He had enlisted under Prince Sowon's command. Only a month later, the prince and his trusted counselor, Saju's father, were branded traitors. Jingon, though newly enlisted, was marked by association.
Every year, his name was passed over. No promotion. No recognition. No victory could scrub the stain of loyalty.
Even his father—a noble of high standing—had turned his back.
But when his son neared thirty, still languishing in the same rank, the old man relented.
He bribed the younger sister of Gahn Shindo, the rising new power. And finally, Jingon was granted a provincial post.
A Sheriff's seat in a place no one wanted to go: Jangto Limit.
It was on his first patrol there that he found Saju.
A fugitive. Half-starved.
Even knowing he should report him, Jingon saw only a friend.
He wept.
And when he met Sarin—then barely more than a girl—he offered her a place in his home, and eventually, his wife of the Jangto Sheriff.
She bore him three children. Ran the household with quiet grace.
But she was always gentle. Always formal.
Over time, that reverence—the way she served him with devotion but never heat—turned into something else.
A strange, aching distance.
And then came Chori.
A fire had broken out at the very same outpost where he had once met Sarin, years ago.
When they arrived, they found her trapped inside—soot-smeared, gasping, beautiful. Barely twenty.
Jingon felt his heart leap. Something in him—something buried for years—flared to life.
And strangely, terrifyingly… she looked at him the same way.
Later, in the infirmary, when he came to check on her, she took his hand.
And in that moment, all the years of dutiful quiet, all the pale affections and half-forgotten hungers, ignited.
She kissed him first.
Their love burned fast and fierce, hotter than the flames that had once threatened to consume her. They did not care where or when. When their eyes met, the world vanished.
Then, one evening, as Jingon prepared to slip out—armor strapped loosely over his shoulders—Sarin stopped him.
She wanted to meet Chori.
He hesitated, mumbled something vague, but Sarin insisted.
And so, he took her.
What happened next undid him.
Sarin clasped Chori's hands, smiled, and said,
"Thank you. You've brought joy and life back to my husband. Please… become his concubine."
Jingon could scarcely contain his elation.
And now… she was gone.
His good, kind wife lay in a coffin, and he—he was in a narrow room, lost in the heat of a woman not yet properly mourned.
"My love… go where there is peace," he whispered into Chori's neck.
"And if the next life is kind… please, be my wife again."
He held Chori tighter, tears clinging to the corner of his eyes.
Suddenly, a scream tore through the night, followed by the unmistakable clash of steel.
A whistle rang out—sharp and urgent—then another, then several more, echoing across the compound.
Startled, Jingon bolted upright, heart hammering.
He reached for his mourning robe, threw it over his bare chest, and staggered toward the door.
Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
Outside, in the courtyard, chaos reigned.
Suryun, crouched in the shadows of the outer wall, froze as he heard the signal calls ripple through the night.
He scaled the wall carefully, eyes barely clearing the top—and what he saw stole the breath from his lungs.
Goi stood alone amidst the fallen.
Soldiers lay scattered like broken fans, their bodies sprawled across stone and soil.
His steel blade glinted in the moonlight, slick and steady, as he strode toward the inner house.
At the center of it all—Sheriff Jingon, trembling, sword clutched in shaking hands.
He tried to speak, to rally his men, but before a word left his lips, Goi moved.
The blade flashed once. Jingon's sword spun out of his grasp and clattered to the ground.
Panicked soldiers rushed in from either side, weapons raised, but Goi ignored them.
His eyes were fixed on the door beyond—the one that led to the room Jingon had just left.
"Please, General!" Jingon dropped to his knees, breath ragged. "Why are you attacking my home and destroying my wife's funeral without cause?"
Goi stepped forward, lowered the tip of his blade to the Sheriff's nose.
"Silence," he said. "Stay out of my way."
He pushed past the stunned man.
Jingon reached after him, desperate. "What do you want? You must be mistaken, General! There's no threat here!"
But Goi did not stop.
He raised his blade and called out, loud and clear:
"Come out now. Or I'll make sure this fool ends up as an offering on your altar."
The door creaked open.
And there she stood—Chori.
Her hair unbound, her gaze radiant with unnatural calm.
"No—!" Jingon cried. "My dear! I told you to stay hidden!"
In that instant, the bronze mirror hanging from Goi's chest flared.
A golden light burst forth, searing the air, illuminating the woman in full.
Chori gasped.
She fell to her knees, clutching her head.
Her limbs twisted, convulsed—bones snapping, skin tearing—until her human form broke apart.
And where she had knelt now crouched a great wolf—its silver fur matted with shadow, its eyes glowing with cruel intelligence.
A red cord bracelet clung still to her left foreleg.
Jingon stared, paralyzed.
"No... it can't be..." he whispered.
The wolf spirit snarled, lips pulling back over long, gleaming fangs.
With a howl, she lunged—not at Goi, but at the soldiers behind him.
A blinding pulse of golden energy shot from Goi's mirror, forcing the beast off course.
She smashed into the stone wall, flinging two soldiers aside like leaves in a storm.
The others backed away in terror, chanting prayers, clinging to the monk behind them.
Suryun joined their cries, voice trembling with both faith and fury.
In the midst of the chaos, Goi moved like a shadow.
His blade met the beast's claws in a spray of sparks.
Each strike was deliberate—measured, lethal.
The wolf demon was fast. But Goi was faster.
He danced through the fray, striking at nerves, tendons, joints—draining her power with each blow.
At last, she faltered. With a final roar, she leapt for him—but Goi was already in the air.
He spun, came down hard, and drove his sword deep into her spine.
The beast collapsed.
She writhed once. Then stilled.
Her eyes—still sharp with remnants of sorrow and rage—turned to Jingon.
"My dear... is it really you?" he choked out, stepping forward.
The wolf blinked slowly. And nodded.
Goi exhaled through his nose—cold, sharp.
He drew the bronze gladius. Its golden light flared again.
"Cleansed!"
With one final, merciful stroke, the light consumed what darkness remained.
And as her body crumbled into stillness, the red bracelet slipped loose and tumbled across the stone floor—the last thing Sarin had ever given.
Jingon did not move. Could not move. He only stared, as the silence grew heavy around him.