They lived like shadows, moving only when the moon was high and the roads were still.
He begged when he had to. Stole when he must. Prayed when he could.
All to keep Sarin warm. Fed. Alive.
And through it all, he never once said aloud what gnawed at him most.
It was his fault—she was suffering because of his blood, his name, his father's vow.
Suryun ran—not in haste, but with steady, measured strides—along the path that had long since surrendered to darkness.
The direction in which the young swordsman had vanished was a road he knew well.
It led to the office hall of Jangto Limit, where Jingon—his childhood friend, his sworn brother, and his late sister's husband—still resided.
It was the very same path he had taken earlier that morning, though in reverse.
His heart beat with something more than fatigue: a tightening of the breath, a weight in the chest that had nothing to do with the climb.
At last, he caught up.
Or rather—Goi had stopped.
He stood still in the middle of the road, his silhouette outlined by the rising moonlight, as if awaiting what came next.
From the opposite direction, dark figures were approaching at a steady pace.
Suryun slipped behind a tree at the roadside, holding his breath.
Six men, faces concealed beneath black masks, encircled the swordsman in a silent, predatory arc.
From a distance, one of the masked men stepped forward, blade already drawn, a sneer curling beneath his voice.
"You're the one who—"
He never finished.
Steel flashed.
In the space between breath and boast, five men fell like autumn leaves, their cries cut short before they could bloom into fear.
Only one remained.
Goi turned toward him, calm as ever, and unsheathed the bronze gladius. The blade caught the moonlight as if it had been waiting for this moment.
Suryun, still hidden among the trees, watched in wordless awe.
The sword gleamed—not just with metal, but with something deeper.
As it moved, it cast a golden arc through the dark, and the last assassin collapsed to his knees, stunned, as if struck by light itself.
Goi leaned in and said something—soft, measured.
A question.
Whatever the assassin muttered in return, it was enough.
The bronze gladius slid silently back into its sheath.
Goi walked on without a word, leaving the man slumped over in the dust, breath still trembling, but life spared.
Suryun hurried to catch up before Goi disappeared again into the darkness. The closer he drew to the Jangto Limit's official quarters, the more vividly the past came flooding back.
He remembered the day he first arrived here, years ago, with nowhere left to run. Sarin had already grown too old to pass as a child, and no temple or retreat would shelter them anymore. So he kept moving—farther from the capital, farther from suspicion, until he reached the western edge of the realm: Jangto Limit.
It was a peaceful but still perilous place. But beyond the western ridge, if he could only cross it, lay Samul Gaya. Safety, perhaps.
They never reached it.
Sarin, starved and weakened, collapsed. So they hid in an empty military outpost high in the mountains, her body unable to bear the exile any longer. While she lay still and fevered, Suryun descended alone to search for food and medicine—and ran straight into a patrol.
He let his body fall gently to the ground, as if he had nothing left to protect.
Better to look harmless than brave. Better to appear poor, exhausted, nameless.
But the commander ordered his men to remain at the lower post. Then he stepped forward alone.
Suryun lifted his head—and nearly wept.
Jingon.
His childhood friend. His sworn brother. Now Sheriff of Jangto Limit.
He knelt and embraced him. And wept.
That very night, Jingon returned to the outpost alone, carrying food and medicine in silence. For fifteen nights, he came without fail. While Sarin regained her strength, the two men shared rice wine and stories of the days before sorrow had swallowed their names.
When Sarin could finally rise, Jingon made his offer.
"I'll take her in," he said. "I'll tell the world she was a match sent from my father in the royal castle. They'll believe it. And you—you should be free to let go. You've done more than enough."
Suryun refused at first. But then Sarin spoke.
"I can't run anymore," she whispered, her eyes hollow. "I don't want to run."
He looked at her—bone-thin, exhausted, still trying to smile—and his heart broke.
They wept together. And when he left her in Jingon's care, it was with the belief that, perhaps, the worst had passed.
He took the vows soon after. Became Suryun. And for a time, found peace.
But one afternoon, without reason, sleep overtook him.