#imugi

The guide’s voice carried smoothly through the cold depths of the museum, echoing against towering walls lined with glass cases and ancient relics.

“Many great stories emerged from this era,” she explained, hands folded neatly before her. “Most were passed down orally through shamans before eventually being adapted into written texts centuries later.”

Heads of every color swayed slowly through the dim corridor as guests followed after her, their footsteps muted against polished stone floors. Warm museum lights illuminated rusted blades, faded scrolls, and fragments of old ceremonial robes hidden behind glass.

“Ancient kings,” the guide continued, “held dragons in particularly high regard, often viewing them as symbols of divine authority and prosperity. Their likenesses were commonly embroidered into royal garments.”

Her voice echoed softly through the long hall they entered next. White paper talismans hung from the ceiling in endless rows, their crimson lettering glowing faintly beneath amber lights. Long rows of colored papers hung overhead, recreations of ancient paintings hidden amongst the brightly colored papers. Bronze bells chimed gently overhead whenever visitors passed beneath them.

“Particularly,” she paused, thin fingers motioning toward a large weathered journal displayed beneath glass, “there exists a famous account written by a royal court historian.”

The crowd leaned closer instinctively.

“The text details what is now considered little more than myth- a tale first told to the king by a great shaman, a woman later adopted into the palace and granted the title of princess by the queen herself.”

She gestured toward an enormous wall covered in copies of the ancient script.

“It tells the story of a child born from Yangwong, the great god of the waters, and Dalnim, goddess of the night sky.”

The murmuring guests gradually fell silent.

“The child’s true name was never documented. According to surviving records, he was born during a violent storm before later washing ashore upon the coasts of what is now modern-day Dokdo.”

The guide’s tone lowered slightly.

“The historians referred to him simply as the Son of Yongwang.”

A soft hum spread through the tourists.

“This child was viewed as a divine omen by the royal court.”

Then, slowly, the guide lifted her hand toward the ceiling.

Hidden amongst the endless paper charms and hanging bells was the enormous body of a serpent.

Silver-blue scales glimmered beneath the dim lights, concealed only partially beneath flowing paper scripts. Its body twisted endlessly through the rafters above, enormous seven claws stretched outward, as if to reach down towards the people of the museum. Gasps rippled through the hall as visitors immediately lifted their phones and cameras.

“As dragons represented prosperity and heavenly power,” the guide continued smoothly, “the king himself ordered for the child to be brought into the palace, where both he and the queen raised the boy as royalty.”

She smiled faintly.

“However… the prince was described rather strangely within surviving records.”

The guests listened carefully now.

“Though revered, the child possessed scales similar to those attributed to imugi.”

A pause.

“And at the time, most imugi were believed to be female.”

The guide clasped her hands neatly together.

“To the people of that era, the prince was considered an anomaly.”

Her heels clicked softly against the floor as she continued further into the exhibit.

“Unlike western dragons, Korean dragons were not born divine. According to legend, they first existed as imugi, lesser serpentine beings who spent centuries yearning to ascend.”

Warm yellow light spilled across a small glass case ahead, inside rested a luminous pearl, its smooth surface reflected the museum lights like captured moonlight.

“It was said that if an imugi survived for one thousand years,” the guide continued softly, “they would be granted the chance to become a true dragon through the blessing of a yeouiju.”

Her fingers hovered carefully near the glass,” a sacred orb said to symbolize creation, omnipotents, and ascension itself-” A small voice interrupted from somewhere within the crowd, meak and barely heard amongst the many whispers of the crowd and clicks of cameras.

“I thought dragons were just myths, if that boy was real, could he have become a dragon too?” the voice barely was able to ask, toothily speaking, dark locks protected by the hand of what was likely their parent. The guide blinked before laughing softly, almost out of habit.

“A wonderful question.”

Her smile remained gentle.

“This orb was donated to the museum over seventy years ago by a sculptor. It is merely a recreation inspired by ancient paintings and surviving folklore.”

For a brief moment, her gaze lingered on the glowing pearl.

“As for the prince…” she continued carefully, “the records claim he vanished shortly after his fifteenth birthday.”

The room fell strangely quiet.

“After that,” the guide murmured, “very little was ever written about him again.”

The crowd slowly walked forth with the guide, leaving behind the empty hall, and a figure- hidden amongst the chaos of such a crowd of tourists. His eye, seeming glowing against the dim-yet warmly lit walls of the museum. His gait was slow, hesitant, a shaky hand reaching forward to the sphere- a wall of glass preventing his softly scaled fingers, large with ancient scars on the innermost portion of his palm, from touching upon such a sacred object. His golden eyes scanned the orb, a distant sound catching his attention, forcing him to quickly peel his gaze from the orb- a woman, young, and awkward- nervous, a large apron messily tied on her form. His eyes narrowed for a moment before the woman spoke, her words nervous and childish, likely not a native speaker.

“Uh- My grandmother, where. See?” She must’ve been far too nervous to recognize the irregularities of the stranger, dressed in coats far too warm for the spring, hair hidden away in a bucket hat- a mask barely allowing his eyes to peek out from the depths casted by his hat. His long, slender finger gestured towards the path of the crowd. 

“That way, with them,” He spoke, voice low, barely a whisper-slight nasally and muffled by his mask.