The assassins, surprised by his presence, glanced around, realizing he was alone.
One of them signaled to his comrades, but before they could act, Goi had already closed in, swinging his steel blade.
The first assassin fell swiftly, and Goi methodically struck down the remaining assailants. Disoriented by their leader's defeat, three of the assassins failed to land a single effective blow before collapsing under Goi's relentless attack.
The remaining three attempted to flee in different directions, but Goi quickly subdued one of them before approaching the lone monk, sheathing his steel blade. The monk rose, clasped his hands together, and bowed deeply in gratitude.
"Buddha might have sent you to me. Thank you, Sir," the monk said, "My Dharma name is Suryun…"
Goi's expression remained stoic.
"Hey, Saju, old man. Your dead sister hadn't yet entered Nirvana."
The monk's eyes widened in shock.
"Wha... What are you saying?"
"Stay. Good news will come soon enough." Goi advised, his tone leaving no room for argument.
As Goi stepped out toward the shrine's entrance, the monk hesitated for a moment, uncertain about following the command-like guidance he had been given. However, the mention of his deceased sister stirred a curiosity he could not suppress.
How could such a young man speak my lay name… with such certainty? And my sister—how does he know of her passing?
Who—who in the world is he?
With a mix of apprehension and intrigue, he cautiously trailed behind Goi, who was gradually disappearing into the drawing shadows.
Goi walked slowly down the darkening path toward the Jangto Limit's office. The soft chime of bronze bells echoed in the air, then faded.
Goi chuckled to himself, "Yes, I saw it already from the mountain," and continued his steady pace toward the village where the office was located.
Muttering to himself, Goi caught the attention of the monk trailing behind him.
Suryun paused, tilting his head in confusion.
"He must be out of his mind..." he muttered, hesitating once more.
Glancing back at the shrine, he seemed to steel himself, muttering, "Well, I've done my share of crazy things..." before deciding to follow Goi.
Suryun held his breath and tried to follow Goi, but the man seemed to drift farther with every step—as if walking on mist, never quite touching the earth. And then, in the hush between two breaths, memory returned.
He had once been a fugitive, wandering with a child no older than three clutched to his side.
His younger sister—Sarin.
It had begun the day Prince Sowon, his father's master and the only righteous man in court, was accused of treason. And with him fell his father—Baehae, the prince's closest counselor, seized in chains and silenced before the sun could rise again.
There had even been a bounty. His name, a whisper carried on wanted posters, turned him into a ghost while still breathing.
And so, with Sarin asleep on his back, Saju vanished from the world of names.
They took refuge in mountain temples and remote hermitages, hiding their blood and origin behind robes and rituals. Yet, the years were not wholly unkind.
He had read sutras beneath flickering lamps, memorized chants that felt older than the mountains themselves. At the hermitages, while sweeping leaves or serving meals, he had watched from corners—absorbing the gestures, the breathwork, the subtle shifts of palm and chi.
To his quiet surprise, he was not without talent. There were monks who encouraged him to take vows. There were hermits who, sensing something in his stillness, taught him without ever claiming him.
But no hiding place lasted long. The court's reach was long and unyielding. Three years—no more than that—was all any place could offer before whispers began to stir.
And so the cycle continued. Three years here, two years there. Ten years passed like wind over stone.
But then came the change.
Sarin, once a babbling child clinging to his robes, had grown.
At thirteen, her face began to take shape.
At fourteen, her figure followed.
And the temples that had once taken them in with quiet pity now looked upon her with wary silence.
She was no longer a child. And in sacred spaces ruled by fear and law, a growing girl was a disruption. A danger.
Refusals came gently at first. Later, they were sharp. Final.
The last three years were a blur of thin blankets, abandoned shrines, and silent marches through forgotten paths.