Another World Magician
Alt Korean Title: 속임수의 마법사 (The Magician of Deception)
Written by: [Xirus]
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The study room smelled of dust and old dreams.
A flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across Kim Jiwon's cluttered desk. Blueprints bled into bank statements, USB drives spilled from cracked plastic casings, and a torn notebook lay open—its cover marked with three words that had followed him since childhood:
Unveil the Trick
He tapped his pen once against the page.
Then again. Slower.
"Who killed them?"
He'd asked that question a hundred times as a boy—quietly, persistently. But it wasn't until a few nights ago that Miss Baek finally gave him the answer.
That night, the orphanage had been silent. Only the low hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic chorus of cicadas filled the kitchen, where Miss Baek sat, steam curling from her cup of barley tea like ghostly fingers.
"I still remember that storm," she murmured. "Like it was yesterday. Your mother… came in soaked, holding you wrapped in her coat. You were barely a year old, but your eyes—" she paused, her voice catching. "Your mother was from a wealthly family. But she chose your father. A street performer. A man with no name... but full of wonder."
Jiwon said nothing. He let the past unfold like an old play, each word a spotlight.
"She told me she'd return for you," Miss Baek whispered. "But she never did. Three days later… the magician's studio was burned to the ground. They said it was an accident."
Her eyes met his across the table.
"We both know better."
Jiwon's fingers curled around his cup. It was warm, grounding. The sound of the cicadas buzzed louder, as if protesting the silence between them.
He spoke at last.
"What was she like?"
Miss Baek didn't answer right away. Her eyes drifted to the window, where fireworks flickered in the distance—tiny bursts of red and gold beyond the trees.
Then, quietly, she began to speak.
"It was New Year's Festival… fifteen years ago. When I met her…"
The sky had exploded with color that night. Fireworks cracked above the hilltop orphanage, their echoes tumbling down the valley.
Little Nari stood barefoot near the front gate, her nose red from the cold, cheeks streaked with tears.
"I can't see anything…" she sniffled. "Miss Baek… I lost my shoes…"
Miss Baek had been searching the courtyard, trying to calm her, when a voice sliced through the winter air like silk.
"What's behind your ear, little one?"
A woman with long, flowing black hair knelt before Nari. Her coat was simple, her smile simpler—but her hands moved like poetry. In one smooth motion, a honey candy glimmered between her fingers, as if plucked from the moonlight.
Nari's breath hitched.
She gasped.
And for the first time in days—she laughed.
The woman smiled gently.
"Every sad night deserves a little sweetness."
Miss Baek stepped forward. The stranger looked up and offered a quiet nod.
"There's a show in the next district," she said. "Tell the children they're invited."
Then she vanished into the crowd, her footsteps swallowed by music and fireworks—just like a magician should.
Miss Baek smiled at the memory.
"She had that magic," she said softly. "Even if it wasn't real."
They both laughed—quiet, nostalgic laughter. A tender reprieve from the bitterness of truth.
The story of Nari as a sniffling little troublemaker made them giggle like siblings caught in a memory too sweet to resist.
After that night, Jiwon barely spoke.
He stayed in his room. Quiet by day, a shadow by night. Nari knocked once and asked if he was okay. He smiled at her—calm, polite.
"Just tired. Get some rest."
She didn't push. She knew that look in his eyes.
He'd found something.
Just like when he used to obsess over the secrets in the magician's album.
His desk had become a war room.
The notebook lay open to a single line:
Operation Name: The Last Performance.
Objective: Expose Bae Jungho's corruption in real time.
Method: Public illusion using real stolen funds.
Tools: Data access, manipulated banking routes, micro rain dispersal rig, timed crowd misdirection.
Stage: National Foundation Day Celebration — televised.
Jiwon had infiltrated Jungho's financial team six months ago. Played the quiet, brilliant assistant—background scrubbed clean, eyes always lowered.
Greed made the politician lazy. Arrogant. Predictable.
Jiwon traced every shell company, mirrored every transfer, and slowly siphoned off a portion of the stolen funds—bit by bit—until the money was his to command.
But Jungho wasn't entirely a fool.
One evening, the man had called Jiwon into his office.
Dim lights. Thick smoke. Old whisky. Suspicion curled through the air like incense in a church.
"You've got sharp eyes, kid," Jungho said, swirling his drink. "You remind me of someone. A thorn I once pulled out… and burned." As he given him a day off during the event.
Jiwon smiled. Calm.
"Funny. People say I have one of those forgettable faces." as he left the office.
Then came the celebration.
National Foundation Day.
A sprawling plaza downtown. Flags waved. Drones buzzed overhead. The crowd surged. Applause cracked like fireworks.
Banners rippled across the stage:
Building the Future Together
Bae Jungho stood center stage, waving like a king in a democracy.
"Today, we celebrate unity! Progress! The pillars of our society!"
Jiwon stood deep in the crowd, hidden beneath a hoodie and sunglasses. His hand curled around the device in his pocket.
One press. That's all it would take.
Hours earlier, Jungho had given an order over the phone—cold and dismissive.
"Burn the old orphanage. That rat should join his parents in hell."
That building wasn't just his childhood.
It will be his graveyard.
Little that he know Jiwon wasn't there.
As the politician grinned on national TV—
it began.
From above, money rained down like confetti.
Slow at first. Then faster. Dozens, hundreds of bills drifting from the sky—glinting under stage lights. The crowd gasped, enchanted.
"A gimmick?" someone laughed. "What a show!"
But then—
"Wait! That's my money—my bank account is draining right now!"
"Mine too! It's showing zero! What kind of magic bullshit is this?!"
Panic rippled through the crowd like static.
Phones lit up. Gasps turned to shouts. Faces twisted into horror.
Jiwon stood silent, watching the chaos bloom.
"It's not magic, you fools," he thought, smirking.
"It's logistics. Physics. Planning."
As he is the first one to shout. He Just another voice in the chaos.
He unknowingly smile as he impress with all the work he done while recalling yesterday operation. He remembered the plan every single detail of it.
A convoy of armored bank trucks had moved through Seoul that morning. Under heavy escort with Kim Jiwon as the driver. Confusion made he manage to misdirect the escort by manipulating their gps and utilizing heavy traffic.
In a tunnel beneath the Han River, one truck quietly peeled off. Jiwon swap the truck with a fake one.
Inside: chemically treated flash-paper bills, designed to dissolve with heat. A fake payload.
The real money?
Crated and hidden on a rooftop above the celebration stage.
Drones waited. Quiet. Pre-programmed. Perfectly timed.
The man they had trusted—the one who controlled the nation's largest bank—stood exposed under a sky of stolen wealth.
The money falling around them?
Not props. Not tricks.
It was real.
As the crowd roared and fury erupted, Jiwon stepped forward.
He pulled down his hood. Removed his glasses.
Silently walk off This wasn't just revenge.
This was a reckoning.
And for a moment—brief and bittersweet—Kim Jiwon felt like a real magician.
But magic what does it cost?