Chapter 70

Through the mask of the attendant, Beomjin caught a glimpse of eyes smiling.

“If you’re looking for a Jangsanbeom mask, you’re a step too late. A good one came onto the market last week, but unfortunately, it’s already been sold.”

“…To whom?”

“How would I know? People come in wearing masks like this, erasing their scent. And sorry, it wasn’t something I sold myself.”

There was a spark of mischief in the attendant’s voice, as if she were enjoying the scene like a neighbor watching a street fight.

“Then where should I go to ask about it?”

Beomjin asked, his voice stripped of all warmth.

The attendant paused for a moment, then gestured with her chin toward the front of the carriage.

“Go to the very front of Car 4, the small stall there. I’ve heard they’ve dealt with that person before.”

“Thank you.”

Beomjin nodded and turned, but she added a word.

“…Be careful.”

“What do you mean?”

“That person… is a little scary. Hard to explain… but once you see them, you’ll understand.”

The train jolted and roared forward again. Mulling over the attendant’s warning, Beomjin made his way toward the front carriage.

By now, it was nearly two in the morning.

The train glided along the tracks toward its destination, Busan, as if cutting through the darkness.

The black market had grown even livelier. Those who had been cautiously inspecting the goods were now opening their wallets, desire and greed driving the exchange of illicit treasures.

When Beomjin reached Car 4, a familiar shadow approached him. The hem of a long coat fluttered as the figure drew near, a subtle smile playing behind a mask.

“Oh, you’re here. Did you find what you were looking for?”

She had appeared without a sound, speaking with an easy, teasing tone.

“I’m still looking. There are more interesting things here than I expected.”

“Really?”

She shrugged and glanced around the carriage, her gaze settling on the small stall tucked away in the corner.

“I’ve been away for a while, but nothing here really grabs me. Not much new. Used to be, there were items that would make your heart skip a beat.”

Beomjin smiled faintly at her words, but his eyes betrayed caution.

“I’m sure we can find at least one worthwhile treasure. Sometimes, the people are more important than the items themselves.”

She tapped lightly on his shoulder.

“If you find something fun or beautiful, be sure to share it with me.”

With a graceful wave, she melted back into the crowd. Beomjin watched her retreating form for a moment before heading to the inner corner of Car 4, where the small stall awaited.

The space felt cozy, tucked away in a corner with no curious shoppers. Unlike the other stalls, there were no flashy decorations, no dangling lights to attract attention.

A few items were placed haphazardly atop a worn black wooden box, covered with a plain cloth. An old fan was torn in places; a thin animal horn looked crudely cut.

A skull with missing teeth, a twig glittering like fine gold thread—each object was mysterious, origin unknown, with no explanation.

Even the vendor seemed unmotivated. He wore a tiger mask but was absorbed in a book, flipping the pages with meticulous focus.

“Hello.”

Beomjin greeted, and the vendor looked up.

“Yes, welcome.”

His eyes, cool and detached, seemed to ask: Are you looking for something?

Beomjin answered without hesitation.

“I’m looking for a Jangsanbeom mask.”

At that, the vendor’s shoulders twitched slightly. A short laugh escaped from beneath the mask, though his face remained hidden.

“A Jangsanbeom mask? Why would you want one?”

There was sincerity in his question—not mockery, not curiosity, but genuine.

Beomjin paused briefly before replying.

“…I heard one sold last week. I need information on who bought it.”

He didn’t show any identification, but the question itself was suspicious enough.

The vendor fell silent for a moment. Then, flipping his book open again, he let his fingers trace the pages while his eyes stayed fixed on Beomjin.

“That’s not something I can answer easily.”

A low chuckle escaped from beneath the tiger mask.

“But… I’m curious why a tiger is looking for a Jangsanbeom mask.”

Beomjin’s expression stiffened.

How did he know he was a tiger?

He tried to hide his surprise. His eyebrows didn’t move, his mouth didn’t twitch, but he felt it wasn’t enough.

The vendor’s gaze was sharp—like a hunter aiming a gun at a wild beast.

“Sorry, but hiding doesn’t work. Everything shows.”

The vendor smiled sheepishly. He closed the book, set it aside, and laced his fingers together, muttering under his breath.

“No wonder I felt uneasy when I sold it.”

He turned to Beomjin.

“…There’s been an incident, hasn’t there? That’s why you’re investigating. And now you’re bothering someone like me.”

The vendor smacked his lips, then straightened slowly. Though his shoulders were narrow, the subtle strength in his posture changed the aura around him.

“This is a market,” he said, his voice low and smooth.

“A place where anything can be bought and sold. Whether you end up on the buying side or the selling side… that’s still unknown. Are you willing to make a trade?”

No sooner had he spoken than his hand slid beneath the stall. A heavy, resonant sound followed as something was pulled out.

Moments later, a worn, grimy metal box appeared. Its old lock marks suggested years of use. Inside, rows of glass vials stood neatly.

The vials were small, each about the size of two finger joints, sealed tightly. Their delicate craftsmanship caught and reflected light softly. One vial was taken out and placed in front of Beomjin. A short blade, also retrieved from the box, was laid beside it.

“The blood of a tiger-blooded is precious.”

The vendor smiled—a smile that smelled more of business than friendliness.

“Information in exchange for tiger’s blood.”

Beomjin said nothing, his eyes fixed on the man’s face.

It was an unusual offer, and that made it uncomfortable.

Giving blood wasn’t difficult, but the thought of how it would be used made Beomjin hesitate.

Still, he couldn’t stop here. He picked up the knife.

“…But it has to be reliable information.”

“That I can guarantee.”

Beomjin extended his left hand.

He pressed the knife’s tip against his palm, inhaled sharply, and clenched his fist hard.

The blade cut through skin in an instant. Crimson blood welled up from the thin wound.

Carefully, Beomjin brought the blood to the vial. Slowly, the liquid pooled inside. As it filled, a strange anticipation flickered in the vendor’s eyes.

When the vial was full, the vendor closed it carefully and held it up to the light. The blood was clear and rich, casting a deep, maple-red hue. A subtle smile spread across the vendor’s lips. Satisfied, he returned the vial to the box.

“Good.”

The vendor said.

“Then let’s continue the trade. Now it’s time to give you what you’re owed.”

He leaned back against the table as he spoke.

“The Jangsanbeom mask was purchased by a middle-aged man. Quite advanced in years. He wore a rat mask, and his posture was neat. His walk and shoulders were somewhat hunched—maybe from joint pain, or perhaps from sitting too long—but his movements weren’t fast.”

The vendor spoke leisurely, arms crossed.

“He was an owl-blooded. They call it a head tilt. Habitually, he tilted his head at an angle. And from his tone and gestures, he gave off either a teacher’s or researcher’s vibe. This is external observation, but I’ve seen his face in the black market before. A person with strong intellectual curiosity.”

“That alone isn’t enough information,” Beomjin said.

The vendor twisted the corner of his mouth.

“Of course, there’s one more detail.”

He held up a finger, poking near his chest, as if to say don’t forget this.

“He made a careless mistake. Probably out of habit, but his tie pin caught my eye. It had a monogram of ‘M’ and ‘S,’ with the number 100 engraved on it.”

The moment he mentioned the symbol, an idea struck Beomjin.

“…Myungseong?”

“Exactly. Myungseong University. Simple but unforgettable once seen, strong in impression.”

Myungseong University was one of the nation’s top institutions, producing some of the most notable talent in the country.

“That was the 100th-anniversary tie pin for the university’s founding. Such commemorative items are usually only given to university staff. With this, you get a sense of who it might be, don’t you?”

“A Myungseong professor?”

The vendor smiled.

“That concludes the transaction.”

A Myungseong professor who is owl-blooded. If that information is correct, Beomjin now had nearly the entire map.

“A good trade. Do visit again.”

The vendor picked up his book and returned to reading. Beomjin lingered a moment, then moved to another car.

Car 7 was a sleeping car. Outside the window, the pale light of dawn seeped in.

The clatter of rails had begun to fade, and distant neon signs of Busan Station shimmered under the dark sky.

Inside, passengers preparing for disembarkation did so quietly. Some wore satisfied expressions, others twisted their faces in annoyance.

Beomjin, who had been buried in the seat trying to rest, opened his eyes. Footsteps stopped instinctively nearby.

“You’re awake.”

The crisp voice of Gu-sim reached him clearly.

She had pulled the hood over her head, covering her mask.

“We’re almost there.”

She pointed out the window, toward the platform lights greeting early-morning arrivals.

“Did you get what you came for?”

Gu-sim asked. Beomjin exhaled, then slowly nodded.

“Now it depends on what I do next.”

Her lips curved slightly.

“I hope it was an enjoyable trip.”

For the first time, she looked genuinely pleased, as if the shopping had gone well.

The train slid to a stop at the platform. The brakes screeched, and the yellowish interior lights glowed. Masked passengers quietly began disembarking through the open doors.

Beomjin rose slowly. As he adjusted his mask, Gu-sim moved ahead down the aisle.

Outside the station, dawn was breaking. Among the early crowd, Beomjin slowed his pace. Gu-sim had stopped ahead, still masked, and gave him a faint smile from under her black hood.

“If there’s another task, we’ll find each other again.”

A black sedan pulled up in front of her. She removed her hood and climbed in, a stray animal mask falling from the open window.

The car drove off, blending into the city traffic and vanishing from view.

Alone, Beomjin removed his dragon mask. The cold dawn air finally brushed against his face.

Fatigue and lack of sleep throbbed on one side of his head, but he had to return to Seoul.

He tossed the dragon mask into a trash bin and made his way back through Busan Station.

He checked the first train heading north and stepped forward.

The hunt was only beginning.