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253 pages, Kindle Edition
Published September 30, 2026
‘May I tell you a story? It is the story of what happened to me in 1842, the year I turned nineteen by the Western reckoning—Have you heard of a country called Joseon? That is where I was born. It is a small, peninsular country—Who knows what its fate will be—I have heard its people are still fighting for their independence.’
‘Their reputation was also an issue, of course. To survive, they needed to develop a system for regularly summoning new outsiders—& then disposing (them) without leaving any evidence—Serving up their meals was my job.’
‘Until now, (they) had been the most wasteful carnivores in the world—What would happen if this unknown country—were to become the centre of world power? It was not what I wanted—I did not wish to see Joseon values &—culture conquer the world—a ruling class forever made of men like (them). Some worlds are fated to die—every thirty-one years I shed my skin—in every language I know. I no longer even feel like I am from Joseon.’
‘It sounds like a Cinderella story, but it was not—the man—arranged for me to marry was deficient in the head—We lived together for exactly eight months. His death was an accident—why shouldn’t a woman like living without a husband? I had a room of my own. For the first time in my life, I was clean, warm, and well-fed, and could sit by myself and do whatever I pleased without being interrupted. And yet they pitied me. Did they really not know how truly wretched life outside our gates could be? ‘
‘—the women below—were always occupied with the considerable amount of housework required to maintain such a large household. I was the only person who did not quite fit in any of these categories, and so was more of a hindrance than anything else—The slaves likewise ignored my directions and would not let me join them—Growing up in the hills—It was easy for me to find new things to do.’
‘—scholars’ homes always had many books in the men’s quarters, but I was neither interested in nor allowed to read those. Our household, however, also held over four hundred volumes in the women’s quarters, a huge collection by Joseon standards. Many of the books were handwritten copies of fiction and one, a sixty-volume novel set in China—I also turned my attention to bards at one point—I wish I could recreate those old Joseon songs for you, but the rhythms and melodies were never easy to memorise, and it has been so long since I heard them.’
‘I found both items amongst the junk left behind by my grandfather, so I presume—passed through the Qing Empire. Most—books had already been carted off or burned by his friends, but these two items and a small ceramic statue of the Virgin Mary I took and brought along—I made do with what I had—Though I lacked the context needed to fully comprehend it, I understood the book to be—attempt at explaining the difference between humans and beasts, a question that had deeply concerned him at the time. To me, having grown up in the hills, it seemed obvious that the answer would never be found by sitting indoors and redefining the meanings of Chinese characters. If you truly want to know how beasts differ from humans, shouldn’t you just go live with them?’
‘Once the night air had brought me to my senses, I realised why—Many Joseon people believed in ghosts even though that belief clashed somewhat with their Confucian worldview—I did not understand what was happening. But—my top priority was to stay away from them and protect the children—The slaves were helpless when faced with this onslaught. For them, the mere idea of standing up to yangban men was unthinkable.’
‘Words seemed unnecessary given the circumstances—What should I have done? I still wish I had screamed to warn them of the danger. They still would not have been able to escape, but at least I would have tried. Who knows? Had I done something, perhaps many more people would have survived. But I did not.’
‘Even more concerning than the fact that I was committing these crimes, was that I had begun to enjoy it. With an inhumanly strong body and enough money to do anything I wanted, I had the power to control people’s fates—all the privileges accorded only to men, and sharing in the knowledge that men kept to themselves—I will try to explain as best I can. There is a pair of Chinese characters, 理 (“i” in the Joseon language) and 氣 (“gi”).’
‘As soon as my eyes adjusted to the dark,—The first thing that caught my eye was the writing that sparkled in the moonlight along the wall. I approached and saw carved into the wall a Chinese poem in regulated verse that compared its author to the famous—poet Qu Yuan. The idea was unoriginal, but it was a good poem, brimming with honesty and power—Dawn had already tinged the sky a dark red—I returned to my building and began to toy with the saenghwang that had been lying in my room. I did not know how to play the instrument properly, so I just made sounds. I was preoccupied with terrible thoughts and did not have the presence of mind to draw or read.’
‘The least I could do was warn the villagers to prepare. Language was a problem. How could I describe—to these villagers? How could I convince the villagers to stand up to yangban?—I tried to explain to them what had happened to us in our village, but it was not easy. I had thought we might be able to communicate in writing through a Chinese interpreter they brought over, but the interpreter did not even know the meaning of the characters for yangban, which was to me the most basic of written words. Unable to convey my meaning in words, I attempted to relate my story through a series of several dozen drawings.’
‘I studied English frantically—A year later, I could speak it fluently, but still no one believed my story—Over the decades, I have learned—French, Vietnamese, Cantonese—I have written down my experience multiple times in every language I know. I wrote it as a memoir the first time, and thereafter as fiction. I tried out many styles, each retelling becoming more and more imaginative—I cannot guarantee the accuracy of the memoir you have just read. When I left Singapore, I lost the original memoir that I had written—the truth of the cruelty & inhumanity—experienced over a century ago.’
‘He doesn’t know much about politics, and never cared about the people starving or being executed—To understand his attitude, it’s important to know what happened—But was North—really any different from any of the other places the invaders had colonised? It was bound to happen somewhere, and North—just drew the short straw. He suddenly finds himself thinking about—Yeon-ah. Why now? Is it because he knows he has little chance of surviving the fight that awaits him? No, it’s only because there’s nothing else to do.’
‘‘I can’t let you kids die,’ Jinho says to Hyeonhwa—Not only does he know each child’s face and name, he knows their nicknames, their hometowns, their favorite foods. Not one of them can die. Yeongwu shouldn’t have died either. Even knowing that Yeongwu had placed them all in danger, Jinho couldn’t hate the dead kid. The kids were no longer fungible to him. While they had once been just a faceless group of bodies, now he saw them as individuals. ‘Uncle, what about you?’ asks Hyeonhwa. ‘I’m not going there to die,’ Jinho lies. Before leaving, Jinho leaves his treasured notebook with Hyeonhwa—Hyeonhwa understands what the gift means, but she doesn’t protest. She only cries, covering her mouth and pressing on her throat to stifle the sound.’
‘Jinho doesn’t really know why—He’s not some courageous philanthropist or altruist. In fact, he doesn’t even particularly like kids—Fleeing would have been easier without the kids, but then he would be stuck—with no real reason to live. At least this way he knows why he has to keep forging on: for the children. No matter what, he has to make sure the kids survive. And in order for that to happen, he has to survive as well. What could be more obvious than that?’
‘I want to tell you the story of—a woman who suffered incessantly for thirty-eight years from the tedious biases and casual malice—I doubt you’ll like it. The story contains good people who suffer unjustly; a miserable villain who dies before the drama even begins; and ordinary people who, in banding together, end up perpetrating an act of evil greater than anything their petty prejudices and general callousness might otherwise have instigated.’
‘Coming from a genuine storyteller, this would be a poignant tale. Coming from an honest one, it would teach you something meaningful. Either way, that story still needs an ending. I hope someone will be able to give it one someday. Preferably a happy one in which the heroine frees herself, achieves emotional and economic security, and is ultimately able to love her daughter without pain. But I am not going to tell you that story, for it would require an authenticity equal to the weight of its topic, and I now know that what I once thought to be true is nothing but a self-indulgent fantasy. Instead, I will tell you an entirely different kind of story—I doubt it will move or edify you. But it’s the only one I can tell without lying.’
‘What fascinated the Earthlings was what had happened next. The jungle began to examine their houses, machines, and libraries. It did not have any particular aim—it was probably just bored. It had time and nothing better to do. The many ways in which living organisms could be killed must have been interesting, but eventually the colonists were all dead and the jungle had to find other ways to amuse itself. The jungle did not have much interest in natural science—Its concern was purely utilitarian: it needed just enough scientific knowledge to operate the construction group’s machines and access the libraries. It was not interested in the sorts of things that it could figure out for itself; it wanted instead to learn about the lives of people on Earth. And the more sensational, explicit, and simple the stories were, the better. In that sense, the jungle was a bit like your stereotypical middle-aged housewife. It loved American and Latin American soap operas, twentieth-century Hong Kong and Taiwanese melodramas, and nineteenth-century Italian operas. But its absolute favorite stories were those that featured beautiful female protagonists suffering from unjust social oppression.’
‘Being on a planet one hundred and seventy-eight light-years away didn’t change the fact that I was connected to the Baba Yaga jungle—From the hotel room itself, which was already filled with Baba Yaga jungle particles sloughed off from my body. Shall I tell you something even better? Billions of these particles have taken up residence inside the bodies of everyone who’s ever inhaled or otherwise ingested them. Which means I can now control their brains and nerves—Please don’t do this, you say? For better or worse, it’s already happened. Did you hear about the island that suddenly appeared in the middle of the Pacific yesterday? Keep your tributes. I have no interest in lording over the universe. The Baba Yaga jungle has never had ambitions suitable for ultimate plans before either.’
‘Anyway, according to that article, human history has a purpose. But that purpose is not, as classical historicists would have it, to arrive at an ideal stateless society. The purpose of history is to produce what is necessary for each moment in time. If a particular age has not fulfilled its potential, it can be considered a failure. And it’s our job to make up for any such deficiency.’
‘Even if you claim your position is not deterministic, it reeks of eschatology. You are like those people who rush around trying to complete all you can before the world ends—You shamelessly push your opinions on me under nicknames such as Oedipus and Horace, and there’s something sinister about how you brazenly took advantage of Olivia’s creation and twisted it toward your own goals.’
‘‘I’ve heard that Terrans are violent. Didn’t they drive themselves to extinction? And don’t they sprout patches of fur and begin to stink when they mature? I’ve also heard that their beauty is ephemeral, that their faces distort and grow ugly over time. What then?’ The shopkeeper’s—smiled. ‘Ma’am, please. I assure you. I would never sell an unimproved Terran. My models never grow beyond seven years old. After they reach seven, they cease aging entirely. Moreover, their inclination toward violence has been adjusted, so that they won’t even kill insects. They can’t kill. That instinct has been blocked on a genetic level.’’
‘Of course, if someone with unlimited patience were to analyse his birth environment and genetics to ascertain the underlying causes that had shaped his personality and behavior, they might discover some excuse for these defects. But that didn’t change the fact that he’d often hit his wife and kids and, sometimes, had done even more terrible shit. Trash is trash, no matter where and how it became that way.’
‘To other children, appearing normal consisted of nothing more than a daily routine, but for Saebyeol it was the result of a brutal struggle for survival and camouflage. Even so, I can’t claim that Saebyeol’s behaviour was all fake. In fact, the kid really did maintain surprising composure even in the midst of—violence. Saebyeol didn’t hate him. To her, he was more like a natural hazard, one that stank, was unpleasant, and often proved deeply treacherous. Just as the meteorological administration staff forecasts weather, Saebyeol learned to predict—moods and figured out how to respond appropriately according to them.’
‘That’s the nature of this story. There’s really no reason to shoehorn a bunch of information into the middle here when it isn’t relevant to the progress of the story. Were people truly unaware of how Saebyeol and Saebom had lived? Certainly not. Many people had made assumptions about them to some degree. They just had never bothered to interfere—According to those people, in the end that amounted to a family issue, and even raising his children that way was pretty incredible given that their mom had run off and abandoned them—He had, after all, been a chatty man with whom the neighbours often had important business. Some people tried calling, but they couldn’t reach him, and nobody in the neighbourhood had heard any rumours regarding his whereabouts—If you want to lie well, you need to really understand what you’re lying about—I suppose it’s not necessary to answer all those questions.'
‘No matter how clever she was, she was still just a little kid—Tongyeong City, in South Gyeongsang Province. Not that this information really meant anything to Saebyeol—From the neighbourhood church to the shut-down factory and an abandoned old chicken coop in the junkyard, there was no spot they didn’t know about. Saebyeol’s slightly unique cultural preferences also formed under these conditions. The kid had never even laid hands on a Harry Potter book, but she’d read Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited and George Eliot’s The Mill on the Floss. She’d barely even heard of Super Junior—Why? It just happened that way. Saebyeol never got the chance to just sit still and stare at the TV because of him, so she mainly read books, specifically old books that had been sent to the junkyard for recycling. Even though she didn’t really understand them well, Saebyeol mostly devoured random classic novel translations inside the old chicken coop that she’d settled upon as her spot.’
‘Whenever she found a book that she fancied, she either paid a few hundred won for it to Mr. Kwon, a man with paedophilic tendencies who was quietly kind to little girls, or she pilfered it. One of the books she discovered there was a classical music guide—About six months after stealing this book, a nearby high school’s music teacher had briefly lived alone next door. This teacher has been completely taken in by the musical facts that Saebyeol had spouted to her. When this teacher moved abroad, she gifted Saebyeol her old twenty gigabyte third-generation iPod. It was an old, obsolete device that went dead after just two hours following a full charge—Even so, to Saebyeol it was the best gift she’d ever received in her entire life.’
‘The Scarecrow was singing about how wonderful it would be if he had a heart and could feel human emotions. Saebyeol picked up a Persian cat at her feet and walked out into the hallway, to a window that looked out over the city toward the southwest. She hummed the theme from the overture of Stravinsky’s Pulcinella to herself as she looked out over the potted lettuce plant on the frame of the window. The window glass reflected back the small, pale face of a kid who had begun to look more like a young lady, superimposed over a view of buildings across the street with their ever more broken windows, an empty road that still bore the clear, long bloodstains of the commandos who’d been ripped apart and devoured by zombies a few months ago, zombies slowly crawling outside and easily picking off weaker fellow zombies, and the evening sunset glow that painted the whole neighbourhood crimson for a few moments before slowly fading away. To herself, the kid thought, ‘How pretty.’’
‘How would you like this story to end? Solemn destruction? Fierce punishment of evil by good? A heartwarming, happy ending? Or a cold, open ending? Any of those would be fine. I can make any one of them happen. In the end, it’s all just a matter of where the story is cut off. What about me? A happy ending. I always want a happy ending. If you’re okay with that, let’s just go with a happy ending. Seoul was now a ghost city. No, wait, not just Seoul—surviving in an empty ghost city densely packed with zombies was the easiest thing that they had done so far. Zombies neither touched nor even saw them. This was all because of—Bellflower.’
‘From here on out, the story takes yet another turn. I’m not sure you will like this plot twist, so if you already feel you’ve heard enough, you should probably stop here. Know, however, that even if you do stop reading, you won’t be able to remain forever ignorant of what’s going to happen to me.’