Chapter 01 …
Sola Lemegeton
1. The Magician Shulêiman
Even though I’d decided to ignore it, that spirit kept nagging at me. It was like an itch I couldn’t quite scratch.
Why, of all things, would someone trying to lure a person in Korea open with, “I’m actually Solomon…”? If it were truly a being experienced at beguiling humans, it wouldn’t speak like that. Who on earth would fall for something so blatant?
“Almost late.”
I’d been walking, lost in thought, when someone suddenly spoke to me.
The moment I turned around, pale light-brown hair caught my eye. It was Yoon Asel, a childhood friend from the same village. He had an unusually low level of pigmentation; when the sunlight hit him, his caramel-colored eyes seemed tinged with a faint gray-green hue. Those eyes curved gently as he smiled.
“Good morning, Sola.”
He greeted me in his characteristically bright manner, and I answered reflexively.
“Morning. You too, Asel.”
Asel was the nephew of Pastor Yoon Seowon, who worked at the church in the village where I used to live. Not long before my grandfather passed away, Asel too had lost his parents and, about a year later, was entrusted to the pastor. From then on, we’d grown up like close friends of the same age—old companions who had been together for as long as we could remember.
Asel was quiet and calm, delicate and kind by nature. Having grown up together in the same place, there was a particular ease between us that only comes from long familiarity.
Apparently, his name had biblical origins, but since it wasn’t a naming style people were used to, the neighborhood kids often shortened it and called him “Sel.”
It was also the pastor who had helped me find a place to stay this time. I’d been lodging for a few days at an orphanage run by a distant relative of his. According to the rules, today was the first day students could move into the dormitory.
In any case, coming up with a plausible excuse for why I’d nearly been late wasn’t difficult. I answered calmly.
“I guess I was nervous.”
“I thought you’d already gone ahead. If I’d known you weren’t out yet, we could’ve come together. Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m the one who took too long getting ready.”
He shrugged, saying it wasn’t like that, then gestured with his eyes toward the notice posted at the front gate.
“I checked the class assignments. Let’s go. We’re Class A.”
“Class A? That’s a relief.”
Since the school placed students by academic ranking, I’d more or less expected it—but relief was still relief.
After all, I was one of the few scholarship students. Not being placed in an upper-tier class would’ve been a problem. Asel knew my situation, so he simply smiled instead of saying anything. He patted my shoulder a couple of times affectionately, then led the way to the classroom without another word.
“They say today’s just a simple explanation of high school life and dorm rules. By the way, I hope your sleeping arrangements weren’t uncomfortable. Did you sleep well?”
“It was really nice. Please thank them for me.”
“I’ve already heard that too many times.”
He laughed lightly. I must’ve sounded overly formal.
I repeated that I truly meant it, then took my seat.
Not long after, the teacher came in and gave us a brief homeroom session, followed by explanations about the curriculum and clubs. Club activities apparently could begin even before official enrollment, and dorm life also started immediately from today. Thinking I should move my belongings with Asel later, I jotted a few notes in my planner and then rested my chin on my hand, gazing out the window.
That was when my eyes suddenly met a pair of mysterious silvery-gray ones.
Outside the window was a spirit—the same one that had been following me nonstop from last night into this morning.
The spirit mouthed words at me.
‘Just listen to me for a moment.’
Its demeanor was almost plaintive.
I stared at it for a while, then turned back to write down what the teacher had just said. Only after that did I tear off a sticky note and write:
<Sorry, I’m listening to something important right now. Could you please go?>
The spirit read the note with sparkling eyes, then visibly wilted and fluttered off somewhere.
Though it looked like an old man, there was something oddly cute about its dejected retreat. I did suspect it might be an evil spirit, but spirits, by nature, tended to be pure and childlike, regardless of which side they fell on. There was nothing strange about one being a little cute.
Spirits. As I looked back at the chalkboard, I found myself recalling the spirits I’d seen throughout my life.
I had grown up under their countless acts of consideration. Even evil spirits were often excessively pure and clear; many became corrupted simply by accepting too many things. When I treated them well, their responses were usually decent. When an innocent child approached, spirits almost always offered protection and kindness.
In other words, spirits were fundamentally harmless beings.
Because they were small and pure, a trivial trigger could send things awry and turn them into evil spirits in an instant—but ontologically, there was no great difference between a spirit and an evil spirit born from one. Unlike human lingering souls, they were essentially the same existence, merely inclined in a slightly different direction.
If one didn’t deliberately focus on that direction, the two weren’t all that distinguishable, and even the deeds of an evil spirit often felt rather petty. The most troublesome kind of evil spirit, by far, was one that originated from a human soul.
Perhaps that was why the old spirit seemed fairly harmless—and even cute. Whether it truly was an evil spirit or not, whether it claimed to have originated from the soul of someone born and dead on the opposite side of the globe or not.
In short, there were reasons I couldn’t help but underestimate that old spirit. It had appeared wrapped in light, and it was only about the size of a fist.
Anyway, back to spirits and evil spirits. Since I lacked a strong sense of value judgment to begin with, as a child I’d sometimes almost accepted even evil spirits and kept them close. Each time, what blocked my path was an angel—like the one at dusk that year.
Standing where light poured down, the angel would lower its elegant, beautiful golden eyes and gaze at me with a look both indifferent and sorrowful, saying nothing as it barred my way. Whenever it appeared, evil things vanished instantly.
The angel’s expression had faded into a distant blur beyond memory, and the details had long since lost their color. Even so, I occasionally found myself chasing after its afterimage, like a mirage.
I’d thought the angel was searching for something. In my vague memories, it always wore the face of someone deeply aggrieved. As a child, I believed it was sad because it couldn’t find what it desperately wanted.
Now, though, I couldn’t even clearly recall the angel’s face.
Shaking myself out of those memories, I lowered my gaze to my planner. Contemplating angels and spirits was, fundamentally, an inefficient waste of time. By now, I could observe spirits and evil spirits from a suitable distance and tell them apart—and in a city like this, where you couldn’t even hear trees whispering, much less encounter spirits, it was even more pointless.
I had my own reality to deal with. What lay before me now were dorm life and the matter of clubs.
Studying was something I’d always done anyway, so in terms of major lifestyle changes, it really came down to those two things. Getting entangled with others was a hassle. I didn’t welcome having my personal space invaded, but it couldn’t be helped.
Even if I didn’t join any club, part of my weekday schedule would still be allocated to extracurricular activities. Rather than letting that time go to waste, it seemed better to do something—especially since I’d enrolled in such a peculiar school. I’d choose an activity that would look meaningful on my records while taking up as little time as possible.
Even as I pondered this, information kept pouring out: school life, the one-year curriculum, elective and research courses over the next three years, how grades were calculated…
I started taking diligent notes again.
Still, even after the explanations ended and I mulled things over, there wasn’t a single club that truly appealed to me. I agonized over it alone for quite some time, but couldn’t arrive at an answer. To begin with, I didn’t really have preferences.
That was when Asel suggested the choir. From what he described, it didn’t sound bad. I decided to join with him.
Our town functioned much like a community built around the church’s charity—almost a mutual-aid system. That didn’t mean I was particularly devout, but it did mean I’d grown accustomed to a certain degree of religious life.
I also liked it academically. Religion and the flow of history were inseparable, and the myths that arose from them often captured my interest. Perhaps that was because I’d personally witnessed a mythical being—an angel—from a young age. On a personal note, I liked the distinctive melodies of choral music as well.
And, truthfully, the most important reason was this: aside from the practice sessions held during regular club hours, attendance wasn’t strictly mandatory. Being able to preserve more time for studying was crucial.
In the end, I chose the choir without much hesitation. Fortunately, I was a decent singer and passed the audition without difficulty.
After completing the club registration, purchasing a few reference books in advance, and skimming through the first semester’s Korean textbook, my busy schedule finally settled down. Once I had a moment to breathe, I thought of the spirit again. Considering how persistently it had followed me for days, it seemed worth hearing it out.
While my roommate was out for athletic club activities—her club also doubled as a special talent track—I opened the window and let the spirit in. It promptly slipped into the room, perched on my palm, and began fiddling with my finger.
It was my thumb, which wore a thin ring.
That ring was an heirloom passed down from my parents. It was a little loose, but I always wore it. I thought of it as a key that narrowed the sense of distance I felt in relationships, binding me once more to someone.
As my grandfather had said, if the ring symbolized my parents’ love, then it was surely the link that bound me to my grandfather—and to my parents.
For a long, long time, the spirit silently toyed with the ringed finger. Then, suddenly, it lifted its head. Through it, I learned for the first time that silver eyes truly existed. Those strangely colored eyes shimmered with a metallic sheen as they looked at me.
“Girl, about this ring.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t give it to you.”
I cut him off firmly. The spirit hesitated, flustered, then cautiously checked my reaction. Before long, it stopped touching my hand, straightened itself, and sat neatly. Looking up at me, instead of throwing a tantrum, it asked:
“May I ask why?”
“It’s my parents’ keepsake, sir.”
“A keepsake?”
The spirit looked genuinely taken aback.
I calmly told him the story of the day the ring had been found in my parents’ study—how my grandfather had raised me, the strange abilities the ring had given me, and the words my grandfather had spoken to me. As I relayed it all, the spirit’s expression twisted into something grave. Then it bowed its head and spat out irritably:
“Damn it, Gabriel…”
I stared blankly as it suddenly cursed an angel.
After muttering a stream of unprintable insults for several seconds, the spirit straightened up again, adopting a solemn posture. It seemed to weigh its words for a while.
I decided to wait in silence until it found what it wanted to say. It took longer than I’d expected, but once it did, the spirit left my hand and fluttered up into the air.
“Allow me to introduce myself properly once more, girl. My name is Solomon. I once reigned as king in Israel, but to you, I must present myself not by that name, but as the magician Shulêiman. In this world, I am a rather famous magician.”
“‘Magician Shulêiman’?”
“Yes. You may have heard my story. I once sealed seventy-two demons into bronze vessels. In that process, I was impertinent enough to gain abilities beyond this world. That ring you possess—that is the magician’s treasure in which I recorded the languages of all worlds: the Ring of Promise.”
I stared at him blankly, then tilted my head.
The ring was a worn antique, its patterns difficult to make out, but now that he mentioned it, there really was something like a hexagram etched into it. Looking more closely, the band itself was double-layered. Come to think of it, I’d always assumed it was my father’s ring simply because it was a man’s ring.
The legend of Solomon sealing seventy-two demons in bronze vessels was fairly well known. I remembered reading about it in books like Fantastic Beasts Compendium, which the pastor disliked. It wasn’t common knowledge for everyone, but for someone like me—who enjoyed seeking out unusual books—it wasn’t unfamiliar.
Soon, I recalled something else from those pages. Solomon had left behind a magical ring and a grimoire. I only learned now that the ring was called the Ring of Promise, but I remembered the name of the book.
“The Lemegeton?”
“A book that lists the names of demons. Yes, that’s right. That too was my work. It’s fortunate you already know—this makes things easier.”
I examined him more closely. Beneath the long beard and the whitened hair that made him hard to read, his complexion was youthful. His brilliant silver eyes stood out, and a strange, shimmering aura flowed over his entire body. The white garments fluttering around him were, on closer look, ceremonial robes, with a wide green shawl billowing over them.
The discrepancy between the age suggested by his face and the hoary beard of his jaw was likely due to his nature or way of thinking. If one believed he originated from a historical figure who truly existed, perhaps it meant that in terms of soul, knowledge, and memory, he was the spirit of someone who’d died old—while his sense of self was closer to his younger days.
Still, based on my limited life experience, that was a rule that applied to ordinary spirits. I had no way of knowing how well it fit this one.
From the start, this spirit already deviated from the standards of any ordinary spirit I knew. Judging by size and characteristics alone, it should’ve been a relatively natural spirit formed from fragments of souls gathered in nature—but if his words were true, then he originated from a human soul.
Yet a soul that had once been human—and alive, at that—was less a spirit and more a ghost. And if that were the case, the best course was noninvolvement. Human souls turned into evil spirits more easily than any other kind, and even after becoming such, they were particularly troublesome.
Impure things.
Or things fated to become so.
The things the angel had tried to block from reaching me.
More often than not, those things were human.
