MBOMEN 04

Chapter 4. What Must Not Be Seen (4)
2023.12.04

The moment she placed her hand on his shoulder, Layla felt a strange heat burrowing beneath her fingernails. It was too faint to be called pain, but too real to be a hallucination. Even after pulling her hand away, the sensation lingered vividly.

What is this feeling?

Layla furrowed her brow, staring at her fingertips. There was something off about this man—something without form, but clearly present…

“This is the road to the village. Why do you ask?”

Lost in thought, Layla gave a disbelieving laugh at Yustar’s casual response.

“Why do I ask? You don’t get it? If I go back to the village now, I’ll be strung up on a tree by the angry townspeople. If I’m lucky, that’s all they’ll do. They’ll probably stone me to death or set the whole tree on fire.”

Though she was exaggerating a little, it was true that ever since the strange illness began spreading, the villagers had been itching to get their hands on her.

To walk willingly into the hands of those angry people—only someone out of their mind would do that.

Just as she was about to shake her head, Yustar let out a quiet laugh. It sounded amused—like he was teasing her.

“I think I get what you’re worried about. But Layla, this isn’t the Dark Ages anymore.”

Layla’s frown deepened. The “Dark Ages” referred to a time hundreds of years ago, now nothing more than dust—when disease, war, death, and screams reigned. People believed the first demon would rot the earth itself.

Terrified, people hunted down witches who lived alone deep in the forests, burning them in the name of God.

They would tie stones to their bodies and toss them into rivers, or stab hot iron rods under their arms. Outlandish and cruel methods of torture and execution were used—so brutal that even real demons would have flinched.

—But it was all foolishness, my dear.

Layla remembered her mother’s voice from long ago. Her mother used to comb Layla’s hair while rocking in her creaky chair and tell her those horrific stories in a calm tone.

—None of those poor women they killed were real witches. The only true witches… are us.

—But what if people try to kill us too, Mama?

Little Layla would ask, her voice trembling with fear. Her mother would gently stroke her hair with thin, soft but firm fingers.

—Don’t worry, Layla. Real witches never die by human hands. That was just a delusion of the Dark Ages. Folly and darkness seeped into the air, clouded people’s eyes, twisted their minds. Humans no longer know what a true witch is. But of course…

What had her mother said next?

“Are you alright?”

Yustar’s voice snapped Layla out of her thoughts.

She blinked, like waking from a deep sleep, then bit her lip as the end of their previous conversation came back to her.

“It might not be the Dark Ages, but the village of Ridgikus is still buried in darkness.”

“That may be true. But as long as you’re with me, you’ll be fine, Layla. None of the things you’re imagining will happen. I promise.”

Once again, Layla had no choice but to agree with Yustar. She had spent her life avoiding people and distrusting them. Yet, this inexplicable pull toward him was something even she couldn’t understand.

As they turned down the mountain path and approached the village entrance, a chill ran down Layla’s spine.

The village, shrouded in silence and darkness, felt like a hungry beast lying in wait—its jaws open to devour her.

Even after entering the narrow village road, the eerie silence remained. Few windows glowed with light, and every house was tightly shut.

Outside every door, bundles of dried pomegranate flowers and camphor branches were strung up. Some homes even had the corpse of a dead lamb hanging upside down.

From the few animal pens, neglected livestock let out long, pained cries.

“They’re using very old banishment rites,” Yustar noted, eyeing a lamb’s rotting corpse with curiosity.

Layla turned away, not wanting to see the grotesque sight. Her voice was curt. “None of that works. Thinking they can ward off spirits with that stuff… it’s just ignorance.”

“From the way you speak, it sounds like you’ve tried it before.”

Layla’s lips pressed into a line. After a moment of silence, she spoke.

“I never killed a lamb. Couldn’t afford one, anyway.”

“Dried pomegranate flowers and camphor branches can help—if used properly. They’re more effective with a consecration ritual. Though now that I think of it… there’s no church in this village, is there?”

“It’s a very small place,” Layla replied.

And isolated, she thought.

The village of Ridgikus was cut off from the outside world. Technically, outsiders could enter and leave freely—as Yustar had—but the feeling of isolation never left. No matter who came or went, it always felt like…

A stagnant pond with no water flowing in or out.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Layla’s anxiety grew. Fresh wooden gravestones lined the area next to homes with no lights on. And there weren’t just a few. The size of the mounds showed clearly—they weren’t for adults.

Yustar saw what Layla saw but showed no fear or tension. He strode forward with determined purpose.

After walking as if to circle the entire village, he stopped behind a secluded house.

Dim candlelight flickered through a window too grimy to see through. A shadow moved inside, as if someone was carrying a candle.

Then they both saw the gravestone in the backyard corner. It was freshly made, and the soil over it had not yet settled.

“This will do,” Yustar said.

Layla couldn’t tell if he was speaking to her or muttering to himself.

She stood a few steps away, quietly watching what he did. In truth, it was all she could do.

He reached into his bag, unbothered by the pitch darkness, and pulled something out.

It glittered momentarily in the starlight—it looked like a glass bottle. When Yustar clasped it tightly, the contents gave off a pale light.

“What’s that?” Layla asked.

Yustar exhaled slowly and opened his hand, but didn’t answer. Instead, he uncorked the bottle and poured its contents onto the gravestone.

What is he doing…?

Layla watched like a helpless child as the liquid trickled down the grave. The wood of the carved marker turned black, as though absorbing the darkness.

And then something appeared—from the center of the grave marker.

Layla was so shocked, she couldn’t even scream. Tiny, white handprints began to cover the grave. They appeared impossibly fast, making soft slapping and cracking sounds like skin hitting stone.

They filled the grave marker, as though about to break it apart and collapse the soil over the coffin.

“Good heavens…”

Layla stumbled back, tripping on something with a loud crash. A long stick rolled across the ground.

She had bumped into the mixing pole. Its contents were likely spilled—but that didn’t matter.

All her attention was on the handprints now crawling past the grave toward the dark woods.

“W-What is this…?”

Yustar glanced at her.

“What… what is this?” she repeated, voice shaking.

“It’s a trace,” Yustar said. “A trace left behind by the source.”

“A trace…?”

Then—

Clatter!

A loud noise made Layla shriek. Instinctively, she grabbed her skirt and rushed closer to Yustar.

“Who the hell’s there?!”

A man’s ragged breath and the stench of liquor filled the air. The homeowner raised a grimy oil lamp toward them.

In his other hand, Layla saw it—a giant rolling pin, heavy enough to knock down a bull.

“You witch!”

His neck bulged with rage. He flung the lamp aside and raised the pin to smash Layla’s head. But before he could take a step, Yustar’s hand sliced through the air with a whoosh.

“AAAGH! What the—?! What did you do, you witch?!”

A thick black smoke, darker than the night, engulfed the man’s vision. As he stumbled back, Yustar grabbed Layla’s hand and ran.

No—he wasn’t just running. It felt like flying. Layla realized her feet weren’t even touching the ground.

“WITCH! Where are you?! You killed my daughter, and you think you’ll get away with it?! I’ll gouge out your eyes! Smash your skull! Come out!”

The man’s shouts echoed through the quiet village.

But his house, his figure, even the lamplight were gone—as if a second layer of darkness had erased that part of the world.

“What was that just now?” Layla shouted.

The wind rushing past her ears sounded like arrows flying. But Yustar replied calmly, as if out for a stroll.

“It’s called a Borrowed Night.”

“A magic tool? You didn’t kill him, did you?!”

“Of course not. It just briefly blocks the target’s vision. Doesn’t last long—still in testing.”

Only once they had entered the deeper forest did Yustar slow down. The change was sudden and quiet.

Layla thought for a moment that time itself had stopped. But no—it was just that she was practically cradled in his arms as they walked slowly now.

The same small handprints they’d seen on the gravestone continued into the woods. Some even looked like they’d smeared blood.

Yustar stopped in front of the last handprint and let out a low hum.

“The trace ends here.”