March Novel - Chapter 1

“Oh, Sakura’s here?”

Maejo, whose face was beaming these days, as if he’d hooked a good sucker, crooked a finger at Sehwa. He wasn’t calling him over to take care of him. Sehwa knew it, but there was nowhere else to squeeze in except where Maejo was settled. Sehwa quietly sighed. His situation, where he couldn’t even choose a spot to warm himself by the drum barrel, suddenly felt pathetic. Well, has it ever been different in his life?

“Why are you walking so softly, like a starved kitten?”

Sehwa ignored Maejo’s taunt and carefully took a step. There was no way to tell if the liquid pooling on the floor was rainwater or corpse-rotted water. Of course, even if he tried his best, he wouldn’t be able to avoid getting his feet wet. The floor of the shoddily built warehouse was uneven, and murky puddles of unknown origin were scattered every few steps.

“Ugh…”

Sure enough, foul water splashed up to his ankles. A few of the “dajji” (gang members/thugs) warming their hands by the fire mocked Sehwa. It was as if they couldn’t understand why he bothered to avoid the filth every time, when there was only a difference of being slightly deeper or slightly less deep.

Regardless of whether the “gido” (youngsters/apprentices) laughed or not, Sehwa carefully moved his steps again. That was just his personality. He rushed into things even when he knew they wouldn’t work, and he sought new options until the very end, even when he knew he couldn’t change anything. To put it nicely, he had tenacity; to put it badly, he didn’t know his place.

Most people here looked at Sehwa with the latter perspective. Wasn’t that just how life outside the city walls was? The water pooling on the floor was wastewater anyway. No matter how much effort you put into it, it wouldn’t suddenly turn into holy water or champagne.

Still, Sehwa straightened his back. Even as he heard whispers like, “That whore, look at how he walks,” he maintained a straight posture and moved gracefully.

Of course, even Sehwa wasn’t much different from those who mocked him. He didn’t believe in God, but he believed in money. He had lived by wrapping thin lies around his tongue and face, selling everything he could. Just yesterday, he slipped several times the promised amount while injecting a customer’s arm with a needle. Sehwa was much more skilled at this kind of trickery than at “sharking” or “palming cards.”

He didn’t want to act noble given his circumstances. But they say not all trash is the same. He thought it wasn’t meaningless. Even if it was the same sewage, there was a big difference between food waste and corpse-rotted water, wasn’t there? So, at least, he just wanted to be recyclable trash. That’s why Sehwa tried not to make himself cheap. He didn’t walk around splashing foul water everywhere, nor did he spit phlegm just anywhere. Sometimes he paid fines for sick players, and if he saw hungry kids, he willingly emptied his pockets.

That meaningless struggle allowed Sehwa to survive until today.

This ambiguous hypocrisy allowed Sehwa to live as a human, not just trash outside the city walls.

“Hey, why does your face look like that every time I see it?”

A rough hand, with half its fingerprints worn off, roughly grabbed Sehwa’s face.

“You, who only has your face to offer, why do you keep wandering around looking like this? You’ll scare away all the customers.”

“What does it matter to you? I’m paying back my debts just fine.”

Sehwa calmly pushed away the unpleasant hand that was crushing his cheek.

“Don’t you ever look in a mirror? Even the suckers I’ve hooked will run away if they see you, you bastard.”

As Maejo pointed out, he didn’t look particularly good. He had repeatedly applied tanning spray to hide his pale skin, and his unkempt, shaggy hair was roughly combed back, making him look like a giant lollipop walking from a distance. And that wasn’t all. A crudely embroidered LV logo adorned his beige gingham check shirt, and the temple of his outdated sunglasses bore the incomprehensible brand name “Guggucci.” It was a combination of shoddy counterfeits that wouldn’t even sell in a market.

Such crude disguises were good for secretly crossing zones. A distracting appearance was better for covering up one’s features. Above all, the cheap tanning spray on his face worked surprisingly well. He still didn’t know the principle behind it. He merely speculated that one of the product’s ingredients might temporarily neutralize inspection devices.

“I heard you’re doing well these days? What are you doing with your money? Why don’t you buy some clothes?”

As he brushed off his shoulder, where his hand had touched, as if annoyed, a torrent of disgusting curses poured out. But Sehwa felt like he could live like this forever if he had to. Thanks to this clown-like disguise, he could sell drugs even beyond the zone. It was a remarkably shabby appearance that had helped him shed a significant portion of his debt. Moreover, his disheveled look had also driven away many of the annoying guys who used to pester him. Money was one thing, but it was incredibly convenient to be rid of the persistent pests.

It was Lieutenant Kim who taught Sehwa this crude trick. At first, he didn’t even know what kind of person he was. He wondered why someone who seemed rich and of good standing would be doing drugs here; that was the extent of his impression of Lieutenant Kim. Well, most of the customers who sought out houses outside the city walls were such people, so Sehwa didn’t pay much more attention. As long as he could make money, the customer’s status or occupation didn’t matter at all.

Then one day, that pathetic old man proposed an offer he couldn’t refuse.

Sehwa, who was leaving after finishing a particularly suspicious evening’s work, was suddenly grabbed by the hair by men who appeared out of nowhere. A few players who followed him out were startled to see Sehwa being dragged away and quickly pulled down the shop shutter, hiding.

It was so sudden that he couldn’t properly resist. Inside the black jeep, men with frightening faces sat guard. At a glance, they seemed to be on a different level from the thugs who usually guarded the house. They smelled like seasoned professionals who were accustomed to killing people.

Having assessed the situation, Sehwa gave up all resistance. There was nothing he could do, so he simply bowed his head meekly. Players often disappeared like this. It was sometimes the work of customers who had lost all their gambling money and gone berserk. Of course, the house knew all about it but tacitly condoned it. Whether the money was earned by selling a player’s organs or their body, as long as customers blinded by gambling and drugs could offer money to the house, that was all that mattered.

If he was going to fall further into hell, he hoped he would die without too much pain. He was crumpled up, thinking such thoughts… when, surprisingly, the jeep stopped in front of a checkpoint at the border of the 3rd Star. Even more surprising was,

‘Surprised? I thought you wouldn’t believe me if I told you who I was without bringing you here.’

His regular, pot-bellied drug addict customer greeted Sehwa with a bright smile.

Unlike when he visited the house, the man was dressed quite neatly and confessed that his rank was lieutenant. Lieutenant. Sehwa couldn’t even gauge how high of a rank that was. Anyway, Lieutenant Kim said he had something important to propose to him, which was why he had done this. Absurdly, as soon as Sehwa heard those words, electricity tingled from his toes. He acted calm, as if he had always been prepared for this, but in reality, he was extremely nervous.

He wanted to live, but was this really the end?

Even if he had to roll around like a rag, he wanted to live just a little longer. He didn’t want to die like this. He didn’t want a dog’s death, having his organs torn out while alive. He was disgusted with himself for harboring such cowardly thoughts, yet he yearned for it so desperately and intensely.

Perhaps interpreting Sehwa’s stiff expression, Lieutenant Kim uncharacteristically beat around the bush. He spoke of how he always valued his dexterity, how he had never seen anyone roll drugs as brilliantly as him, and how he liked that the goods he handled had a clean aftertaste… Only then did Sehwa’s tension completely release. It was a transparent ploy. It was obvious. Now he wanted him to sell his body along with the drugs.

Of course, he wanted to refuse. While those who didn’t know his circumstances well called him a male prostitute or a slut, Sehwa actually didn’t casually offer his body. It wasn’t that he had no experience. Sometimes, while administering drugs, he would intentionally create a sexual atmosphere. He was even quite skilled at calculating limited pleasures. However, he never offered himself to customers like a discounted item.

If he offered his body when the opportunity arose, business might be smoother. But the effect wouldn’t last long. Once customers tasted something for free, they would never pay full price. Instead, they would demand more and more. It wasn’t out of some grand fidelity to purity, but because he knew that such a business model wouldn’t last long in this industry, he tried hard not to be easily swayed.

But was there a way to refuse a customer who had even revealed his rank as a lieutenant? Did he even have a choice? Sehwa anxiously bit his lip. People were so fickle. Just moments ago, he had thought he only wanted to live, no matter what he had to do, but now he wanted to pick and choose.

This is why bloodlines are unavoidable, he thought. This is why he lived as a lower-class citizen outside the zone, paying off unknown debts. He had always preached about minimum dignity and self-respect, yet at the slightest threat, he threw everything away like a blade of grass. It was a disgusting and pathetic instinct.

‘Ah, no. I’m not going to ask for anything strange.’

Seeing Sehwa’s shoulders heave as he took a deep breath, Lieutenant Kim hastily waved his hand. He insisted he wasn’t proposing any dirty deal, but rather, if he joined hands with him, he could ward off all customers who made such demands, patting his chest.

‘Would you be interested in selling drugs with me? Even outside the zone. I mean, beyond the city walls. There are quite a few people waiting.’

And the condition Lieutenant Kim offered was…

“Oh? Sakura, long time no see?”

Odong, who had approached unnoticed, chuckled and patted Sehwa’s shoulder. Ha… As he swallowed a curse and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, Maejo started to pick a fight again.

“Damn it, don’t embarrass me. Why are you so prickly with your own family?”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?”

“Huh? Why not call Sakura, Sakura? What else should I call you?”

“Exactly. If you don’t want to be March, then kill someone else, right? Kill them and you can take that month.”

In this house, everyone from the manager down could have nicknames derived from Hwatu cards. January was Songhak, February was Maejo, November was Odong… and so on. Sehwa’s symbol was March. He was originally going to be Peony or Pampas Grass, but a Hwatu player called March suddenly died, and he inadvertently took on that mantle.

“Why do you keep bothering someone who doesn’t like it, hyung-nim? There’s also March Boy, and Redhead. Pretty Korean words, not those Japanese ones.”

Peony interjected. He was the player who had taken June, which could have been Sehwa’s. It’s always the one who breaks up the fight who’s more annoying than the one who starts it. Sehwa gave him a disgusted glance, and he pulled the poker he was stirring the bonfire with down to his lower abdomen and suggestively wiggled it.

Sehwa turned his head, as if to say he wouldn’t bother with him. It was an obvious provocation, a daily taunt. But just because he was used to it didn’t mean he was indifferent to being treated so poorly. He knew they wanted to see him get angry, so he just pretended to be unfazed, not wanting to be swayed by what they wanted.

Sakura, Redhead, and sometimes March Boy…

He had told them a hundred times not to call him by those nicknames, but no one, not a single debtor, sucker, or drug dealer, listened. Still, Sehwa never tired of saying it.

My name isn’t Sakura, nor Redhead, nor March Boy.

It’s Sehwa,

Lee Sehwa.

It was similar to how he always carefully walked across the warehouse floor, even though he knew it wouldn’t make much difference. If he didn’t get angry at himself and demand not to be treated carelessly, he felt like he would truly become such a low-class person.

Strangely, among the Hwatu cards, only March had no proper nickname. As Peony said, there was a beautiful Korean word for cherry blossom. But no one uttered that word. The people at the bottom firmly believed that uttering such refined words would damage their masculinity. Idiots. This place was full of shabby and pathetic people. Of course, Sehwa himself was no exception.

March.

To Lee Sehwa, March was a useless season. March was merely the tail end of winter. Even by perceived temperature, it was more appropriate to classify it as winter than spring. But it seemed he was the only one who thought so.

Ordinary people were busy celebrating new beginnings in March. Their children went to school, someone got married… For various reasons, customers’ gambling money and drug money flowed elsewhere. Thanks to this, the number of people who borrowed money increased, but the interest on those loans didn’t go to players like Sehwa anyway.

Why did the news praise March so much, for what good reason? Everyone became impoverished in this damn month. Everywhere, like a swarm of hungry ghosts, they only sang about money, money, as if there was nothing to eat or die for.