The abandoned house was silent, save for the crackling of the red candles. Yeomhwa's hands shook as she pressed the talisman cloth against her chest. The glow around her dimmed, settling into something soft, almost sorrowful.
At first, she didn't understand the warmth surging into her body. But then—like a whisper carried through the wind—she felt it. The faint echo of a life extinguishing. The memory of a voice she hadn't heard in years. The Mother Goddess.
Her eyes widened, tears pooling as the truth sank in.
"No…" she choked, her lips trembling. Her body felt heavy, as though the very weight of the sacrifice pressed her to the ground. "Why? Why would you… for me?"
Her vision blurred. She remembered, as a girl, secretly watching the rituals from afar, too afraid to step closer, yet always yearning. And the Goddess—gentle, radiant—had once turned her head, smiling knowingly at Yeomhwa hiding in the shadows.
"You don't need to hide," the Goddess had told her softly. "When the time comes, the world will see you."
Back then, Yeomhwa had believed those words were a blessing. Now they felt like a curse.
She buried her face in her palms, tears spilling freely. "I didn't want this… I never asked for this!" Her voice broke, echoing against the rotting walls. "I just wanted—" her words strangled into sobs, "—I just wanted my child back."
The cloth with the design slipped from her hands, landing on the dusty floor. She stared at it, her vision swimming. It was no longer a symbol of protection—it was a reminder of the life that had been traded for hers.
The candles flickered violently as though mocking her grief. The shadows stretched long across the walls, curling into shapes that looked almost like reaching hands.
Yeomhwa clutched her chest, her tears soaking into her sleeves. "You gave me life… but took yours away. How am I supposed to carry this?"
For the first time in her endless chase for power and vengeance, Yeomhwa's heart crumbled. She wasn't triumphant. She wasn't victorious. She was only a broken mother, alone in the dark, clutching a gift she never deserved.
And somewhere far away, as Seong-ah screamed in grief and Grandma prayed over the still body of the Goddess, Yeomhwa's sobs joined them—two women mourning the same loss from opposite worlds.
The chamber was thick with incense smoke, the air heavy with grief. Seong-ah sat on the floor, her knees trembling, tears spilling endlessly as she cradled the limp body of the Mother Goddess. Grandma and Do Ryeong prayed feverishly at the altar, their cries echoing against the wooden walls.
The door creaked.
Yeomhwa stepped inside. Her usual sharpness, the cold mask she always wore, was gone. She looked smaller, fragile, her eyes swollen from crying. The moment her gaze fell upon the Goddess—lying pale and still in Seong-ah's lap—her breath hitched.
"Mother…" the word slipped out, barely audible, as if her lips had remembered the name her heart never stopped whispering.
Seong-ah stiffened, her tear-stained face lifting in shock. Grandma's prayers faltered, and silence fell.
The Goddess stirred faintly. Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy and slow. Her gaze, dim yet filled with boundless warmth, found Yeomhwa first. She smiled weakly, as though even death could not take away her gentleness.
"You… came," the Goddess whispered, her voice so soft it was almost a sigh.
Yeomhwa stumbled forward, falling to her knees beside Seong-ah. Her hands trembled as she reached out but stopped short of touching. Her lips quivered, tears streaming freely now. "Why did you do this? Why—why sacrifice yourself for me? I am not worthy of you. I only brought shame, anger… curses."
The Goddess's hand, frail and trembling, lifted slowly. With what little strength remained, she brushed her fingers against Yeomhwa's cheek. The touch was feather-light, yet it shattered every wall Yeomhwa had ever built around herself.
"You were never a curse," the Goddess murmured, her smile faint but serene. "You… were always my child. My little one… lost and hurting. How could I not protect you?"
Yeomhwa shook her head violently, clutching the Goddess's hand against her face as though it were her lifeline. "No! Don't say that—don't leave me again! I still… I still need you. I never stopped needing you." Her sobs broke into raw, painful cries.
Seong-ah's tears fell harder as she watched them, realizing that beneath all the hatred and vengeance, Yeomhwa had always been a daughter aching for her mother.
The Goddess's eyes grew heavier, her breathing slower. "Listen to me… both of you," she whispered, her gaze shifting between Seong-ah and Yeomhwa. "The world… will test you. But do not lose yourselves. Do not let grief… consume you. Protect each other, even when your paths… seem different."
Her lips curved into one final, peaceful smile. "My daughters… both of you… my pride…"
And with that, her eyelids fluttered shut, her hand slipping limply from Yeomhwa's cheek.
The chamber filled with a silence so deep it felt like the earth itself mourned.
Seong-ah clutched the Goddess tightly, wailing. Yeomhwa froze, her body shaking violently before she collapsed forward, pressing her forehead to the Goddess's hand, sobbing like the child she once was.
For the first time, they cried together—not as enemies, but as daughters grieving the same mother.
The night stretched endlessly. Outside the chamber, the crickets sang in sorrow, their faint notes carrying through the trees as though the entire mountain mourned.
Inside, the air was heavy with incense and grief. The Mother Goddess lay upon the wooden floor, her body draped in white linen embroidered with gold threads. Candles flickered all around her, their flames trembling as though they, too, were afraid of going out.
Seong-ah sat closest to her, her eyes swollen from crying. She could not move—her hands still clutched the edge of the Goddess's sleeve as if, by holding on, she could stop the truth from swallowing her. Memories flooded her: the first time she had seen the Goddess smile at her, the way her presence always brought warmth and courage. How am I supposed to live without you?
Do Ryeong sat silently by the altar, his hands clasped tightly in prayer. His lips whispered ancient chants, but his voice trembled. His faith had always been strong, yet at that moment, he too felt abandoned—like a child lost without guidance.
Grandma wept openly, rocking back and forth, her cries raw with despair. "Why must the heavens be so cruel? Why take her now? She carried all of us, bore the burdens we could not. Without her, who will light the path?"
And then, at the edge of the chamber, Yeomhwa stood frozen.
She could not step forward, nor could she turn away. Her tears had long dried, leaving her face pale, empty. In her chest, something hollow gnawed at her—regret, unbearable and sharp. I wasted all this time fighting you. Hating you. When all I wanted… was for you to love me. And you did, even until your last breath.
Her legs finally gave way, and she knelt beside Seong-ah. For once, there was no bitterness between them. Seong-ah looked at her, expecting venom or coldness, but instead found a mirror of her own grief.
Yeomhwa's hand hovered uncertainly over the Goddess's body before she finally dared to touch the linen covering her chest. Her voice cracked as she whispered, "Mother… forgive me. Forgive the daughter who never knew how to love you back."
The chamber fell silent again, except for the soft sound of Seong-ah's sobs. For a moment, even Grandma stopped crying, watching Yeomhwa with wide, sorrowful eyes.
It was Jiho who broke the silence. He had been standing in the doorway all this time, his fists clenched, his face unreadable. He had never known the Goddess as closely as the others, but he had seen how deeply her presence shaped Seong-ah—and now, how her absence shattered her.
Stepping inside, he knelt beside Seong-ah and placed a trembling hand on her shoulder. "She… wouldn't want you to drown in this grief. You have to… you have to carry her strength now."
But Seong-ah shook her head violently, her tears soaking through the linen. "I can't! I don't know how! Without her, I… I'm nothing."
Jiho's chest ached at her words. He had no answer, no miracle to offer. All he could do was hold her trembling shoulders as she cried.
Yeomhwa's gaze softened at Seong-ah's broken state. For the first time in her life, she saw her not as a rival, not as someone who stood in her way, but as another daughter—just as lost, just as desperate for a mother's embrace.
The Goddess's last words echoed in her ears: Protect each other, even when your paths seem different.
Slowly, Yeomhwa reached for Seong-ah's hand. Seong-ah flinched, startled, but did not pull away. Their fingers touched, then intertwined, shaking with the weight of shared grief.
In that moment, bound by loss, they were no longer enemies. They were sisters.
Grandma wiped her tears with the edge of her sleeve, her voice breaking as she spoke: "Her body will return to the earth… but her spirit will not leave. She is in you both—in the blood that ties you, in the strength she left behind. You must live not just for yourselves… but for her."
The funeral rites began at dawn.
The villagers gathered, carrying white chrysanthemums and candles. The air was filled with the low hum of chants, the beating of ritual drums that echoed like a heartbeat for the departed. Women wailed, men bowed deeply, and children clutched their mothers' skirts, sensing the sorrow that wrapped the air.
Seong-ah walked at the front, holding the incense pot, her face pale but determined. Behind her, Yeomhwa walked silently, carrying a bowl of pure water. For once, she did not hide in shadows—she stood as the Goddess's daughter, rightful and grieving.
When the pyre was lit, flames roared to life, devouring the white linen, the body beneath it. Seong-ah's knees gave way, but Jiho caught her, holding her tightly. Yeomhwa stood rigid, her eyes never leaving the fire, as if burning the image into her soul.
Both sisters cried—one out loud, the other silently—as the woman who had bound them both together turned to smoke and rose into the morning sky.
And as the ashes scattered with the wind, so too did the fragile walls between them.
The funeral fire had burned out, leaving only embers that glowed faintly beneath the ash. Smoke still lingered in the air, clinging to their clothes, their skin, their hearts. The chamber was silent except for the heavy breaths of those left behind.
Yeomhwa rose to her feet, her face pale, eyes swollen but resolute. She turned toward the door, her steps sharp, her body trembling with suppressed determination.
Seong-ah noticed first. "Where are you going?" Her voice cracked, raw from crying.
Yeomhwa did not look back. "To finish what was started. To confront him. To confront it."
Seong-ah's chest tightened. She lurched forward, grabbing Yeomhwa's wrist. "No! Do you even know what that evil spirit can do?!" Her voice echoed in the chamber, shattering what little calm had remained.
Yeomhwa finally turned, her gaze cold, but beneath it lay a storm of grief. "It doesn't matter. If it's the only way—"
Seong-ah cut her off, her voice rising, desperate. "The General Doncheon was the one who became an evil deity! Do you want the same fate? To lose yourself until there's nothing left but darkness?"
Yeomhwa's jaw clenched. She pulled her hand free and took another step toward the door. "If that's the price to stop him, then—"
"Enough!" Seong-ah's voice broke into a scream, shaking. Her hands curled into fists as tears streamed down her cheeks. "What? You want to die with Bongsu? Is that what you want?!"
The name struck like a blade through the air.
Yeomhwa froze, her chest heaving.
Seong-ah's tears fell harder as she stepped forward, yelling, her voice cracking with both fury and despair. "Mother Goddess gave her life to save you! Do you understand that? She sacrificed everything—for you! Does that sacrifice mean nothing to you?!"
Her words tore through Yeomhwa like fire. She flinched, unable to meet Seong-ah's eyes. Her lips trembled, but no words came out. For a moment, her strong resolve faltered, and beneath it, her grief bled through.
Do Ryeong, who had been silent all along, moved quickly. He stepped in front of Yeomhwa, blocking her path with a steady but stern presence. His hands pressed firmly on her shoulders, holding her in place.
"Stop running into death," he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that silenced the chamber. "If you go like this, you won't be saving him. You'll be lost too. And then… then her sacrifice truly will be in vain."
Yeomhwa's lips parted, her breath shaky. The fury in her eyes dimmed, replaced with something far more fragile—fear, sorrow, and the unbearable weight of guilt.
She lowered her gaze, whispering hoarsely, "But if I do nothing… Bongsu will be gone forever."
Seong-ah's sobs softened, but her grip on Yeomhwa's wrist tightened again, this time not out of anger, but out of desperation. "Then we find another way. Together. Don't… don't leave me to grieve both of you."
The chamber filled with silence again—silence so heavy it nearly suffocated them.
Yeomhwa's shoulders shook, her tears finally spilling after she had held them back for so long. For once, she didn't resist. She let Seong-ah hold her, her grief colliding with hers until the two sisters stood trembling, bound by sorrow and the weight of a mother's sacrifice.
That night, the chamber was wrapped in stillness. Outside, the cicadas hummed, and the wind rattled the shutters, but inside, only the soft crackle of a lantern flame broke the silence.
Yeomhwa sat alone in the corner, her knees drawn close to her chest, her face hidden in the shadows. Her eyes, red from hours of crying, stared blankly at the floor.
Seong-ah's voice haunted her still.
"Do you even know what that evil spirit can do? … Mother Goddess gave her life to save you! Does that sacrifice mean nothing to you?"
Every word cut deeper than the last.
Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms. "But what about Bongsu…?" she whispered to herself, the words barely audible. Her chest ached with the thought of him—his smile, his stubbornness, his voice yelling at her just days ago. The thought that he was slipping further into darkness made her body tremble.
"Am I supposed to just… let him go?" she muttered bitterly, lifting her head toward the ceiling as tears welled again. "How can I live if I abandon him? If I stay, I betray him. If I go… I betray her."
Her words cracked, broken by sobs.
She buried her face into her hands, torn between the memory of Mother Goddess' gentle gaze and Bongsu's desperate plea that still lingered in her mind.
At the doorway, Do Ryeong watched silently, leaning against the wooden frame. He had seen warriors face death, seen men broken by grief, but Yeomhwa's suffering unsettled him more than any battlefield ever had.
"You'll break yourself if you keep carrying both burdens alone," he finally said, his voice low, careful not to startle her.
Yeomhwa flinched, then turned her tear-streaked face toward him. "What choice do I have? He's in danger. And she… she's gone because of me."
Do Ryeong's jaw tightened, but his tone softened. "Then honor her by living. Honor him by finding another way. Running headfirst into death won't save anyone."
Yeomhwa's lips trembled. She wanted to argue, to scream, to say that he didn't understand the weight pressing on her chest—but the truth was, his words cut through the chaos in her mind, grounding her, if only a little.
She turned away, her voice breaking as she whispered, "I don't know how much longer I can endure."
Do Ryeong didn't step closer, but his presence filled the room like a steady anchor. "Then let us endure with you."
Yeomhwa shut her eyes tightly, her tears streaming silently now. The words Seong-ah had screamed, the sacrifice of Mother Goddess, and Do Ryeong's quiet plea tangled within her heart. And yet… beneath it all, one thought refused to leave her—Bongsu's face, vanishing into the darkness, waiting for her.
That night, though her body stayed within the chamber, her soul wavered on the edge of a dangerous choice.
The garden was quiet, bathed in the soft golden glow of the late afternoon sun. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers. Seong-ah walked along the cobblestone path, her heart light despite the tension that hung over the household. She spotted Gyeonwoo sitting by the fountain, tossing pebbles into the water absentmindedly.
"Hey," she called softly, and he looked up, a smile spreading across his face the moment he saw her.
"Seong-ah," he said, standing to greet her. His presence always seemed to calm her, as though the world narrowed down to just the two of them.
They walked together along the garden paths, their hands brushing accidentally at first, then deliberately, fingers intertwining. It felt natural, like breathing. The sound of the fountain and the chirping birds was the only music accompanying their quiet laughter.
"Why does it feel like we've snuck away from the world?" Seong-ah whispered, leaning closer.
"Maybe because we have," Gyeonwoo replied, his tone teasing yet tender. He nudged her gently, and she playfully bumped back, laughter spilling between them.
They found a small bench beneath an old cherry tree, petals drifting lazily down around them. Sitting close, they shared stories and jokes, the outside world fading entirely. Gyeonwoo tucked a strand of hair behind Seong-ah's ear, his thumb brushing her cheek. Her heart thumped faster at the gentle touch.
"Do you think… we could have more moments like this?" she asked quietly, her gaze meeting his.
"Only if we steal them," he answered with a mischievous grin.
For a while, they simply sat, talking and teasing, basking in the warmth of each other's company. The tension of spirits, rituals, and battles seemed distant here, replaced by the serenity of the garden and the quiet comfort of being together.
As the sun began to dip lower, painting the sky in soft shades of orange and pink, Seong-ah rested her head on Gyeonwoo's shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, holding her close. For a fleeting moment, it was just the two of them—no curses, no spirits, no looming threats—just the gentle beating of their hearts and the whispers of the garden around them.
It was, without doubt, the kind of day they would remember forever.
The sun had dipped further, casting a golden-pink hue across the garden. Shadows stretched long over the cobblestones, and the air carried the faint scent of cherry blossoms and damp earth. Seong-ah and Gyeonwoo stayed beneath the old tree, their shoulders brushing together, creating a bubble of warmth that seemed untouched by the world outside.
Gyeonwoo turned slightly, brushing a stray strand of hair from Seong-ah's face. His fingers lingered on her cheek, tracing the soft curve of her jaw, and she shivered—not from cold, but from the gentle intimacy of the gesture.
"You're really quiet," he murmured, his voice low, teasing but soft.
"I'm just… enjoying this," she whispered, letting her gaze linger on him. The way the fading sunlight caught in his hair, the faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, it all made her heart flutter.
Gyeonwoo leaned a little closer, his forehead almost touching hers. "You know," he said, "I think I could sit here forever. Just like this."
Seong-ah's lips curved into a soft smile, and she tilted her head toward him. "Forever… sounds nice," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Their hands found each other again, fingers intertwining tightly. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then slowly traced small circles on the back of her palm with his thumb. She felt warmth bloom in her chest, and her lips parted slightly, as if wanting to speak but unable to find the right words.
Gyeonwoo noticed her hesitation and smiled softly. "You don't have to say anything," he said. "Just… be here with me."
Encouraged, Seong-ah leaned closer, resting her head on his shoulder. He instinctively wrapped an arm around her, pulling her a little closer. The sound of their steady breaths, the gentle rustling of leaves, and the soft trickle of the fountain created a rhythm just for them—a rhythm that seemed to slow time itself.
Minutes passed, yet it felt like hours. Every brush of skin, every shared glance, every quiet laugh seemed magnified in the serene garden light. Gyeonwoo whispered a soft joke, making her giggle, and she felt the tension of the past few days—the spirits, the rituals, the chaos—fade, if only for a little while.
Finally, Gyeonwoo rested his forehead against hers. "Seong-ah… can I?" he asked softly, his voice trembling just slightly with the weight of his emotion.
Her heart raced as she nodded, barely able to speak. "Yes… you can."
He leaned in, their lips meeting in a soft, tentative kiss. It was gentle, sweet, and lingering—more a promise than a declaration. Seong-ah felt the world around them blur, leaving only the warmth of his embrace and the softness of the moment.
When they finally pulled back, their foreheads still touching, they shared a quiet laugh. "You're impossible," she murmured, though her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled.
"You're the one who makes me this way," Gyeonwoo teased, grinning.
They stayed there for a while longer, wrapped in each other's arms, the sun setting behind them. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, everything else—the spirits, the chaos, the battles—faded. There was only them, only this stolen moment of peace, warmth, and a budding love neither wanted to let go of.
Yeomhwa struggled against the ropes binding her to the bed, the coarse fibers biting into her wrists. Her chest heaved as she glared at Do Ryeong, her eyes flashing with desperation and fury.
"Do Ryeong! You don't understand!" she shouted, her voice echoing through the quiet chamber. "Stop this! You think you can control heaven and earth? You think you can stop what's coming?!"
Do Ryeong's expression remained stoic, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes as he stepped closer. "Yeomhwa… you have to calm down. If you keep resisting, you'll only put yourself in danger. This isn't just about you."
"Danger?!" Yeomhwa's voice cracked with frustration. "Do you know what that evil spirit can do? Do you even realize what you've unleashed? This isn't a game! Stop trying to contain what you cannot control!"
The ropes held her firmly, but her body trembled—not from fear, but from anger. She spat out the words, each one heavy with emotion. "I've seen what happens when humans try to play with forces beyond them! The general Doncheon became an evil deity because of people like you! You think tying me down will stop what's coming? You're fools!"
Do Ryeong's jaw tightened. He knew she was right, yet he could not let her interfere. "Yeomhwa… listen to me. This is for your own safety. For all of us. I cannot let you risk everything for—"
"Everything?" Yeomhwa screamed, cutting him off. "Do you even know what 'everything' means? You speak of safety as if you hold the world in your hands, but all I see is fear disguised as control!"
Her voice echoed against the chamber walls, mingling with the flickering candlelight and the faint smell of incense. Her eyes burned with unyielding fire, challenging every ounce of authority around her.
Do Ryeong hesitated, glancing at the heavy ropes and the intensity in her gaze. The truth of her words hung in the air like a storm waiting to break. For a moment, the silence between them was deafening, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
Yeomhwa's chest rose and fell rapidly, her strength fading but her defiance unbroken. "You think you can tie me down and I'll just watch? I am not some powerless mortal! If you think heaven and earth will bow to your chains, you're gravely mistaken. I will fight… even if it destroys me!"
The words lingered in the chamber long after she had stopped shouting, leaving Do Ryeong, the ropes, and the flickering candlelight suspended in an uneasy silence.
Do Ryeong stood frozen for a moment, listening to Yeomhwa's words echo through the chamber. There was no mistaking the fire in her eyes, the raw determination that even the tight ropes couldn't suppress. He could feel the weight of her emotions pressing down, a mix of anger, grief, and fear that no ritual or binding could erase.
"Yeomhwa…" he began softly, his voice almost drowned by the rapid thumping of her heartbeat. "I know you're scared. I know you hate being tied down. But this isn't just about you. This is about keeping the balance… about keeping everyone safe."
"Safe?" Yeomhwa scoffed, twisting slightly to glare at him. "You call this safety? Tying me like some helpless thing while the world dances on the edge of chaos? Do you even hear yourself, Do Ryeong? I'm not powerless! I've seen what Bongsu is capable of. I've felt the spirits. And if you think keeping me chained will stop the storm… you're wrong!"
Her chest heaved as her voice cracked, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. "I won't be silent! I won't just let things happen around me while I do nothing!"
Do Ryeong stepped closer, kneeling so his face was level with hers. His expression softened, the stoicism giving way to concern. "Yeomhwa… I'm not trying to silence you. I just… I can't let you be consumed by this. If you go after Bongsu alone, if you interfere with what's coming… you might not survive. And we can't afford to lose you—not now."
Yeomhwa's gaze softened just a fraction, a flicker of vulnerability piercing through her defiance. But even as she looked at him, her hands still strained against the ropes, her body aching for freedom, the fire in her voice remained.
"I'm not afraid of surviving," she whispered, her voice trembling yet unwavering. "I'm afraid of standing by while innocent people—Gyeonwoo, Seong-ah, even you—get hurt. That's what scares me."
A tense silence fell over the chamber. Do Ryeong's hand hovered near the ropes, torn between freeing her and keeping her restrained. He could see the truth in her eyes, the fierce resolve that refused to bow to fear.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low but firm. "Then we do this together. Not alone. You fight, I fight, Seong-ah fights… and we face whatever comes. But you stay with us. You promise me that."
Yeomhwa blinked, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the anger slowly giving way to reluctant trust. She let out a shaky breath, nodding, though her hands still strained against the ropes.
"I promise… but if anything happens, I won't hold back," she whispered, a mixture of defiance and relief in her tone.
Do Ryeong exhaled slowly, the tension in the room easing just slightly. "Good. That's all I ask. We face it together."
Outside the chamber, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying the faint scent of incense and the quiet hum of the night. Inside, the ropes, the candles, and the flickering shadows held a fragile peace—but one that felt like it could shatter with the next breath.
And somewhere in the darkness, Bongsu stirred, unseen and unpredictable, the calm before the storm stretching taut like a thread ready to snap.
The park was cloaked in the gentle hush of twilight, the last slivers of sun melting into the horizon, leaving only the silver sheen of moonlight reflecting off the lake. Seong-ah's heart raced as she sat beside Gyeonwoo on the worn wooden bench, her fingers nervously brushing against his. Every instinct in her body screamed to stay close, yet fear whispered that this moment could change everything.
"Gyeonwoo…" she breathed, her voice trembling with both urgency and vulnerability. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you."
His eyes met hers, soft and steady, yet filled with curiosity and a faint shimmer of concern. "What is it, Seong-ah?" he asked gently, leaning just slightly toward her.
"I… I love you," she said, her voice firm despite the quiver beneath it. It was the first time she had spoken the truth aloud, the first time she had dared to let her heart speak freely. Her gaze didn't waver, and in that silent confession, she gave him everything she had kept locked away.
Before he could respond, before the world could intrude, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was delicate yet electric, a soft, trembling touch that sent warmth flooding through both of them. The world around them seemed to pause—the whispering wind, the distant hum of the city, even the chirping of crickets fading into nothingness.
Seong-ah's hand brushed against the small pouch she always carried, the sacred rice meant for rituals. Without thinking, she let it spill across their laps, the bench, and the ground below. Tiny grains scattered like snow, a ritualistic halo around them, the scent of the sacred rice mingling with the crisp night air. Gyeonwoo's eyes widened in surprise, his pulse racing as the moment sank deeper into their senses.
But then, reality hit. Gyeonwoo's body began to sway slightly, his eyelids fluttering as the rice's mystical properties and his own fluctuating energy from Bongsu's presence overwhelmed him. His vision blurred; the colors of the park smeared together, and the comforting solidity of the bench seemed to disappear beneath him.
"I… I'm sorry, Gyeonwoo," Seong-ah whispered, her voice breaking as tears welled in her eyes. She gently cradled his shoulders, her hands trembling. "I'll come back for you, I promise… but don't worry about me. Just… stay safe."
His lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. The world tilted completely, and his consciousness slipped away, leaving only the echo of her words and the scattered rice shimmering under the moonlight.
Seong-ah stayed by the bench just long enough to press her forehead against his gently, memorizing the curve of his jaw, the softness of his hair, the warmth of his presence. Then, with a quiet sigh that carried both regret and determination, she slid off the bench and vanished into the shadows of the park, leaving Gyeonwoo unconscious amidst the soft scattering of sacred grains.
The night seemed heavier, the moonlight colder, as if the park itself mourned the fragile vulnerability of two hearts bound together yet separated by fate. Somewhere in the darkness, Bongsu stirred within Gyeonwoo, sensing the shift in energy, his mischievous yet protective instincts awakening. The stage was set, the tension tangible, and the next trials of heart and spirit awaited.
Bongsu stirred within Gyeonwoo, his spectral senses alert, feeling the lingering traces of Seong-ah's presence. He wanted to follow her, to guard her in his mischievous, protective way, but he hesitated. Her energy was faint, fleeting… yet undeniably strong. As he drifted alongside Gyeonwoo's consciousness, a soft echo of her voice lingered in his mind—the promise she had made long ago with the Mother Goddess, that she would always follow the right path. That memory anchored Bongsu, reminding him that her steps, wherever they led, were guided by light.
Meanwhile, Gyeonwoo slowly stirred from his daze, his head throbbing and his limbs heavy. He blinked rapidly, trying to orient himself to the familiar contours of the park around him. The scattered grains of sacred rice glimmered faintly under the moonlight, a silent testimony to the last fleeting moments he and Seong-ah had shared.
"Seong-ah…" he whispered, his voice cracking. Panic rose within him as he scanned the empty bench, the shadowed paths, the lonely glow of the lake. But she was gone. Not a single trace, not a hint of her presence. His heart thumped painfully, the ache of separation mingling with frustration. He called her name again, louder this time, but the only reply was the gentle rustle of leaves in the night.
Three months passed.
The school corridors echoed with a dull sense of nostalgia. Students now in their 12th standard walked past each other, books clutched tightly, faces focused on their futures. Yet, beneath the ordinary rhythm of high school life, a quiet longing lingered.
Jiho walked down the corridor alone, his hands shoved into his pockets, his gaze distant. Memories pressed against him like a weight—Seong-ah's laugh, the way she had always seemed to light up even the darkest days, Gyeonwoo's occasional distracted smiles when he thought no one was watching.
"They're all missing her… even Gyeonwoo," Jiho murmured to himself. He paused near a window, watching the sunlight scatter across the tiled floor. "After all this time… after everything… she just vanished. Not a single trace."
His chest tightened with the ache of absence, a mix of guilt, worry, and an unspoken hope. Somewhere, somehow, Seong-ah was still out there. And even if no one knew where, even if the world seemed to move on without her, the memory of her lingered in every corner of their lives, stubbornly refusing to fade.
Gyeonwoo wandered the school grounds with a hollow sense of purpose. Every hallway, every classroom, every bench on the terrace seemed to whisper her name. His friends passed him by, calling his attention to mundane things, but he barely registered them. His heart, his mind, and even Bongsu—restless within him—were tuned only to one frequency: Seong-ah.
Jiho noticed immediately. He had been watching Gyeonwoo for weeks, silent, careful, unsure how to reach him. Gyeonwoo had become quieter, more distant—no longer the same boy who once laughed freely, who once sparred with Bongsu and teased him about lollipops. The emptiness of her absence had transformed him. Jiho felt a pang of helplessness. "He's lost," Jiho muttered to himself, gripping the straps of his bag tighter. "And we all are, in a way."
Bongsu, restless and playful even in this tension, tugged subtly at Gyeonwoo's consciousness. She's out there. You'll find her. You always find her, he whispered, an echo of the past three months vibrating through Gyeonwoo's soul. Yet even the spirit's guidance couldn't soothe the ache—the human part of Gyeonwoo, the part that loved Seong-ah fiercely, felt stranded in a world that seemed dull and lifeless without her presence.
Meanwhile, Jiho made his way to the library, where old routines still persisted. Students bent over books, scribbled notes, and shared whispered gossip, but he saw the empty spaces—Seong-ah's favorite spot by the window, her usual corner at the study table—completely abandoned. He ran his fingers across the polished wood as if trying to feel her there, a faint pulse of warmth where she once sat.
"We all miss her," he said quietly, almost to himself. "And I can't help but wonder… is she alright? Is she safe?"
Gyeonwoo, standing silently outside the library, felt the weight of Jiho's words. For the first time in months, he acknowledged aloud the truth he'd been burying in the depths of his heart: I can't stop thinking about her. And I won't until I find her.
Bongsu stirred impatiently. Then don't. Go. Find her. Don't waste another moment.
Gyeonwoo clenched his fists, nodding slightly. "You're right," he murmured. "I'll find her." His voice was quiet but firm, carrying a resolve that had been buried under months of longing and helplessness.
Jiho, watching from the corner, felt a mixture of relief and apprehension. "Gyeonwoo… if you go after her… just promise me you'll be careful. Whatever's out there, whatever she's facing… I don't want you to get hurt."
Gyeonwoo glanced at Jiho, the faintest of smiles forming. "I promise."
And as the bell rang, signaling the start of another day, Gyeonwoo felt a spark of hope. Three months had passed in longing, in absence, in quiet despair—but now, at last, he was ready to move forward, to follow the faint trail of the girl who had captured his heart, and to confront whatever mysteries awaited him with Seong-ah.
Bongsu chuckled softly from within, amused and approving. Finally. About time the fun begins.
But despite the lingering ache of Seong-ah's absence, both Gyeonwoo and his friends had learned to channel their energy into something meaningful. Time moved relentlessly forward, and so did they. Gyeonwoo, with Bongsu still restless within him, poured his heart into archery. The focus, precision, and discipline demanded by the sport became a way to quiet the whirlwind inside him, a temporary refuge from memories and longing.
He practiced day and night, honing every shot, every stance, every breath. The feel of the bow in his hands became almost instinctive, as if it carried a piece of Seong-ah's presence with it—her encouragement, her laughter, even the warmth of her hand on his back during practice.
Competitions came and went, each one a test of skill, patience, and nerves. And slowly, recognition followed. Gold medals glinted in the sunlight, trophies lined up neatly in his room, and headlines in school newspapers whispered of his rising talent. Every arrow that struck the target felt like a small victory—not just in the sport, but over the emptiness that Seong-ah's absence had left in his life.
Seong-ah, too, had found ways to move forward. Though the memories of their moments together remained vivid, she channeled her energy into learning, refining her own skills, and understanding the spiritual world around her. Every ritual, every prayer, every act of protection she performed reminded her of the path the Mother Goddess had entrusted her to follow—and of the promise she had made to herself and to Gyeonwoo.
Though their hands were not clasped, and though they walked separate paths for now, the bond between them remained unbroken. Fate had tested them with distance and hardship, yet it could not erase the connection that had been forged in laughter, struggle, and shared danger.
And so, they both moved forward—fast enough to keep their focus on the future, careful enough to keep the memories alive, and strong enough to face whatever trials lay ahead. For Gyeonwoo, every arrow shot, every medal won, was a quiet tribute to the girl who had left an indelible mark on his heart, and a promise that no matter how far the road stretched, he would one day find his way back to her.