Chapter Text
For the next seven days, the routine is the same. Each day, the seven men are led back to the ritual chamber. Each day, they are thoroughly lathered from head to toe. Each day, any hint of stubble that has dared to emerge is meticulously shaved away. They do not undergo the full ten passes again; a single, perfect shave is enough to maintain their state of “purity.” They remain without upper garments, their smooth, gleaming torsos becoming their new normal.
They spend their days meditating (or, in Gunwook’s case, competitively meditating), eating simple, healthy meals, and talking. Stripped of their hair, their clothes, and their public personas, they form a strange and powerful bond. Eunwoo discusses philosophy with Shownu. Jiwoong teaches Yeonjun how to find the best light for a selfie even without eyebrows. Mingyu, Gunwook, and Yehao invent a new form of silent, meditative tag. They are happier and more relaxed than they have been in years. The purification, in its own absurd way, is working.
Meanwhile, Hao is busy. Each day, after the shavings, his fake monks meticulously collect every single shorn hair, placing it into seven distinct, magically sealed bags. The sheer volume is staggering. At the end of the seven days, he has a treasure trove of high-quality, spiritually-charged (thanks to the men’s belief) follicles.
On the final day, he addresses the seven men. “You are reborn,” he tells them, his voice full of solemn pride.
“Go back into the world, but carry the memory of this purity with you. Your paths are clear.”
He sends them on their way, and they leave as they came, in sleek black cars, but they are utterly changed.
They exchange numbers, promising to form a “support group.”
They are the Brotherhood of the Bald.
As soon as they are gone, the monastery illusion dissolves. The ancient wood turns back into pine, the stone walls into plaster. Hao stands alone in his simple robes, holding seven large, heavy sacks of hair. He teleports back to his penthouse, the sacks landing with a soft, satisfying thud on his expensive rug.
His lab is a mix of high-tech chemistry equipment and ancient demonic artifacts. He works with feverish excitement, combining the contents of the seven bags into a large, iron cauldron. The hair from Eunwoo, the intellectual; Shownu, the stoic; Jiwoong, the sensualist; Yeonjun, the artist; Yehao, the warrior; Gunwook, the competitor; and Mingyu, the believer. It is a potent mix of archetypal masculine energy.
He adds the other ingredients—a drop of molten starlight, the sigh of a forgotten god, and a generous splash of 100-year-old Scotch—and begins the incantation. The mixture in the cauldron begins to glow, first a soft white, then a brilliant, terrifying crimson. It swirls and thickens, coalescing into a single, shimmering vial’s worth of liquid. It pulses with power, a deep, resonant hum that makes the very air vibrate.
With a trembling hand, Hao lifts the vial. This potion feels different. Stronger. More volatile. He uncorks it and drinks it down in a single gulp.
The effect is instantaneous and overwhelming. Power, raw and untamed, slams into him like a physical blow. It is not the gentle recharge he is used to. It is a tidal wave, a supernova. His vision whites out, and the last thing he feels before he loses consciousness is an ecstatic, terrifying surge of energy rewriting his very being.
He wakes up hours later on the floor of his lab. He feels… incredible. He feels younger, stronger, more powerful than he has in centuries. He can feel the tectonic plates shifting deep beneath the earth. He can hear the whispers of dust motes dancing in a sunbeam a mile away.
He stumbles to a mirror and gasps. He looks the same, but his reflection shimmers with a barely contained aura of immense power. He flexes his hand, and a ball of pure, black lightning crackles in his palm.
“What… what was in that hair?” he whispers, his mind racing.
He had chosen them for their physical attributes, for the quality and quantity of their follicles. He had not considered their spirits, their essences, the unique, potent energies they possessed. Their belief in the ritual, their combined positive focus, had amplified the magical properties of the ingredients a thousandfold. This was not just a maintenance potion. This was an evolutionary leap.
A slow, greedy smile spreads across his face. This changes everything. Sustenance is no longer the goal. Now, the goal is growth. Ascension.
He needs more.
He knows it will take time for them to grow their hair back.
Beards, moustaches, head hair, chest hair… a full harvest would take months, maybe a year. But Hao is a demon of considerable style, and now, of considerable power. And he has all the time in the world.
He needs to get close to them. Not as a wise old monk, but as one of them.
He pictures a new human form in his mind: a man of devastating beauty, wit, and charm. A man they would welcome into their strange little brotherhood without a second thought.
He will become their friend, their confidant. He will watch them, encourage them, and when the time is right, when their follicles are once again ripe for the harvest, he will orchestrate another “purification.” And then another. And another.
The cycle has begun. A power-thirsty demon, disguised as a friend, and his seven unsuspecting, impossibly attractive, and wonderfully, gloriously hairy human power sources.
Zhang Hao smiles.
The next ten years are going to be very interesting indeed.