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Morning sunlight poured over the campus of Myungseong University, bringing it to life. Students sat scattered across the grass, others tapped away on laptops atop benches, and couples clung to each other, laughing as if the world belonged only to them.
The scent of warm concrete, earth, sweat, and perfume mingled in the air, teasing Beomjin’s heightened senses. Amid the mixture of smells, the faint traces of Beast-Blooded stood out like glowing threads. The energy radiating from them, young and vibrant, was enough to momentarily ease the fatigue weighing on him.
But there was still no sign of the Owl’s scent. Somewhere within this wide campus, his target—the owl professor—was hiding. Beomjin needed to move quickly.
He parked his car and headed toward the Humanities Plaza, where crowds of students overlapped—some coming down after class, others climbing the stairs for the next one.
Under a large plane tree stood a group of chatting students. Among them, he caught a whiff of something familiar—the scent of a rat Beast-Blooded.
It came from a girl with bright eyes, a sharp double eyelid line, and a ponytail tied high at the back of her head. Dressed in a crisp white shirt, she laughed cheerfully, but the moment Beomjin’s gaze met hers, her smile froze.
He began walking toward her at a calm, deliberate pace. The other girls in her group hadn’t noticed yet, but the Rat girl did. Her lips pressed shut, her shoulders tensed, and for a split second, it looked like her heart had dropped.
Instinctive fear, maybe.
She began inching backward, her feet dragging ever so slightly between her friends.
Beomjin softened his expression on purpose, putting on a polite, almost friendly smile.
“Hello. I just need to ask you something for a moment—could we talk?”
The group of students stopped, eyes wary at the stranger’s approach.
“I’m looking for a professor here,” Beomjin said smoothly. “I heard there’s a professor who resembles an owl. Do you happen to know who that might be?”
The students exchanged puzzled looks, their faces blank—except for one. The Rat girl’s reaction was immediate. Her pupils widened, then shrank again like a reflex.
“…May I ask why you’re looking for him?”
Her tone was cautious. There was more meaning packed into that one sentence than she probably intended. Beomjin showed her his identification to prove he wasn’t just some suspicious outsider.
Seeing his badge from the Special Beast Investigation Unit, she lowered her voice to a whisper.
“If you mean the professor who looks like an owl… that would be Professor Im Hyo-il from the Psychology Department.”
At her answer, her friends chimed in, laughing.
“What? That guy doesn’t look like an owl.”
“Yeah, if anything, he looks more like a toad. Owls are cute.”
“Still, with how stiff and quiet he is, maybe I can see the resemblance.”
They giggled among themselves, tossing out jokes about the professor.
“Would you happen to know where his office is?” Beomjin asked.
“Room 406 in the Humanities Building,” she replied instantly.
Her friends’ eyes widened.
“You even know his office number? Wow.”
Her face turned red as she turned away, pretending she didn’t.
“Thank you for the help. Have a good day.”
Beomjin gave a polite nod and a faint smile before walking off.
The group passed him, still snickering about their professor. He could feel the Rat girl’s nervous gaze on his back, but he didn’t turn around. The noise of the campus faded behind him as his expression returned to its calm, controlled form.
A sign ahead pointed upward—Humanities Building. Beomjin quickened his pace.
The nameplate on Room 406 gleamed silver.
[Im Hyo-il / Professor of Psychology]
Beomjin paused for a heartbeat, then knocked lightly.
Tok, tok. A clean, even rhythm.
A low, composed voice responded from inside.
“Yes, come in.”
The moment he stepped through the door, the man behind the desk flinched, then exhaled in relief.
“Ah—you startled me. When a tiger suddenly walks in, even a healthy man’s heart might stop.”
The faint humor on his lips vanished as quickly as it appeared. His hair was combed back immaculately, not a strand out of place. A shadow of gray stubble lined his chin, neatly trimmed—but perhaps because of that, he carried an air of severity.
“My apologies. I tend to have that effect on people,” Beomjin said.
“It’s fine. Please, have a seat.”
Professor Hyo-il rose from his chair and gestured toward the seat across from him.
The professor looked him over.
“You don’t look like a student. What brings you here?”
Before sitting down, Beomjin showed his ID.
“I’m Agent Baek Beomjin from the Special Beast Investigation Unit. I came to get your opinion on a case I’ve been assigned to recently.”
Im Hyo-il’s brow twitched slightly, but he soon smiled again.
“Hm… I’m not sure how much help I can be with police work. Even though I teach psychology, my focus is mostly on the subconscious.”
“That’s exactly why I came to see you, Professor.”
Beomjin pulled a folded piece of paper from his inner pocket and handed it over.
A white face drawn in crooked lines. Eyes burning red. It was Beomjin’s own sketch of the Jangsanbeom Mask.
His drawing skills were crude, but the image alone was unsettling enough to make anyone uneasy.
“This is a composite drawing based on what was left behind by a man who killed three people.”
Beomjin looked straight at Hyo-il as he spoke. The professor’s gaze flickered—just barely—but his heartbeat thudded even harder.
His face stayed calm, yet the corners of his mouth stiffened, and his fingertips trembled slightly.
After staring at the drawing for a while, Hyo-il finally spoke.
“…You’re saying this was drawn by someone who killed three people? That’s… disturbing.”
“Yes. I wanted to ask if you could read anything from it.”
Hyo-il hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
“There’s clear instability here… a deeply anxious state of mind. Personally, I’d say this person’s imagination was triggered by something highly atypical. This isn’t just a random doodle.”
“What do you mean by an ‘atypical imagination’?”
Beomjin didn’t take his eyes off Hyo-il’s lips.
The professor stared at the picture again before answering.
“I can’t say I know this person well, but… it seems they were consumed by fear. Something terrified them greatly.”
“I thought the same when I saw the drawing, but I can’t quite figure out what that ‘something’ is.”
Hyo-il’s heartbeat pounded like a drum.
“It appears they’re being influenced by something that doesn’t exist in reality. Just as everyone has their own innate fear—something that instinctively comes to mind—this could be a fear blurred with hallucination, something half in reality, half in the mind. I believe that’s what’s happening here.”
Beomjin jotted down the professor’s words as if they were key insights. Then he moved on to the next question.
“Professor, this one’s a bit off-topic—and it’s personal—but since this is just between us… is it possible for ordinary humans to recognize us? To tell us apart from them?”
Hyo-il paused, took off his glasses, and rubbed his forehead.
“That’s an extremely rare case. There have been a few, but they’re exceptions. It could happen in people with genetic anomalies, or those born with unusually heightened senses—but most of them… were branded as lunatics throughout history.”
“…I see.”
Beomjin lowered his head slightly, lost in thought. What Hyo-il said was grounded, yet deeply unsettling.
After a brief silence, Beomjin rose from his seat.
“Thank you for your time, Professor. Your insights will be useful for our investigation.”
Hyo-il gave a faint nod.
“Not at all. I’m just glad if I could help. Although… there is one thing.”
Beomjin was heading toward the door when Hyo-il called out.
“That man you mentioned—was he caught?”
Beomjin turned around. Hyo-il’s heartbeat had doubled. He was clearly agitated.
Keeping his composure, Beomjin answered, “No. We’re still tracking him. That’s why I need to get going.”
“Ah, I see. Well, I hope you find him soon.”
“Thank you.”
Beomjin gave a polite nod and left the office.
Beneath the long shadow stretching from the humanities building, Beomjin sat crouched beside an old roadside tree, his car parked nearby. His gaze stayed fixed on the entrance.
He was certain now—it was only a matter of time.
After about twenty minutes, a familiar silhouette appeared at the door.
Professor Im Hyo-il.
His shoulders hunched, Hyo-il peeked through the slightly opened door, scanning his surroundings with darting eyes. He moved the way a creature would in a dark cave, relying more on instinct than sight.
Beomjin lowered his body further and watched.
After a moment, Hyo-il slipped back inside. The door shut quietly behind him. But that too was within Beomjin’s expectations. The man was already caught in the net—he just didn’t know it yet.
Time crawled on.
The air inside the car grew heavier, the windows beginning to heat under the afternoon sun.
Ten minutes later, the glass doors opened again.
This time, Hyo-il stepped out with a bag slung over his shoulder. Dressed in a gray shirt and a light jacket, he once again checked his surroundings before striding toward a car parked at the edge of the lot.
The engine started, and within seconds, the car rolled out of the university grounds. Beomjin started his own engine and followed at a distance.
“Let’s take a quiet drive, Professor,” he murmured.
And so, under the bright Seoul sun, a silent pursuit began from the Myungseong University parking lot.
Hyo-il’s car slipped through the streets like a different beast altogether, darting between signals, pushing every chance to get ahead.
After about twenty minutes, the road signs began to change—the city giving way to the outskirts.
He eventually pulled into a broad logistics district, where the air smelled faintly of metal and oil. His car stopped before a small warehouse tucked among cargo trucks.
The door opened. Hyo-il stepped out quickly, glanced around, and hurried inside.
Beomjin parked at the corner of an alley. In the distance, metal clanged against metal, containers knocked together, and the wind carried the hollow sounds of the empty yards.
Half-opening his window, he watched the warehouse, then masked his scent and moved in quietly.
A dim light flickered inside. Instead of using the main door, Beomjin circled to the back and found a staircase leading up to the second floor. The rusted iron steps creaked underfoot, but he climbed slowly, keeping his movements silent.
At the top, a locked gate blocked the hallway—but the padlock hung loosely, never fastened. He nudged it gently. The door gave a faint squeak and opened.
The corridor reeked of dust and damp air. At the far end, there were sounds—a faint shuffle, boxes being moved, the rustle of papers, the low murmur of a man talking to himself.
Beomjin held his breath and leaned toward the light spilling from an open doorway.
Inside was Hyo-il.
The room looked like an office, with a desk in the center and several small lamps illuminating the space. Papers, notebooks, and books cluttered the table—alongside a display stand holding a mask.
The Jangsanbeom Mask.
Its surface looked almost like white fur, with narrow eye holes and wide, blazing red irises painted far beyond their shape. The lips curved upward unnaturally, forming an eerie grin.
A cloth had been draped over it, probably meant to hide it—but it had slipped aside, leaving the mask’s face fully exposed.
Hyo-il typed something on his laptop, chuckling to himself. Then he tore a note from a pad, scribbled something on it, and stuck it to the wall.
Suddenly, he turned to the mask. His shoulders shook as he laughed softly—mouth stretched wide, disturbingly wide.
“Success. It worked. That bastard actually did it for me.”
His voice echoed down the hallway.
He stared at the mask and muttered again, “This is what I needed all along. Fear is the fastest path to truth…”
It was clear now.
Im Hyo-il had been conducting experiments with the Jangsanbeom Mask.
If this continued, the situation could spiral beyond control.
Beomjin had to make a decision—and fast.
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