Yet, deep in its heart, one final ember of defiance burned. Concealing its intent, the tiger lowered its growl and feigned submission.
Goi, sensing the shift, eased his stance and lowered his blade slightly.
That was all Hujaki needed.
Summoning the last of its strength, it lunged toward the governor with explosive speed. The man screamed, stumbling back in terror. But before the tiger could reach him, a radiant wave of golden light engulfed its body.
Goi's voice rang out, firm and commanding.
"Cleansed!"
The bronze gladius in his hand glowed fiercely as it cleaved through the air, releasing a cascade of brilliance.
The tiger's body staggered and then crumpled, its every movement betraying the toll of its wounds, collapsing to the ground with a heavy, defeated thud. The burning hatred that had fueled its rampage dissolved, replaced by an unfamiliar serenity. For the first time in its life, the tiger felt at peace.
Goi approached the fallen beast and knelt beside it. Up close, the tiger saw not the hardened visage of a seasoned warrior but the youthful face of a man barely out of his twenties.
Goi's hand rested gently on the tiger's heaving flank.
"Why did your kin come here?" he asked softly.
The tiger tried to speak, but its voice was weak, its breaths shallow. The bells chimed faintly, and Goi knelt beside the tiger.
His hand moved gently over its battered body as though listening to the silent story it yearned to tell. Its labored breaths and faint growls filled the space between them, a quiet dialogue unspoken but understood.
He should have killed me already. Why didn't he?
The thought clawed its way through Sohark's mind as cold sweat slid down his spine.
Was he... listening to the tiger's talk?
A voice from the past rose, sharp and scornful: Do you think that pretty face will carry you through life forever? Study. Train. At the very least, learn a trade that makes you useful.
His father's voice. Always so loud, so disappointed.
Back then, Sohark had laughed.
He was handsome—painfully so. Everyone said so. From the time he was a toddler, strangers had smiled, cooed, offered him treats. Why study when a single sorrowful look from him could earn a warm meal? A tear could bring gold and at least silver. A sigh might deliver a key to someone's heart—or home.
Why sweat when you could smile? Why bleed when you could charm?
Only once had he doubted himself.
A woman on the road. He had smiled. Flirted a little.
She had laughed, then led him behind the mill and undressed.
It was her choice. He hadn't forced anything.
But her husband disagreed. So did his friends.
They chased him halfway across the mountains. He ran for his life, his father's words ringing in his ears: You should have at least learned to fight.
He had collapsed near Bumgok Mountain, too exhausted to flee. They found him, beat him senseless. He remembered nothing of the pain—only the sudden warmth of her arms, her weeping face as she dragged him to safety.
She nursed him back to health, cooked for him, whispered devotion.
He repaid her with a few embraces. Nothing more.
She's the one who said it.
"You're my husband now."
And so he followed her. To meet her mother.
Only then did he learn.
She was a tiger. Her mother too. That… had been unfortunate.
He had done what any man would do. Used what he could. Lied where he must. To kill the harmful beast! That earned him power—made him the governor of Bumgok Land.
Was that so wrong?
But now? Now his men were useless, frozen in terror.
I suppose I'll have to clean up my own mess.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over the stranger and the tiger.
A figure stepped into view—sword gleaming, eyes locked not on the stranger, but on the tiger's heart.
The stranger moved with impossible speed.
Sohark's sword flew from his hands, clattering against the stones. He stared, stunned, as the stranger—this swordsman wrapped in gray—stood with blade drawn, expression like a drawn bow: still, quiet, deadly.
The tiger let out a final growl. Goi said nothing. His silence burned.
Sohark stumbled backward. And then, all at once, his fear put on a mask.
He flung his arms wide, turning to the crowd with theatrical flourish.
"Behold! Our hero!" he cried, voice cracking with forced cheer.
"He has saved us all! Praise this great swordsman!"
The villagers hesitated, then slowly—nervously—began to clap. The sound rose, thin at first, then swelling with relief and confusion.
Sohark turned back to Goi, a trembling smile plastered across his face.
"I am the governor of Bumgok Land,"
he announced, chest puffed out as if nothing had happened.
"And you, noble warrior, have protected my people. Tell me—what land do you hail from, that raises such a hero?"
But Goi did not smile. His voice fell like a hammer: "Silence. You insolent coward."
His hand, just moments ago resting on the tiger's side, now reached for his waist.
He stepped forward, the crowd parting like grass before the wind. The words dropped like stone into a well. The cheer died.
Sohark's face went white. He spun to his soldiers, waving his arms in feigned outrage.
"What is this? Arrest him! How dare he insult—"
But no one moved.
Another roar went up—but it wasn't for him. It was for the man behind him.
He turned, slow and shaking. Goi was already there.
Eyes burning.
Sohark ran. He didn't make it far.
A sharp kick to his back sent him sprawling. He landed in the dirt with a cry, arms splayed, fine robes now smeared with filth.
He crawled. Turned. Begged.
"Please—my lord, please! It's all a misunderstanding! I—I never meant—!"
Goi drew the bronze gladius. The golden light surged, fierce and holy.
"You dare deceive even me?" he said. Then, with finality, "Cleansed!"
The blade cut downward.
Light exploded over the square, washing over Sohark's form. When it faded, he remained kneeling—silent, stripped of his lies, his charm, his voice.
His eyes were blank.
Not with fear. Not with fury.
Only a quiet, hollow peace.