The shaman scoffed.
“Didn’t I say he’s a tenacious one? If you don’t provoke him first, he won’t bite—but if you do, not even I can guarantee your life, no matter how much you pay. Ten thousand nyang? A hundred thousand? I still won’t write that curse for you. Now get out.”
The shaman spat the words coldly, gripping the edge of the desk as he turned away. For a moment, Jihan’s gaze darkened, and the room seemed to chill with an unspoken frost.
His voice, now lower, broke the quiet.
“Listen well, old shaman.”
The blind man, who had been about to rise, froze.
Jihan was staring intently at the lotus painted on the wall. A sudden gust rattled the paper door, and the candle flickered weakly.
“Do you really think I’m asking you?”
“…”
“You’re either blind or just plain stupid. If you’re so confident in your own fate, you should know whose hands hold the thread of your life right now.”
Jihan stood. The shaman’s milky, sightless eyes darted nervously. Gazing down at the trembling old man, Jihan ground his teeth.
“Scared? Then let me take it for you.”
He seized the shaman’s white topknot, yanking his head back. Leaning in, he hissed into the man’s ear, voice dripping with venom:
“That ‘death’ of yours—what if I take it instead? So stop your damn whining and give me the solution.”
“You’re already marked by the White Tiger’s Massacre this year. No one knows when or where you’ll collapse, struck dead by misfortune.”
Jihan hesitated. “White Tiger’s Massacre”—a curse of violent death. His late mother had warned him repeatedly: during this period, avoid danger at all costs, even if it meant feigning illness and hiding in the inner chambers. Some scholars, superstitious to the core, did just that.
“You’re like a tree in early spring, roots soft and weak. A single shake could uproot you entirely. But him…”
The shaman’s ashen eyes traced Jihan’s face, almost pityingly.
“He’s a blade of frost, a hardened axe. If that strikes your trunk, what do you think will happen?”
“Cut the crap and tell me the way.”
Jihan shook the topknot again, then shoved the shaman back against the desk. Fear or fate—he didn’t care. All he knew was that obstacles had to be removed.
The blind man sighed, as if this brutality had caught him off guard. Then—
Ziiing.
A draft swept through the cramped room, making the candle sputter. The shaman’s ears twitched at the whispers of unseen spirits—kikik, a chilling, lewd laughter echoing through the shrine.
The divination had come.
The shaman, who had been trembling, suddenly stopped. A strange, unfamiliar laugh escaped his lips as he spoke:
“Use lust.”
As if he could see, he reached out and pinched the flickering candle, snuffing it out.
“This fate was born with excessive desire. If you want to harm him, you must use that desire against him. This is the only method I can offer.”
“…”
“I’ll tell you the auspicious day.”
***
Soon after, Jihan obtained the rare drug through a peddler connected to the Qing dynasty. People called it Goblin’s Water—a banned aphrodisiac notorious among debauched nobles. A single cup induced relentless arousal; two turned men into ravening beasts; three left them unconscious for half a day.
Jihan hid the powder in an unused storeroom of the main house, double-checking no one was around. He leaned in, inhaling the bitter, pungent scent. A vile memory surfaced.
This wasn’t his first encounter with the smell. Years ago, at Chaehonggak, the son of a high-ranking official—rumored to be the most depraved in the capital—had spiked drinks with Goblin’s Water for his trusted circle. The young scholars and courtesans, gathered in the inn’s secret chamber, had eagerly sipped the tainted tea. Jihan, reluctant, had refused—but after two sikgyeong (about four hours), the others were tearing off their clothes, laughing like madmen.
One of them, the official’s son himself, had lunged at Jihan in a corner. A punch to the temple and a string of curses later, the man had only grinned, drooling, “Come on… you’re built for it. Let me have you.”
His pants were torn, his robe ripped open, fingers clawing at his chest. That was when Jihan learned the drug made men twice as strong. If he hadn’t landed blow after blow on the man’s nose, he’d have been overpowered.
After that, the official’s son kept slipping him the drug, threatening him in twisted ways. Jihan stopped attending the Jungbu Hakdang study sessions, cutting ties with all but a few close friends. The memory lingered like a stain, haunting him for years.
And now, here he was, buying the damn thing himself.
“…”
With a look of disgust, Jihan stashed the powder deep in the rafters.
***
Time passed swiftly. The day the blind shaman had foretold arrived. His father was summoned to the Left Minister’s banquet for the night, with plans to return the next morning—along with the Left Minister and his daughter—for breakfast at the Choi estate.
The auspicious day was auspicious. Everything unfolded exactly as Jihan had planned.
“When is Servants’ Day this year?”
“The first of the second month, Young Master.”
Late that evening, Jihan—who’d never before shown interest in the servants’ labor—gathered the household slaves in the small pavilion’s courtyard.
“You all worked your bones to dust during last year’s harvest. Waiting until the first of the second month feels too long for my conscience. Since Father won’t return until tomorrow morning, tonight, you may go to Gaenom’s villa and celebrate early.”
The servants’ faces lit up. Servants’ Day was their one reprieve—a holiday where they feasted on meat and wine, free from scolding even if they slept until noon.
“But Young Master, is it wise without Grand Secretary’s permission?”
Jihan, wearing an uncharacteristic smile, nodded.
“What harm is there in moving it up a few days? I’ve already sent three hundred bottles of wine and boiled pork to Gaenom’s villa. Go enjoy yourselves—no need to worry.”
Once the last servant had been herded out, Jihan stood alone in the eerie silence of the empty house. The grand halls, usually bustling, now felt like a ghost’s lair, the wind howling through the rafters.
“Bar the gates.”
As Maki locked all twelve doors of the estate, the cauldron in the rear courtyard of the small pavilion began to steam.
Maki’s hands, wringing the cloth bundle of powder, trembled violently, veins standing out. The liquid dripped onto the tray as he lifted it, startled by his own movement. When his eyes met Jihan’s, the unnatural blue-green glow in the darkness sent a chill down his spine.
“I—I can’t do this.”
Maki swallowed hard, voice shaking.
“I can’t, Young Master. No matter your orders, I… I can’t bring myself to—”
Jihan grabbed Maki’s quivering shoulder, his voice deceptively gentle.
“What did I say would happen if you refused again?”
“You’d… pull out my teeth.”
“Just one?”
“All of them.”
Notes:
Servants’ Day – A traditional holiday for servants to rest and feast
White Tiger’s Massacre – A cursed fate foretelling violent death
Sikgyeong – A traditional Korean unit of time (~2 hours)
Jungbu Hakdang – A historical private academy for scholars
Author: Hyacinthus B
Hyacinthus
