Chapter 31

Beomjin had been at Duru Art since early morning, along with Jinyoung and Suchan.
Yewon, the owner, looked haggard—as if she hadn’t slept properly for days.

“You said you found the book?”

Yewon greeted them with a face that looked like she’d run out barefoot. Her messy hair and dry skin, hastily covered with makeup, only made her look more pitiful.

Beomjin carefully placed the Manual of Music Theory on the display shelf.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much!”

Yewon jumped in joy like a little girl reunited with a lost treasure.

“I can’t believe you found it so soon. It feels like a dream.”

With delicate hands, she brushed her fingers along the edges of the manuscript.

“I’ll have to take better care of it from now on. I never imagined anyone would target this. I’ll be more careful.”

At her words, Suchan exchanged a look with Beomjin.

“We actually need to talk to you about that.”

Beomjin told her everything—what had happened with the imugi and how it had ended.
At the scene of the creature’s gruesome death, Yewon flinched and closed her eyes.

“So the Flute of Ten Thousand Waves is safe for now,” Beomjin said quietly, “but it’s in danger.”

“I can’t believe something like that happened…”

Normally, Suchan and Yewon wouldn’t have believed talk of a Dragon going after the flute—but this time was different. The Dragon had already confirmed the existence of the Manual of Music Theory. There was no room for doubt.

“I understand what you’re saying,” Yewon said. “We need to hide the flute before someone bad gets to it. But dragons aren’t exactly common, are they?”

“That’s why I wanted to ask… if you happen to know a dragon who could help us, could you introduce us?”

Yewon shook her head. It wasn’t unexpected, but the quick refusal drained the hope out of the room.

“What about the Director?” Beomjin asked.

Suchan frowned. “If there was anyone, we’d already have contacted them. There are dragons we know—but they’re not people we should be sharing the flute’s secrets with.”

“So we’ll have to find one ourselves, then,” Jinyoung said grimly.

Beomjin exhaled. The idea of seeking a dragon felt hopeless from the start.

“What about the couple at Seongwondang?” Jinyoung suggested.

“I’d rather not involve them,” Yewon said firmly. “It could put them in danger.”

A fair point. Beomjin sighed, long and heavy. He’d known finding help from a dragon wouldn’t be easy, but he hadn’t expected every lead to shut down this fast.

Then he suddenly remembered the note his uncle had given him—the one that mentioned someone to seek out.

Black Tortoise.

He didn’t have the paper anymore, but he remembered every word.

Seoul Station. Ha Sanmu.

If that man really was the Black Tortoise, as his uncle had said, he might know something about dragons.

“I think I have a lead,” Beomjin said, uncertain but resolute.

All eyes turned to him, heavier than usual.

“Who?” they asked in unison.

“I can’t promise anything, but I think it’s worth checking. We might get something useful.”

“Then let’s do it,” Jinyoung said immediately. “Where is it? Are we leaving now?”

Beomjin raised a hand to calm her.

“This time, I’ll go alone. It’s complicated to explain, but there’s a reason for it. Please understand.”

“It’s not something dangerous, is it?” Suchan asked.

Beomjin pictured the meeting in his mind—misty air, a shadowed underpass, a man he didn’t know yet. The scene blurred like smoke.

“…I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Let’s hope it won’t be.”

And with that, Beomjin left to find Ha Sanmu.

The morning air around Seoul Station was heavy and stale. Before the sunlight even reached the pavement, people were already moving. The damp concrete still held the memory of last night’s rain. The scent of instant coffee mixed with the musky sweat of the homeless who had gathered under the overpass.

Beomjin searched every corner near the station—through the square, down the escalators, into the dim underground passageways.

Even there, homeless people were easy to spot.

He softened his footsteps, approaching quietly. Some stirred and turned away, unwilling to wake; others pulled their blankets tight, shutting the world out.

Among them were a few Beast-Blooded, but all carried scents he recognized—none of them the one he sought.

Then a strange smell stopped him. Against the wall sat an old man, wrapped in a gray blanket up to his neck despite the mild weather. He tapped a tin can with his finger, humming to himself. There was something fierce—almost predatory—beneath his frail frame.

Beomjin approached carefully.

The old man glanced up, uninterested, and quickly looked away again. No words, no greeting, no sign of curiosity.

“Excuse me,” Beomjin said politely. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Hmph.” The old man flicked his hand as if swatting a fly.

“I’m looking for a man named Ha Sanmu.”

“Don’t know him. Don’t bother me. Go away.”

The old man turned his back and lay down again, movements so composed that they only deepened Beomjin’s suspicion.

“Sir…” Beomjin began.

At Beomjin’s polite address, the old man yanked the blanket over his head.

Unsure how to get his attention, Beomjin finally said the name he’d been holding back.

“You know Jin Geonmyeong, don’t you?”

That name—Dragon. The one he’d been chasing.

The old man didn’t move, but Beomjin caught it—the faint hitch in his breathing beneath the blanket.

“I’m sure you just—” he began, when a rough, gravelly voice came from under the cloth.

“…Don’t you dare say that name out loud.”

Slowly, the blanket slid down like a curtain lifting in slow motion. His wrinkled face came into view—age spots, matted hair, and eyes still sharp enough to cut.

“I don’t know where you heard that name, but saying it carelessly could get you killed without anyone ever knowing.”

“I’ve already died once.”

The old man’s mouth twitched at Beomjin’s dry reply.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re Ha Sanmu, aren’t you?”

“…Don’t know anyone by that name.”

Persistent as ever, Beomjin’s questioning only made the man pull the blanket back over himself.

Just then, commotion erupted on the other side of the tunnel.

“Hey, you bastard! Where the hell do you think you’re sneezing!?”

“You got it all over me, damn it! Do you know how much this suit costs!?”

Two young men in suits were picking a fight with a frail homeless man. Tattoos snaked down their wrists when they grabbed him.

When the short-haired one kicked the man’s bag, the sound of clattering coins filled the passageway. The homeless man curled up like a pill bug.

“How’re you gonna pay for this, huh!?”

Their voices boomed against the concrete walls.

That was when the old man moved.

With a single flick, he threw off the blanket and stood up.

He simply raised his head and stared at them, expression blank—but the moment he did, the air itself shuddered, like a gust had burst from nowhere.

Just one step forward, and the atmosphere changed. The air grew sharp, stinging Beomjin’s eyes.

“What the hell…?”

The man who’d been posturing looked at him—and collapsed. No warning, no sound. Just dropped like his strings had been cut. His friend’s legs shook as he stumbled backward, clutching at the wall.

The old man walked back and sat down again, unhurried. But the pressure in the air didn’t fade.

Then, in an instant, his gaze flicked toward Beomjin.

It lasted only a heartbeat.

Yet Beomjin felt as if something had gripped his chest and squeezed.

The old man turned his head again, indifferent, as though nothing had happened.

That single glance was enough. Beomjin was sure of it now.

This old man was the Black Tortoise.

He had to make him speak.

“You know Yoon Baekhwa, don’t you?”

The old man froze where he lay, then asked in a low voice without moving a muscle.

“…Don’t tell me—you’re Baekhwa’s son?”

“Yes. You’re Ha Sanmu, right?”

It was the same question for the third time, but this time, the man began folding his blanket. His fingertips trembled faintly, and even his breathing quivered. When the blanket was neatly folded beside him, he extended a hand.

“Yeah… I’m Sanmu. Can’t believe this day’s finally come.”

“Baekhwa never wanted you to step into this world,” Sanmu said.

“My uncle told me the same thing.”

Sanmu gave a bitter chuckle.

“Guess I ended up like this because of him.”

His laugh carried the weight of something that would never leave him.

“I survived, sure… but I lost everything. The world, people… myself.”

His tone was calm, but a shadow flickered in his eyes—something deep and far away.

“I never want to walk that path again.”

“I know what happened,” Beomjin said quietly.

“Then you also know how dangerous it is?”

“I’m ready for that.”

Sanmu sighed, long and heavy, but said no more.

“So, what brings you here?”

“I’m looking for someone. I thought maybe you might know something.”

Lowering his voice, Beomjin leaned in.

“Who are you looking for? Maybe I can help.”

“I’m searching for a Dragon—or someone of Dragon blood.”

“Dragon?” Sanmu repeated, frowning.

“Oh! Not that one—the bad one. I mean a good Dragon. Someone who could help.”

At the mention of the word Dragon, Sanmu’s face darkened.

“…Can I ask why you’re looking for one?”

Beomjin hesitated. He didn’t want to reveal the secret of the Flute of Ten Thousand Waves.
Sanmu waited for an answer, but when it didn’t come, he nodded slowly, as if he’d already guessed.

“Alright. If you can’t tell me, I won’t press.”

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and bit down on it without lighting it, tapping his jaw as he spoke.

“I don’t know any Dragons. Once I started living like this, I cut ties with everyone.”

“I see.”

“But… there is a place that comes to mind.”

Beomjin’s eyes lit up. Sanmu spoke with a faraway look, as if recalling an old memory.

“It’s a rural village in Chungcheong Province. Okgye-ri, I think. Deep in the mountains, where people rarely go.”

“Okgye-ri?”

“Yeah. Baekhwa and I went there once. The village has a family that’s carried Dragon blood for generations. Unless something’s happened, they should still be there.”

“Thank you. I’ll go there right away. I’ll visit you again if I can.”

As Beomjin bowed, Sanmu added quietly, “If you’ve ever met a Dragon before, you know—be careful.”

“I will.”

After Beomjin left, Sanmu lay back down and pulled the blanket over himself. He tapped his tin can again, humming softly under his breath. But the tune soon faded into silence.

By the time Beomjin stepped out into the Seoul Station plaza, the city was already alive.
Travelers dragging suitcases, promoters waving placards, a man napping on a bench—ordinary scenes that made the conversation he’d just had feel almost like a dream.

In his hand was a small piece of paper.

Okgye-ri, Goesan County, North Chungcheong Province.

Each character was written in Sanmu’s shaky handwriting, faintly scented with tobacco.

Beomjin looked up at the sky. Clear and cloudless. Yet even in that brightness, he felt something dark stirring behind it.

He got into his car. Whether someone of Dragon blood truly lived there—whether he’d find the flute at all—he still couldn’t be sure of anything.