420: Korean Grim Reaper: Saja Boys

This week, on Myths and Legends, there are two stories of the Korean Grim Reaper.

You'll see what it takes to beat death at his own game: daily Batman-style combat training, some intentional gardening, and very specific fashion choices.

The creature this time is a rhino dog who eats nightmares and also metal and people.

This is Myths and Legends, episode 420, Saja Boys.

This is a podcast where we tell stories from mythology and folklore.

Some are incredibly popular tales you might think you know, but with surprising origins.

Others are stories that might be new to you, but are definitely worth a listen.

Today, there are two stories of the Joseon Saja, basically the Grim Reaper in Korean folklore.

We'll dive into their personality and what they do in the stories today, but we'll dive right in with a general who very much does not want to meet the Joseong Saja.

What's our family motto?

General Jine clapped his hands at the end of breakfast.

The general's son looked at his mom, who only sighed.

We have a family motto?

The son was just back from his exams and this was all new to him.

The father, the general, smiled.

He would catch on, all right.

The general, holding his hand across the table and his wife's hand joining him, accompanied by her own very heavy eye roll, the son put his own hand on his mom's and watched his dad's lips.

Don't bury dad until he's been dead seven days.

All right, everyone.

Have a great day.

The general cried to his wife's mumbling and his son's complete confusion.

How was he supposed to follow along with that?

What even was that?

All right, I'm going to go tend to my orange trees.

The general smiled and left.

What

is that?

The son asked as he helped his mother clean up.

Son, when your father was a general, the mom started in on the story without answering the question, My life was anxiety and despair.

Despair because I missed him dearly.

He was gone for months on end.

And while he he took care of us, I loved him.

It was anxiety because every day I feared the message from the king that, whether in battle or in court intrigue, he would have finally been overcome by his enemies and killed.

Last year, when he left the king's service in full honors, my heart was filled to bursting.

I had him back.

For as many years as we would have together, they would be joyous ones.

The mother then paused and shared that, recently, she had been looking back at the time when he was away with deep fondness.

But why?

The son glanced out.

Was it because he moved them out of the city to this orchard?

Did she miss her friends, her family?

She said, yes, but moreover, your dad got weird.

Then the pair heard screaming from outside.

No, no, no,

reverberated through the wooden walls.

The son spun around, but the the mother only shook her head.

The son could go out there and help him.

Her blisters needed a week off.

Son, son, somebody, bring my axe, the general cried.

Snatching the handle as he rushed past, the son didn't know what to expect when he threw open the door.

Assassins from another general, old enemies from the kingdom in the west, or Dokebi come to torment him?

Son, good, you brought my axe.

It's another peach tree, son.

We have to get it down before it sprouts that vile fruit.

The general was almost shaking with fear.

A a peach tree?

Why are you so scared of a peach tree?

The son stood among the aromatic citrus, wafting on the breeze from the orange trees and looking at what was

little more than a peach sapling.

This wouldn't have fruit for years.

Son, the axe now the general snatched it, still not tearing his eyes away from the peach sapling, and began wailing at the peach tree until it was little more than green wood chips.

Looking at his son, the general asked the young man to scoop up the remains and take them to the fire.

He was a general, not a botanist, and while he was fairly confident trees didn't spread by smells and dead leaves, he wasn't about to find out to his detriment.

Okay, I'll take these to the fire and burn them, but then we're having a talk, the son said.

When he returned, he found his father pacing the edge of the orange trees, as he must have walked the enemy lines back in his heyday.

Dad

what's going on?

the son asked, and the general pointed to his head.

The knot at the top.

Did the boy know what this was?

His top knot, his hair?

Wrong Well, right.

But there was more here, he said, saying he wore a silver hair pin.

Okay.

Think about it.

The general strode along the trees.

Silver?

Citrus?

What did those have in common?

Sibilants?

Though probably not in Korean, the son mused.

And the father shook his head.

Did they teach him nothing in that school?

He supposed that he couldn't expect the boy to be thinking about death.

Not at his age.

He had his whole life ahead of him.

Old men like the general had to be careful.

They had to be prepared.

Thus the citrus and the silver, and the fourteen hours a day he spent practicing close quarters combat.

What what did either of those have to do with death?

the son asked.

And the father laughed again.

Everything, my boy, everything.

Didn't he know that the Josung Saja, the reaper of a grim nature and demeanor, hated citrus and couldn't come close to silver?

The son blinked.

Seriously?

Oh, I'm serious, the general said, dead serious, and he didn't want his unintentional dad joke to belie his point.

He had seen the Josung Saja enough on the battlefield to know the signs.

After retiring, he had spoken with people of great learning, both in science and the old ways.

The science people weren't too helpful when it came to strategies designed to thwart the Grim Reaper, saying that he should just try to relax, watch the saturated fats, and get a regular prostate exam.

But the wise men, the people who knew the old folk ways, told him about the citrus and the silver.

They also told him about Dong Bang Suk.

Who?

The son asked.

Okay, this was all getting really, really weird.

The father laughed.

It still didn't surprise him that his son didn't know.

But Dong Bong-suck was the first man to find a way to cheat death.

He lived for thousands of years.

Did he now?

The son was getting more and more tired by this conversation.

Probably the longest of anyone, the general continued.

Rookie numbers, though.

I'm going to do it not by deception, but by fighting.

The general squinted, looking through the trees.

You know what?

He still had time.

They teach so much in schools, but they don't teach the important stuff, like how to cheat death.

The general pointed to a rock and told his son to take a seat.

Story time.

Tungbang Suk was annoyed.

There was a slow walker in front of him.

This was the worst.

He had so much to do today, but every time he tried to get around this guy, the man would drift lazily one way or the other.

It was like the man didn't see him at all.

A minute or two later, completely fed up, Dong Bang Suk just went for it.

He sidestepped the man on the road and pushed his cart.

At that moment, it caught the man in the hip, and while Dong Bung Suk felt bad, Maybe the man should have looked and not been in his way, and

Dong Bung Suk winced as he saw the blind man rising to his palms and dust himself off as he stood.

Oh,

shoot.

Setting down his cart, Dung Bung-suk rushed to the man's aid and helped the stranger to his feet.

Punk kids in your carts.

Back in my day, we carried stuff with our hands and arms and sometimes backs.

Spoiled, that's what you are, the man said, and turned to face Dung Bung Suk before looking, but not looking, him up and down.

The traveler on the road chuckled.

Never mind.

What

why did you do that?

Dung Bung Suck asked, as the man who was blind began his walk down the street.

You'll see, the man yelled back.

What will I see?

I don't like your chuckles laden with ominous portent, Dung Bong Suck cried, running before the man, but the stranger didn't slow.

Yeah, I bet you don't, the man said.

Dung Bung Suck stopped.

He would try a different tactic.

You know know what?

I was wrong to hit you with my cart.

That's on me.

My bad.

Mind if I buy you a drink to say I'm sorry?

The stranger stopped, stood there for a moment, and then nodded.

You know what?

Apology accepted.

And also drink accepted.

Let's go.

Dongbong Suk poured the soju for the older man and set it down with a hopeful grin.

It was around the third bottle that the stranger began to loosen up.

But when the last few drops made their way into the glass, the stranger finally blurted it out.

Yeah, you're gonna die.

Sorry, kid, he laughed, and then stopped his laughter.

He actually kind of liked the kid now.

This was sad.

Dongbong Suk gasped.

What was this man a blind seer?

Someone who lost their physical sight but gained a second sight?

Nope, the blind man grimaced.

Also, that was kind of an unhelpful stereotype.

No, no, no, it's not bad.

It's good.

Like you have profit powers.

That's sweet.

Dong Bong Suck was feeling the soju a bit, too.

No, but my my abilities are independent of me being blind, and even a positive stereotype can still be bad because it kind of flattens me into a trope and it's you telling me who I am.

It's a whole thing.

You know, let's not get into it.

Because you only have like two weeks, the man burped.

Dong Bong-suk's eyes almost fell out of his head.

Two weeks?

What?

He was only almost 30.

This wasn't fair.

That's life, kid.

Or

death, rather.

Your death.

Sorry.

How many bottles have we had?

Regardless, it's a week after your 30th birthday.

It'll happen in your home.

The man put a hand on Dong Bong-suk's shoulder.

And then wrinkled his nose.

No, I shouldn't, the man said.

Shouldn't what?

Dong Bong Sak squinted.

And then waved for the waiter, motioning for another bottle.

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Two weeks later, Dong Bong Suk sat in his home.

When you really start thinking about it, death, that is, it can really mess with you.

All the different ways he could die in the place he felt safest.

It could burn down, he could choke, he could trip on a rug, and his head could find a corner, he could accidentally cut himself, his hairpin could go through his skull, he could over-ferment his kimchi, and that jar could explode, sending shrapnel at- There was a form at the door.

Well,

more accurately, the form slid through the door.

In his wide black hat and flowing hanbuk,

he stood before Dong Bong-suk.

The 30-year-old swallowed hard and then smiled a sad smile.

He took a deep breath and turned to the being.

It was his time.

He understood.

Most people don't even make it this long in this time period.

And he was grateful for the time he did have.

The Joseung Saja's eyes went wide.

Wow, it was refreshing to see someone so young so mature about all this.

Usually they begged or pleaded or ran.

Yeah, I'm ready to go though, I guess.

No fighting it.

The thing is, I just put some rice on, Dong Bong-suk said, and...

His kimchi was at that perfectly fermented, tangy place, and he had just finished roasting a chicken, too.

You know what?

Did the Joseung Saja have any place to be?

Dongbong Suk laughed that he was accepting of his fate, but, you know, truth be told, he was in no hurry to go meet it.

They could relax, have a drink, and something to eat, then head out.

Dongbong Suk held up his hands.

Look, no big deal to him either way.

He was already dead.

And if the Joseung Saja didn't get bored or tired or need to take a load off, then they could leave.

The psychopump, the Korean Grim Reaper, thought about it for a moment, and then sat, picking up his chopsticks and spoon.

Over the meal, Dong Bong-suk got the man, the bean

thing,

got it to open up, and learned all about the illustrious souls he had claimed over his long career.

He also learned that, despite the human fears about death, death's view of death was that it was just another job.

He wasn't the only Joseung Saja.

There were countless others with that role and title.

He had a boss and paperwork and quotas and promotions, and the more Dong Bang Suk listened to it, the more he laughed.

that he felt glad to be on this side of things, actually.

As the meal wound down, the Joseung Saja complimented Dong Bang

that the meal was lovely.

And though he didn't get tired or hungry in the way that Dong Bang Suk understood fatigue or hunger, he could feel refreshed, and this was exactly that.

Rising, the psychopomp nodded at Dong Bang-suk and said, okay,

it was time to go.

Dong Bang-suk rose as well and picked up the bowls to clean, but laughed.

Silver lining, actually.

Just before the Joseung Saja made it to the door, Dong Bang Suk said, um, wait, wasn't the Josung Saja forgetting his shoes?

The psychopomp turned to look at the, frankly, beautiful shoes on the floor.

Just his size, too.

Wow, but no, those

weren't his.

I can assure you, they are not mine, Dong Bong-suck laughed.

Those are far too nice and stylish.

No, he was just a simple merchant.

Definitely not deserving of something like that.

Those belonged to the Josung Saja, he assured the being.

Before Death could protest again, Dong Bung Suk asked if he was going to take his travel cloak, too.

The being stood confused while Dong Bung Suk removed the silken wrapping from the lacquered box that he apparently had been keeping hidden in the other room.

He approached the being and slid the soft, warm, and luxurious sable fur lining over his arms.

This is not my cloak, the Josung Saja sifted inside it.

Though wow, it did feel this was amazing.

This would make the collections in the northern regions so much better.

All right, ready to go, Dung Bung Sak said.

Wait, the psychopomp replied, and then paused.

He produced some papers and rifled through them.

Oh my.

You know what?

he laughed, looking up.

Best day ever for you, the Josung Saja said.

Turned out he made a mistake.

It wasn't the young man's time after all.

Even the people of the afterlife can make mistakes, it seems.

Dong Bong-suck feigned surprise.

Well, wow, okay.

I appreciate it.

And I must say, you were fantastic company.

If you ever want to come by again for a meal and a drink, and I dunno, maybe you left more of your stuff here.

I don't know how the underworld works.

My door is always open.

I'll remember that.

Death smiled, picked up his new shoes and wrapped his cloak around himself, and slid through the door.

When he was gone, Dong Bung Suk finally exhaled.

30 years later, Dong Bung Suk was tired.

He appreciated the extra time and not dying, but not what he had to do in order to not die.

The Joseung Saja returned a few more years after he turned 30, for another meal and more gifts, and that had been easy.

It was a decade after that.

Then he started showing up more and more often, demanding more and more.

Jewelry, though not silver for some reason, gold coins, trinkets from faraway lands.

All this to motivate him to keep the books sufficiently cooked in order to not have the Dongbang Sak deficit glaring enough to trigger attention from above.

The time he showed up with a second Josung Saja, Dong Bang Suk knew that he was cooked.

The first explained that he needed some extra help, hiding the fact that Dong Bang Suk hadn't been taken.

And this guy was just the one to help.

Dong Bang Suk could give him the same treatment he gave the first, right?

The being winked from underneath his hat.

Forced a smile and then a nod.

Yep.

Yeah, no problem at all.

One extra Josung Saja became two, and two became four, and Dong Bong Suck knew that he couldn't keep this going.

There were at least six psychopomps here, all in on the grift.

If his finances held out, which they wouldn't, it was more than likely that someone would talk, and word would get out to the people who wouldn't or couldn't be paid off.

There was an upside, though, to having so many of them cycle through his house.

Because Dong Bang Suck began to see patterns, subtle differences that revealed each one to be who they were, no matter what form they took.

And over the next few years, he made detailed observations, not just in identifying who these beings were, but learning the ins and outs of their system.

As his funds dwindled to almost nothing, one day, on their next anticipated arrival, Dong Bang Suk was gone.

Thrown into a panic, the Josem Saja began freaking out.

This was unconscionable.

They were planning on pinning this on someone else they didn't like, altering the records and revealing the deep-seated corruption they themselves had benefited from, bringing in the scoff law, Dong Bong Suk, after they revealed the deficit.

Now they had neither their golden goose nor their way out.

The first one to accept the bribe all those years ago was the first to roll over on the group, pinning his own plan on them and decrying with a sanctimonious woe that they had approached him and he had gone along with it long enough to gather evidence.

Dongbang Suk's disappearance launched a scandal that cost many of the Joseung Saja their positions and led to a crackdown on record-keeping and grift.

But for the black eye he had given the heavens and the underworld and for the massive manhunt that commenced after his crimes were revealed, No one on, above, or below the earth could find Dong Bang Suk.

And it remained that way for 3,000 years.

One translation I found said 3,000 years.

Another said 3,000 gapcha, with a gopcha being a certain cycle equaling 60 years, which would make it 180,000 years.

Regardless, it was a long time.

The Gangyam Doryong, the Death God, sat by the river, in the form of an old man washing

coal.

They had tried all manner of search and sting operations for years to get Dong Bang Suk, and while they had gotten close a few times, none had been successful.

It was a source of shame for everyone, but now they had called in the big guy.

There was a team waiting far enough away to not raise suspicion, but the Gangyam Doyong, the death god, was alone, there in the river, washing coal.

Why are you washing coal?

One young man, barely out of his teens, asked as he walked by.

The being looked him up and down.

It's an old-fashioned technique.

It's called minding your own business.

You ever try it?

He growled at the kid.

The twenty-something scoffed and continued on.

Why are you washing coal?

A woman was next in line.

The god of death squinted.

Nope.

I'm a crazy old man doing crazy stuff, he said.

The woman shrugged.

Okay, fair enough.

Why are you washing coal?

A third voice asked.

The god of death looked up.

A man who looked like he could be in his fifties or sixties, but who carried himself

differently, almost like one of them in the heavens.

The old man in the river grinned.

Don't you know?

If you wash coal long enough, you can make it white.

What?

The younger man put his hands on his hips.

Yeah, I wouldn't expect a young buck like you to understand the old ways, but it's true.

If you wash coal long enough, it turns white, the god of death said in the river, and went back to scrubbing.

That's not how carbon works, the man said.

I'm an old man, the man in the river replied.

You should respect your elders and their knowledge.

The traveler leaned in.

Old man, huh?

He looked back and forth down an empty road.

Well, you can't turn coal white, and I should know.

I've been alive for 3,000 gacha.

So how about you show some respect?

He grinned, but then looked with confusion when he saw the old man smiling even wider in response.

What are you so happy about?

It's nice to finally meet you, Dong Bang Suk, the god of death said.

and dropped the disguise.

As he did, the Joseung Saja strike team swarmed, leaping on Dongbong-suk and dragging him off to the underworld.

The son, back with the general, took a mental inventory.

Okay, that was an interesting little folk tale.

That's a funny way of saying factual historical account.

The general rose from his seated position and started stretching.

He learned a lot from that story, though.

You can't be crafty with death, because death is sneakier.

You have to be stronger.

You have to win.

The son sighed.

Okay, that story aside, he did have two more questions.

His dad, the general, was chopping down a tree just now.

The son had to ask, What's with the peaches?

Evil fruit, the dad barked.

Okay, some sources translate it this way.

I can't find anything regarding peaches being seen as evil in Korean culture or folklore.

My guess is that in this situation it's functionally evil to the general because it breaks the barrier of the citrus used to ward off the Joseung Saja, and not because of any inherent vice.

Okay, second question.

Why are we supposed to wait a week to bury you?

the son asked.

That's what he wanted, right?

A a week?

Yes, the dad shouted.

It's okay.

He would just have the boy recite it 40 times before bed each night, like he demanded of his wife.

I'm like 17.

I'm not doing that.

And you shouldn't be making mom do it either, the son said.

But he waved his hand.

So, the week?

The week is my fail-safe, my ripcord.

If the worst happens, that's what's going to rescue me.

You'll see, the dad smiled.

Okay, now the kid needed to skedaddle.

His assassins would be here soon.

Okay,

uh

wait, the son asked, but he was interrupted by the stranger lunging from the trees with a drawn blade and his dad gripping the assassin's wrist, flipping him, and disarming him.

Picking up the knife, the dad waved for his son to get inside.

These men were contracted to kill anyone not on the allow list on site.

He hadn't expected the son to come home early.

He sent the message the other day, but the boss back in the city probably hadn't received it yet.

Contracted by who?

Who is doing this to you?

Wait, did you say allow list?

The son stopped.

I'm doing this.

It's for training.

Now get inside, the general yelled, and some spears sticking in the ground in front of the son convinced him to head back inside.

You meet the assassins?

The mother asked when he got back in.

Yeah.

So he's really afraid of death, the son said, listening to the sound of his father thrashing the henchmen outside.

See what I mean?

The mother shook her head.

A few hours passed, and she gathered up a tray and told the son he could go outside if he stayed behind her.

She was always safe, it was just annoying.

The mother dropped some rice and kimchi off with each of the assassins who lay strewn on the grass between the house and the ring of orange trees, who, struggling to rise, thanked her for her kindness.

She found her husband, dripping with sweat, next to a pile of weapons.

Spinning, he stopped short of hitting her with the bowstaff, coming just an inch from her chin.

A smile broke and he thanked her.

Wow, is it quitting time already?

Why are you doing that?

The son asked later, over dinner.

Because, son, if I die, and that's a pretty big if, I need to be able to fight the armies of the dead to get back here, the dad said, obviously.

Okay, that's not very obvious.

And isn't that super dangerous?

To pay assassins to come for you?

The son shook his head.

It would be, if the Josung Saja could get in, he laughed.

It was both a test of his skill and a test of his barrier.

No one ever died in here, least of all him.

Had to be doing something right.

Standing, he said it was time for bed.

bed.

Another big day tomorrow of trying to, no, succeeding in cheating death.

Oh, he sat back down and put his hand in.

No, I'm not doing that, the son said.

The mother put her hand in.

It's one sentence, she said.

Not adding that it was way easier than the tantrum that would follow.

Shoulders slumped, the son put his hand on his mother's.

Don't bury dad until he's been dead seven days.

All right.

Woo, good night, everyone.

We'll see what's lurking beyond the orange trees, but that will, once again, be right after this.

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This

guy, the Josung Saja groaned.

This general, Shine, he knew it all.

Still, it was his time, and the Joseung Saja was behind.

And there were like major repercussions if he didn't get this general.

He had to keep communicating his own failure, because otherwise people would think this was another dong bong suck situation.

Ugh, there was so much paperwork, but he couldn't stand the citrus.

He got as close as he could and threw a few more peach seeds in, and waved his ash-gray hands as they immediately sunk into the ground and sprouted into saplings.

These were distractions, of course.

The real thing was growing in a spot replete with weeds on the southeast edge of the circle.

That was his way in.

He just had to keep Shine distracted with these saplings.

The Josung Saja, the psychopomp that led souls to death, regularly made the rounds.

Sure, he was able to pick up a few of the assassins as they succumbed to their injuries upon leaving the orange grove, But unless he could close the Shine account, he would face disciplinary action.

No one since since Dung Bong Suk had remained alive so long after death.

The extensions alone would cost him his promotion.

It took a few more weeks, but eventually, the peach tree grew big enough to create a gap in the oranges.

Just a small one, and it was nearly intolerable, but it was enough.

The smell was odious, and the pain nigh unbearable, but the Joseung Saja was able to slip between and, finally, make it into the circle.

It was time.

Slipping his iron club from his hombuck, he floated across the grass to General Jine, stretching before the onslaught of attackers that day, stretching that he would never get to finish.

Finally, the Josung Saja would get to complete his task and take this man and

foot, his foot bumped against an unseen barrier, and soon his chest and face.

The Josung Saja found that he could go no further.

He looked up and groaned.

Seriously, a silver hairpin this day just got so much worse.

Then the general froze, and the Josung Saja could see the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Oh, with the sound of a raven taking flight, the Josung Saja vanished as the general spun around and studied the tree line.

Two weeks, this was ridiculous.

The Josling Saja peeked up from underneath the floorboards.

He couldn't even file his request for an extension.

This was absolutely going on his annual evaluation.

Ugh, this general.

The Josling Saja, similar to, but different from, the Grim Reaper here in the US and Europe and other places, laid flat on his back.

One of the good things about being an ethereal personification of death was that he didn't get hungry or tired in the normal ways, and the vibes he was throwing off kept the rats and snakes away.

One of the bad things was that he was very, very bored.

He didn't experience time like the rest of us do, but even for him, this was taking forever.

With the amount this general exercised, you'd think he would bathe every day, but since he couldn't go to the river or hot springs, it meant that his wife or son would have to bring back water, then use fuel to heat it, which would necessitate another trip out.

All that meant that dad smelled a little bit more, which was annoying to the people close to him, and the spirit lurking under his floorboards.

Not the smell, though that did get to him, but the fact that the Joseng Saja was waiting for him to take a bath, so presumably, he would

Yes!

The general stood there by the warmed water and set his pin down, letting his hair unfurl.

Wincing at the tangy aroma, he muttered to himself that he should probably do this more often.

His hair blocked, behind him, the Joseng Saja rising from the floor.

After months and months, finally able to approach the general.

Oh, I wouldn't worry about that.

The Josung Saja's grin was the only thing visible under his hat.

How did you get through my oranges?

the general cried, less in fear than rage.

The Joseng Saja didn't answer.

But the general would spend the rest of his life wondering where the gap was in his citrus armor that led to this.

The rest of his life, however, would not be that long.

Knowing his frustratingly furtive foe's fiendish fortifications for fending off his final fall, the Josung Saja was taking no chances.

He raised his iron club, brought it down on the man's head, and General Shine dropped to the floor, dead.

His son found him by the bath, laying in what looked like a puddle of his own stinky hair.

And when he realized what happened, he scooped Dad up into his arms and cried.

The mother, for all of her frustration, seemed shocked that he would be so healthy and strong, yet die so suddenly, and for no apparent reason.

She joined her son in mourning the man they had always loved and would always miss.

The general snapped awake and quickly rose to his feet.

A deep gloom pervaded everything around him, and there were shouts somewhere in the distance.

How had he gotten through?

Peach trees.

Well, however he managed it, it didn't matter now, it happened.

And dwelling on the past meant he would stay here.

He had to go back, and going back meant going forward.

He realized the shouting was at him, somewhere off in the murky darkness, and looked to his waist.

Swearing, he saw that he was only wearing a towel.

Well, this was what he had been training for.

He flung off the towel.

It would only be an encumbrance.

Boots echoed on the stone floor there in the underworld.

He assumed a fighting stance and charged himself.

The mourners moved through the house.

The mother in the general's true house, the one in the city.

Over the previous two days, after the mother and son washed the body and dressed the general in his grave clothes, they began the funeral ritual.

The people who came to see him were as varied and as interesting as the general had been.

She heard from old friends he had personally carried from battle, saving lives, of enemy captives he had treated warmly, and she received missives even from those he had fought, who voiced their deep respect for the man.

to survive so much and collapse stepping into the bath.

One of his old comrades shook his head.

The mother nodded, wondering how much of his activities in his final few months led to his condition.

Still,

it was fate.

This much she could take solace in.

At the morning of the third day, the funeral procession formed outside, with friends bringing flowers and a beer for the coffin's trip through town.

It was

how it was supposed to go.

The people there, waiting to walk through town and say goodbye to the man who had meant so much to so many of them, looked to the mother and son to begin.

But they could only look at their hands and remember the family motto.

At the same time, the general swung his giant pestle and blasted one of the guards against a stone stone wall.

The harder you hit them, the longer they stayed down, but they never stayed down forever.

This was the land of the dead, the ten hells, and he was at number seven.

He didn't think he did something deserving of such a fate, but perhaps fighting his fate was what landed him here.

He was making his way, apparently, through all ten of the hells.

The mountain of knives was a useful one, and he stocked up there, after thrashing the guards who came for him at first and taking their armor.

And the boiling oil cauldrons helped him with the hell of ice.

It was easy to slip through the trees of knives, a forest where sinners were thrown against spiky trees.

The hell of tongue-ripping was a loud place until it wasn't, and all he had to do around the viper pits was, well, spar to kick some of the people trying to stop him from going around the viper pits into the viper pits.

Now he was at the hell of mortars and pestles.

Thinking ahead, he only had three more to go.

The hell of sawing would be useful for getting through the doors to the the hell of lacerating winds, where he would be glad for the cloak he had taken from one of the kings.

Stepping into the final one, hours later, the hell of darkness, he swore that when he got back up there, he would chop and burn every peach tree he could find.

Bumping into quite a few other denizens, the general remembered the stories.

Everyone else probably tried to see where they were going, but there was no seeing, not in here.

They were in utter darkness.

He could,

however, hear.

He wandered for a few more hours, only catching hints of it once or twice, but soon heard it off in the distance.

The river, the boundary between the worlds.

He had it.

The guards who tried to lay hands on him didn't know he had done a couple of his weeks against assassins blindfolded, so while they could see, he wasn't at a disadvantage.

Moving toward the river, it was dark one moment and light the next.

Well, not light, it was still terribly dim and gloomy, but he had emerged through the other side of the hell of darkness.

He found the river.

You have to pay the toll, the ferryman growled, as the general sat down in his boat, but then looked at the man with the saws and knives at his belt, the battered armor of the guards, and was that a giant pestle?

The ferryman dipped his oar into the water and said, you know what, he would cover this trip.

As they crossed, a bright light grew all around the general.

He gasped awake and could feel the air filling his lungs.

He had done it.

He lost to the psychopomp who had come for him, but he fought through the underworld and and come back to life.

This will be a grand lesson to share with his son.

Everyone thought he was a fool, he knew this, but now he had proof.

All these thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant as he opened his eyes and sat up, but as he did so, he found two things.

When he opened his eyes, there was no change.

He was still in darkness.

As he sat up, well, he only made it a few inches before his head hit the wood.

What?

The general's panic grew as he screamed.

He felt his confines, only a few inches in any direction.

What was happening?

Then it dawned on him.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

They hadn't listened.

They hadn't believed in him.

That he could do it.

That he could come back.

They

had buried him.

He screamed and pounded at the the wood, which devolved into scratching and clawing and kicking, hoping that someone, anyone, could hear him.

Up above, the son held his mother as they both looked on the grave.

He wasn't that man, in the end, she said.

Caring, thoughtful, rational.

That was the general the world had known.

The one who obsessively tended his orange trees and didn't bathe and fought anyone who entered his homestead.

He wasn't that man.

She laughed, remembering the family motto.

We all wanted him to come back, but I think it was good that we did this.

Or else what?

A week could turn into two, three,

a month?

Then we're sitting around with his body.

The world thinks we're mad.

The son sighed.

It was better this way.

Everyone could say their goodbyes.

They could accept that he was gone and they all

could let go.

The mother smiled and wiped her eyes.

They would be back again the next day to see him.

But it was getting dark.

She laughed as they walked.

She said she almost...

almost waited, almost did it, because you know what?

When death finally came for him, the weirdest thing, he had just pulled out that silver pin to bathe.

The son laughed.

That was a coincidence.

Come on, mom.

Let's go home.

And they did.

Not knowing the father, the General Shine,

was a mere six feet beneath them.

still alive, crying and pounding on the interior of his coffin, at least until he ran out of air in a few minutes.

Yeah, that got surprisingly grim.

This is, to me, a story about fate and fighting your fate, and how, if the general had just accepted that he was going to die someday, he might have enjoyed the time with his family, instead of his ceaseless preparations, because, well,

even when you don't accept fate, sorry, it's still coming.

The other sad irony is that the general was absolutely correct, and maybe if he had been more reasonable, his family would have seen things his way and honored his wishes.

Another thing I love about these stories were that, contrary to my notion of the death from folklore, a shrouded figure with a scythe who never speaks, the ominous darkness that is coming for us all, death here was basically a civil servant, someone who had expectations placed on them and quotas, and who was maybe a little over it.

But what else are they going to do?

It actually reminded me a little bit of death from Terry Pratchett's Discworld.

We'll be back in two weeks, but if you're looking for something to listen to in the meantime, all 10 episodes of fictional season 6 are out now.

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And a small point, but if you're a Myths and Legends member on the site and Apple Podcasts, you also get fictional season six ad-free.

There are links to everything in the show notes.

The creature this time is the Bulkasari, also from Korea.

I think religious persecution is bad.

Hopefully that's not a hot take.

Not just because I think people should be free to practice whatever religion they want, but also because of metal-eating rhino dogs.

The Bulkasari originated in the 14th century because Buddhism was illegal.

in Koryo-era Korea, which spanned roughly 918 to 1392.

So, a monk fleeing persecution came up with an ingenious idea, to make a little creature out of rice and feed it needles.

There is apparently a very fine line between genius and ridiculous, but this monk walked it like a tightrope because it worked.

His adorable tiny rhino ate needles and quickly grew to be big enough to scare off the authorities because it had sharp tusks, the body of a bear, an elephant's trunk, the claws of a tiger, the tail of a bull, and the eyes of a rhino.

The monk quickly ran into the issue a lot of owners of little alligators, baby pythons, and I've actually heard piglets go through because that little metal-eating puppy grew up.

The problem with a now giant beast that's nigh impervious to damage and only grows stronger when it eats metal should be obvious because when the monks turned to the government for help, the government sent soldiers.

Unfortunately, all those soldiers had metal weapons, and the beast ate those weapons and chased them with the fleeing soldiers, growing even more massive.

Taking a, I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it, mentality, the monks decided on the classic, kill it with fire solution.

They sought it out in the forest, surrounded it, and caught it on fire.

You know what's worse than a giant beast who eats metal, is impervious to all attempts to kill it?

One of those, but also on fire.

It carried the fire to a local village and burned it down.

The downside of this was, well, that.

A burned village and displaced or eaten people.

The upside was that the food source in the area was nearly tapped out.

So the Bogasari kept roving, far enough that no one knew the monks were responsible for the creature.

And I guess if you can't get rid of the monster terrorizing the land, the next best thing, for you, not the people it's terrorizing, is that no one knows you're responsible.

There's probably a metaphor here for persecution leading to desperation and further violence, but this is where the Bulgasari actually takes a turn because, on its own, roaming the world, it found that it had talents other than want and destruction.

Namely, it could defeat nightmares, ward off evil spirits, and prevent plagues and natural disasters.

Because I guess pestilence and storms don't want to deal with whatever's going on there.

Maybe the monks took credit for that eventually because it was apparently sculpted as a sentry on walls, chimneys, railings, and pillars.

Just goes to show it's never too late to turn things around.

Just stop eating people and burning down villages.

Pretty low bar, if you ask me.

That's it for this time.

Myths and Legends is by Jason and Carissa Wiser.

Our theme song is by Broke for Free, and the Creature of the Week music is by Steve Combs.

There are links to even more of the music we used in the show notes.

Thank you so much for listening, and we'll see you next time.

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