Chapter 39

The air spilling down the stairs was oddly damp. Each breath scraped his lungs with the smell of mold, sweat, and a faint tang of blood. Underneath it all was the sour stench of old coinage that tugged at Beomjin’s feet.

He went down the dark stairs where the lights were broken.

The moment his boot hit the basement landing he saw a sign with an arrow pointing right: [Boiler Repair Shop].

A sharp, nasal scent—like wasabi—belonged to someone of Lynx blood and trailed off to the right.

The dangerous smell made his instincts snap awake. He exhaled loudly through his nose and turned right. Every closed shop he passed had its insides shrouded with black cloth. At the end of the corridor a metal door on the right bore the words [Boiler Repair Shop].

This was the entrance. The CCTV camera bolted overhead made the place feel official in his head.

He tried the door lightly. Of course it was locked. There was no digital lock, only a simple doorknob.

“This’ll do it.”

Beomjin wrapped his jacket around the knob and brought the edge of his hand down like he was breaking a tile.

Tung!

A hollow, stunned sound echoed down the corridor as the broken doorknob clattered to the floor. The heavy iron door swung open without resistance, and a wash of mechanical-sounding music and cigarette smoke pushed out.

Inside, the space kept running into another long corridor. The ceiling sat low and the lighting was dim. Metal clinks and human voices sloshed through the air.

He noticed that one of the spots he’d thought was a wall was actually covered by a dark curtain—light spilled through a slit.

He slipped the curtain aside without drawing attention and stole a look into the interior.

It was a gambling den. About twenty people were busy at the tables: slot machines, card tables, and a TV mounted on the wall broadcasting horse races.

“Hey—what are you?” someone called.

Beomjin turned toward the voice. The place he’d assumed was a wall was another curtain; two big-bodied men had pushed through it and were scowling at him.

“I came to get the boiler fixed,” he said with a smile in his voice.

“You kidding me?” one of them spat.

A heavier man strode forward and grabbed the back of Beomjin’s neck like he was snatching bait.

“You came in whenever you wanted, but you better be ready to pay when you leave.”

The man’s face twisted; he tugged on Beomjin’s collar with real force.

Beomjin slipped aside easy. The punch that followed sliced through empty air; Beomjin wrapped the arm and twisted it behind the man’s back.

“Krah!”

The man howled, and men started pouring in from all over. They wore the same clothes and had similar builds, like clones.

“What the hell’s this racket!”

“Grab him!”

A swing to the left, a hit to the right—every time Beomjin moved a large arc someone went down.

He led the staggering man into the gambling room. The gamblers—hands occupied with slot levers and cards—stood up at once when he entered. As if on cue, they cleared their hands and surged inward.

“What’s going on? What’s the matter?” came another call.

Men who looked less like guards and more like dealers and waiters showed themselves from the inner rooms.

Like an anthill, men spilled out from everywhere. Beomjin used chairs, vases, and picture frames as weapons, dropping one man after another.

Following the gamblers’ path, he pushed into a small parlor—a dingy space with a little table, a few chairs, a small fridge, and a golf bag.

He reached for the obvious golf bag. Shoving away bodies like a tiny insect, he grabbed a club with a good weight and grip. He aimed for the knee of a man lunging at his face and swung.

Clang.

Metal and a muffled scream mixed together.

“Aah!”

One man fell like a toy; another raised a chair. Beomjin slammed the incoming chair down.

Crack—the sound of wood splitting—and the man crumpled.

Another precise swing broke a wrist, and a thick, low scream burst out.

If only it would be over now.

He was about to catch his breath when the opposite door slammed open and that smell hit him again.

“What the hell is this!”

It was Na-hyung. Her eyes, which had been on the fallen subordinates, snapped to Beomjin. She paused—her gaze wavered for a breath when she saw him—and she shut the door.

Beomjin, not planning to let her go, bolted for the door, and it burst open again as Na-hyung’s sharp shout cut the air.

“You picked the wrong person to meet! You tiger bastard! Know that you’ll die right here today!”

Something flashed in Na-hyung’s hand. It wasn’t a baton or a stick—under the dim lights it caught the glow and showed the bright edge of a real blade.

“How much damage you’ve cost me—this damned tiger spawn!”

Na-hyung’s voice was sharper than the blade itself as she lunged forward. The narrow room left no space to dodge.

“Yaaah!”

Her sword swung down like a samurai’s strike.

Clang!

The 7-iron in Beomjin’s hand met the blade head-on, sparks bursting like a camera flash.

Na-hyung’s ragged breaths came out through clenched teeth. She swung again and again, but Beomjin twisted every strike aside with clean arcs of the club. The slender, solid shaft made for a surprisingly fine weapon.

When she tried to slash upward from below, Beomjin kicked off the wall with one leg and used the recoil to strike down on her wrist.

“Argh!”

The sword clattered to the floor as Na-hyung rolled, clutching her wrist.

Beomjin stepped on the noisy blade and wiped the sweat trickling down his forehead.

“You psycho bastard! You think I’ll let you walk out alive?!”

He looked down at her as she shouted from the floor, catching his breath.

“Be glad I only hit your wrist. You should be thanking me instead of yelling.”

He rested the bent golf club on his shoulder. Between heavy breaths, Na-hyung’s eyes gleamed.

“Why the hell are you here?”

Grinding her teeth, Na-hyung stared at the sword lying on the floor. A bruise was spreading across her wrist; her breath was turning rougher by the second. Beomjin sat on the edge of a toppled table, facing her.

“Kang Seoseong. What’s your connection to him?”

“Seoseong? What’s that supposed to mean all of a sudden?!”

She barked back, her eyes full of fury—but Beomjin didn’t miss the faint flicker in her pupils.

“I asked what kind of relationship you have with Kang Seoseong—the one you met in Cheongdam earlier!”

He raised his voice to match hers.

“Tch.” Na-hyung bit down hard, a short silence following.

“…Wh-what kind of relationship do you think? We just play golf together sometimes, okay!? What, is that a crime?”

“Golf?”

“Yeah! Just a couple of rounds now and then!”

Her eyes darted, her voice lost force, and her fingers fidgeted nervously. Every tell screamed that she was lying.

“Who do you think you’re fooling? ‘Golf,’ my ass.”

Swinging the club loosely like a cane, Beomjin headed for the door she had come through. Na-hyung, who’d been slumped on the floor, shot up.

“Hey! Don’t you dare go in there!”

He kicked the door open.

The narrow office beyond was packed wall to wall with file cabinets and desks cluttered with papers. Piles of cards and chips filled one corner, along with crumpled suits and empty beer cans.

Beomjin rifled through the papers on a desk, then spotted a small safe underneath—about thirty centimeters wide and tall.

“You out of your mind? Don’t touch anything!”

He shoved her aside and dragged the safe out. It was, of course, locked.

“Open it.”

“…Why would I?”

“You sure about that?”

Even under his threat, Na-hyung kept her chin up.

“I forgot the code.”

“You think that’ll stop me?”

He dropped the safe on the floor and stomped on a corner with all his weight. A crack rang out as the metal caved in. He hauled it onto the desk and tore at the warped edge until the steel peeled open.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

When Na-hyung tried to step forward, he raised the club toward her.

“Stay put, unless you want things to get worse.”

Inside the safe were a few thin notebooks, checks, and envelopes. Keeping his eyes on her, Beomjin flipped through them. One notebook listed gambling profits and VIP client details; beneath it was another tracking money exchanges—and Kang Seoseong’s name appeared often.

“You kept records like this and still claimed ignorance…”

He shoved the notebook toward her, glaring.

“What’s this? March 4th—ten million won from Kang Seoseong. March 7th—seven million. You two traded money two, three times a week and you ‘don’t know’ each other?”

“…So what? Is there a law against giving or receiving money?”

“No. But it depends on what kind of money it is. Money laundering’s a crime, illegal gambling boss.”

As Beomjin flipped another page, a familiar name caught his eye—[Jumbo Hof].

“Jumbo Hof? You know the owner there too?”

“…Hmph.”

Na-hyung turned her face away. Beomjin crouched to her level and grabbed her by the collar.

“Answer the question—before I snap your neck.”

Her breath hitched as his grip tightened. She slapped at his arm.

“Okay! Okay, I’ll talk!!”

Coughing and gasping, she spoke between ragged breaths.

“That cat bastard from Jumbo Hof—he was one of our gambling customers! I don’t know how, but he found out Kang Seoseong was helping me. So I blackmailed him too. Seoseong’s got a little sister, right? She probably got threats as well. He bragged about it to me, all proud of himself.”

The victim blackmailed Kang Seoseong’s sister… because of Seoseong?

Beomjin’s brows twitched.

“That story better be true.”

When he tightened his grip again, the veins on Na-hyung’s neck bulged.

“It is. You should keep an eye on that stupid cat, too. Guys who poke their noses everywhere like that don’t live long.”

Na-hyung’s grin was venomous; the hatred in her eyes was real.

Beomjin didn’t bother telling her that the “stupid cat” was already dead.

At this point, suspicion leaned more toward Seo-eun than Seoseong. Or maybe both—perhaps Seoseong had been blackmailed over money laundering as well.

Just then, Beomjin’s phone buzzed. A string of messages from Jinyoung.

[Where are you? Call me!]

Twelve unread messages, three missed calls. Each one came barely a minute apart, urgent and frantic.

He called back immediately. Jinyoung picked up on the first ring, her voice low and sharp.

“Finally. Where the hell are you? Did something happen?”

Na-hyung raised her head at the sound of the word happen.

“Something happen? Yeah, something happened. Why?”

“You didn’t read what I sent?”

He opened the messages at last—and one repeated text caught his eye.

[Seoseong is meeting with Seo-eun. And some man. He’s Beast-Blooded, but I don’t know who he is. Call me.]

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Exactly what it says. He’s meeting some guy—definitely Beast-Blooded—but I can’t identify him.”

Beomjin’s heartbeat spiked. A chill of foreboding crept up his spine; his throat went dry.

“I’m coming now. Send the location.”

He ended the call and steadied his breathing. Then he looked around the wrecked office he’d made of the place. Hitting redial, he turned to Na-hyung.

“When the Special Beast Investigation Unit gets here, do yourself a favor—say something nice.”

The address Jinyoung sent led to a café near Itaewon. She was sitting quietly on a garden-like terrace, eyes fixed on a café across the street. Even when Beomjin arrived, she didn’t look away.

“How’s it looking?” he asked, taking a seat beside her. He followed her gaze naturally.

“They’re still in there. If you’re planning to stare like that, better cover your face.”

Jinyoung, wearing dark sunglasses, handed him a crumpled cap. It smelled faintly of sweat—her scent clinging to the fabric.

Beomjin pulled it low over his face and hunched his shoulders. “There’s another man with them besides Seoseong and Seo-eun?”

“Yeah. I’m sure he’s Beast-Blooded. Definitely—but it’s a scent I’ve never smelled before. Thought you might recognize it.”

“Wouldn’t we know if we got closer?”

Jinyoung’s lips twitched.

“…No, this one’s different. That guy—he looks mid-twenties at most—but he’s not normal. I’m sure of it.”

She rubbed her arm, goosebumps rising.

One name flashed in Beomjin’s head: Jin Geonmyeong. If it was the Dragon, it made sense that Jinyoung couldn’t recognize him. But… mid-twenties? That didn’t fit. Jin Geonmyeong was far older.

If not him, then who? Or—had he somehow become younger?

His mind spun. His eyes were open, but his thoughts went blank.

“Hey, hey! They’re coming out.”

Jinyoung pressed his shoulder repeatedly like a doorbell.

Beomjin leaned forward. Seo-eun and Seoseong stepped out of the café—with a man about Seo-eun’s age walking behind them. He looked about 170 centimeters, wearing a tracksuit and slippers, easygoing and casual.

“…What?”

The sound slipped from Beomjin’s mouth.

“What? You know him?” Jinyoung turned to him.

Did he? Should he say yes? He wasn’t sure.

“…Not yet.”

“What kind of answer is that? Do you know him or not?”

“He looks like someone I know—but also not.”

It wasn’t Jin Geonmyeong. But the man who took his place… Beomjin knew him too.

A man in his late forties—the Dragon’s right hand.

The Vermilion Bird.