00005 - The Little Prince in the Ossuary
# The Past (1), preparations for a Transaction, the Boy
The boy ran fiercely on the treadmill.
His heartbeat pounded, and sweat trickled from his forehead down to his chest. In the spacious training ground, only he and the trainer were present.
The trainer, arms crossed, was a cold man. The intimidating position he held with crossed arms exuded overwhelming pressure.
Although the boy wanted to stop from exhaustion, he continued running, aware of the trainer's watchful eyes.
It seemed the time wasn't up yet. The 15-minute interval felt unbearably long.
It was an exercise he couldn't embrace, one that he simply couldn't bring himself to enjoy.
His wristwatch beeped. The trainer signaled for him to stop.
"It's enough. Move on to the next," the trainer said.
Panting laboriously, the boy clung to the treadmill's handle, drenched in sweat. The droplets falling from his chin seemed to resemble tears.
Lately, there were many moments when the boy felt downcast. He often wondered if he was genuinely crying.
Having stopped after running intensely, it felt as if the ground beneath him was still moving.
As he hesitated, the trainer raised his voice.
"Move on to the next!"
It was a level of coercion nearly reminiscent of the old military times.
It reminded him of his father's tales about when the army still operated through conscription.
Although the army had long switched to a volunteer system, his father likely heard such stories secondhand.
The cycle of anaerobic and aerobic exercises repeated.
Despite appearing rough, sensors affixed all over his body monitored and adjusted intensity to avoid overstraining.
Even though only the trainer was present, behind one wall, medical staff were on standby, monitoring the situation.
Through a receiver in his ear, the trainer listened to their feedback.
During the treadmill runs, they strictly ensured that his heart rate didn't exceed 85% of its maximum.
It wouldn't do to damage the only "product" they had.
Of course, the "product" was the boy's body.
Today marked the final day for sculpting his physique through exercise.
Everyone involved in this transaction stood to receive additional rewards upon its successful completion, and the trainer was no exception.
As it was the last day of his assignment as the "product supervisor," there was a slight tremor in his actions despite his unchanged expression.
Perhaps it was tension.
The boy was adept at reading people's emotions and was confident he hadn't misjudged.
Yet among those emotions, there wasn't a hint of sympathy, fondness, or concern directed towards him.
They looked upon him merely as a product.
Everyone he encountered after the transaction was decided, even his parents, seemed to treat him as nothing more.
That saddened him. He hoped, at least, that his family would be different.
"Who am I making this sacrifice for, after all...?"
Perhaps because of that, the boy desperately sought warmth every time his eyes met another's.
None.
He hadn't found any yet, and doubted he ever would.
The trainer, among those overseeing the "product," was one of the individuals he had known the longest.
He had hoped to see something different at their farewell.
Suddenly, just like a passing seizure, an entrenched anger inside him threatened to erupt with heat.
It was something he had experienced occasionally since he was a child. The boy emptied his thoughts.
The suppressed emotions, rattling around his heart like pebbles, sank beneath the calm waves of silence he conjured up. They submerged.
When the final training session ended, the boy expressed his gratitude.
"Thank you for everything. You've worked hard."
The trainer responded briefly.
"Take care of yourself. It's an expensive body."
"... Yes."
Still, he wished to be remembered with a smile in their final moments.
Soon enough, there wouldn't be many days left where his body was visible as his own to others.
So, he decided to wear the smile that had endeared him to friends since childhood.
Although he couldn't quite pinpoint its charm in the mirror, it was often described as anything but ordinary.
The trainer flinched.
Though the boy had an uncanny ability to read others' minds, he couldn't decipher the meaning of this reaction.
It might have helped if he could see the trainer's eyes, but they were obscured by sunglasses.
In the end, he became a person he parted ways with without knowing his name.
Names are truly important, after all.
Surrounded by numerous guards, he returned home with the medical team and his family.
The house.
It was unfamiliar, distinct from the home he had known. It was large and towering.
The sound of the approaching car must have reached someone's ears because, before anyone else, a small figure burst out, opening the door and running out.
His younger brother, who adored him, ran to him with an exclamation and embraced him. He was still too young to understand.
"Wow, it's brother! Hee-hee!"
The boy lifted his brother, who was ten years his junior, with ease. The child was delightfully surprised too.
In the past, he wouldn't have been capable of such a feat, but gaining strength through exercise had made it possible.
Hugging the small, warm body, the boy smiled.
"Have you been well, Parang?"
"Yes! Just like you said, I ate a lot, listened to Mom, dad, and sister, and waited for you!"
"Well done! You're such a good boy."
The rest of the family followed, greeting him with slightly awkward expressions. His parents behaved as if they bore some guilt.
Yet the anticipation shadowing them was much more visible, making the boy feel somewhat resentful toward his parents.
His sister's complexion appeared grim, and she looked a bit thinner. She couldn't meet his eyes and repeatedly avoided his gaze.
Though the boy felt grateful for her concern, he wished she could meet his eyes confidently. He wanted her to remember.
His father scratched his head as he approached. He seemed to exude boyishness, more akin to a boy than the boy himself.
Perhaps it was because he didn't bear the weight of life. Sometimes, that aspect was appreciated. He was akin to a friend. Far better, indeed, compared to fathers who weren't even friends. But now...
A forty-something man spoke to the young boy:
"Welcome home. How long has it been... a week? Today was the last day of exercise, right?"
"Yes. Was everything okay here?"
"What could possibly have happened to us? You're the most important. Aren't you the pillar of this household?"
"... That's true."
Beyond that, conversation dwindled into an awkward silence.
As if weighted by the air, or perhaps unable to bear the atmosphere, his mother stepped forward.
Extending her hand.
"We've been waiting to have a meal together. Come inside."
As he held her outstretched hand and entered, he glanced toward his sister again.
As before, she avoided his gaze. Still, he noticed her reddened eyes. A wave of melancholy washed over the boy.
He struggled to mask his feelings, fearing his sister might break into tears if his emotions surfaced.
His sister was born in the fall, hence named Han Ga-eul. The boy was born in winter, thus named Han Gyeo-ul.
Their youngest was born in the summer, and because the sky was blue, they named him Parang.
When he first heard the reasons behind the names, he thought naming seemed incredibly convenient.
Yet his sister and brother had beautiful names. Winter felt cold, lonely, and he disliked that. But that sentiment was long past.
As if genuinely waiting, the meal was prepared. However, his diet was different.
There was a separate serving prepared solely for the boy, Gyeo-ul.
Having built up his body through exercise, he now had to focus on dietary adjustments and maintaining internal balance.
This was the work of the medical team living alongside the family. Until the day of the transaction, they would reside and monitor his diet and lifestyle.
At least it wasn't like during the exercise regimen, where he only saw his family once a week.
Throughout the last four months, he had only been able to see his family on weekends.
His sister Han Ga-eul's complexion turned even darker. In her childhood, she was as vibrant as a rose.
However, as she grew, she developed thorns, and now it seemed the bloom had withered entirely.
Once she was of age, Ga-eul took over the family's culinary duties. Her skills surpassed even their mother's.
Every week during their meetings, she prepared a feast for her brother.
The medical team didn't restrict her cooking but analyzed the ingredients to limit how much he, Gyeo-ul, could eat.
Born as snow fell on the fields, the young boy was still grateful. He could see his family daily until the transaction day, which was now only two weeks away.
Once dinner concluded, the medical team drew blood from the boy. He glanced at the tablet they held, listing the test categories.
Not that he understood any of it. Hematocrit, normal. MCV, normal. MCH, normal. VDRL, negative. Blood calcium levels, normal...
Since they all read as negative or normal, he decided to think nothing of it.
He wished for conversation, but meaningful discussions were challenging.
His parents kept glancing elsewhere, their unease apparent as if unable to sit still.
Of course, this transaction was illegal, and it was akin to selling their son's body.
The winter boy tried to lighten the mood with jokes, but his father—unhelpful as ever—dropped a bombshell.
"It's not necessarily a bad thing. There are so many youngsters committing insurance fraud to claim posthumous benefits before 65. How fun are virtual reality games? You'll get to enjoy them until your brain wears out, so your peers will envy you to no end. Most of all, you won't have to study or take university entrance exams, right?"
Gyeo-ul forced a smile, but not his sister Ga-eul. She was fiercely angry.
"Dad, how can you say that? We can't hold hands again or hug him! You think it's good he'll just be playing games for the rest of his life? Why? Then just sell your own body!"
"Ga-eul!"
His mother raised her voice, not scolding, but indicating she was concerned about the medical staff watching them.
Ga-eul ground her teeth, her cheeks taut, and teary eyes glistening as she glanced at her brother before setting down her utensils and retreating upstairs.
Her falling tears resembled flower petals.
His father brushed it off with a 'it's alright, nothing to worry about.' But it wasn't.
Several physical signs of suppressed anger were visible.
Did they even have the right to be so angry?
There was that sound again, akin to stones rolling in his heart. It was a sound only he could hear.
The boy born in winter grew up in emotional coldness. His knack for understanding others came from his father.
He longed for love and there were many times he suffered from a lack of empathy.
His father wasn't a bad person but impulsive.
While he could become a child's friend, he was prone to anger, fatigue, and sulking like a child.
He wasn't a role model worthy of respect as a parent.
While he made a good father when times were good, he became a challenge for the whole family when impoverished.
Gyeo-ul wasn't concerned about the others.
For Parang, the test seemed exceedingly demanding. Even now, the child's eyes only darted around, startled. It was pitiable.
His father's restraint wasn't out of his own volition but caution towards Gyeo-ul.
In anticipation of a possible change of heart from his son, or the withdrawal of consent for the transaction.
Body transplantation.
In times when technology wasn't yet advanced, it meant a full-body transplant aside from the head.
Now, it meant transplanting only the brain and spinal cord.
Using a minor's body for full transplantation was officially only possible if they had been declared brain-dead for a month.
It had to occur at a legally registered medical facility, for a legally registered donor, in the order of application, following rejection testing, and adhering to the cost listed in the medical price schedule.
Thus, trading Gyeo-ul's healthy body was illegal.
Amusingly, despite its illegality, the president of the Hyesung Group required the donor's personal consent. He claimed it was his business ethics.
Breaking the law was justified because he thought the law was wrong. In essence, he did not respect the law but upheld his version of ethics.
Consequently, his father, who wished to vent his anger but couldn't, struggled to form words.
To articulate kind words, he likely had to sieve his turbulent thoughts through several filters.
It was a delicate process for someone impulsive.
"Well, uh, son. You know better than anyone not to let this shake your resolve, right? Uh, um... If you were to act irresponsibly... it would put us all in a tough spot."
Irresponsible?
Gyeo-ul began counting silently. It was a habit he had. It felt like a jagged stone was rolling through his chest.
This was already the third time today.
It happened often.
It shouldn't be this frequent. That entrenched feeling must have grown as old as Gyeo-ul himself.
He closed his eyes, envisioning snowy landscapes. Letting the solitude quell the anger.
Once the storm inside settled, the winter boy calmly shook his head.
"Don't worry about it."
With those words, Gyeo-ul focused on his meal.
Although he wanted to leave and comfort his sister, the medical staff, who remained expressionless even in this situation, prevented him from doing so.
It related to upholding contractual obligations. He had to consume his portion.
So he changed his perspective. It was Ga-eul's cooking. It was delicious. There wouldn't be many chances to taste it.
He cleared his plate.
Brushing, gargling, and showering were also contractual duties. Maintaining the body in optimal condition.
Only after completing all these could he head to his sister Ga-eul's room with Parang in tow.
Ga-eul was crying silently. Parang, switching looks between his sister and brother, was on the verge of tears.
At his age, seeing others cry often prompted tears of his own. Before Gyeo-ul could try comforting him, Ga-eul pulled their youngest into her arms.
Having wiped away her tears with a handkerchief, she reassured him everything was fine now.
"I was just hurt for a moment. I'm all better now."
"Really? You're not hurt anymore, sis?"
"Yes, really."
"Hee-hee."
Parang chuckled adorably.
Although it was Ga-eul's room, there were two beds. It seemed Parang often slept here with her.
Of course, there was a bed in his room as well. Although they spent most of the initial payment from the contract, they thought little of buying another since they'd soon receive the outstanding amount.
Their mother thought this way. Having endured poverty, Gyeo-ul often wondered if they were spending money wisely.
However, he kept quiet.
Mentioning it might dampen the mood. Again, the unsettling noise echoed near his heart, although not as profoundly this time.
As young children often did after meals, Parang began to nod off, amused simply by their presence.
After one more caress, Ga-eul backed away to the edge of her bed. She turned to face Gyeo-ul, meeting his gaze. It was the first such connection today.
Tears immediately poured from her eyes. Gyeo-ul was dumbfounded.
"Sis, what's wrong...?"
As he moved to sit beside and wipe her tears, she caught his hand and sobbed quietly.
Amidst the soft sounds of her weeping, her trembling body leaned into him, resting her head against his chest.
Her fragile shoulders quivered. Silently, he embraced her. "Plop, plop."
The sound of droplets falling. Quiet sorrow. Though sad, it felt as if something long missing had been replenished.
Specifically... the warmth he sought tirelessly in others but never found.
With a trembling voice, Ga-eul spoke.
"What do we do, what should we do... Gyeo-ul, you..."
"It's alright. We can still talk, and if you visit the ossuary, we can meet in the lobby."
"..."
Ga-eul answered with a return embrace.
How long did they remain that way? A knock echoed on the door.
"It's almost bedtime. Please come out."
The voice of a nurse among the medical staff. It was curtly professional.
The jagged stone lodged itself into the boy's heart once more.