Reborn as a Prophet in a Horror Movie
#117
T/N: ♡(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) Thanks for the kind review Inhibitus! Please support the author on RIDI when you can~
Typo error correction in chapter 113: Burlap sack should be over ‘our’ head instead of ‘her’ head.
#117
Why was Seojun the only one bearing all the weight when there were two brains between them? The realization hit him like a stroke of genius, and he clapped his hands, a small swell of pride rising in his chest. Sure, the burlap sack and gloves muffled the sound, but he wasn’t about to let that ruin the moment.
He turned to the Wizard, who had been idly watching him struggle this whole time. To his relief, the Wizard didn’t dismiss him or suggest it was solely his burden to carry. Instead, he hummed thoughtfully, as though genuinely considering what Seojun had just proposed.
— So, according to the journal, Oz, this whole murder plan relies on T’s powers? But with T’s current abilities, pulling that off seems… unlikely. Is that right?
The Wizard’s voice was calm, his reasoning clear. Seojun recognized this as a perfect opening and wasn’t about to let it go to waste.
[ㅇㅇ]
His hands were already cramping from all the writing, so he didn’t bother with a fresh response. Instead, he just added another ‘ㅇ’ for emphasis and waved the sketchbook around frantically. He half-expected the Wizard to laugh at the ridiculousness of the display, but instead of the usual wild laughter, there was only silence.
Feeling anxious, Seojun glanced up, trying to read the Wizard’s mood. It was already bad enough that his only ally in this eerie mansion was a complete madman. Keeping tabs on the Wizard’s emotions seemed like the safest strategy.
But what the Wizard said next completely threw him off balance.
— But Oz, what if the journal’s not telling the truth? Who says it has to be accurate? Journals aren’t always factual.
“What?”
Seojun blinked, dumbfounded. The sheer absurdity of the casual statement took a moment to sink in. He stared at the Wizard in disbelief before hastily snatching his colored pencil.
[Who would lie in a journal? The whole point is to record what actually happened.]
— It’s not a personal diary, is it? It’s a shared journal. People tend to exaggerate or omit things when they know others will read it, right? Couldn’t that be what’s happening here? Besides, a journal isn’t some official, verified document. Who’s to say S or L didn’t write it to push their own agenda or cover something up?
Seojun felt like he’d been smacked in the back of the head. His mind went blank for a second as the world momentarily dimmed. His lips twitched, pale and tense, and his breath came in shallow, uneven bursts. He found himself staring at the CCTV camera, as if he might somehow catch a glimpse of the Wizard’s face through the lens.
— Oz, we don’t know these people. All we have are a few lines from their biased perspectives.
No divine intervention came to break the tension in the cramped storage room. The oppressive silence lingered, broken only by the faint whisper of wind outside. Seojun’s dark eye caught the reflection of the single red dot from the camera—a distant, blinking pinprick of light. In an odd twist of fairness, just as he couldn’t see the Wizard’s face, the Wizard couldn’t see Seojun’s ashen, stricken expression.
— Don’t waste your energy. S or L, or anyone like them, really—they’re not worth empathizing with. They’re strangers, people we’ve never met. Isn’t it enough that we’ve pieced together the general picture? That’s a win, don’t you think?
The Wizard paused, then continued with a detached tone,
— Oh, here’s a thought: S, T, and L could’ve just worked together to make D’s body smaller. You know, dismember it. T would have to put in some extra effort, but it’d be lighter, easier to move. Problem solved, right?
At first, it almost sounded like a casual explanation. But beneath the surface, there was a chilling indifference. He wasn’t joking. He was completely serious—throwing out something so horrific with no regard for the weight of his words.
“……”
Seojun shivered, and it wasn’t just from the draft slipping in through the open window. The Wizard’s suggestion hung in the air, heavy and disturbingly casual. Seojun fought to keep his breathing even, letting the cool air quell the anger simmering in his chest. The color that had flooded his face slowly receded as his gaze sharpened, regaining its focus.
He balled his fists, resisting the urge to snap at the Wizard, who seemed weirdly proud of his twisted logic. Seojun almost managed to keep his cool, but the tremor of anger coursing through him betrayed the calm facade he was desperately trying to maintain.
Accept what I need to and ignore the rest. Splitting from this guy now won’t help.
The shared journal was the cornerstone of everything they’d uncovered at the Invisible Man’s mansion. Almost all their leads stemmed from it. But if that foundation was a lie, they were in deep trouble.
— Honestly, I’ve written fake diary entries myself, just in case my parents ever snooped. Like how some new study says pig fat might not be as bad for your cholesterol as we thought, but it’s still not exactly health food, right? Science is always changing. Not that I don’t trust doctors or anything! I just got my tetanus shot recently. But really, it’s all about balancing carbs, proteins, and fats in the end.
The Wizard’s mechanical, grating voice was getting under his skin. His rambling reminded him of Johan, but Johan—probably back in Wraithwood, drenched in sweat from a workout and chugging vegetable juice— would never leave him feeling this bitter. Seojun’s brow furrowed in irritation.
How can he be so cheerful about this? If this journal’s fake, we’re both screwed…
He’d reached out to the Wizard hoping for a fresh perspective. But now that the Wizard was giving him one, a little too readily, Seojun found himself wanting to plug his ears and shut out the harsh reality.
[If the journal was all lies, the kidnapper wouldn’t have left it behind. There has to be some truth in it, enough for him to use it as a basis for punishment. And the test subjects definitely did something to D. The bloodstains… they’re still visible.]
— Bloodstains…
The Wizard’s voice trailed off, a brief silence filling the air. His tone shifted, suddenly sounding lost in thought.
— Actually, I can’t see them that well from my end. It’s pretty dark. The video quality’s not great either, but… I can tell something’s there. Just can’t make out the floor from the stains.
Seojun, who had been about to move out of the way, froze. His body stiffened as the realization hit him. There was no way his skinny body had blocked the camera’s view of the stains. His broad shoulders trembled slightly, reacting involuntarily. The Wizard hadn’t even seen the blood clearly when he made those disturbing comments about dismemberment. That indifference, speaking so freely without even knowing what was there… It made Seojun shudder. He didn’t want to imagine what kind of thoughts ran through the Wizard’s head on a normal day.
— Ah… are those dark patches really bloodstains? Haha, wow. I was half-joking earlier, but there really does seem to be a lot of blood splattered everywhere, huh?
Seojun frowned, tilting his head. The blood had splattered everywhere, covering a much larger area than he’d initially realized. He’d been so shocked by the sight of it that he hadn’t truly processed the scene. But now, as he examined it more closely, his unease grew. The Wizard, eccentric as he was, had a point. This was… excessive.
The bloodstains were meant to be irrefutable evidence of S’s guilt. Yet, the longer Seojun looked, the more cracks appeared in that certainty. Why was the blood so widespread?
In the horror movies he’d seen, blood always flew in all directions—over-the-top stabbings, insane chainsaw massacres, all totally exaggerated for shock value, with no regard for how a body actually worked. It would almost be laughable if blood followed the laws of gravity in those scenes. But this wasn’t a movie. And something about this scene just felt wrong.
If S had truly murdered D out of pure hatred, Seojun could almost understand it, to a degree. But S and his group insisted they’d acted out of mercy, claiming they’d ended D’s suffering quickly, however twisted their definition of mercy might be.
But could that really explain this? Had they beaten her so badly that blood sprayed from every inch of her body? The thought alone made Seojun sick. Even if, as the Wizard suggested, they had dismembered her to dispose of the body, the scene was still excessively messy. If S had loved D while she was alive but reduced her to nothing after she died, why would he leave such bloodstains behind? Weren’t they supposed to be covering it up?
The inconsistency was glaring, staring back at him from the blood-soaked floor.
An intense urge to rip off his gloves built inside him. He felt like the truth was hidden just beneath the surface of the bloodstains, waiting for his touch. If only he could trace his fingers over the wood—maybe then, everything would make sense. But he couldn’t. Frustrated, he slammed his burlap-covered fist against the floor. The weak thud was pathetic, only fueling his anger.
He glared at his wrapped hands, his resentment building. And then, like a lightning bolt, it struck him, stopping him in his tracks. Why had the kidnapper bothered to wrap his hands as well?
At first, he’d brushed it off as some creepy quirk, another odd detail for the kidnapper’s own deranged amusement. But as he thought back to the shared journal, he understood its purpose: it was supposed to mimic how S looked when he killed D. But… something wasn’t right. The journal only mentioned S covering his head, not his hands. There was nothing about this.
The more Seojun thought about it, the less it made damn sense. Everything else pointed to careful, deliberate planning—the intricate device around his neck, for example. So why bother with these restraints if they weren’t meant to completely disable him? Was it just to watch him struggle, some sick form of entertainment?
No. That felt too simple. The kidnapper wanted them to act, to prove the test subjects innocent. The burlap was annoying, sure, but it wasn’t really stopping him. There had to be more to it… some hidden reason for covering his hands…
Seojun’s good eye darted around the storage room, taking it all in. From his position on the floor, the cramped space felt like it stretched on forever. Heavy boxes loomed like shadows. Burlap sacks slumped in the corners, their rough texture practically itching his skin. Rusted nails poked up from the floorboards, and bloodstained planks whispered of past violence, the stains a permanent reminder. His gaze snagged on a rough patch of cement on the wall and the small window rattling against the relentless wind.
This place… This was where T had supposedly moved D’s body.
“Ah.” A strange thought flickered through his mind.
Of course, he’d always known that T was no ordinary woman. She had severed her own hand to escape the burden of her power, her telekinesis inextricably linked to her hands. S had been the same, his ability also tied to his hands. And now, the kidnapper had cast Seojun in S’s role—a human with a supernatural ability connected to his hands. He unconsciously rubbed his forearm, a quiet melancholy settling over him as he recognized the bond he shared with those who were long gone.
The kidnapper doesn’t know about my ability to see the past, does he? But… this feels too deliberate to be a coincidence.
Seojun wiped the sweat from his forehead, the rough burlap scratching his skin as he let out a shaky breath. The realization hit close to home, but he reminded himself that none of this changed the grim reality of his predicament.
Still… I never needed physical contact before. Why now?
For a fleeting moment, Seojun’s mind burned with curiosity about the enigmatic nature of his psychometry—this strange ability that had replaced his lost precognition. But as quickly as it had flared, he snuffed it out, burying the thought deep within his mind. What mattered now was clarity. He didn’t want to deal with the hallucinations, the voices, or the visions that had once tormented him. Not even a whisper of them.
It was frustrating that he couldn’t use his ability now, when he needed it most. But a part of him almost welcomed the quiet restraint of his psychometry. As long as his hands were covered, he could live a somewhat normal life. It was nothing like the wild, uncontrollable force of his precognition, which had constantly pushed him to the edge, threatening to shatter his mind into a thousand jagged fragments.
I’d rather burn my hands to ash than ever use that cursed future-seeing ability again.
The thought surged through him, raw and visceral, filled with unwavering certainty. But even the strongest emotions fade, like towering waves crashing against the shore before retreating into the vast ocean. For Seojun, whose heart now felt as barren as a war-torn battlefield, it was almost too easy to let the feeling slip away. He pushed himself up, ignoring the dull ache that still lingered in his chest.
“Ah, ah!”
Pain shot through Seojun’s stiff muscles, a vicious spasm seizing his right calf.
— Oz?
Even the Wizard’s usually indifferent voice held a flicker of concern, but Seojun couldn’t breathe, let alone answer. This was the price of neglecting his health—his body, after being forced into that cramped crouch for so long, had finally rebelled. His vision blurred, and the world spun as his torso pitched forward. The legs he had once been so damn proud of were useless now, like dead branches.
As the floor rushed up to meet him, a memory flashed through his mind—Johan, rosy-cheeked, shyly suggesting a morning walk after breakfast. If only Seojun had known this moment was coming, he wouldn’t have been so smug, turning down the offer with the arrogance of someone certain they’d earned the title of the world’s biggest fool.
But now, he was just a man—one eye gone, stripped of his power to see the future. He fell, helpless, his thoughts racing as the ground closed in. His brittle body hit the floor with a thud, sharp pain ripping through his palm.
“Agh!”
The air exploded from his lungs, followed by a strangled cry. Pain hit him, jolting him back to his senses. But before he could process what was happening, darkness edged in. His power—the familiar shadow—swelled beneath his eyelids, vast and consuming, dragging him into its depths.
A faint clatter pulled Seojun’s awareness to the edge of the room. A dislodged floorboard revealed a woman lying beneath, so skeletal she looked more ghost than human. Her hair, braided into two limp plaits, was brittle and dull, the ends frayed like old rope. Only the faintest flicker in her sunken eyes showed she was still alive.
With excruciating slowness, she lifted her head. Cracked, bleeding lips parted, releasing a silent whimper of pain. Her hollow cheeks, once full and soft, were now gaunt shadows. A battered prosthetic hand brushed against her cheek, the tenderness of the gesture at odds with its cold, mechanical nature. A soft click echoed as the hand moved.
Seojun’s gaze followed the prosthetic arm upward, finding another woman kneeling beside her. This one had short, wine-red hair and skin a deep, rich brown, hinting at a life lived under the sun. Her teeth worried her lower lip, unshed tears shimmering in her eyes as she gently stroked the emaciated woman’s face. Each touch was agonizingly delicate, as if she feared the fragile figure might shatter beneath her hand.
Behind them, a broken window gaped, its bars gone, dark blood splattered across the walls and floor.
But it was the crimson-haired woman’s eyes that held Seojun captive, rooting him to the spot. In those eyes, beyond the horror of their surroundings, he saw something unmistakable. Something that transcended the agony, the loss, the fear.
It was love.