“Is there no one here who can give me an awesome explanation?”
Viktor Alexandrovich Smirnov stood glowering at his subordinates, his fierce expression resembling that of a ferocious beast.
“You, speak up.”
“The number of shamans operating near the site where the Human Sacrifice Ritual took place is five, just like the report I mentioned earlier. Among them, two are foreigners, and of the three Russian shamans, two are confirmed to have been at a meeting of Russian businessmen on the day of the incident. The remaining one was confirmed to be with a pack of wolves through CCTV footage.”
Viktor gestured with his chin, indicating for him to elaborate further.
“At this point, the definite suspect is the diviner, Michael T Murphy. He hails from Ireland and is 33 years old. The magic he practices is the Boundary Magic of Annuin from Celtic magic, and it seems the military shaman discovered symbols related to Crom Cruach. Therefore, he is presumed to be the one who conducted the Human Sacrifice Ritual. Also, the military shaman confirmed the death, suggesting that his life was paid as the cost for the Human Sacrifice Ritual.”
“Got it.”
Viktor tapped the table, his finger rapping against the surface.
“So, that means the one who got away from me intact is definitely not the one who expired.”
“That’s correct.”
“Continue, but only the foreign shamans. Exclude those from our country.”
“Understood. His name is Jinseong Park. He is from Unified Korea and is 18 years old….”
Viktor abruptly cut off his subordinate.
“Stop right there. A little brat like that couldn’t possibly exert that much power. Exclude him.”
“Understood.”
He leaned back in his chair, collecting his thoughts.
‘For now, I can definitely confirm the diviner from Ireland.’
It was clear that the diviner, Michael T Murphy, had a hand in the Human Sacrifice Ritual. This was guaranteed by the military shaman, and according to circumstantial evidence, there were simply no other suspects.
That raised a question.
If the one who performed the sacrifice simply vanished into thin air, then who on earth did he run into?
‘A little brat, two scheming sycophants clinging to a bourgeois, and one psychopath thinking he’s a wolf.’
The three Russian shamans had alibis, leaving only the pint-sized one who had blood still drying on his head as the most questionable. But seriously, what could someone who wasn’t even an adult do? Especially a brat from a Korea where the magic had completely crumbled.
He slowly recalled a time when he encountered an unidentified individual.
“Hmm.”
Viktor grinned suddenly, as if something clicked in his mind, and downed a hefty swig of vodka sitting on the desk.
“Ugh, I’ve miscalculated. I’ve never seen that brat directly using any magic. Why did I assume he was a shaman?”
Boom!
“It seems it’s not just shamans involved here, but others as well.”
Slamming the vodka bottle down, he glanced at his subordinate.
“Are there any special circumstances regarding the rat bastards?”
“There are.”
“Oh, really?”
“Recently, the counter-terrorism unit seems to have caught some rat bastards that belong to the Azov Battalion.”
Viktor’s lips curled into a smirk at that.
“The Azov Battalion? Those Nazi idiots?”
“Yes.”
“Ha ha ha.”
Viktor chuckled lowly.
They called themselves a battalion, but in reality, they were nothing more than a militia. For Slavs to worship Nazis while causing chaos throughout Ukraine – that was just a headache. Moreover, they were notorious for bothering Russian people whenever they got bored or sneaking into Russia and carrying out acts of sabotage.
“What do you think will come out if we take these bastards down?”
Viktor muttered while tapping his finger on the table.
“Right. Whether it’s a box of evil spirits or a cursed object, we can use any of that. Hmm, the more I think about it, the more I feel like I should take these guys down.”
“I’ll look into it.”
“No, I know someone who can help.”
Viktor blocked his eager subordinate and contacted someone.
“Oh, Viktor. What’s the sudden matter?”
The person who answered did so with a welcoming voice before Viktor could introduce himself.
“I heard you caught those Ukrainian Nazi bastards from the counter-terrorism unit?”
“Right.”
“Those bastards’ fate has probably fallen to you guys. Am I right?”
“Correct.”
“I have someone who I need to capture and rough up, and it seems related to your matter, so when you loosen your tongue, could you ask a few questions for me? How about it, is it possible?”
The person on the line chuckled.
“Sure. I suppose I must do a favor for a comrade.”
*
Air can shift infinitely depending on the place.
In wide-open spaces where the wind sweeps freely, the air feels light, almost as if it could soar beyond the sky if you let it. Coupled with a pleasant temperature, it seems to make each step feel buoyant, turning the path ahead into a cushion of clouds that makes you forget your fatigue.
But conversely, air can also become unbearably heavy, pressing down on you and making you feel worse than a soaked cotton ball in the rainy season.
That was precisely the case within the bunker.
Concrete walls.
The concrete of this Soviet-era bunker seemed to exude a stench of rot, with rough surfaces that feel as if they could scrape your skin off and a smooth but icy touch that made the air feel cold and sluggish. Just as wood absorbs carbon dioxide and breathes out oxygen, this concrete seemed to inhale fresh air while exhaling a poison that could harm a person, making its breath truly dark and gloomy. The concrete was stained with remnants of black mold, and the mixture of bleach used to scrub it only added to the foul odor.
The stench of mold, dying off from the bleach poured into it, pricked at your nose, creating an imagination that perhaps it was seeping into your brain through your nostrils and eyes.
In corners where moisture gathered, mushrooms and moss sprouted, and grotesque-looking insects seemed to be everywhere. The cramped bunker walls were so tight that one had to crouch to walk safely, and in doing so, one inhaled the air from lower down, feeling an additional burden on their body.
Yet, this suffocating and gloomy scenery served as a motivation for Russia’s movement and provided a safe haven for those active as soldiers. Like bugs making a nest underground, this bunker was their home, a precious space allowing them to operate in secrecy.
“Hey, just blow it up.”
However, just as the coziness of a nest breeds stealth, the secrecy was strong.
Officially, this bunker was considered abandoned since the dissolution of the Soviet Union, yet secretive activities were taking place deep within it.
In what seemed to be a break room, two men, likely Russians, were indulging in a cup of instant noodles that were lavishly doused in mayonnaise, while in a dimly lit area, there were several individuals tied up in a star shape, and a cheeky-looking Russian.
“You idiots, you Ukrainian bastards! Isn’t it about time you started talking?”
The Russian touched the scar on his cheek and forced a smile.
One of the bound men struggled to lift his head and spoke.
“You Moskals… what do you want…”
“Oh come on now! Our cute little Ukrainian Nazi brat! Shouldn’t you watch your mouth?”
The Russian said with a twisted grin, pressing his finger hard against the man’s forehead. The area he pressed was marked with a prominent tattoo of the Hakenkreuz used by the Nazis during World War II.
“Oh, right. Not a Moskals, but a Tatar…”
“Oh, Tatar.”
Hearing this, the Russian’s expression hardened.
“Looks like you don’t know what kind of position you’re in.”
The Russian picked up a rope from the table.
At the end of the rope was a knot resembling a fist.
A monkey’s fist knot.
If filled with a stone or a steel sphere, it could create a bludgeon capable of smashing bricks.
He swung the rope like a pendulum, and then struck the man’s groin with the knot.
“Ugh!”
The horrific pain caused the Ukrainian’s body to bend involuntarily, yet due to the ropes binding him, he couldn’t properly bend down, forcing him to only groan in agony.
“How’s that? Tastes fantastic, huh? It’s the same method the fish-and-chips bastards used for torturing spies.”
“Gah, ugh.”
“So, spill it. What kind of sabotage were you brats trying to carry out by crawling into Russia? What ridiculous schemes were you up to? And how does it relate to the Human Sacrifice Ritual?”
“Heh heh heh…”
The Ukrainian merely chuckled despite the Russian’s threatening words, saying nothing at all.
Just when the patience of the Russian had reached its limit, preparing to swing the rope again, the Ukrainian finally spoke.
“You’re new, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“You won’t get anything out of me with those dumb methods. Even a street pickpocket wouldn’t crack under that. Back in KGB days, it wasn’t like this, was it? Or perhaps your predecessors all died after guzzling radioactive black tea, and your skills have tanked since then? Ha ha ha ha!”
Stung by that mockery, the Russian’s face twisted in anger.
“Yeah. It was pretty pathetic.”
But it wasn’t only the torturer who was provoked; a middle-aged bald man, who had been eating instant noodles in the break room, stood up from his seat.
Bam!
He kick-stomped the shin of the Russian holding the rope. The sudden pain caused the Russian to lose his balance, and in a fit of rage, he was kicked several more times until he was flat on the floor. And once the Russian collapsed, the middle-aged man kicked his face as if it were a soccer ball.
Bam!
“Look at you! You’re just making pathetic mistakes and getting provoked while trying to be tough. What a great job! Get up!”
“Yes!”
The Russian on the floor, familiar with violence, promptly rose to attention without wiping the blood dripping from his nose. The middle-aged man leaned in close to the Russian.
“Watch closely. This is how you dig for information.”
He stroked his bald head with his right hand and then approached the Ukrainian.
“You miserable Slav-Nazi. You brought this upon yourself.”
He said, giving a warning before heading towards someone else.
He walked over to a smooth-bodied young man who could just have entered his twenties.
He untied the knots binding the young man and grabbed a handful of his hair, dragging him towards the bunker wall.
“Hey. I’m not sure if you can see well, but look at this mold on the wall. Doesn’t it look peculiar?”
The bunker wall was indeed covered with mold.
However, the peculiarity lay in the fact that unlike typical mold that spreads across walls, this one had taken on shapes.
Round traces resembling lollipops.
And beneath those were long, stick-like shapes.
It looked almost as if the grudges of the people tortured to death had left their marks in the form of mold.
“This remnant of an ancient war isn’t a livable space for humans. We barely managed to stay here after going through all sorts of troubles to get rid of the mold, but for some places, the mold just refuses to disappear. Even pouring pure bleach onto it doesn’t work, and scraping the wall won’t get rid of it. Even if you lay heat wires, the mold still grows, and no matter how much you scorch that spot with fire, it’s the same.”
The middle-aged man spoke as if explaining to the young man he had captured.
However, his voice was loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.
“We only figured out the reason by calling in shamans. They said too many arrogant piglets like you were ground into that wall, leaving their grudges stuck there. Given how many they ground, it was to the point the wall reeked of decay, so I suppose it makes sense.”
“Ground…?”
“But here’s the real problem. Methods of torture might vary, but this is the best way for us to relieve our stress. Especially when it comes to face like yours that’s all pointy!”
The middle-aged man gently touched the scar on his cheek.
The proud mark that indicated he was from Spetsnaz, having pierced his own mouth to insert a dagger.
The middle-aged man declared to everyone present.
“From now on, I’m going to play with you. I’m going to shred your faces against the great concrete legacy of this Soviet Union. If you want to talk, talk. I’ll relieve my stress using your faces!”
Bam!
He didn’t just talk; he slammed the young man’s head against the concrete wall. The horrendous, rotten stench of decay permeated as if tearing his brain inside out, and the mold flickered, like it was reveling in the delight of grinding his face down.
Or perhaps it wasn’t just a figment of imagination.
Objects that had killed too many people tend to harbor evil spirits.
That wall, too, about to grind down his face, might well be a cursed object filled with evil spirits.
“Speak, speak! I will speak!”
“What?”
“I will speak!”
At the panicked cry, the middle-aged man grinned, grabbing the young man’s head and dragging him into the break room. He leaned into the ear of the stiffened Russian.
“You have to bring down the weakest part first.”
