INV 80

Ten thousand years ago, there was an ancient god whose name had been erased.

Just as incantations can erase people’s memories, a name can also be forgotten. An existence, too, can vanish. This is a story about a name forgotten by all—Mumeong.

Even in recollections, that person’s name is not called—Mumeong.

For while there were once lips that called out to him, that is no longer the case.

⋆˙⟡

“Mumeong. Here is your disciple.”

Ten thousand years ago, on a certain day deep in the mountains, the ancient god Mumeong encountered a sudden and unwelcome guest. He blinked his eyelids slowly, wondering what kind of rare nonsense this was. Because of his delicate and beautiful face, it was a fact many tended to forget, but Mumeong was a god who was second to none when it came to a violent temperament and foul language. If his senior disciples from his time as a human had spoken such an impossible joke to him, Mumeong would have been willing to sacrifice the soles of his feet to kick their backsides. However, the one who dared to speak of the bond between master and disciple to him was the master who had taught him about life when Mumeong was still human. It might be worth exercising patience just this once.

“Master, has your unworthy disciple perhaps violated the prohibition on alcohol?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I heard a faint sound of gibberish from somewhere, so I wondered if I, in my lack of cleverness, was daring to feel a hangover in front of my master.”

From the fact that these were his “patient” words, we can guess just how filthy a temperament the god known as Mumeong possessed. It went without saying, as the one who had gained fame for a tongue as biting and satirical as his features were gorgeous and captivating was this god, Mumeong. However, even though the disciple had pronounced such a deranged sentence while pretending to be rational, strangely, the master’s complexion did not change much. Mumeong could not understand why the man, who usually would have swung his staff and struck him by now, was maintaining such a solemn air for once.

Come to think of it, the dozens of senior disciples the master had brought under his command were also hanging their heads with somber faces. Even the eldest senior disciple, who should have been the first to start a losing argument whenever Mumeong spouted nonsense, merely remained silent.

He had a very bad feeling about this. Mumeong pressed down hard on the corner of his eye with his finger as it threatened to twitch slightly.

His snow-white eyelashes cast a deeper shadow over his eyes, like the tail feathers of a peacock.

“You know that I am one who even made a vow to the Old Man Under the Moon never to take a disciple in my life, so why this kind of jest?”

He even brought up the shameful past of getting slapped at a shrine after getting drunk and making a vow involving the Old Man Under the Moon.

Despite this, the master, who would usually have made a fuss saying, “Hey, you rascal!”, was staring at Mumeong with a face frozen stiff.

And so, Mumeong accepted the gravity of the situation.

They had not started this jest to annoy him.

‘In that case.’

Mumeong had a cold intuition.

“…Is it from that place?”

The master was silent, and that was soon an answer.

The Celestial Realm.

If Heaven had intervened in Mumeong’s master-disciple relations, there was only one attitude he should take. After standing upright for a moment with his eyelashes trembling, Mumeong did not add a word of protest but strode across the yard and received the mysterious swaddle the master was holding. The bundle, about the size of a ten-year-old child, was as heavy as a piece of iron of the same size, causing his waist to sway and his ankle to twist for a moment, but no one helped him.

To be precise, they could not help him. From the moment he received the swaddle, the yokai power—which the master, who had the title of “Five Lives of Heaven” for realizing the principles of the world on his own and receiving five lives from the heavens, had been suppressing at the cost of his last life in this world—burst forth.

“…Be careful, Mumeong!”

The eldest senior disciple shouted like a thunderclap. Following the premonition that something was about to explode, as soon as Mumeong tilted his head, a pile of fallen leaves right next to him blew apart. Subsequently, a fierce whirlwind centered on Mumeong swirled in a sphere. The storm struck upward, causing his long robes to flap and flutter. Due to the yokai power dwelling within it, the overgrown wild grass turned blackish and died, and the blue roof tiles eroded like an old ruin. It was a terrible yokai power. An impure energy that craved only slaughter. A fierce killing intent, such that just standing at a distance made one’s breath catch and felt as if the soul would be contaminated, was transforming into a typhoon and sweeping the area.

So, what kind of storm must the one standing right in the center be enduring?

“Junior disciple…!”

No matter how much Mumeong had become a high-ranking god by attaining enlightenment himself like the Five Lives of Heaven, until now, their relationship was not much different from the days when they were senior and junior disciples.

Just as the disciples of the Five Lives of Heaven were feeling self-loathing over the fact that they had no choice but to entrust this heavy burden to their junior…

“…Hmm.”

Mumeong had a detached face, as always.

Even though his thin skin, exposed to the contaminated energy, was turning black and dying.

Even though it was impossible for him not to know that all this impure overflow began from the swaddle he had received.

Even seeing the storm breaking out right before his eyes, he was merely detached, as if looking out at a distant horizon.

“How wicked.”

The only meaningful reaction was a brief, exclamation-like impression.

His delicate eyebrows, as if a willow branch had been gracefully drawn with a fine brush dipped in water, did not show a hint of agitation, and immediately after, his white hands burrowed into the cloth without hesitation.

His movements, which were almost hasty, faltered as the child’s face was revealed.

The young yokai, manifesting a murderous intent, was perfectly mimicking a human form. If it were to open its eyelids and show itself moving and alive, one would believe it even if called human. Of course, for a yokai with such strong killing intent, something like transformation magic would be basic, so it was not surprising. The reason Mumeong faltered was elsewhere. It was because the skin of a ten-year-old child, which should have been soft, was stained and blotched due to the talismans drawn in dark ink upon the pale skin.

‘Did they use a young yokai as a scapegoat talisman?’

Then it makes sense. The reason why a small yokai wields yokai power steeped in such wicked resentment and grudges that it could contaminate the world is understandable. Has yokai power, unsuited to the years it has lived, accumulated layer by layer in this child’s body from a life spent absorbing the misfortunes of others?

The moment Mumeong was about to touch the ink characters, the breathing of his senior disciples became precarious, as if they were about to pass out.

If left like this for long, the entire area would be contaminated.

To the point where a human could not even set foot here.

There was no time to be lost in sentiment.

There are two ways. As the master did, use the auspicious energy of exorcism to suppress it until the point of death, cornering it until it cannot even wiggle a finger, let alone emit yokai power—or, persuade the young thing well and have it control itself. One must be chosen.

Mumeong poured out his words without even a moment to filter them.

“Even a yokai just hit by puberty would manage its killing intent better than you.”

The pale, corpse-like eyelids twitched. Does it have pride for its kind? Since it is a boy, perhaps it is even more sensitive to being compared to others. In that case, how about this? Mumeong laughed softly and tapped the boy’s cheek.

“If you don’t want to hear it, suppress it quickly. Seeing your impatient nature, even when you’re all grown up, you won’t be able to handle your business for long and will just spray it out and be done.”

Did Mumeong’s famously foul tongue work? The impure torrent that was bursting forth as if to burn the entire assembly stopped abruptly at once. Amidst a silence that was eerie compared to the moment before when it raged like a storm.

The yokai, having managed and withdrawn its violent and destructive yokai power, finally opened its eyes.

What was revealed as the almost white eyelids opened were brilliant red-gold pupils, as if a heart had been gouged out and placed in white porcelain.

Mumeong was momentarily entranced by them.

A silent disaster where no emotion existed, a beauty so excessive it felt grotesque, had seized him.

As if it were a terrible quagmire from which even eye contact could not be broken…

“…”

However, by nature, the person known as Mumeong was a god with a natural talent for maintaining outward composure.

It was so when he was a Taoist, and it was so even now that he had become a god.

While looking into those ominous yet beautiful eyes, his auspicious voice ran forward without blockage.

This is why this person could not help but be called the god of exorcism who destroys wicked things.

“…Look, though you are in the body of a yokai, I, Mumeong, will follow the will of the gods of heaven and earth in this place and form a bond of master and disciple with you. To the Old Man Under the Moon, I will personally offer a glass of wine as the price for daring to break my vow, so please forgive this lowly Taoist. The responsibility is mine. Yokai child, announce your name. And remember. Mumeong—this is the name of the one who will take you in.”

Everything that exists introduces its coordinates through its name.

Every name is a symbol of existence.

“Speak, what is your name!”

“…I am, Jae.”

So, when one estimated what the life of a child named “Disaster” (Jae) must have been like.

Would it have been an error if a surge of emotion arose?

“You are Chacha from now on, child.”

At that moment, by whatever impulse, Mumeong gave the yokai child a name different from “Disaster.” A name imposes coordinates upon an existence. He judged instantaneously that he could not give the name “Disaster” to a child who might become a disaster. He only hoped that the childhood name Chacha would, if possible, help him avoid smallpox, tigers, and misfortunes alike.

However, the child who had met Mumeong, received a new name, and stood before a new fork in the road of fate, still had empty eyes as if he neither understood nor wanted to know what Mumeong’s words meant.

Mumeong recited a verse of a dream inside his mouth like a sigh. The child, perhaps recognizing the auspicious divine power descending upon him, glared at Mumeong even with bloodshot eyes, but in the end, he could not overcome the drowsiness and collapsed into a faint.

Mumeong, looking around the area that was as disheveled as if swept by a storm, swallowed a sigh and readjusted his hold on the child.

“…I will have much to teach you.”

Taking in a disciple is the same as parents taking in a child. That is why Mumeong chose to remain alone even when his trivial senior disciples were swaggering about with dozens of disciples. Although it was an atrocity committed while drinking alcohol, the vow offered to the Old Man Under the Moon was sincere.

Yet, who could have predicted that the bond of master and disciple, which he thought he would never form in his life, would be formed with a yokai according to the order of the High Emperor? Furthermore, that the immortal god of exorcism, who breaks and subdues wicked things, would have a yokai disciple.

However, accepting the child as a disciple without protest was entirely a path chosen by Mumeong.

‘Even if there was external pressure.’

If it is something his disciple committed, this too would be his responsibility.

The weight in his arms carried that meaning.

The ancient god whose name was erased was thinking so.

Ten thousand years ago, and even until now.