Vol 6 Ch 21

In Korea, dozens of army, navy, and air force generals—along with the Minister of Patriots and Veterans Affairs, the Prime Minister, and more—were forced to step down.

On xx month xx day at around 11 p.m., a large Korean portal server was paralyzed by hacktivists, and the corruption that had festered for years between corporations and the government was laid bare.

Domestic servers went down in just ten minutes, but through foreign storage servers, anyone around the world could download WikiLeaks. The contents were detailed, the evidence overwhelming, and nearly everyone named in the files had no way of escaping exposure. People wondered who Asia’s Julian Assange might be, but the hacktivists’ base was never revealed.

From defense industry corruption amounting to nearly one trillion won, to corporate-ordered assassinations, collusion between government and conglomerates, conglomerates and judges—these were the main themes. After WikiLeaks was released, the number of people who resigned reached into the hundreds. What was most striking was that although the files only covered up to the early 2000s, the names on WikiLeaks were still highly influential even more than a decade later.

[The clean never survived.]

That was the title given by whoever had spread the WikiLeaks files. Some argued that with that much information, it would have been more profitable to sell it to corporations and government officials rather than expose it. But fanatics claimed it was sacrilege to insult the noble intentions of the hacktivists.

The blow WikiLeaks delivered was massive. The names listed triggered chain reactions, dragging others down like sausages linked in a string. A special prosecution was launched. Normally, some of the people under investigation would have had the power to reject such an inquiry, but now, with so many eyes watching, they weren’t untouchable anymore.

“With the sacrifice of the few, the many can be saved. I only sacrificed the few.”

That was what a chairman who had forcibly cleared out a district to build a luxury department store and hotel said on the news. Without them, he argued, the construction company—already suffering financial troubles—would have gone bankrupt, and instead, they created jobs for unemployed people. He fumed in anger as he defended himself.

On that same day, hacktivists simultaneously flooded major Korean online communities with posts. They also shared a statement, saying it came from the person who had given them WikiLeaks.

[A sacrifice of the few is always inevitable. But if those few are the powerful, then it ceases to be a sacrifice—it becomes coexistence.]

The WikiLeaks incident in Korea set nerves on edge abroad as well. Some feared it might spread to their own dealings. Countless whistleblowing cases had happened before, but rarely with documents backed by evidence as flawless as WikiLeaks. People wanted to hunt down the creator, and many names surfaced as possibilities.

Some suspected a human rights commissioner who was very active, others pointed to a high-ranking corporate figure. Some even speculated the person might not be Korean at all. But the conclusion people reached was simple: if the person’s identity were revealed, they’d be assassinated. Therefore, they would never show themselves.

Then came the joint statement from Germany’s “STA Corporation” and Tex following the WikiLeaks incident.

They announced that “Kwon Yijae,” the head of STA, had died of illness. They also admitted that from 1980 up to recent years, through the work of “a war profiteer,” they had sold military weapons and carried out Lend-Lease deals during the Iran–Iraq war, the Gulf War, and the 2003 Iraq war.

The transactions had primarily used Tex’s shipping fleet. And with Kwon Yijae’s death, everything was made public.

Tex’s head, “Felix Kwon,” resigned just before the announcement. Both STA and Tex declared that their new successors would each pay $10 billion in compensation.

Some applauded the statement, while others argued an investigation was needed since the successors must have already known everything. But a federal prosecutor’s investigation concluded that the new representatives had no involvement. Moreover, STA was cleared of any charges related to ties with the U.S. Democratic Party. Even so, the oil drilling rights in the Arctic Sea were awarded to an American shipping company. Tex’s new head became Aeil Kwon, and STA Corporation’s new head was…

Tick—Tangbang turned off the television.

“君子报仇, 十年不晚.” [A gentleman takes his revenge; even after ten years, it is not too late.]

The jasmine tea rising in fragrance smelled exquisite.

“So in the end, Joo Sangkyung  won. Or was it Joo Hawon who won?”

Tangbang smiled faintly as he sipped his tea.

The last time he’d heard from Joo Hawon was when he contacted to release WikiLeaks. Since then, nothing. No word on whether he was alive or dead. News of Kwon Yijae’s death from illness made Tangbang laugh. And yet, as an information broker, even he couldn’t uncover why Kwon Yijae had died, or what had become of Joo Hawon and Kwon Taeha. Hacktivists were blocking Big Brother itself, it seemed.

Maybe the two of them had gone to live on some island? Tangbang thought, though he knew it couldn’t be. Still, a part of him wondered.

Because the new head of STA Corporation was—

Kwon Jaehee.

-20xx xx xx, London-

The scenery around Saatchi Gallery was always the same. A man walking past King’s Road had features that didn’t stand out much even among white people, the kind of face that came from mixed blood. His stride was clean, without excess.

Tucked under his right arm was a paper bag with a baguette, and in his left hand, a rose. Street vendors had gotten used to seeing him pass by. By now, the sight of him strolling down King’s Road was nothing unusual.

He paused for a moment, looking at the gallery’s front entrance, then quickened his pace again. After about twenty minutes of walking, the man arrived at a mansion and set the baguette down in the kitchen.

The house was three stories tall. The first floor held the living room and kitchen, the second was a library and office, the third a sickroom.

He stepped into the elevator and rode it straight to the third floor. Through the transparent walls, he could see the garden outside, already losing its greenery. The air grew colder each morning and night, edging closer to winter.

Holding the rose, the man stepped out and walked down the hallway. Nurses and doctors who lived in the house greeted him as he passed. He entered the sickroom, which had no door.

The mansion, once the home of a British nobleman, had been bought by this man for the sake of another who now lay bedridden inside.

Kwon Taeha approached Joo Hawon, who lay silently.

His closed eyes didn’t stir. His lips were peaceful. Aside from looking a little thinner, he seemed almost like a living doll. Still beautiful, even now, endlessly so. Taeha brushed his fingers through Hawon’s hair before placing the rose into a vase.

He pulled open the curtains to let light stream in. For a moment, it felt like Hawon might frown and open his eyes. But that hopeful moment never came. A bullet had pierced his lungs, leaving him breathless for a long time. He had nearly died of shock from blood loss. The blow had been so severe he hadn’t awakened in over two weeks. The doctors said the surgery had gone well, that he would regain consciousness soon—he’d even heard those words just days ago.

If he’d arrived any later, there was no way he could have pulled Hawon out of the sea alive. The memory alone made Taeha’s hands go cold.

He’d realized Jade Miller’s betrayal too late. It was Miller who had hidden forged documents in the office sofa. Hawon might have been furious, but every executive room was under surveillance.

At first, the cameras had been installed to monitor Hawon—but thanks to them, Jade Miller had been caught. If it had been even a little later…

Taeha pulled a chair up to the bedside and sat down.

“You’re too much.”

He spoke to his lover, who lay with eyes closed so serenely.

“To not open your eyes just because I failed once… Only you, Joo Hawon, would torment someone like this.”

He scolded him, then sighed as his chest tightened. Taeha took Hawon’s hand in his.

Day by day, he felt like he was wasting away. At this rate, he thought even his bones might dissolve and vanish. The faint scar of the tattoo still lingering on his wrist made Kwon Taeha’s chest ache all over again, but without it, he would never have survived.

He could’ve lost everything, and it wouldn’t have mattered. As long as he could find him…

“Joo Hawon.”

Taeha’s voice calling his name was so full of yearning.

“I miss you.”

Even with him right before his eyes, he said that.

***

In the hospital room, my mother was painting. My father stood by her side, gazing endlessly at her brushstrokes. I sat on a chair, swinging my legs that couldn’t reach the floor. She was painting me.

It had been a long while, but the picture still wasn’t finished, and I was starting to grow a little bored.

‘Is it done yet?’

‘Not yet.’

Mother smiled as she painted. I swung my legs and looked out the window. The sunlight felt blazing, but my eyes didn’t sting. A breeze passed through, and I felt a little better.

‘Is it done yet?’

‘It hasn’t even been five minutes since you asked.’

Father stroked my hair with a gentle hand.

“You’re being cruel.”

I snapped my head up. A voice drifted in from somewhere, and my ears pricked. Ah, it wasn’t so strange. I often heard a man’s voice when Mother painted.

“To not open your eyes just because I failed once… Only you, Joo Hawon, would torment someone like this.”

Growing restless, I hopped off the chair and ran to Mother.

‘When will it be finished?’

‘Just a little longer.’

‘I want to go out and play.’

‘It’s almost done.’

But even after she said that, it still took a long while. Again, the man’s voice reached me—the same voice that always came whenever Mother painted. The words were different each time, but they always made my chest ache.

‘Is it done yet?’

‘Why are you in such a rush?’

Father looked stern. I shrank a little, but unlike usual, I lifted my head and answered firmly.

‘I’m in a rush. Mother’s painting is too slow.’

I dragged my feet and climbed back onto the chair with a bounce.

‘Not yet.’

I barely waited before asking again.

‘It’s done.’

Mother lifted her brush from the canvas at last. Then she turned it toward me. The canvas gleamed, bathed in radiant light. It was a picture of our family of three with Roxy together.

But neither my mother, nor my father, nor Roxy… existed in the world I had known. We had never once been that happy.

“Joo Hawon.”

My eyes stung.

“I miss you.”

Tears welled. Every time he called my name, my heart ached. I reached out and touched her canvas. With my grown hand, I traced over Roxy, my mother, and my father.

Another me whispered to stay in this comfortable dream, but it was fine. I’ll go. I turned the canvas back toward my parents. Light began to stream through my stinging eyes, so bright it felt like I’d go blind.

Still, I refused to give up. I forced my eyes open. Tears spilled down both cheeks. I closed them briefly against the slanted light, then opened them again. For the first time, I realized that light could be painful. But with all the strength left in me, I clasped the man’s hand that was holding mine.

At that moment, he lifted his head and looked at me in disbelief. His lips parted, as if to speak, then curved into a trembling smile, as though he couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying. He pressed a deep kiss into my hand before finally whispering.

“…Hello.”

His voice was damp.

“…Hello.”

My voice was damp too. I smiled at him. Tears kept running down, but still—I said hello. To the new life pulled out of the swamp of regretful death, I said hello.

“Never again.”

Still holding my hand against his lips, he looked at me and said.

“Don’t be in pain.”

I only nodded. It felt like I could see his pain too.

“You can’t leave me just because I failed to protect you once.”

I reached for him with my weak hand. He held it gently. When I wrapped my arms around his large frame, he buried his face deep in my neck. Like a child searching for comfort, he clung tighter to me.

The curtains fluttered in the breeze. I whispered to him.

“In a dream… I saw a painting.”

“What kind of painting?”

“A picture of my family, all happy together… We could’ve been happy. But I gave that up and came to you.”

“Good job.”

“…That’s all you have to say?”

“Want me to buy you a seaweed farm?”

It was so like him that I couldn’t help laughing, though my chest hurt. I couldn’t even laugh properly as I answered.

“No. Just for now…”

“For now.”

He hugged me tighter. I breathed in the faint trace of cologne that always lingered around him. Ah… the light sparkled against my eyes like the painting on the canvas.

“Stay with me like this.”

Even when tingling currents ran through my hand, I only held him tighter. The story of the demon king and the child hadn’t ended in happiness, but I had returned alive from the edge of death. Life might still be full of pain, but I learned it held more hope than the endless regrets of death.

“…Is everything really resolved?”

“For now, let’s just stay like this.”

“I want to know…”

“I became a loser, but I’m also a winner.”

His lips brushed mine.

“What does that mean?”

“On the outside, I lost. But inside, I won. Thanks to someone.”

I traced his lips in return and whispered.

“That’s cheating.”

I still couldn’t be sure about eternity, but I knew I had no regrets.

“How ironic.”

The arrogant man smiled. He was the demon king I had claimed.

[To be continued in Volume 7 (Joker track)]