Chapter 26
Modified Magic System
I wasn't particularly impressed by the newly revamped Gyeonggi regional currency—military scrip—introduced to deal with the encroaching fog of 2028.
After all, I figured the military could just print more whenever it wanted. As a civilian operator, I received 70 military scrip for completing a single mission, and inflation seemed inevitable.
So I thought I'd make the most of it while I could.
Turns out, it wasn't that easy.
Whoever designed this military-scrip economy had clearly put a lot of thought into controlling inflation. They were remarkably good at pulling currency back out of circulation. Let's start with the civilians.
Standing by the first-floor window, I casually glanced outside.
Boxes of supplies were stacked on trucks like the legendary "golden carriage" people used to talk about from old military days. Military police stood guard in front of them, glaring at civilians with their rifles at the ready. An officer from the logistics branch stood in the center, flipping through a binder of documents.
In front of them stood a whiteboard displaying the day's inventory.
People would line up holding tickets—military scrip—bearing the rank, name, signature, and seal of an approving commander. They handed them over to the officer, who then ordered soldiers to retrieve and distribute the requested goods.
As far as I understood, the military-scrip economy worked like this:
Ordinary civilians received an average of two military scrip per day for labor that contributed to the military effort. They could then purchase a standard daily supply package for one military scrip.
The package contained two 2-liter bottles of water, five packs of instant noodles, and three packs of instant rice.
If they brought dependents and could prove they were supporting them, they received an additional 100-gram convenience-store kimchi pack, one bottle of water, and one more pack of instant rice.
A container of kimchi from the side-dish shop cost one military scrip.
A set of common medications such as cold medicine cost three.
Two shirts cost one.
A pair of jeans cost one.
Essential goods were all priced fairly—and reasonably—cheaply.
The masterpiece, however, was cigarettes and alcohol.
A pack of cigarettes cost one military scrip regardless of brand.
A bottle of soju or a can of beer also cost one.
Anyone who smoked or drank was basically doomed in times like these.
The most expensive item, however, was evacuation priority.
The Gyeonggi Province region, which served as the secondary containment line, now relied on Suwon and Gapyeong as major supply hubs. Military units had been deployed along major roads to prevent people from fleeing into Gangwon or Chungcheong Provinces while controlling logistics and distribution.
Anyone attempting to cross the perimeter without authorization was classified as a potential amalgam and subject to immediate execution.
Calling it "evacuation priority" was misleading.
It was really an evacuation permit.
And that permit cost 100 military scrip per person.
According to Lieutenant Shin Han-gi, there was a reason for the pricing.
"You need order if you want to maintain infrastructure, recruit workers to support military logistics, and keep actual infected people among the refugees under control. It might feel unfair... but it's better than having no system at all, right? At least the standards are clear."
In short, the crime of Gyeonggi residents was that they lived in Gyeonggi.
Just as the crime of Seoul residents—currently rubbing shoulders with amalgams and going on dates with Devouring Spines in Seoul—was simply living in Seoul.
And damn it, the crime of all Koreans was being born in Korea and becoming the first humans ever attacked by those monstrous bastards.
In this cold military-scrip wartime economy, even civilian operators couldn't escape the logic of capitalism.
Sighing, I turned away from the exhausted people hauling boxes outside and headed toward the cafeteria.
The entrance wasn't much different.
A quartermaster sitting lazily behind a table and chair yawned before extending his palm the moment he saw me.
"Operator Baek Jemin. One military scrip for a three-meal cafeteria pass."
"I risked my life earning these scrip. The food's good today, right?"
"Depends on the cook..."
Civilian operators earned far more military scrip than ordinary civilians.
The Combined ROK-U.S. Command had given this considerable thought. Operators were encouraged to participate in missions and received top-priority supplies. But wouldn't it be frustrating if they earned a fortune and then spent their days lounging around?
So in exchange for that autonomy, independence, military support, and generous military-scrip payments, operators were expected to pay their fair share.
At least my situation wasn't too bad.
I grabbed a tray and helped myself to spicy stir-fried pork, young radish kimchi, and seasoned bean sprouts from the buffet line before filling a bowl with radish soup.
Then I revealed my secret weapon.
A can of Richam luncheon meat left over from yesterday.
I scooped out a spoonful, placed it on top of my rice, broke it apart, and carefully resealed the can.
One can of Richam—or Spam—cost one military scrip.
Thankfully, the nameless colonel who had taken a liking to me arranged for two cans a week to be supplied free of charge.
As I was appreciating my good fortune, my turban-wearing friend approached.
"Mr. Baek Jemin. Could I have a spoonful of Spam?"
"I... really miss Spam."
At that moment, I became convinced that Hamza truly possessed some kind of doctrinal magic.
The Guidance of Angels had to be real.
I immediately gave him a spoonful of Richam.
Respect welled up inside me. Hamza never let even the smallest statement slide casually. Looking back, the guy never even showed his face in truly dangerous places.
I could have argued that it wasn't Spam and therefore didn't count.
But there was no way I was going to pick a fight with someone possessing such an absurd ability.
After strengthening our friendship with a single spoonful of luncheon meat, we ate heartily and chatted.
"Mr. Hamza. Don't you sense anything from me?"
"I'm not sure if I should say this..."
"Go ahead. I'm not that sensitive."
"You're dangerous, Mr. Baek Jemin. I have a feeling it would be safer not to accompany you when you go collect your military scrip."
"What? Maybe your angel is giving you bad directions."
"No. This feeling... I'm sure it's guidance from the angel. You're not a bad person, Mr. Baek Jemin, but it says being around you too much is dangerous."
Judging from that conversation, however, Hamza's Guidance of Angels wasn't perfect either.
After finishing our meal and cleaning up our trays, we said goodbye and parted ways.
While walking through the hallway, I pulled out my cracked phone to check the time and calculate my expenses.
February 22, 2028 — 12:52 PM
Ten days of cafeteria use had cost me ten military scrip.
If I wanted to keep eating there, I'd need to reserve twenty more as emergency funds.
That left forty military scrip to spend.
An AR-15 was out of reach by about ten scrip.
After much debate among the command staff, the rifle's price had ultimately been set at fifty military scrip. Even if I could afford it, buying an AR-15 instead of sticking with the K2 I already knew felt questionable.
Still, according to previous buyers, pistols were relatively affordable.
As I wandered into what used to be a welfare office and was now a military surplus store, Lieutenant Shin Han-gi greeted me with a yawn.
"Oh, Operator."
"I'm here to check pistol prices."
"Hmm. Having a sidearm isn't bad, but a rifle would be better."
"Pistols are cheaper, aren't they?"
"Haha..."
He led me over to a weapons rack and demonstrated various models, working the slides and inspecting chambers while explaining features.
His conclusion shocked me.
"Even pistols cost forty military scrip?"
"Too many firearms circulating would be inconvenient from the military's perspective. We also worry about operators smuggling guns, so the entry price is intentionally high. But!"
"But?"
"If you purchase a reliable pistol like a Glock 19, the standard-issue K5, or a SIG, you'll receive a promotional bonus. One box of fifty FMJ rounds and one box of twenty-five JHP rounds suitable for actual combat."
A promotional bonus.
Was this American culture at work?
Unable to respond, I covered my mouth and stared.
Lieutenant Shin Han-gi grinned.
"Pretty harsh, right? At least we don't charge foreign currency. And we do offer plenty of products and services that are actually useful."
"Let's hear them."
"Upgrading your standard K2 twenty-round magazine to a thirty-round magazine costs five military scrip. Two grenades cost five. Ammunition-loading service—where we load your magazines for you instead of handing over boxed rounds—costs three per visit. CBRN decontamination kits are three each. Medical first-aid kits are three each..."
Thunk.
I raised my hand and shook my head.
Was this really South Korea?
Then again, military scrip was meaningless unless spent.
After a brief moment of consideration, I raised a finger.
"Fine. Upgrade the magazine. Six grenades. One decontamination kit. One first-aid kit."
"Twenty-six military scrip. Excellent. Would you also like a gas mask and filters? You'll receive standard issue anyway, but spending scrip gets you better equipment."
"How much?"
"A K-5 gas mask costs ten military scrip. Filters are two each."
"Then one gas mask and two filters. That makes..."
Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Lieutenant Shin Han-gi tucked the binder under his arm and applauded enthusiastically.
"Forty military scrip. We'll deliver everything to your quarters."
"..."
"Don't worry. Delivery is free. We'll have soldiers bring it by tomorrow."
Seeing my expression, he tapped the binder and chuckled.
"We already provide basic supplies. Standard ROK Army 5.56mm ammunition is issued free. We only charge military scrip when you don't want to load magazines yourself."
"Couldn't you just give me loaded magazines?"
"Operator Baek Jemin, think about it. Suppose we hand out American-made firearms and ammunition for free. What's stopping someone from claiming they lost them and asking for replacements? The military doesn't want firearms flooding civilian hands. There's no guarantee every operator will be as honest as you."
"Ugh."
"And you're a civilian operator. If the military gave civilians firearms and military supplies completely free of charge, we'd get into trouble. You're not soldiers. You enjoy freedom and considerable autonomy. Simply having access to military equipment and the right to purchase it is already a privilege. Of course, there is a way to receive everything completely free."
"There is?"
"If you volunteer as a specialist and head to the front lines—the Seoul containment line..."
"To hell with that. I'm leaving."
"Take care."
Leaving the smiling lieutenant behind, I walked away.
The military-scrip economy showed no mercy, even to operators.
And I wasn't the only one feeling the sting.
As I approached a room from which prayers could be heard, I spotted Pastor Park Yohan and Monk Cheonghwi sitting across from each other, engaged in a deeply serious discussion.
"Pastor, what are you doing?"
"Oh, Baek Jemin. Back to study again, are you? As it happens, Monk Cheonghwi is here too."
"I'm glad to see you're in good health, benefactor."
What a remarkable sight.
Who would've thought the day would come when a pastor who used to smash statues of Dangun for being idols would be sitting face-to-face with a Buddhist monk?
That's just how screwed the world had become.
I pulled up a chair and sat down at the table between them, looking over the strange symbols and diagrams piled across its surface.
"Still obsessing over weird numbers?"
"It's called numerology, you brat. It's dubious, heretical nonsense, sure, but what if the Lord left clues in it?"
"Though fanciful, assigning meaning to numbers is something all people have in common."
The perceptive would realize it immediately.
The three greatest masters among us—those boasting the most astonishing achievements and intellect—were independently researching the possibility that the Modified Magic System was actually an occult and mystical art.
Between February 12th and February 22nd, I hadn't spent my time merely cursing the military-scrip economy.
Under the leadership of Pastor Park Yohan, who had brought back knowledge of all manner of primitive occult practices from Pyeongtaek, and the level-headed Monk Cheonghwi, who possessed sound judgment, I'd served as an advisor due to having mastered more Modified Magic than anyone else.
Together, we'd been exploring its mysteries.
And February 22nd marked the first day all three of us had synchronized our schedules to meet.
There was no way I could miss an opportunity to share knowledge, debate theories, and pile speculation upon speculation regarding magic.
The problem was that, contrary to my expectations, the discussion was filled with what sounded like complete nonsense.
"Pastor, I shot my left hand because I'm right-handed. Let's not read too much into it."
"You ignorant fool! Omens, revelations, and signs don't manifest as obvious phenomena. Interpretation is what matters. Of course, if you firmly believe in and follow the Lord, you don't need any of this nonsense—but you don't, do you?"
Pastor Park jabbed the table repeatedly with his finger.
Meanwhile, Monk Cheonghwi calmly intervened.
"You described it as a hand-related lineage, did you not? You also said it symbolizes human intelligence."
"Yes. That's right."
"Hey. Why are you always so polite to the bald monk?"
Pastor Park's grumbling finally pushed me to respond.
"Try managing Shin Na-in first."
"That guy isn't even part of my church! What management? A pastor isn't any different from a layperson!"
"Hmm. He says he wants to join. What's the point of turning away someone who wants to become youth group leader?"
Ignoring the pastor's outrage, I turned back to the monk.
With an awkward smile, Monk Cheonghwi formed a mudra with his hands.
"In Buddhism, hand gestures and postures possess important meanings. Allow me to give an example.
Raising the right hand to shoulder level with the palm facing outward is called the Abhaya Mudra. It symbolizes the dispelling of fear and anxiety.
The left hand commonly paired with it is called the Varada Mudra. The palm faces outward and downward, signifying the Buddha's willingness to grant wishes."
He demonstrated the posture himself before bringing his hands together again.
"In Buddhism, the right hand often represents skillful means, salvation, and action, while the left hand represents wisdom, meditation, and cultivation.
Nor is this unique to Buddhism. Worshippers of Brahma and various celestial deities frequently assign separate meanings to the right and left hands.
Given such examples, the fact that the first stage of your hand-lineage magic injured a monster using blood drawn from your right hand appears to possess some kind of causal significance."
At last, I nodded and pulled out my notebook.
In this absurd military-scrip economy, I'd managed to secure a pen and notebook through a formal complaint demanding that at least those should be free.
I began writing.
- Buddhism: Right hand often emphasizes salvation and action. Left hand often emphasizes cultivation and meditation.
"Christianity also places significance on the right side and right hand," Pastor Park added. "Even the Lord's Prayer mentions sitting at the Lord's right hand. The right hand frequently symbolizes divine authority and order. Many stories of healing demonstrate this. It often represents blessing and power.
The left side, meanwhile, tends to carry negative connotations. Matthew 25:41, Judgment Day: 'Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.' Because of that, the left hand also acquires negative symbolism."
Scratch scratch.
- Crazy Christians. The right hand often symbolizes divine authority and order. The left hand isn't especially important, except for that implication that people standing on the left get tossed into hellfire on Judgment Day.
"Hey! What's with 'Crazy Christians'?!"
Despite the minor interruption, there was clearly a connection.
Both Buddhism and Christianity associated the right hand with action.
Whether it was divine authority or salvation, both implied active intervention.
The bigger problem was verifying the first-stage hand magic through experimentation.
Thanks to the unnamed colonel's protection, I had avoided becoming a laboratory specimen or a walking blood bag for desperate frontline situations.
But that also meant drawing too much attention would likely result in unwanted surveillance.
For that reason, I decided not to provide my right-hand blood to the military.
Fortunately, Monk Cheonghwi quietly nodded in approval.
"If one cannot govern oneself yet seeks good deeds, then it is not salvation one pursues but misguided vanity. Not cultivation, but attachment and delusion. This humble monk respects your judgment."
"And what if the effect has a time limit?" Pastor Park added. "Imagine soldiers charging monsters because they trust your blood, only for the effect to wear off and get them killed."
The problem was that there was no visual effect.
The blood looked exactly like ordinary blood.
No glow.
No special scent.
Just to be sure, I pricked my finger with a needle in front of them.
The result was exactly as expected.
"It's really just blood. Not blue. Not glowing neon. Just dark red blood."
"Hmm..."
Neither of them could tell the difference.
Meaning the only way to test it was against actual monsters.
Which was, naturally, insane.
"Wait a second. That capillary-vine monster tried burrowing into your skin and attaching itself to your blood vessels? And you just let it?"
"How else was I supposed to grab it and smear blood on it?"
"You are completely insane."
"Worked, didn't it? One-turn kill."
"Baek Jemin, when that moment comes, most people would rather pull a grenade pin and blow themselves up than offer a monster their arm."
"Namo Amitabha..."
Despite their exasperation, we continued discussing the incident.
Eventually we reached several tentative conclusions.
- Since gripping the blood-soaked web caused damage to the entire capillary network on the ceiling, physical contact appears to affect the monster's entire body.
- Since it didn't die instantly, the effect is likely damage over time. The amount of damage may vary depending on exposure level or how heavily the monster relies on blood-like bodily fluids.
- It's unclear whether simply splashing blood works, but assuming dried blood loses effectiveness seems safer.
- It's unclear whether refrigeration preserves the effect. However, from both occult and religious perspectives, blood commonly symbolizes life. Once it loses warmth and becomes cold like a corpse, its power may weaken dramatically or disappear entirely.
After discussing practical effects, the conversation shifted toward the hand-lineage magic symbol itself.
Five lines in one set.
Another five in a second set.
Crossing vertically and horizontally.
Actually looking at the symbol caused nausea, so we relied entirely on imagination.
Fortunately, imagining it seemed harmless.
Both the pastor and the monk remained perfectly fine as they discussed it.
"It sounds like some kind of chart."
"Two sets of five intersecting vertically and horizontally..."
Though none of us drew it, we all envisioned something similar.
Then Pastor Park, drawing upon the forbidden knowledge he'd learned in Pyeongtaek, began flipping through his notebook.
Despite wearing thin-rimmed glasses, he kept bringing the pages close to his face, licking his thumb and turning page after page.
I was pressing my wounded finger to stop the bleeding when—
"Oh, found it. Numerology. What you're describing is basically a 5×5 grid, right?"
"Yes. Why?"
"I think your intuition that hand-lineage magic symbolizes human intelligence might actually be correct. The meaning of the symbol is suspiciously significant.
In numerology, the number five symbolizes dynamism, change... and humanity itself.
Five times five equals twenty-five.
Now let's see what twenty-five means..."
I frowned.
Could we really trust this nonsense?
Then I sighed.
Hell.
When Seoul was covered in fog, amalgams existed, Devouring Spines existed, and unnamed ceiling-dwelling capillary-net monsters existed...
Maybe bizarre number mysticism could actually be right.
Rejecting possibilities while researching magic would be foolish.
Baek Jemin decided to become a more open-minded man.
It was then that Monk Cheonghwi spoke.
"In Buddhism, the number five corresponds to the Five Aggregates: form, sensation, perception, mental formations, and consciousness.
Together they comprise a human being.
Likewise, the number twenty-five refers to the Twenty-Five Realms of Existence into which sentient beings are classified.
If the hand-lineage symbol truly points to five and twenty-five, such causality cannot be ignored."
"The monk's not entirely wrong..."
Pastor Park reluctantly admitted while staring at his notes.
"In numerology, twenty-five is called the Seeker's Number.
Two often symbolizes relationships and intuition.
Two plus five equals seven.
And these people claim seven is the perfect number because it's the Trinity—three—combined with the four elements or four directions.
The spirit settling perfectly into the body.
Using the Trinity for this kind of thing is outrageous, but still..."
Even I was starting to think there might be something here.
The three of us exchanged glances.
After a moment's thought, we brought up the eye-lineage magic symbol as well.
"That eye symbol looked like a distorted square stuffed inside a triangle, right? That's why you called it the 'seven-corner shape.'
Ridiculous. Completely insane. But..."
"I suspect some form of intuition was involved," said Monk Cheonghwi. "The number seven can represent the Seven Steps the Buddha took immediately after birth. It also refers to the Seven Factors of Enlightenment."
"So humanity's number, five, multiplied by humanity's number, five, gives twenty-five.
And twenty-five breaks down into two plus five, producing seven.
A number associated with enlightenment and perfection."
The three of us stared at one another.
None of us said it aloud.
But by this point, it felt like there really was something there.
Even so, I was the first to state a conclusion.
"According to a numerological interpretation of the hand-lineage symbol, the Modified Magic System is some kind of secret art designed to perfect the five components that make up a human being.
A preparation process for attaining completeness."
"Hand, ear, eye, heart... and likely one undiscovered lineage," Pastor Park added.
"In that case," said the monk, "it is highly probable there are five stages as well. Numbers this deliberate are unlikely to be arranged without purpose."
It was still only speculation.
But one thing seemed certain.
The Modified Magic System was connected to humanity itself.
And from a combination of logic leaps and numerological coincidences, we could begin to guess its structure.
Five lineages. Five stages.
As the outline gradually emerged, my heart began pounding.
Excitement and exhilaration tugged at the corners of my mouth.
Was this how seekers of mysteries felt?
The joy of approaching omnipotent power even as the world collapsed?
Because I still had...
Twenty-two more spells left to learn!