On a summer afternoon, as torrential rain poured down, a large black frame hung in the middle of a cold wall. Inside, the photograph of the deceased rested among pure white flowers. Though the face in the picture bore a peaceful smile, the surrounding floral arrangements exuded an unnatural, somber aura.
Amidst the sea of white flowers and black ribbons, their scent mixed with the heavy fragrance of incense, spreading a deep bitterness through the air.
A man clad in a police uniform entered the funeral hall. He raised his hand in salute to the deceased’s portrait, his face contorted with grief and stained with tears, before turning to the bereaved family.
There, standing alone, was a young boy—barely nine years old.
The only son of the late detective Kang Hyung-woo of the violent crimes division, and the eldest grandson destined to carry on the Jinju Kang family line.
“Haean, snap out of it, child.”
Haean. A name carrying his father’s wish for him to live as peaceful as the calm sea.
Yet now, Haean was witnessing firsthand how his father’s harsh, relentless life had been mercilessly swept away by an unforgiving tide.
“Who… who killed him?”
“What?”
“My dad. Who killed him, Uncle?”
Haean gripped the mourning armband wrapped around his left arm. His father, always steadfast like a mountain, had been his guiding light, his only safe haven. The boy could not accept his father’s sudden death.
“I’ll explain everything later…”
“When is later?”
“…”
“When will you tell me? When I’m an adult? By then, will I understand why I had to become a monster that devoured his own parents?”
At Haean’s outcry, the murmuring guests fell silent.
“My sick mom died giving birth to me, and Dad died trying to support me, didn’t he? If it weren’t for me, Mom wouldn’t have died, and Dad wouldn’t have had to go into such dangerous crime scenes…! Hic…”
“No, that’s not true.”
Detective Woo Kwan-soo, Kang Hyung-woo’s closest friend and only partner, struggled to keep his own emotions in check.
“I’ll take care of you. That was Hyung-woo’s final wish.”
Woo Kwan-soo pulled the sobbing Haean into a firm embrace. Tears streamed down his face as he spoke.
“From now on, I’m your father, Haean.”
Haean weakly nodded and reached for the keepsakes his father had left behind. Clutching an old, framed pocket watch with a faded family photo inside, the boy gritted his teeth and made a silent vow.
I’ll become a police officer like Dad. I’ll find out the truth behind his unjust death.
—
From afar, a woman observed the tragic scene in silence. Her crimson lips curled into a smirk as she crushed the marble floor beneath the heel of her expensive black designer shoes.
“I wondered where he was hiding like a rat.”
Unlike the natural flow of time in the human realm, the time surrounding her was eerily still, as though frozen in place.
“I finally found him.”
Clad in an elegant yet striking black dress, with lace gloves adorning her arms, she folded her arms and fixated her gaze on a single point.
“Armed Monk”
Her blood-red eyes locked onto the young boy, barely nine years old—Haean.
“That damned reincarnation of my ex-husband.”
For 979 long years.
She had neither truly lived nor died, bearing all her sorrow and resentment. And now, those emotions were beginning to stir—at an agonizingly slow pace.
—
Twenty years later.
In front of a traditional Korean hanok, a long line stretched endlessly along the stone wall path.
They had all gathered from across the country to meet one woman, each waiting desperately for their turn with their hands clasped in silent prayers.
“Number 77. You may enter.”
A young man in a sharp black suit, with striking features, gestured toward a wooden number plaque. A mother and son stepped forward as they were led by a man whose piercing blue eyes gleamed under the sunlight.
“If you’re already this stiff, how will you manage?”
As they walked across the wooden floor, the young man turned his head, observing the stark contrast between the mother’s desperate gaze and the son’s lifeless, withered face. He met the mother’s eyes and gave a cryptic smile.
“From now on, you will witness the deep-rooted history of the celestial realm firsthand. Do not be too surprised.”
With those words, the man slid open a paper-covered wooden door. The mother and son stood in stunned silence at the grand, traditional beauty of the sacred hall.
And then, a sharp voice rang out from within, muffled behind a pure white folding fan.
“Time is infinite, but human life is not. Do you not understand this?”
“Pardon…?”
“If you plan to stand there looking dazed, I’ll throw you out of my shrine immediately.”
At the harsh words of the temperamental shaman, the mother quickly dragged her son to kneel before the divination table.
When the woman finally lowered the fan, the middle-aged mother showed a puzzled expression. The shaman’s face was unexpectedly young and strikingly beautiful, dressed not in traditional robes but in comfortable loungewear.
“Just from a glance, I can see your family has been blessed with wealth. Your granaries must have never run empty, passing prosperity down for generations.”
With a bored expression, the shaman picked up a sacred bell and gave it a careless shake. The clear chime resonated through the hall. Then, she abruptly stopped and scoffed.
Her gaze turned razor-sharp.
“Foolish woman. Your son is already dead. What marriage are you hoping to arrange?”
The mother gasped in horror.
“W-What are you saying?!”
“I mean exactly what I said. Your son is dead.”
“No! My son is right here, alive! What nonsense—!”
As the mother frantically shook her son’s shoulders, the shaman abruptly smacked the young man’s arm with her folded fan and rose to her feet.
“A mere sujaryeong (a ghost of an unborn child) dares to be so bold?”
A strange power radiated from the shaman’s crimson eyes.
“You should know exactly who I am.”
As the mother trembled uncontrollably, the lifeless young man beside her lowered his head.
“Thirty-five years ago,” the ghost inhabiting the son’s body murmured in a chilling voice, “simply because I was born a daughter, my parents… tore me apart inside the womb.”
—
“I suppose I should introduce myself.”
The shaman, crossing her arms, smirked with her vividly painted red lips.
Though she lived as a mortal shaman, she had endured servitude under the Jade Emperor for a thousand years.
“I am none other than the Barigongju recorded in the Annals of the Joseon Dynasty.”
The 21st-century shaman, Kim Bari.
“You wretched woman, unfit to be a mother, deserving of divine punishment.”
She was the seventh princess of King Ogu and Queen Gilda, the gatekeeper of hell, and the wife of Martial Monk.
—
Detective Kang Haean flipped through the case file with his usual blank expression.
It’s her again.
Reading his disapproving gaze, Bari chuckled and leaned back smugly.
“Hey, have you been well?”
Ignoring him, she continued with a playful smirk.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already? You were once my husband, you know.”
Lowering her designer sunglasses, she arched an impish brow.
Hae-an, unimpressed, responded in his usual deadpan tone.
“Get out.
