The air in the chamber felt different that night. A quiet hum, the kind that came before a storm, vibrated faintly against the walls.
Yeomhwa stepped inside gracefully, her pale robes brushing against the floor like whispers. She found Do Ryeong bent over his desk, carefully binding protective charms onto slips of cloth. His head tilted slightly when he noticed her presence, but his eyes stayed on his work.
"You're late," he said flatly, as though he had been expecting her all along.
Yeomhwa smirked faintly, her gaze cold but alluring. "You know why I'm here, Do Ryeong. I need the amulet."
Do Ryeong finally lifted his head, his expression unreadable. "And why should I give it to you? You're not supposed to meddle with mortal affairs."
She stepped closer, her voice low and steady. "This amulet is the key. Without it, the silver ring will keep binding the boy's soul. If you care about Seong-ah at all, you'll give it to me."
Her hand extended, palm open, waiting.
For a moment, the chamber was silent except for the flickering of the lantern flame. But before Do Ryeong could answer—
The ground shuddered. A gust of divine energy swept through the chamber like a sudden storm.
The sacred chamber smelled faintly of incense and burning oil. Shadows stretched long against the stone walls, and the golden cords of divine light wrapped tightly around Yeomhwa's wrists and ankles, pinning her to the chair at the chamber's center. She did not tremble. Instead, she sat with her chin lifted, her long hair spilling around her shoulders like a dark veil, her sharp eyes never leaving the goddess who bound her.
Her lips curled into a mocking smile. "How ironic," she whispered, her voice echoing faintly in the hollow space. "To be tied down by the very one who claims to protect balance. Tell me, Mother Goddess… how long will you let your precious balance crush the ones who suffer beneath it?"
Do Ryeong, standing by the altar with the amulet in his hand, felt his throat tighten. Her words sliced through him like a knife, though he tried to remain expressionless.
The Mother Goddess's voice was steady, calm, yet cold as steel. "Your tongue drips with venom, Yeomhwa. You wrap truth in lies so seamlessly, even the weak-hearted might mistake them for prophecy. But I am not swayed. You have always sought to meddle with the line that divides life from death."
Yeomhwa laughed bitterly, her shoulders shaking as she leaned against the glowing binds. "Meddle? Or fight against cruelty? The silver ring… it was never meant to hold a soul for this long."
Her eyes flicked toward Do Ryeong, sharp, accusing. "And you know it. Every night, every hour of the ox—you feel it, don't you? The veil thinning. The dead clawing closer. The boy's spirit trembling."
Do Ryeong's fingers clenched tighter around the amulet. A chill crept into his spine. He had felt it. That strange pull in the air, the way the hour of the ox grew heavier each time Gyeonwoo appeared. But he pressed his lips into a firm line, unwilling to let the thought root.
Yeomhwa's voice softened, just barely, though her eyes still glimmered with fire. "The boy cannot endure much longer. That ring, the one his mother gave him—it binds more than just memory. It chains his very soul. Do you understand? Without the amulet, he won't simply vanish. He will collapse into nothingness and drag others with him. Seong-ah. Even Gyeonwoo."
Do Ryeong's heart jolted. He stared at her, his breath caught. The weight of her words pressed against his chest like a stone.
But then the Mother Goddess stepped forward. Her presence filled the chamber, her robes whispering against the floor, her gaze blazing with unshaken certainty. "Do not be deceived, Do Ryeong." Her voice rolled like thunder, reverberating in the air. "Yeomhwa thrives on desperation. She weaves fear to break you. She knows of your weakness—your desire to shield the girl from pain. That is why she aims her words at your heart."
Yeomhwa jerked against the glowing bonds, her voice rising in fury. "You would rather cling to your rules than save them? You would rather let the boy crumble, the girl weep, just to preserve your precious order? You are no protector—you are a jailer of fate!"
The golden light flared, silencing her cries, but her words lingered, echoing in the stillness.
Do Ryeong's jaw tightened. He could not look at either of them. His knuckles whitened around the amulet as sweat prickled at his temple.
The goddess's voice gentled, yet still carried the weight of eternity. "Do Ryeong… do not falter. You are my hand in this world. Guard the balance. Do not let your heart be poisoned by the whispers of a fallen one."
Yet even as she spoke, Yeomhwa's gaze burned into him. There was no plea in her eyes, only certainty, only fire.
Ambition… or truth?
Do Ryeong's chest ached. His thoughts scattered like broken glass, but one heavy question rooted deep inside him, louder than the goddess, louder than Yeomhwa—
If Yeomhwa was right… what would happen to Seong-ah?
The night air was heavy with mist, clinging to Yeomhwa's robes as she walked down the empty dirt path. The world was hushed, the hour where even the spirits seemed to retreat into silence. No temple guards, no goddess's bindings, no mocking voices. Only her footsteps and the hollow ache inside her chest.
She stopped beneath an old willow tree, its branches drooping like tired arms. Slowly, she sat on a stone slab, her fingers tracing the silver threads on her sleeves without thought. Her eyes glistened—not with rage, but with something quieter, something rawer.
The memory came unbidden.
The tiny weight she had once carried.
The warmth of fragile fingers that never truly curled.
A lullaby unsung.
A cradle that remained forever empty.
Her lips trembled, though no sound left them. She had told herself countless times she was beyond mourning. That power was her only solace. That her child, her baby, was nothing more than another cruel twist of fate stolen by the heavens.
And yet… the silence of the night only deepened the truth: she still grieved.
Yeomhwa drew her knees close, resting her forehead against them as her shoulders quivered. But before the tears could fall, a strange sound broke through the night.
A laugh.
Not the bright, innocent kind. It was jagged, fractured, filled with a hollow glee that made the hairs at the back of her neck rise.
She lifted her head.
At the far end of the path, sitting cross-legged on the ground, was a woman with tangled hair and tattered robes. Her hands cradled a doll—its face cracked, its dress torn. Yet she rocked it gently, cooing at it as though it were alive.
"My baby… hush now, don't cry… mama's here…" the woman whispered, her eyes shining with a feverish happiness.
Yeomhwa froze, her breath caught in her throat. The sight pierced deeper than any blade. The woman's smile was wide, almost joyful, but her eyes… her eyes were shattered.
Yeomhwa's own hand twitched as though reaching for something that wasn't there. She bit her lip hard, forcing back the flood threatening to rise.
She had thought she was alone in her torment.
She had thought she was the only mother stripped of a child by fate's cruelty.
But here, in the middle of the night, sat a reflection of her grief—twisted into madness, yet unmistakably familiar.
For the first time in a long while, Yeomhwa whispered—not to the goddess, not to Do Ryeong, but to the night itself.
"…Was I meant to end up like this too?"
Her words dissolved into the mist, unheard, unanswered. But the question lingered, heavy and suffocating, as the madwoman rocked the doll with a smile that was both beautiful and broken.
The school courtyard was buzzing that morning, the echo of arrows still fresh in the air.
"Gyeonwoo, focus!" the coach barked, voice sharp like the twang of a bowstring.
But the boy standing with the bow wasn't the same anymore. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from something boiling beneath his skin. He lowered the bow, his jaw tightening.
"I don't want this," he muttered.
The coach frowned. "What do you mean, don't want this? Archery is your gift—your ambition."
Bongsu's lips twisted into something bitter. "Ambition? That's his. Not mine."
He dropped the bow. The sound clattered loud against the wooden floor, shocking the others into silence. Without another word, he turned and stormed out, his footsteps heavy with defiance.
---
Later, on the terrace, the wind was sharp and restless, tugging at Seong-ah's hair as she caught up with him.
"Bongsu!" she called, her voice tinged with both worry and frustration. "What was that inside? You embarrassed the coach—and Gyeonwoo!"
Bongsu leaned against the railing, his head tilted to the sky as though searching for something far beyond it. "You don't get it."
Her brows furrowed. "No, I don't. That's why I'm asking! Who are you to crush what Gyeonwoo worked so hard for? Archery was his dream—not some toy you can throw away when you feel like it."
Her words cut, sharp and pleading at the same time.
From the corner, hidden in the shadows, Jiho watched silently. His fists clenched at his sides. Something in Bongsu always rubbed him raw, but this—this felt different.
Bongsu turned suddenly, his eyes burning as they locked onto Seong-ah. "Who am I?" he repeated, his voice rising, echoing against the empty terrace.
Seong-ah flinched but held her ground.
"I am him!" Bongsu's shout tore through the air, raw and ragged. "I am Gyeonwoo!"
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the wind seemed to still.
Seong-ah's lips parted, trembling with words she couldn't form. Jiho's eyes widened in shock, his mind scrambling to make sense of what he had just heard.
And for a heartbeat, Bongsu stood there, chest heaving, as though the weight of that truth—or lie—was too much for even him to carry.
Seong-ah shook her head, her eyes glistening. "No… no, don't say that."
Bongsu's chest rose and fell, every word he spoke trembling with anger and hurt. "Why not? Isn't that what you wanted to hear? That the boy you've been chasing in the hour of ox is standing right here, in front of you?"
Her hands balled into fists at her sides. "You're lying. Gyeonwoo—he's gentle, he's kind. He listens. You—" she broke off, her voice cracking, "you're nothing like him."
A muscle twitched in Bongsu's jaw. "You think I wanted this? To live inside his shadow, to breathe his air, to carry his ring, his pain, his dreams that aren't mine?" He took a sharp step toward her, his eyes burning with something desperate. "Do you know what it feels like to exist only when the world sleeps? To only touch you when the clock strikes the hour of ox, then vanish like dust at dawn?"
Seong-ah's breath caught, her heart pounding painfully. She wanted to reach out, to tell him she understood—but her lips wouldn't move.
From the corner, Jiho finally stepped out of the shadows. His voice was steady, but the anger beneath it was unmistakable.
"That's enough."
Both Seong-ah and Bongsu turned.
Jiho walked closer, each step measured, his eyes fixed on Bongsu. "You're hurting her. Can't you see?"
Bongsu's laugh was hollow, sharp. "Hurting her? I've been hurting too. Every second I spend here, I'm torn apart between what I am and what I'll never be."
Seong-ah tried to step between them, but Bongsu's hand shot out, gripping hers tightly, almost desperately. "Tell me, Seong-ah. When you look at me… do you see him? Or do you see me?"
Her lips trembled, unable to answer.
Jiho's hand shot forward, yanking Seong-ah back. His voice was sharp with fury. "Let her go. You don't get to demand that from her!"
Bongsu's eyes flickered with pain, but he held his ground. "Why not? When I'm the one living with his face, his name, his soul tearing mine apart?"
The air was thick with tension—the kind that threatened to break into something irreversible.
The evening sky was painted in muted reds and violets as Jiho retraced the path toward the old rock Bongsu had shown Seong-ah. His footsteps were quick, restless—his mind replaying the argument on the terrace, Bongsu's words echoing: "My soul is in that ring."
He crouched before the weathered stone, brushing the soil away with determined hands until something cold and metallic glinted beneath the dirt. The silver ring, dulled with age, rested in his palm. For a long moment he stared at it, his reflection warped on its surface.
Jiho muttered under his breath, "If this is what ties him here… maybe giving it to her will end all this madness."
---
Later that night, he stood outside the back alley near the old hotel. The wind carried a strange chill as Yeomhwa stepped out of the shadows, her lips curving in a faint smile.
"You brought it."
Jiho nodded, hesitant. "Yeah. You said you needed it, right? To… help him?"
Her eyes softened, but only for a moment. She reached out, her fingers brushing his as she took the ring. "You don't know how much this means."
Jiho frowned, suspicion tugging at him. "You're really going to help Bongsu, aren't you?"
Yeomhwa lowered her gaze, her thumb caressing the silver band. "Help… yes." Her tone was layered—half-truth, half-deception. Then, her eyes glinted in the lamplight. "But help is not always what it seems."
Jiho stiffened. "What do you mean—?"
Before he could finish, Yeomhwa tucked the ring into her sleeve and turned, her long robes trailing against the ground. "You'll understand soon. There's something I must do first."
---
That same night, Yeomhwa walked alone into the abandoned house at the far edge of the village. The walls groaned with age, windows broken, moonlight slanting through the cracks. She laid the ring on the dusty wooden floor, then began drawing a circle around it with powdered ash and red thread.
Her whispers rose into the stale air: ancient chants, summoning words forbidden even in the underworld.
The ring shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
And then, from the shadows, a cold presence stirred—the air thickened, the temperature dropped. The floorboards creaked under invisible weight.
The Grim Reaper was being invited in.
Yeomhwa's lips curled into a trembling smile, both afraid and hopeful. "Come… come and open the path. With this ring, I will bind fate itself."
Seong-ah's hands shook as she dragged Bongsu through Gyeonwoo's home. The boy—no, the spirit inside him—was restless, his face twisted with frustration, his limbs jerking violently as though the walls themselves enraged him. Every object he touched clattered to the ground: frames fell from shelves, cups shattered, books were flung open as if an unseen wind tore through them.
"Stop it, Bongsu!" Seong-ah pleaded, her voice breaking. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, trying to hold him, but he only thrashed harder. His eyes glimmered with something unnatural, like a flame that was slowly consuming the body he inhabited.
"I don't belong here!" he yelled, his voice deep, echoing as if two voices spoke at once—Bongsu's and Gyeonwoo's, overlapping in torment. "This house rejects me—this world rejects me!"
Seong-ah bit her lip, tears pricking her eyes. "Then don't destroy it! Please—just stop!"
And then—her ears rang with the faint sound of bells. A whisper like the rustle of silk brushed past her cheek.
Child… bring him.
Seong-ah froze. It was the Mother Goddess's voice, firm and unyielding inside her head. She knew she had no choice. Heart pounding, she pulled Bongsu's trembling body out of the house, ignoring his resistance, until they reached her own home.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick with incense. Mother Goddess awaited, her presence commanding, her face unreadable as a pale veil trailed over her shoulders. Around her, women in white robes prepared the room—candles lit at the four corners, bowls of saltwater set down, prayers murmured under their breath.
"Lay him down," the Goddess ordered.
Seong-ah hesitated, but with the others' help, they pressed Bongsu onto the bed. He fought with a strength far beyond human, thrashing and snarling, his wrists snapping against the ropes as they bound him tightly to the frame. His breath came in ragged gasps, his face slick with sweat, his eyes wild.
"You can't cage me!" Bongsu roared, his voice cracking like thunder. "I'll burn every prayer you speak—I'll break every chain you tie!"
But Mother Goddess only raised her hand, signaling the ritual to begin. The women circled the bed, chanting in low, steady tones, their voices weaving together like an unbroken chain. The air vibrated with their words, thick with divine power.
Seong-ah knelt at Bongsu's side, her hands trembling as she held onto his arm. She whispered, almost begging, "Please… don't fight them. Please, Bongsu… or you'll be lost forever."
The room grew colder. Candles flickered violently. The ropes binding Bongsu quivered as if about to snap, but the prayers pressed down like invisible hands, forcing him still.
Mother Goddess's voice rose above the others, clear and sharp as a blade:
"Spirit of the restless—be still! The body you trespass belongs not to you. By the name of heaven, by the will of the stars, surrender!"
Bongsu screamed, his cry so raw it shook Seong-ah's bones.
And in that moment, the line between salvation and destruction trembled, hinging on whether the ritual could truly bind him—or awaken something far worse.
The chanting rose louder, filling every corner of the room. The ropes around Bongsu's wrists glowed faintly, as though the prayers themselves were weaving into the fibers. His body arched off the bed, muscles straining, his veins dark against his pale skin.
Seong-ah clutched his hand tightly, her tears dripping onto his arm. "Please… please, Bongsu. Don't fight it. Just hold on."
For a fleeting moment, his wild eyes flickered—softened—like he heard her. His breathing slowed, the fire in his body dimming. The women's chanting steadied, the candles stopped shaking. Relief washed over Seong-ah.
It's working…
But then—everything broke.
The air in the room snapped like glass shattering. A gust of wind surged from Bongsu's body, extinguishing two of the candles instantly. The ropes smoked as if burning from the inside. And when he opened his mouth, it was not his voice that came out.
It was deeper. Ancient. Heavy as the earth.
"You dare bind me… with these feeble prayers?"
Everyone froze. Even Mother Goddess's eyes widened slightly.
Seong-ah's heart lurched. "That… that isn't Bongsu."
The entity laughed, the sound chilling and hollow. "The boy… the spirit… they are nothing but vessels. And now you've awakened me."
Bongsu's body thrashed violently, the bed creaking as though it would splinter apart. The silver ring—hidden beneath his shirt—burned against his chest, glowing faintly.
Mother Goddess stepped forward, her voice sharper than steel. "You should not exist in this world. Return to the shadows!"
But the entity inside Bongsu only grinned through his twisted lips. "Return? No. I've waited too long. The Hour of the Ox has opened the path… and now, not even you can stop me."
Seong-ah felt cold terror grip her spine. She fell against the bed, still clutching Bongsu's hand as his body convulsed. For an instant, she swore she heard his true voice beneath it all, faint and desperate:
"Seong-ah… help me."
The prayers faltered. The room grew darker. The boundary between the spirit world and the human world seemed to thin, as if something else was preparing to step through.
And Seong-ah realized—if this ritual failed completely… Bongsu might not be the only one lost.
Mother Goddess's chants shifted, sharper now, each word like a blade cutting through the air. She reached into her robes and pulled out a strip of white cloth, an amulet stitched with ancient characters that glowed faintly in the candlelight.
Seong-ah's breath caught. "What… what are you doing?"
"Blindness is the only way to keep the shadows from devouring him," Mother Goddess said firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument.
Bongsu snarled, his head thrashing violently against the pillow. His eyes, once brown, now gleamed with an unnatural silver-black light, like a storm raging inside.
Seong-ah tried to steady him, her small hands gripping his shoulders. "Please… calm down—"
But before she could finish, Mother Goddess pressed the cloth against his eyes.
The moment it touched him, Bongsu let out a guttural scream—raw, pained, nothing human in it. His entire body convulsed so hard the ropes strained. Seong-ah's tears blurred her vision, but she didn't let go of his hand.
"Don't fight! Please, just stay with me!" she cried.
The amulet cloth tightened itself, binding around his eyes as if invisible hands were tying it. The glow from the symbols pulsed, beating like a second heartbeat against his skin.
Slowly… painfully… his thrashing began to lessen. His breathing slowed, uneven but quieter.
And for the first time, silence filled the room.
Seong-ah leaned closer, whispering shakily, "Bongsu… can you hear me?"
There was no reply—only a faint tremor of his fingers against hers.
Mother Goddess exhaled heavily, her forehead damp with sweat. "This is temporary. The amulet will keep the entity from fully taking over. But…" Her eyes fell dark. "…he will never forgive us for this."
Seong-ah froze, her tears dripping onto the boy's bound hand. She realized something terrifying—
They weren't just fighting to save Bongsu anymore.
They were fighting something far older… and it was only just beginning to awaken.
The abandoned house groaned in the night wind. Dust fell from the rafters, the air heavy with the stench of old wood and burnt wax. Yeomhwa sat in the middle of her circle, the silver ring placed neatly before her, her hands trembling as she pressed them together in prayer.
Her voice carried softly at first—an invocation to the heavens, to the earth, to the unseen forces that moved between life and death.
"O wind that carries souls… O fire that burns away flesh… O shadow that lingers where light dares not reach… hear me."
The candles flared. Her hair whipped across her face, her eyes closing as she forced herself deeper into the chant. Her breathing grew ragged, but she did not stop.
"I summon you—grim messenger, collector of wandering spirits. Open the gate in the hour of ox. Step forth!"
Her voice cracked, echoing through the empty corridors of the ruin. Still—silence. No footstep. No Reaper.
Her fingernails dug into her palms, drawing blood, but she kept chanting. She thought of her lost child, the nights of sleepless longing, the taste of despair. Her prayers turned into a desperate scream.
"Answer me! Answer me, or take what's left of me—just don't leave me in this void!"
The silver ring quivered on the floor. The candle flames flickered, stretching tall, then bending low as if bowing to something unseen. Her chant slipped into sobs, her voice trembling but never ceasing.
Minutes bled into an hour. Her lips were cracked, her throat raw, but she still recited the same words like a broken prayer wheel.
The Reaper did not come.
And yet… the house seemed to change. The silence grew heavier, pressing into her bones. The air was too thick, too cold, too sharp with unseen eyes watching her.
Still, Yeomhwa sat there, her knees bruised, her heart pounding, her whole being fixed on one thing—she would not stop the ritual. Even if no one answered, even if the world broke around her, she would keep calling.
The courtyard outside the Mother Goddess's shrine glowed with lamplight. Seong-ah's hands trembled as she held the small brass bells, their chimes ringing through the cold night air. Do Ryeong guided her, voice steady as she recited the prayers, each word pressed against the silence of the hour.
Before them, tied with red strings to the sacred tree, hung a crude wooden doll. Its hollow eyes faced the heavens, its carved mouth sealed shut as if holding back a secret. Incense burned at its base, smoke curling into the branches above.
"Shake the bells," Do Ryeong whispered. "Call the spirits to witness."
The chimes rang—delicate, sharp, echoing like the laughter of unseen children. Seong-ah closed her eyes and repeated the words she had been taught.
"Spirit of the night… Keeper of the gates… guide him, cleanse him, free him from what binds…"
Each prayer grew heavier, sinking deep into the ground beneath their knees.
---
Meanwhile, in the dark chamber of Gyeonwoo's home—Bongsu sat alone, bound earlier but now leaning against the bed, the amulet cloth still hanging loosely around his neck. His hands trembled as he reached for the old book that had fallen from the shelf in the struggle. Its cover was worn, its pages smelling of dust and forgotten rites.
He turned them slowly, his eyes catching on jagged ink symbols that seemed to writhe under candlelight.
"How to summon the Grim Reaper…" he whispered, his lips curling into a bitter smile.
The words on the page were simple, almost childish in their cruelty—blood, a name, a vow in the hour of ox.
Bongsu pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the beat that wasn't quite his own, and began to murmur the words.
His voice was low at first, barely audible, then it grew stronger. The room seemed to tighten around him as though the walls leaned closer to listen.
"Bearer of scythe… Collector of lost souls… come to me. I call you not as a stranger, but as one of your own."
The candle flame bent unnaturally. A chill wrapped around his spine. He clenched the silver ring in his fist, his knuckles white.
Outside, the bells shook against the tree. Inside, Bongsu's voice cut through the night.
For a moment, it was as though two worlds overlapped—one calling for salvation, the other for damnation.
And somewhere in the void, something stirred.
The abandoned house sat like a carcass in the middle of the field, its roof sagging under decades of silence. Inside, only the red glow of lanterns painted life across its rotting walls. Candles flickered in a half-circle around Yeomhwa, their flames bowing to every breath of air as though the house itself was watching.
She sat cross-legged on the cold floor, the old script of her ritual still whispered against her lips. But her voice faltered when her eyes caught something in the corner.
A strip of faded cloth.
It was folded, nearly hidden beneath fallen dust and wood splinters, but when she reached for it, her hands trembled. She spread it across her lap. The fabric was rough but sacred, its pattern stitched in symbols that glowed faintly in the firelight—eyes, a nose, lips, the faint outline of a human face.
Her breath caught. She remembered.
> "The human amulet is unlike any other. If its form is carved in body—if it has eyes, a nose, and lips—it can create a reflection, a second amulet. Even if you are absent, your vessel will guard them. But its price will not be light."
The voice of the Mother Goddess echoed in her skull, calm yet grave, like an old riddle that had been waiting for this moment to unfold.
Yeomhwa's fingers brushed the cloth as though it were flesh. Her heart twisted, remembering her child—her baby who never breathed, who never cried. For a moment, she thought of shaping the amulet into that child's likeness, of giving him a vessel to return. But the thought was as dangerous as it was tempting, and the tears stung her eyes before she could stop them.
The candles bent violently, their flames stretching tall as if warning her. She closed the cloth with a shaky breath, clutching it to her chest.
---
Meanwhile, in Gyeonwoo's home—the sacred chamber that had carried centuries of prayers—Do Ryeong and Seong-ah gasped as the Mother Goddess staggered. Her eyes, usually sharp and blazing, dulled under the heavy lamplight.
"Mother!" Do Ryeong cried, rushing forward.
The Goddess pressed a hand to her chest. A faint glow seeped from her palm, spreading across her body like fire escaping a vessel.
"She… she is giving something away," Seong-ah whispered, fear trembling in her voice.
The Mother Goddess turned her gaze toward the shrine, toward the world beyond her walls. A faint smile curved her lips, neither sorrowful nor joyous—simply inevitable.
"My life will be her shield," she murmured. "Yeomhwa cannot stand against the void without it."
Her knees gave way. Her body sank against the cold stones, but her spirit flared brighter than the candles. Her final breath carried with it a thread of light that rose, unspooling into the night, flying far—towards the abandoned house where Yeomhwa still sat clutching the cloth.
The chamber shook as though mourning. Do Ryeong knelt beside her, weeping, while Seong-ah could only stare, frozen, the bells in her hands still trembling.
The Mother Goddess's body stilled. The incense curled upward.
And in that silence, everyone knew—she had sacrificed herself to Yeomhwa.
The chamber air was heavy with incense smoke and grief. It curled in thin, pale strands above the flickering candles, wrapping the room in a suffocating embrace. Seong-ah could hardly breathe. Her hands, cold and clammy, refused to let go of the Mother Goddess's pale fingers. They were stiff now, unyielding, but still she clung to them like a child clinging to her mother's robe.
Her tears fell endlessly, hot against her chilled skin. Every drop burned as it rolled down, staining the lifeless robe she held onto.
Her mind unraveled under the weight of memories.
She remembered the first time she had stumbled into the shrine, timid and unsure. The Goddess had greeted her not with divine grandeur but with the tender smile of a woman who had seen pain before.
"Your eyes are too heavy for someone so young," she had said softly, tilting Seong-ah's chin up. "Let me carry a little of that burden for you."
She remembered the warmth of evenings spent together—candles flickering, bells chiming, the Goddess's patient voice guiding her prayers when she faltered.
"Even the smallest voice reaches heaven, child. Speak without fear."
She remembered laughter too. The rare times the Goddess had allowed herself to laugh—like sunlight breaking through clouds—when Seong-ah fumbled and dropped the offering bowl. That laughter had carried her through so many lonely nights.
And now… there was silence. A silence so deafening it screamed inside her ears.
Seong-ah pressed her forehead against the Goddess's still hands, her body trembling violently. "You promised me…" she whispered hoarsely, her voice breaking on each word. "You promised you'd never let me be alone again. Why? Why would you leave me now, when I need you most?"
Her sobs tore through her, raw and unrestrained.
Do Ryeong stood nearby, but his grief was fire, not water. His fists slammed into the wooden floor with such force that blood bloomed on his knuckles. "Why her?!" he roared, tears blinding his vision. His voice cracked like thunder in the small chamber. "Why sacrifice yourself for Yeomhwa? For someone who only brought destruction?!" His cry was half pain, half fury, shaking the walls around him.
Grandmother crouched beside the Goddess's body, her withered hands trembling as they hovered above the lifeless figure. Her lips quivered as though whispering prayers, but they dissolved into sobs. "She… she must have seen something we could not. Her sight reached further than ours ever could." The words spilled out, but even she sounded unconvinced—like someone clinging to a story to keep from drowning in despair.
Seong-ah couldn't bear it. The thought that Yeomhwa—the woman who had broken and stolen and cursed—was now the bearer of the Goddess's sacrifice clawed at her insides. It felt like betrayal, though she knew deep down it wasn't. Still, it hurt like betrayal.
Her chest heaved as she remembered again being a lonely child in the courtyard, abandoned by the other children. She had cried then too—tiny sobs swallowed by the emptiness around her—until the Goddess had appeared. Kneeling before her, brushing her tears away.
"You are never truly alone, child," she had whispered, pressing a talisman into Seong-ah's hand. "Even when I cannot be seen, I am with you."
The cruel irony cut deeper now. Because Seong-ah was alone. Clutching cold hands that would never again brush her hair from her face, never again guide her trembling prayers.
Her cries grew louder, raw and unrestrained. They poured into the chamber until it felt as if even the walls and candles wept with her.