Heavenly Army, Doraon dorai_ By Ooahan JS
What else is there to say in this world, besides hurling curses? I asked myself that question. Having lost everything, all that remained was anger, despair, and an endless stream of profanity.
“18! Damn witch!” That was the nickname I gave myself—a woman too despicable to live. No, in truth, I deserved to die. A lunatic like me had no right to exist.
I had willingly hurled myself into the depths of ruin, like a crazed moth darting toward a flame. The result? A blazing inferno. I was the moth colliding with a bug zapper, sizzling for a brief moment before crumbling into ash.
I lost everything. I became destitute, and there was only one reason:
A man. Love.
I should have trusted myself. Instead, I trusted a man, and that trust marked the start of this tragedy. Is there anything more fleeting and insubstantial than a man’s love? Across cultures and eras, even in the tackiest Harlequin novels and modern romantic fantasies, a man’s love is as light as a feather and less dense than hydrogen.
I knew this. I’d spent 25 years learning this truth. And yet, with eyes like a dead fish and a cursed pair of rose-tinted glasses, I staked my destiny on him.
At first, I didn’t believe it. When he confessed his love, my instincts screamed, “Con artist!” and I rejected him outright. But he persisted, and I began to crumble under the perfection he radiated.
Never in my worst nightmares did I imagine those beautiful moments would mark the start of my endless despair.
I know it’s hard to believe when I say this, but he was perfect—elegant, intellectual, and undeniably attractive. His words, manners, and demeanor were flawless, like he was some noble scion from a prestigious lineage. He had the warm gaze of a fairytale prince, the kind of man whose very existence seemed fictional.
But behind that façade, he hid deceit and betrayal. And I didn’t see it coming. For three blazing months, it was the most perfect, sweetest love of my life. The price I paid? Everything.
Extreme hardship changes people. I wasn’t exempt from that rule. The graceful, mature, considerate woman I once was disappeared. In her place was a bitter, foul-mouthed wreck—a loser who couldn’t go a sentence without cursing.
“Hey, you son of a b**! You think you’re so great? F*** off, you a***e!”
Swearing like this was the only way I could breathe. That man? He’s probably living well somewhere. The thought alone makes me sob.
All I could do for revenge was curse him. I was powerless—an insignificant, nameless woman with no weapon but the malice in my heart.
“Life is a wheel of fate, a curse of karma. Judgment will come.” Like some third-rate cult mantra, I told myself he’d suffer one day. One day, he’d meet someone as vile as him and understand what it felt like to be destroyed.
I go through each day, brimming with this hate-filled prayer, but nobody knows how broken I am. Outwardly, I still laugh and chatter as though nothing has changed. People think I’m the same as before.
Nobody knows the truth: inside, I’m a cauldron of rage and sorrow, barely holding on as I await the moment my vengeance can unfold.
When I hit rock bottom, I returned to my hometown, Nonsan, and began working at a warehouse loading and unloading parcels. During those hours of labor, I could forget everything. The relentless pace of the system left no room for stray thoughts.
Surrounded by a mountain of packages and supervisors screaming their lungs out, there was no time to slack off. When I lifted heavy boxes, I felt lighter—at least mentally.
Sometimes, I’d imagine throwing those heavy boxes at his smug face. It brought fleeting satisfaction. But reality always crept back when I got home. The only way to endure it was to curse at the empty air, releasing the venom inside me.
My nights were no better. Exhausted, I’d sink into bed, only to cry myself to sleep.
“What did I do so wrong to deserve this endless suffering?”
A year later, something incredible happened. TV dramas and movies began flooding the market, featuring settings uncannily similar to the script I’d written. It was plagiarism. Bits and pieces of my work were scattered everywhere.
It could only be him. After I’d been discarded, he’d taken my concept notes and disappeared. At first, I didn’t want to believe it. But the passage of time and his complete absence made the betrayal clear.
For the next two years, I lived as a shell of a person, battling anxiety and depression. Then, one day, my mother called, her voice urgent.
“Hey, some monk showed up today. Said if we don’t do something, you’re going to die. Claimed a vengeful spirit’s consumed you. Isn’t he nuts?”
I froze. “Where is he?”
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