The years were kind.
Jin-Woo's limp faded to a memory. Kafka's son, named Reno after a friend he'd never forget, grew tall and strong, with his father's kind heart and none of his Kaiju-related baggage. Kikoru and Mina, together, built a world of unprecedented peace and stability. Their strange, four-person family was the quiet, steady center of a healing world.
Jin-Woo found a simple, profound joy in the finite. He learned carpentry, building furniture with the same patient focus he had once used to command legions. He learned to cook, not just pancakes, but a thousand different dishes, each one an exploration of a world he finally had time to taste. He learned to love, not with the epic, soul-crushing weight of a Monarch, but with the gentle, daily acts of a partner, a friend, a father figure. He was happy.
One night, on the tenth anniversary of the Day of Light, they sat on the porch, watching a meteor shower paint fleeting, silver streaks across the velvet sky. Kafka was asleep in a chair, snoring softly. Mina and Kikoru were leaning against each other, their quiet companionship a testament to the years. Jin-Woo was just watching the stars, a content, peaceful man.
He felt a sudden, sharp warmth on the back of his hand.
He looked down. A small, intricate mark, like a tattoo made of embers, was glowing on his skin. It was a circle with a flame at its center. He hadn't seen it in a decade.
The Monarchess's sigil.
His blood ran cold. He quickly stood up, making a quiet excuse about getting a blanket, and walked to the edge of the garden, away from the others. He held up his hand, his heart pounding with a forgotten, primal rhythm.
[Hello, my cold, quiet King,] her voice purred in his mind, not a shout, but a whisper across a vast, cosmic distance. [Happy anniversary.]
What do you want? he projected back, his mental voice rusty, but firm.
A soft, sultry laugh was his only reply for a moment. [Oh, nothing. I am merely… checking in. I see you found your splinters. You seem to enjoy them.]
This world is under my protection, he warned, a phantom echo of his old authority in his thoughts. It has found its peace.
[I know,] she said, and her tone shifted. The playful seduction was gone, replaced by something… softer. Something he had never heard from her before. [I have been watching. From a distance. I saw you close the book. I saw you tell the Storyteller 'no.' Of all the magnificent things I have seen you do, that was the most impressive.]
He was stunned into silence.
[I told you that you would freeze alone,] she continued, her voice a low murmur. [I am… glad I was wrong. It seems even a goddess of flame can be mistaken.]
Why are you contacting me? he asked again, his suspicion warring with a strange, unexpected sense of closure.
[A gift,] she said. [A final one. For the king who chose to be a man. Consider it a wedding present for the marriage between you and your quiet, little life.]
The mark on his hand glowed brighter. It wasn't a summons. It wasn't a brand. It felt… different. Warm. Protective.
[The universe is a large, hungry place, Sung Jin-Woo,] she explained. [The Gardener, as you now know it, can protect your story. But there are things that exist outside the library. Things that do not read, but only devour. The ones who ate my world. The ones the Architects fled from.]
A cold dread trickled down Jin-Woo's spine. The true enemy. The one she had hinted at a decade ago.
[I am leaving this galaxy,] she said, a note of weariness in her voice. [The hunt is long, and I am the last of my kind. But I leave a spark of my flame with you. This mark. It is a ward. An alarm. It will lie dormant, forever, I hope. But if they ever come here… if the true, story-eating Void ever casts its shadow upon your quiet, little world… this mark will burn. It will not give you the power to fight them. But it will give you one thing.]
What? he asked.
[Time,] she whispered. [Time enough to gather your family. Time enough to say goodbye. It is the one gift a god can give that is worth having.]
The mark on his hand faded, the warmth receding, leaving only his unmarked, mortal skin behind.
[Live well, Sung Jin-Woo,] her voice whispered, now faint, distant, a dying star. [Live a quiet, happy, and blessedly boring final chapter. You, of all beings, have earned it.]
And then she was gone.
Jin-Woo stood in the darkness, staring at his hand, at the empty sky. He had not been given a new weapon or a new burden. He had been given a final, profound act of grace from the most unlikely of sources. A promise that his quiet morning would be protected, not just from the whims of a storyteller, but from the hunger of the void itself.
He took a deep breath, the cool night air filling his lungs. He could still feel the phantom warmth on his hand, a silent, eternal vigil kept by a lonely goddess of flame, somewhere in the endless dark.
He was not alone. And his peace was real.
He turned and walked back to the porch, back to the light, back to his family. Mina looked up at him, a questioning look in her eyes.
He simply smiled, took her hand, and sat down.
"The meteors are beautiful tonight," he said, his voice quiet and content.
And together, they watched the stars fall.