The trees whispered in hushed tones that night, as if the forest had overheard something too sacred to repeat aloud.
They camped on a gentle rise overlooking the basin ruins, where moonlight threaded between tall grass like strands of silver. A small shrine stood nearby—cracked, overtaken by moss, but intact. Someone had tended to it long ago.
So-Ri discovered it first. "It's old. But not forgotten."
Sun-Ho followed her gaze. A single faded ribbon still clung to the shrine's edge—red silk, weathered by time.
His breath caught.
So-Ri noticed.
"You recognize it?"
He nodded once.
"Na-Eun's hair ribbon," he said softly.
---
Later, when the others slept, Sun-Ho returned alone.
The shrine was lit only by starlight now, and the ribbon trembled gently in the breeze—as if stirred not by wind, but memory.
He knelt and placed a palm against the stone.
The air pulsed.
And the world… shimmered.
---
Light bled into shadow. The trees lost color. The stars dimmed.
And then—
A figure stood before him.
She wore no shoes. Her robes were white, plain, adorned only by a silver sash. Her hair—obsidian-dark—fell loose, save for the ribbon, now vibrant in moonlight.
Na-Eun smiled gently.
"Hello, Hwan-Seok."
Sun-Ho didn't speak at first.
She wasn't solid. Her form blurred at the edges like candle smoke. A spirit echo—not a ghost, not a soul. A fragment left behind, sustained by emotion and place.
Still, it was her.
His voice, when it came, was low. "You always hated titles."
Her laugh—soft, genuine—echoed through the stillness.
"You never listened."
---
So-Ri stirred in her sleep.
A dream? A chill?
She rose quietly, drawn by instinct more than sound, and stepped barefoot through the grass. She saw the shrine, saw Sun-Ho kneeling—and the shape before him.
She froze.
From behind the trees, she watched.
---
Back at the shrine, Na-Eun stepped closer.
"You're still angry with yourself."
"I should be," Sun-Ho murmured. "You died trying to protect peace. I avenged you with fire."
"That wasn't your only choice," she said.
"But it was the one I made."
She nodded slowly. "And yet, you stand here again. Not burning. Listening."
He looked up at her.
"You knew I'd return."
Na-Eun tilted her head.
"No," she said softly. "I only hoped."
---
The wind moved again.
Sun-Ho rose to his feet.
"I'm not here to cling to the past. I came to honor it. And to let it go."
Na-Eun stepped close. Her form flickered. Her voice, warm but distant.
"Then let this be my last gift."
She extended a hand.
When Sun-Ho took it, images cascaded into his mind—
> Villagers tending herb fields under her guidance.
Orphans being taught to meditate.
A young boy handing her a wooden charm—the same design Yeon wore now.
Her last night before the valley… writing a letter she never sent.
Then it all faded.
She smiled once more. "Live well, Hwan-Seok. This time, live."
And she was gone.
---
Silence returned.
Only the ribbon remained.
Sun-Ho stood still, breath shallow.
Then, quietly, footsteps approached.
So-Ri.
She didn't speak.
Didn't ask.
Just looked up at him—eyes unreadable.
His fingers closed gently around the red ribbon, and he turned.
"I didn't summon her," he said.
"I know."
"She wasn't real. Not exactly."
"I know that too."
"But she mattered."
So-Ri nodded. "And still does."
---
A pause.
Then, unprompted, Sun-Ho stepped toward her.
"I've lived so long carrying her shadow. The mercy she stood for. The peace she tried to give me."
So-Ri's voice was soft. "And you'll carry it forever."
He reached for her hand.
This time, she didn't hesitate.
Fingers met. No fan. No masks.
"Na-Eun was my anchor," he said. "But you're the one who held me together in this life."
So-Ri's breath caught.
"And you're the one I choose now."
Her composure cracked—just slightly.
But it was enough.
She leaned into his shoulder—not leaning for support, but sharing his weight.
They stood that way for a while, under stars that suddenly felt brighter.
---
Later, by the fire, Ji-Mun blinked awake and groaned. "Are you two whispering about tragic love or plotting rebellion again?"
Sun-Ho didn't answer.
So-Ri simply tossed a pebble in his direction.
---
Across the ridge, Yeon traced the sigil Sun-Ho had drawn earlier—the crest of the Verdant Flame.
He looked up at the sky, quiet but no longer uncertain.
For the first time, the stars felt like they were watching.
Not judging.
Just waiting.
---
Far away, in a stone chamber lit by blue fire, a masked figure read from a sealed scroll.
Na-Eun's image appeared briefly—distorted, warped, flickering with a sigil not of peace, but control.
The figure whispered:
> "Even mercy has a weapon buried within it."
"We just need to sharpen it."
---
End of Chapter 123 – Echoes of Na-Eun
---