Just tap water okay?”
“Yes.”
Dojin hurried back with the spray bottle and misted the Hexagonal Tree. As much liquid as it shed, it absorbed at the same time, pleading desperately.
“Please play a little more, yooong. Immortal Iri. Just a little more, yooong.”
“That’s difficult. What kind of song did you hear to make you like this?”
“A song from 200 years ago, yooong…”
Two hundred years ago—an era that felt vaguely distant to Dojin. Perhaps the song Iri had heard was from an even older time.
“Can you see these letters, yooong?”
Sniffling, the Hexagonal Tree twisted its body. On the back of its trunk, small engraved characters could be seen. Written in Hangeul used during the Joseon era, they read: [My Friend].
“Once, I became close with a human child, yooong. Back then, I was an early-fallen jujube fruit, yooong. When the child picked me up, their mother told them not to eat me and to throw me away—but the child didn’t throw me away and played with me instead, yooong. They had red, chubby cheeks, yooong.”
Dojin subtly checked the time. Customers often ended up unloading their past memories onto Iri like this—rambling on without being asked. In Dojin’s judgment, this too counted as being a nuisance…
“Everywhere the child went, I went with them, yooong. Once they got a bit older, they tore up some old clothes and made a pouch, putting me inside along with two marbles and a small, white, pretty pebble, yooong. They carried that pouch while eating, playing with friends, and even sleeping, yooong. On nights when they couldn’t fall asleep, the child would line up the treasures from the pouch by their pillow and sing songs to them, yooong…”
As if reliving the memory, the Hexagonal Tree’s voice trailed off. Its once-fresh green leaves gradually took on a yellowish hue, colored by longing and sorrow.
“One day, a hole formed in the pouch, and the hole kept getting bigger, yooong. The child was very good with their hands, so if they’d noticed, they would’ve quickly mended it or made a new one—but they didn’t realize until I rolled out of the pouch and fell away, yooong…”
“……”
“I slipped out of that warm, cozy pouch and fell onto a dirt road, yooong. It just so happened to be raining, so I was swept away by the flow of water to who knows where, yooong. The child must’ve come looking for me after getting home, right, yooong? Just imagining how they’d cry and make a fuss—I wanted to stop somehow, yooong. But what power could a dead jujube fruit possibly have to go against the current, yooong…?”
“When did you become a yokai, then?”
Though he’d thought it wasn’t a story he cared about, Dojin asked—only to realize he’d been drawn in before he knew it.
“After that, I was given to a spiritual being and reborn as a yokai, yooong. Everyone said I was lucky, but I don’t think so, yooong. Because after that, I could never meet the child again, yooong.”
“Didn’t you go look for them after becoming a yokai?”
“…Humans…”
“……”
“Humans die far too quickly, yooong…”
At the Hexagonal Tree’s sorrowful lament, Dojin fell silent. He didn’t need to ask any more to know how things had ended.
Iri slowly nodded.
“That’s right. Human lives are short, but memories are eternal… and perhaps that’s what makes them so beautiful.”
Iri comforted the Hexagonal Tree with gentle words. When Dojin glanced at Iri, his face was as kind and clear as ever, without a trace of darkness. He didn’t look sorrowful like the Hexagonal Tree. That was a relief—but it also made Dojin wonder whether Iri had memories like that of his own.
***
As far as Dojin knew, Iri had lived for a span of time approaching infinity. He was said to have lived longer than any Immortal, any divine beast, or any other heavenly or earthly divine spirit.
There are three fundamental roots of the world: humans, plants and animals, and objects. These three are collectively called the ‘roots’.
Among humans, those who are exceptional become warriors or Taoists, and when warriors and Taoists accumulate virtue and cultivate themselves, they become Divine Generals or Immortals.
Among plants and animals, those that are exceptional become yokai, and when yokai accumulate virtue and cultivate themselves, they become spiritual beings or demons. Spiritual beings become divine beasts or divine spirits, while demons become Evil Gods.
Among objects, those that are exceptional become curios. When curios accumulate virtue, they transform into wandering spirits, dokkaebi, or spiritual beings. Wandering spirits become demons or lesser gods; spiritual beings become sacred objects or divine spirits. And demons, in turn, become Evil Gods.
For example, there are two or more routes to becoming a demon or a divine spirit, but there is only one route to becoming an Immortal: human → Taoist → Immortal. In fact, every Immortal currently in the True Mortal Realm was originally human.
Except for Immortal Iri.
It was said that he had been an Immortal from the very beginning.
The only being granted infinite time from the outset.
A primordial Immortal, a heavenly-and-earthly divine spirit born of himself.
That was Immortal Iri.
What’s a thousand years? He’s lived well over ten thousand. Of course there must’ve been humans he was close to long before me.
It was obvious—but thinking about it made Dojin’s stomach twist uncomfortably.
To Dojin, Iri was the one and only Immortal. But to Iri, Dojin himself wasn’t the only human…
Still, Dojin was destined to become a Taoist, then an Immortal, and eventually, a King. In the end, the one who would remain in Iri’s memory forever wouldn’t be some human who had already died and crumbled away—or was in the midst of reincarnation—but himself.
The final victor is me!
Hot-tempered and quick to anger though he was, Dojin wasn’t prone to pessimism or nihilism. Praising himself internally, he extinguished the fire in the ‘Paulownia Brazier’.
