The night air was soft, filled with the gentle hum of crickets. Gyeonwoo sat close to Seong-ah on the wooden steps outside, the faint lantern glow brushing over their faces. Her skin was pale, her breath uneven, and without a word, he reached forward, placing the back of his hand against her forehead.
"You're burning up," he whispered, his brows knitting with worry.
Seong-ah only gave him a tired smile and, with fragile movements, let her head fall against his shoulder. For a moment, everything stilled—the weight of her against him, the faint warmth between their bodies, the quiet promise that even in pain, they were together.
But her strength didn't last. Her breaths grew softer, slower, and before long, she drifted into sleep, her lashes trembling faintly against her cheeks. Gyeonwoo's heart clenched. He turned his head slightly, looking at her delicate profile, at the way her lips parted with each weak breath.
The room was dim, the soft crackle of Yeomhwa's flame casting shadows along the wooden walls. Gyeonwoo lowered Seong-ah gently onto the bedding, brushing the stray strands of hair away from her damp forehead. Her breathing was shallow, fragile, as though each inhale cost her strength she didn't have left.
As he adjusted the blanket over her shoulders, his eyes wandered across the room—and then froze.
On the small table by the bedside, something glimmered faintly in the shifting firelight. A ring. Bongsu's ring.
His chest tightened as he reached for it, the cool metal pressing against his palm. He turned it slowly between his fingers, the familiar weight stirring a sharp ache deep in his chest. So even now, even here… Bongsu remains tied to her.
He glanced back at Seong-ah, asleep and vulnerable, and his lips trembled. The thought of losing her twisted through him like poison. He clenched the ring tighter in his fist, as though by holding it, he could hold back the fate that was waiting for her.
Behind him, Yeomhwa's voice broke the silence.
"She has carried the evil deity within her body. That is why her spirit grows weak."
Gyeonwoo turned, his knuckles white around the ring. "Will she recover?" His voice cracked, carrying both hope and fear.
Yeomhwa's expression remained calm, though her words were like a blade. "She is strong—stronger than most shamans. But such battles… never end equally. One life resists, and one life must yield. That is the law."
Gyeonwoo's breath faltered. His mind dragged him back—to the day he had stood before Yeomhwa, demanding, "Tell me what I must do to protect her." And her cold reply had pierced through him like truth carved in stone: "You shall die."
His grip on the ring loosened, the metal slipping against his trembling palm. He stared at Seong-ah again, her face pale but peaceful in sleep. She had given him laughter, warmth, and reasons to live. Now, she might be asked to pay the price for all of it.
Not her. Never her.
Quietly, he leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss against her cheek, his lips brushing her skin like a vow. His hand stroked her hair, gentle, steadying himself in her presence.
Meanwhile, Yeomhwa lifted the burning amulet, the fire swirling unnaturally as she guided it through the air above Seong-ah's body. The flame hissed when it passed near her, as though recognizing the darkness lodged within her spirit. Gyeonwoo could only watch, helpless, his heart hammering as though it already knew the answer.
When the ritual ended, the fire died into a faint smoke curling upward into nothing. Yeomhwa closed her hand, her face unreadable.
"It will calm her—for now. But her fate is bound to this choice." Her eyes flicked briefly toward Gyeonwoo, sharp, knowing. "You already know the cost."
And with that, she turned toward the door. "Shall we go?"
The door slid softly shut behind her, leaving only the sound of Seong-ah's uneven breaths.
Gyeonwoo sank down beside her, clutching the ring to his chest. His eyes burned with unshed tears as he whispered into the silence, his voice shaking:
"If one of us must vanish from this world… then let it be me."
Gyeonwoo stood before the small mirror in the corner of the room, his reflection fractured by the dim light seeping through the window. For a fleeting second, it wasn't his own eyes staring back at him—it was Bongsu's. That same quiet fire, that same sadness he once knew. His breath caught in his throat, and he sighed heavily, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened. Even now, he lingers within me.
---
Later, the car came to a stop at the edge of a silent forest. Mist hung low, curling between the trees as though guarding secrets only the dead would dare whisper. Gyeonwoo sat still behind the wheel for a long moment, listening to the hollow thump of his heartbeat, before glancing at Yeomhwa.
"We'll have to walk from here," he said quietly, pushing the door open. The crunch of leaves beneath his shoes sounded almost too loud in the stillness.
Yeomhwa followed, her gaze lingering on the twisting branches ahead. "Seong-ah tried to find another path," Gyeonwoo continued, his voice heavy. "But she failed. Perhaps… she wasn't meant to bear this burden alone."
There was a silence between them, the kind that carried weight. Finally, Yeomhwa's voice cut through it, low but steady. "Have I ever apologized to you?"
Gyeonwoo blinked, caught off guard. "…No."
She nodded once, as though confirming something to herself. Her hand reached into her sleeve and drew out an amulet—black as night, etched with orange patterns that seemed to pulse faintly, alive with restrained power. "Then let this be my only apology," she whispered. "I will make it without any pain."
Before Gyeonwoo could respond, Yeomhwa pressed the amulet gently against his forehead. A searing cold pierced through him instantly, his breath stolen as if the world itself had vanished. His spirit was wrenched free, flung into a place beyond—the area of ghosts.
The air here was heavy, thick with voices that did not belong to the living. The shadows stretched unnaturally, figures drifting in silence, watching. And from among them stepped Bongsu. His presence was overwhelming, familiar yet foreign, his gaze sharp as he closed the distance.
And then—like water seeping into cracks—Bongsu slid into Gyeonwoo's body. Gyeonwoo's frame jolted, breath catching, eyes flashing with something other, something older. His voice, when it came, was layered—Bongsu's tone bleeding into his own.
"Well then," Bongsu said darkly, looking straight at Yeomhwa, a half-smile curling his lips, "as I die… shall you not die too?"
The forest fell deathly silent, as though holding its breath for what would come next.
"What makes you think you are the only one to die?" Yeomhwa's voice carried no tremor, no hesitation. Her gaze locked onto the man before her, though she knew it wasn't only Gyeonwoo she was staring at—Bongsu's presence coiled inside him, sharp and suffocating.
The air in the abandoned house was heavy, pressing down like a storm about to break. The wooden beams creaked with every gust of wind, and the cracked walls seemed to breathe with the rhythm of the glowing symbols that flickered in blood-red light. Strange markings—threats and incantations—formed sharp, polygonal shapes across the floor and walls, pulsing like veins alive with malice.
Yeomhwa moved with slow precision, her hands trembling only from exhaustion, not fear. She spread out talismans, drawing her circle, whispering chants under her breath as if each word stitched a barrier between them and the darkness that threatened to consume everything.
"Are you really going to die with me?" Bongsu's voice slipped through Gyeonwoo's lips, a cruel smirk shaping his face. The shadows in the room twisted with his words, as if mocking her resolve.
"Yes," Yeomhwa answered simply, her voice steady, almost too calm. "Exorcising an evil deity is not an easy task."
Bongsu's laughter cracked through the silence, hollow and sharp. "Why? Aren't you afraid of death?"
Her hands paused only for the briefest moment before she placed another talisman on the floor. Then, she allowed herself the smallest smile, soft and sorrowful. "I was afraid of living ever since I was a child," she murmured. "Afraid of breathing in a world that never wanted me. Death… death has never been the thing I feared. It was living that was unbearable."
The words stung the air, and for the first time, even Bongsu faltered. His mocking tone dimmed, replaced by something quieter, almost reflective. Gyeonwoo's body stiffened as if caught between two battling souls, his eyes flashing between crimson and their usual warmth.
The house groaned, the red light flaring brighter, pressing at the edges of the room like an unstoppable tide. The deity's presence grew heavier, hungrier.
---
Meanwhile…
Do Ryeong ran through the forest path, his chest heaving, the cold air cutting into his lungs. "Yeomhwa! Yeomhwa!" His voice cracked as he shouted her name, desperation echoing in the dark.
At the gate of the old house, Grandma appeared, her lantern swinging faintly in her wrinkled hand. Her eyes widened at the sight of Do Ryeong's panic.
"What happened, Flower Master?" she asked, concern lacing her voice.
Do Ryeong's breath came in ragged bursts as he pulled out his phone. "She… she sent me one hundred million won," he stammered. "I called her, again and again, but she won't answer. She isn't picking up. I—I had to come here."
Grandma's expression darkened. Slowly, she fumbled for her own phone, her fingers shaking. When she unlocked it, her face drained of color—there, in her notifications, was the same transfer. Another one hundred million won.
The silence between them was suffocating. No words were needed; the truth clawed at both of them. Yeomhwa was preparing for something final. Something irreversible.
Grandma's lantern flickered as though even the flame understood the weight of what was about to unfold.
---
Back in the abandoned house…
The talisman circle was almost complete. Yeomhwa's breathing grew heavier, her energy draining, but her eyes blazed with determination. Gyeonwoo's—no, Bongsu's—form stood at the center of the circle, the red and black energy swirling like storm clouds ready to collapse.
"You really mean to end it this way," Bongsu whispered, quieter now, as if her words had unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Yeomhwa pressed the final talisman down, her voice like steel. "Yes. If the price of peace is my life, then so be it."
The red light surged, the deity pushing harder against the trap, the walls vibrating as if the house itself was about to split apart.
Yet amidst the chaos, Yeomhwa's expression softened—serene, almost at peace. She had feared life, but not this. Not the end.
---
"Are you afraid?" Yeomhwa asked softly, her eyes locked on him. Her voice wasn't mocking; it was strangely tender, carrying a gentleness that felt almost out of place in the suffocating red gloom.
Bongsu, wearing Gyeonwoo's body, sneered faintly but his voice cracked as he replied, "Don't you know…? We'll both end up in hell." His words slithered between them, heavy and cruel, but beneath the malice there was something almost desperate, as if even he couldn't fully believe it.
Yeomhwa reached for the shimmering scarlet thread—the Thread of the End—its faint glow pulsing like a living vein. With steady hands, she tied one end around his wrist, then wound the other around her own. The thread bound them together, glowing faintly against their skin, as if declaring their fates inseparable.
She smiled faintly, not bitter, not afraid—just calm. "Don't worry," she whispered, her lips brushing the silence like a vow. "You will not be alone."
The house seemed to hold its breath.
Then—
BANG!
The silence shattered with a violent crash against the wooden doors. A voice, sharp and raw with anger, split the air.
"HEY, BITCH! COME OUT!"
Do Ryeong's furious shouts shook the walls, his fists pounding against the rotting wood. The old hinges rattled as though they might break.
"Yeomhwa!" he yelled again, his voice hoarse with both rage and desperation. "Stop this madness! You crazy witch!" His words were heavy, desperate—yet trembling, as though fear rode beneath his anger.
Yeomhwa froze, her eyes flickering toward the door. A shadow of sorrow crossed her expression, but she quickly steeled herself, fingers tightening around the red thread.
Bongsu, inside Gyeonwoo's body, chuckled darkly. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand. With a wicked grin stretching across Gyeonwoo's face, he drew a sharp line across his palm.
Blood welled up, crimson and glistening under the red light. He raised his hand toward the wooden door where Do Ryeong screamed. Then, pressing his bloodied palm against the rough surface, he smeared it across the wood, dragging his hand downward until grotesque, writhing symbols bloomed.
The moment his blood touched the door, the abandoned house trembled. A sharp, metallic scent filled the air, mingling with the suffocating stench of something otherworldly. The red marks writhed like they were alive, searing themselves into the wood as the entire door pulsed with a faint glow.
Do Ryeong stumbled back, his fists lowering for a moment as he stared at the spreading marks. His heart thudded violently, but still, he shouted, voice cracking. "Yeomhwa! Don't do this! Open the door!"
Inside, Yeomhwa lowered her gaze, her expression unreadable, her grip on the red thread tightening.
The house was no longer silent. It was alive—with rage, with blood, with the weight of a fate that could not be undone
Do Ryeong slammed his fists against the door again, desperate to break through. But the moment his palm pressed firmly onto the surface, his skin sizzled.
"Ah—!" He hissed and pulled back instantly, staring at the faint burn marks rising across his hand. A thin smoke curled upward from the wooden grain where his flesh had touched it.
The door wasn't just sealed—it was cursed.
Grandma, standing just behind him, narrowed her eyes at the shifting blood marks now glowing faintly across the wood. Her usually calm face tightened with urgency. She muttered under her breath, half in disbelief, half in recognition. "That witch… she's using the Final Binding."
Do Ryeong clenched his fists, ignoring the sting in his palms, his voice cracking. "What the hell do we do now? If she finishes it—he's gone. Forever."
Grandma's gaze lingered on the door, sharp and heavy with unspoken understanding. Her voice dropped low. "We stop her before the circle closes. Or… neither of them will return."
---
Inside the house.
The air was suffocating, thick with the smell of wax and iron. Gyeonwoo's body sat cross-legged in the middle of the glowing polygon of red threads, his expression blank, his breaths shallow. Around him, candles flickered violently as though disturbed by unseen winds, their flames bending toward him.
Yeomhwa stood firm, her hands steady as she began cutting through the arranged red threads one by one, each snap echoing like a blade cutting into fate itself.
But the moment she severed the fourth strand, Gyeonwoo's body jerked violently.
"Ugh—!" His hands clawed at his chest, and suddenly blood seeped from the corner of his lips. His body trembled, contorting, as though something inside was tearing itself apart.
From deep within, Bongsu's voice erupted, guttural and furious. "What… are you… DOING?!"
His scream was followed by Yeomhwa choking on her own breath, her lips staining red as blood slipped from her mouth too. Their bodies reacted together—bound by the same suffering.
The candles flared, stretching unnaturally tall, shadows writhing against the walls like living things.
Yeomhwa pressed her palm hard against the floor, forcing herself to remain conscious through the pain. Her voice trembled but stayed firm. "This… is the only way. Your time in this world ends here, Bongsu."
Gyeonwoo's head snapped upward, though it was no longer him. His eyes, darkened by Bongsu's presence, glared at her with pure malice. Blood trailed from his lips as he laughed hoarsely, "Then let's see… who breaks first, Yeomhwa."
The threads glowed brighter, vibrating like veins filled with fire, while both of them bled into the ritual that refused to spare either life.
Outside, the rituals thundered on. The shamans' chants shook the trees, their drums and bells clashing with the night air. Do Ryeong's body strained as he leaned harder against the blood-red ribbon, his breath ragged but relentless. The house groaned, its rotten wood splitting, as if the spirits inside were trying to tear it apart from within.
But far from the forest, in her quiet bedroom, Seong-ah tossed in her sleep. Her blankets tangled around her as sweat dampened her brow.
In her dream, she stood again before the Mother Goddess. The pale veil swayed like mist, and that same question returned, sharper than before:
"What will you do after school, child?"
Seong-ah fidgeted, just as she had the first time. "I… I'll have plans, something normal. I'll decide then."
But the goddess's voice cut through her excuse.
"A sword, when left to rust, loses its edge. Do you think your spirit will be spared if you deny it? You were born to see, to hear, to carry what others cannot."
The words struck harder now, resonating through her bones. Seong-ah felt her chest ache, as if her heart itself was being marked.
"Don't you see? You are a shaman anyway. Running does not change what you are."
The dream blurred, and Seong-ah saw flashes—her grandmother's hands tying red ribbons, Yeomhwa's pale face in candlelight, Gyeonwoo bleeding inside the polygon threads. Her body shivered even though she was still asleep, her breath uneven.
Then the goddess's whisper became thunder in her head:
"Wake, Seong-ah. Say it."
Her lips moved in sleep, trembling at first but then firm.
"Yes… I am a shaman."
Her eyelids snapped open.
She lay in her dark bedroom, chest heaving, heart pounding like a drum. For a moment she didn't know if she was still dreaming. But her hands were glowing faintly, a soft trace of red, as if the thread of fate had reached her even in her bed.
And somewhere far away, in the abandoned house, one of the ritual flames flickered violently—like it had just been touched by her awakening.
Seong-ah sat frozen on the edge of her bed, the pale moonlight filtering through the window and pooling over the folded letter she held in trembling hands. The handwriting was Yeomhwa's—steady yet heavy, like someone writing with the weight of a final farewell.
"Dear Heaven and Earth fairy,
By the time you wake, everything will already be over. You may be shaken to realize you have no patron deity—no spirit to guard you, no power to command. Powerless.
But… I know you. After you wake, your heart will break when you learn Gyeonwoo left you behind. He left not because he abandoned you, but because he wanted to protect you. Because he loves you. He will die… as our Mother Goddess once did."
The words blurred as her tears dripped onto the page. Each line tore her apart, each stroke of ink like a wound opening wider in her chest.
Her lips quivered, but she pressed the letter against her heart, standing on unsteady legs. Her feet carried her, almost without thought, to the shamans' chamber—the hidden place she rarely dared to enter.
The room was silent, stale, the faint smell of old incense clinging to the air. The idols of the gods sat covered in faded white cloths, abandoned, as if even the spirits themselves had turned their backs.
Seong-ah's hands shook as she reached for the cloth. One by one, she pulled it away from the stone and wooden faces of the gods. Dust clouded the air, her sleeves becoming smudged, but she did not stop. Her tears rolled faster, dripping onto the floor as though marking a vow.
Candles stood forgotten on the low altar. With desperate fingers, she struck the match and lit them, one by one, their small flames pushing away the darkness. The idols stared back at her now, their eyes catching the flicker of firelight, almost alive.
Seong-ah fell to her knees, clutching the hem of her dress. Her sobs echoed in the chamber as she bowed her head.
"Oh… oh fairy goddess, please… come back to me," she wept. "Mother, gods, anyone—hear me! Please, please don't leave us… don't leave me."
Her voice cracked, raw, rising into something like a scream. "I'm begging you! If I am a shaman, then give me the strength to save them! Bring back my goddess! Save Gyeonwoo, save Yeomhwa… please!"
Her tears spilled onto the stone floor, mixing with melted wax. For a moment, nothing answered her cries but silence.
But then, faintly, the candles wavered. Their flames bent toward her as if drawn by her breath, as if something was listening.
A soft wind whispered through the chamber, though no window was open. The idols seemed to gleam faintly, like eyes opening after a long sleep.
And Seong-ah—still kneeling, still weeping—felt warmth spread through her chest, not her own.
The gods had heard her.
Meanwhile, within the dim chamber, Gyeonwoo's blurred vision sharpened for a fleeting instant. Through the haze of pain and the pounding of his own heart, he caught sight of a figure. Bongsu's spirit—twisted, restless—was hovering near a boy he recognized. The boy he had once crossed paths with, one whose gaze had lingered on him longer than it should have. A chill swept down Gyeonwoo's spine.
"Why… him?" he whispered, his lips trembling as he watched the spirit curl its dark smoke-like fingers toward the boy's back. His chest tightened—was Bongsu looking for another vessel?
But before he could call out, his throat tightened with burning pain. His body was no longer his to command.
---
Meanwhile, in the shaman chamber, Seong-ah clutched the altar bells with both hands, shaking them frantically as her sobs tore through the air. Her forehead pressed against the cold floor, her knees bruised against stone.
"Please! Please, I don't know what to do!" she cried, her voice breaking into hoarse echoes. The bells jingled with each desperate movement, the sound clashing with the crackle of candle flames.
Her tears dripped onto the wooden floor, pooling around her fingers. "I'm powerless, I don't even have a patron deity… but gods, please, if you ever cared for me, if I was ever meant to be a shaman—show me what to do! Don't take him from me… don't take Gyeonwoo away!"
The bells rang louder, almost unnaturally, their sound filling the chamber like a pulse.
---
Meanwhile, Yeomhwa's hands shook violently as she dragged the ritual blade across the final strands of the red thread. Each cut felt like slicing through her own soul. Blood trickled from the corner of her lips, staining her chin, but she didn't stop.
Bongsu, writhing inside Gyeonwoo's body, screamed with a voice that split the air. His mouth foamed red as he clawed at his own chest. "Is it—is it supposed to hurt this much?!" His voice broke into guttural shrieks, sweat and blood dripping down his face.
Yeomhwa's hands faltered for a moment, but she bit down on her lip until it bled, her own tears sliding down her face. She looked at him—at Bongsu trapped in Gyeonwoo's body, and at Gyeonwoo suffering within.
"Yes," she whispered, her voice trembling but firm. "Because we don't deserve ease. We chose sin. We chose death. This pain… this is the only path for us."
Her blade cut deeper into the thread, and her own body jerked as if the red cords were tied to her veins.
The room trembled. The candles sputtered. And both she and Gyeonwoo screamed together, their voices entwined in agony.
Meanwhile, outside the abandoned house, Do Ryeong's body trembled with exertion as he pressed his palms against the wide crimson ribbons stretched across the door. The threads pulsed faintly, almost alive, resisting him like veins filled with fire. Each time he pushed, a heat spread across his skin, leaving faint scorch marks that seared deeper with every breath.
"Steady yourself!" Grandma's voice cut through the pounding of drums, low yet commanding. She stood just behind him, her hands raised toward the night sky, murmuring ancient prayers. Her words flowed like steady river water, holding back the storm that threatened to break loose.
Around them, the circle of shamans struck their drums harder and harder, the rhythm sharp and relentless—boom, boom, boom—like a war cry echoing into the night. The ground seemed to vibrate under their feet, dust rising from the cracked earth, as if the house itself resisted their call.
Do Ryeong's teeth clenched. His arms shook violently, sweat dripping down his temples. The ribbons burned against his palms, but he refused to pull back. The veins in his neck bulged as he forced himself forward, inch by inch, pressing harder, pushing against the invisible weight that threatened to crush him.
Grandma's chanting grew louder, each word striking like lightning. She lifted her head, her voice carrying over the drums:
"By the will of heaven and earth, by the oath of ancestors, let the wicked be bound, let the gates be sealed!"
The ribbons quivered, then tightened, snapping against the door like living serpents. Sparks of red light burst along their edges, burning into the wood. The drums intensified, their beat rising in unison with the shamans' chants, echoing like the heartbeat of a hundred spirits.
Do Ryeong roared, forcing his body forward against the crushing force, his voice merging with the pounding drums.
The abandoned house shook.
The door shuddered.
And the night itself seemed to hold its breath.
The night stretched endlessly.
Outside the abandoned house, the ritual never ceased. The shamans' drums beat like thunder, their palms raw and red from striking, but they did not falter. Their voices rose in chants that scraped the sky, summoning power with every syllable. The red ribbons stretched across the door pulsed brighter, glowing with a sinister light that painted the night with streaks of crimson.
Do Ryeong's body shook with exhaustion. Hours passed, his arms heavy, but still he leaned his weight against the cursed ribbons. His palms blistered and bled, the burns eating into his flesh, yet his teeth ground together as he refused to let go. Sweat mixed with blood ran down his face, his hair plastered to his forehead.
Behind him, Grandma's chanting grew deeper, her breath steady though her body trembled from fatigue. She was pale now, her lips dry, but her voice carried with frightening strength. Her prayers had grown from whispers to booming cries, calling down protection from every spirit she had ever known.
The other shamans swayed as they drummed, exhaustion pulling at their bodies, but the circle held. Their rhythm had become the heartbeat of the night—steady, relentless, echoing into the cursed house.
Inside, Yeomhwa and Gyeonwoo bled as she cut the red threads, each snap echoing like a scream. Their pain mixed with Bongsu's shrieks, the ritual pulling his soul apart piece by piece. The floor stained with blood, candles flickering wildly as shadows danced across their faces.
Elsewhere, Seong-ah clung to the gods' altar, her knees bruised against the cold floor. Her tears never stopped as she rang the bells again and again, her cries breaking into hoarse sobs. She whispered, begged, screamed—her voice a desperate prayer that reached for the heavens.
The three struggles—outside, inside, and at the altar—wove together like threads of fate.
By the dead of night, the sky above the house had turned strange, swirling clouds blotting out the stars. A bitter wind howled, tearing at the shamans' robes, carrying whispers that were not human.
Do Ryeong spat blood but forced himself forward again, his voice breaking as he roared against the ribbons. "Yeomhwa! Gyeonwoo! Hold on!"
The shamans cried out in unison, raising their drums higher. Grandma's voice rose with them, her final prayer piercing the darkness:
"Spirits of heaven and earth, bind the wicked till dawn!"
The ribbons pulsed violently, the door rattled, the ground shook—
And then, as the first pale light of dawn crept over the horizon, the sound shifted.
The drums reached their final peak, the chanting thundered, and suddenly the ribbons loosened, glowing faintly before sagging against the door like lifeless threads. The abandoned house groaned as if breathing its last, the air falling still after a night of endless torment.
Morning light spilled across the weary faces of the shamans. Do Ryeong collapsed to his knees, his chest heaving, his burned palms pressed against the earth. Grandma staggered, clutching her prayer beads, her eyes fixed on the now-silent house.
The night had passed.
But whether they had won—or only delayed the inevitable—was yet unknown.
Seong-ah still sat on her knees, her forehead almost touching the floor, her hands clasped tight as the bells echoed faintly with her every trembling motion. Her tears soaked the prayer mat beneath her, but she did not stop. Her voice cracked, raw, as she pleaded again and again for the gods to return to her.
And then, slowly, the chamber shifted. The air grew heavy, the candle flames quivered, and an otherworldly light began to seep in from the corners. One by one, divine figures began to manifest—shapes woven in gold, white, and soft blues, each god carrying an aura of grace. Their eyes were solemn, watching her with a mixture of pity and strength.
Finally, amidst the growing radiance, Mother Goddess stepped forward. Her presence alone silenced the chamber; her glow spilled across every idol, every candle, every shadow. Seong-ah's tearful eyes widened, her lips parting in disbelief before curling into a trembling smile. For the first time since Yeomhwa's departure, she felt warmth, not despair.
Mother Goddess smiled back at her, a smile filled with love and unshakable protection. It was the same smile Seong-ah had seen in her dreams, the smile that had guided her since childhood.
---
Later…
The night bled into dawn as Do Ryeong reached the great doors of the abandoned house. His palms were already blistered from the burning wards, yet he pressed forward with the ritual cloth wrapped tightly around his hands. His breathing was ragged, but he didn't stop. With a shout that shook the air, he slammed his body and spirit into the sealed entrance, yelling,
"Yeomhwa! Come out! Don't do this alone!"
The wooden doors rattled but did not open.
Behind him, the grand shamans pounded their drums in unison, the earth trembling with each strike, while Grandma stood chanting the ancient prayers, her voice hoarse but unwavering.
And then—
A glow brighter than the rising sun spilled across the ritual ground. Grandma lifted her head, her eyes widening. From the direction of the shaman chamber, a figure was walking toward them—dressed in flowing robes of light, the Heaven and Earth Fairy attire shimmering as though woven from stars themselves.
"Seong-ah…" Grandma whispered, her voice breaking.
Do Ryeong, panting from his effort, turned to look—and his breath caught. His eyes, wide and wet with disbelief, locked onto the transformed Seong-ah, radiant and steady. But before his awe could settle, another presence pulled at his gaze.
Behind Seong-ah, in a brilliance that dwarfed even hers, Mother Goddess herself appeared. Her form glowed like dawn, her smile soft yet piercing, touching every soul present.
Do Ryeong froze, his hands trembling against the ritual cloth. His lips quivered, and suddenly tears streamed down his face as he whispered, voice breaking,
"Why… why didn't you come sooner? Why leave us to fight like this?"
The Mother Goddess simply smiled at him—warm, eternal, and unyielding. And in that smile, Do Ryeong felt both the weight of sorrow and the promise of hope.
With a steady breath, Seong-ah's trembling hands stilled. Her face was calm now, as though all the storms of her tears had been silenced by the gods' presence. She took the sword that glimmered faintly in divine light. The white ribbon that sealed the abandoned house fluttered in the air as she raised the blade high.
With a single, clean strike— shhht—the ribbon tore apart, falling like lifeless petals to the ground.
The sealed door groaned as it opened slowly, and there stood Yeomhwa, her face pale, her body trembling from exhaustion. Her eyes lifted tiredly toward Seong-ah, as if clinging to the last thread of strength.
"...Seong-ah…" she whispered.
Without hesitation, the other female shamans rushed forward, their arms wrapping around Yeomhwa as they gently carried her out from the suffocating darkness of the house. Tears ran down their faces as they murmured words of comfort, while Yeomhwa leaned weakly against them, her fingers still stained with the blood she had shed in the ritual.
But Seong-ah did not follow. She stepped forward, her path leading her straight into the heart of the chamber—where Bongsu stood, trapped within Gyeonwoo's body.
The sight struck her like a knife. Gyeonwoo's familiar face was there, but twisted, his eyes burning with the spirit's fury. Yet Seong-ah's gaze did not waver. She stood firm, her voice clear and resolute.
"Enough," she said. "I can end this… but I need your true name. Only then can I break the chains of sin that bind you."
Bongsu's lips curled, his eyes narrowing at her daring words. For a moment, silence hung, broken only by the faint echo of drums outside. Then, slowly, his expression shifted—not anger, but something deeper, almost… tired. His voice came out like a growl mixed with sorrow.
"...You want my name?" He looked at her, as if weighing her resolve.
---
Meanwhile…
In the ghostly realm, beneath a twisted tree with bare branches, Gyeonwoo knelt beside the boy in the faded military uniform. The boy's small shoulders shook as he clutched the hem of his jacket, his eyes wide with a loneliness that was far too old for his age.
"I know," Gyeonwoo whispered gently, kneeling down so their eyes met. "I know you've been alone for so long. When you saw that kid… someone your age… you thought you finally had a friend. You only wanted not to be lonely anymore."
His arms wrapped around the boy, holding him tightly as if to shield him from the world's cruelty.
The boy clung back, his voice small and broken. But before another word could leave him, his body jerked. A sharp crack split the silence— a bullet. Blood bloomed through the boy's small chest, staining the military fabric. His eyes widened in shock, then softened as he looked at Gyeonwoo one last time.
And then… his body went still.
In Gyeonwoo's embrace, the boy's form began to fade into motes of light, returning to the void of the ghost realm. Gyeonwoo's arms trembled, but he did not let go until the boy had completely disappeared. His voice, hoarse and full of grief, lingered in the empty silence:
"You were never truly alone… not anymore."
---
Back in the abandoned house…
Bongsu's lips twisted into a bitter smile. His eyes gleamed darkly as he finally spoke, voice low and heavy like a curse.
"My name…" He paused, staring deep into Seong-ah's soul. "The one this world has long forgotten…"
He leaned closer, his words dripping with centuries of sorrow and rage.
"Jang Yoon-bo."
The name carried a weight that shook the room. The air trembled, the candle flames flickered violently, and for a heartbeat, even the gods watching from beyond seemed to still.
Seong-ah's eyes widened. Her grip on the sword tightened, her breath catching in her throat.
Now, at last—she had the truth.