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[ENGLISH] The Beginning of a Fantasy Classic: Why the World of The Bird That Drinks Tears Is Worth Falling For scrap

by Jinwoo Parkgo link September 7, 2026

[ENGLISH] The Beginning of a Fantasy Classic: Why the World of The Bird That Drinks Tears Is Worth Falling For 이미지

The Heart of the Nhaga

 

At a glance, The Heart of the Nhaga, the first installment of Lee Young-do’s fantasy epic The Bird That Drinks Tears, appears to follow the familiar narrative path laid out by works such as The Lord of the Rings: a band made up of different species sets out on a perilous mission. The party is formed of four individuals: Kagan Draca, a mysteri­ous human pathfinder who hunts and eats Nhaga yet finds himself tasked with escorting one to safety; Byong Srabble, a cheerful Tokkebi scholar and trickster who wields the mystical Tokkebibul; Teenahan, a towering Rekon warrior armed with a seven-meter spear; and Ryun Pei, a young Nhaga haunted by the murder of his father and burdened with a mission that may determine the fate of all four races.

 

This is where the novel already diverges from familiar fantasy conventions. Rather than populat­ing his world with variations of elves, dwarves, and orcs, Lee’s worldbuilding fills it with races that feel entirely his own. Take the Nhaga, a reptilian people who molt their skin, lay eggs, and relinquish their hearts in exchange for immortality. Or the Rekon, gigantic avian humanoids capable of moving massive boulders, running at astonishing speeds, and unleashing cries powerful enough to sweep people away like a tornado.

 

What truly distinguishes these races, however, is not their physiology but the civilizations Lee builds around them. The Nhaga live in a matriarchal society, yet Lee does not simply reverse patriarchal roles. Every social dynamic is grounded in history and custom, giving their culture a convincing sense of evolution. One example is the Shojainteshiktol, a practice in which the murder of a household member must be avenged by one of the perpetra­tor’s relatives hunting down the killer. In the central dispute between two Nhaga households that propels the story, what matters is not whether a murder occurred or not. The real question is whether the murder even matters since both the victim and the perpetrator are men. In that single conflict, Lee reveals an entire worldview.

 

Lee also enriches his world by drawing from Korean mythology. The Tokkebi, a staple of Korean folklore, wield the mystical Tokkebibul, a fire used for warmth, illusion, and combat, while the Duoksini—also from Korean folklore—appear as a fallen race that has “lost its god,” existing in a grotesque state where nothing about their bodies or existence seems to make sense.

 

There is certainly the potential for all of this to overwhelm readers. But this is where Lee’s strength as a storyteller truly shines. He shows us the world instead of telling us about it. In doing so, he allows us to become immersed gradually and naturally.

 

Fantasy authors often struggle with the temptation to front-load background information, particularly in the opening volume of a series. Lee does not readily take that path. Rather than explaining his world, he invites readers to experi­ence it. The customs of the Nhaga emerge through conversation, ritual, and conflict. Their attitudes toward men are not explained through exposition but demonstrated through the way they live, speak, and make moral judgments.

 

Even when exposition appears, it rarely feels forced. Much of it comes through Kagan Draca, the party’s most worldly member. Lee not only expands the world’s lore but also deepens Kagan himself, turning every explanation into another glimpse of his mysterious past.

 

That same restraint extends to the novel’s mysteries. Whenever the novel seems ready to reveal the truth behind Kagan Draca’s history or the larger purpose of the journey, it instead offers another carefully measured clue. Lee trusts both his story and his readers enough to embrace delayed gratification, allowing its secrets to unfold across multiple volumes rather than rushing toward premature revelations.

 

Anton Hur’s confident and refined translation skillfully captures all of this. His ability to carry an author’s voice into English, already proven across multiple genres, shines just as brightly in this fantasy epic. The prose has depth without sacrificing momentum, preserving both the novel’s grandeur and its humanity.

 

Korean fantasy is rich with remarkable works that have yet to reach English-language readers. Among them, The Bird That Drinks Tears has long stood tall as the work that most urgently deserved to cross that linguistic boundary. With The Heart of the Nhaga, English readers can finally discover why.

Writer 필자 소개

Jinwoo Park

Jinwoo Park

Jinwoo Park is a Korean-Canadian writer based in Montreal. He completed his Master’s in creative writing at the University of Oxford in 2015, and has been working in the tech industry as a writer since. In 2021 he won the Jim Wong-Chu Emerging Writers’ Award for his unpublished manuscript, Oxford Soju Club. He talks about literature on TikTok at @jinwoopark0721.

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