He, who had not napped once since donning the robe, struggled to resist—but his eyes closed.
And she came.
Sarin, radiant in silk, bowed low.
"I don't even remember our parents' faces," she said. "But you were my father in this life. I came to say goodbye."
When he awoke, he was weeping.
His master listened quietly. Then said, "It is the final thread. Let her go, and return in peace."
Twenty days later, he reached Jangto Limit.
Jingon met him at the gates, eyes swollen with tears.
"I found her only yesterday," he said. "She must've fallen from the cliffs. I'm... I'm so sorry."
They did not bury her—not yet. She lay in quiet dignity, wrapped in silk and silence, while the living whispered prayers through sleepless nights.
Suryun chanted sutras, his voice steady, though the earth beneath him felt fragile.
Three days passed.
That was when he saw her. A woman—dressed too finely for a funeral.
Her eyes found Jingon's too often. And each time they did, his lingered.
One night, as Suryun lay half-asleep, he heard whispers:
"Barely cold in her funeral, and a new bride already at the gate..."
"She was his concubine, so it's only natural—"
"But to do it before her body cool? Even animals have shame."
He rose, feigning a stretch, and walked out to the fire.
There, he pricked his index finger and let five drops of blood fall in a circle.
A crude version of Hienhieng-jin—the Manifestation Array.
A technique he had glimpsed once at a hermitage, said to reveal the true form of any shapeshifter.
It might not work. But something… flickered.
And that woman—she watched him, ever so slightly, from the corner of her eye.
On the tenth day, Suryun excused himself and slipped away, seeking a shrine blessed with sacred energy.
There, he began the rite: Inbaek-sul, the forbidden summoning of the white soul.
A spell only possible if one's spirit aligned perfectly with the departed.
He had to know. Had her death been truly an accident?
As the winds stilled and her voice began to answer—
The shrine doors burst open.
Assassins.
Steel flashed. The ritual was stopped before it was complete. He thought that was the end.
But then—
A young warrior, veiled in shadow, stepped forward—not for glory, but to save a monk's life, and a sister's soul not fully returned.
They finally arrived at the Limit's office hall.
Goi, moving with ease and familiarity, found a low wall and vaulted over it as if it were second nature, vanishing into the night like mist slipping between stone.
Suryun, breathless and wary, scrambled after him, barely managing to hoist himself over. He landed hard, a grunt in his throat, but wasted no time.
Ahead, he glimpsed Goi's silhouette again—leaping silently over another wall, disappearing into the sheriff's quarters.
His movements were fluid, almost like a dance.
Suryun paused, scanned his surroundings, and cautiously crept forward.
Inside the narrow room, Jingon stirred beneath tangled sheets and the scent of sweat and sandalwood.
His hand had just grazed the curve of Chori's bare waist when his gaze, unbidden, slipped past the folding screen.
There, behind it, lay the coffin. His wife's coffin.
Still and silent in the adjoining room, barely ten paces away.
And guilt, heavy and cold, surged up like something he'd tried to drown but never quite could.
Even now—skin still flushed, breath uneven—he hadn't forgotten her.
Sarin. Twelve years younger than he.
His wife, his companion, the one who had welcomed another woman into their lives without anger, without blame.
No one had ever understood—not even Saju—that Jingon's own fate was not so different from theirs.