Yuhua clenched her jaw. Around her, the shark-creatures shrank back—startled. Their dead eyes turned not to their mistress, but to the man who had bested her spell.
And for the first time—they hesitated.
Goi, unmoving, his expression unreadable, tilted his head slightly.
"What are sea-dwellers like you doing on sacred mountain soil?" he murmured.
Yuhua let out a sharp, piercing cry—with it came command.
The four remaining shark monsters, still reeling from their mistress's spell, stirred at her voice. They moved—not with hunger, but obedience.
Their bodies lunged forward, but their eyes... Their eyes screamed what their minds could not: Flee.This is not prey.This is death.
But her will bound them still. And so, they charged.
With an inhuman snarl, the shark-beasts lunged. But Goi moved before they could draw breath.
In a single fluid motion, he drew his bronze gladius—its golden edge flaring in the sun like a sunlit arc from a forgotten age—and swept it through the air in a wide, radiant slash aimed directly at the woman cloaked in hatred.
Yuhua raised both hands, her fingers tracing dark sigils in the air, trying to conjure a barrier of will. The curse thickened, the air itself bending—but when the golden light struck her, her form convulsed. It didn't slice her flesh—it touched something deeper. Her very essence withered beneath the divine gleam.
Half her strength vanished in an instant.
A shuddering gasp tore from her throat as she staggered back, eyes wild. But even before she could recover, Goi was upon her servants.
His steel blade flashed—once, twice—cutting through two of the sharks with precise finality. Their corpses fell heavy and limp to the forest floor.
The others faltered.
The spectral protection they had trusted in—Yuhua's invincible curse—was broken.
And the soldiers, sensing this shift, surged forward.
Spears thrust. Blades struck.
The tide had turned.
The sharks lashed out in desperation, but the surviving warriors, hardened by hunting practice and sharpened by real hunting, fought back with coordination. Some drew the monsters in with feigned retreats, others attacked from blind angles—like wolves hunting their own prey.
Yuhua, still reeling from Goi's blow, tried once more to chant—to raise another barrier, to reclaim control. But this time, before the spell could form—
Goi struck again.
The gladius met her fully.
A wail unlike any other tore through the glade. She fell to her knees, hands pressing weakly into the earth to stop herself from crumbling completely.
But she looked up—Not at Goi.
At Roka, the sheriff of Huaham.
And when she spoke, her voice was not the voice of a wraith—it was the voice of a woman. Soft. Sorrowful.
"This bitter grudge... how can I... my love..."
Goi hesitated. He did not lower his blade, but he did not strike again. The bronze bells at his waist rang softly, stirred by the wind.
Yuhua raised her eyes and met his gaze.
He exhaled. "So there was more to this story than vengeance."
With slow purpose, he raised his gladius once more. "Cleansed."
A wave of golden light swept from the blade, not like a strike, but a benediction. It wrapped around Yuhua like a final embrace—dissolving her wrath, her agony, her curse.
When it faded, there knelt not a monster, but a woman. Her body was whole. Her face—peaceful.
A hush fell over the glade. The soldiers stared.
As the bronze bells gave a final chime, Goi sheathed his gladius. He spoke not with scorn, but a deep, weary gentleness.
"What kind of hatred must it have been… to become a Living Wrath while still alive?" he murmured. "If anything remains, tell me now."
And the woman stirred. Barely alive, her lips trembling, she whispered—words only Goi could hear.
Some soldiers turned to Roka.
Only a handful among them had recognized the woman—not as some monster, but as someone they had once buried. Someone they had once wronged.
Their eyes darted from her fallen form to one another, searching, asking without words.
Roka stood pale and frozen. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound emerged. He shook his head slowly, as if denying what stood before him.
"It can't be," he murmured.
But his men—those who knew—pressed closer, their voices low and urgent.
"It's her. Look again."
Then, Yuhua stirred.
With great effort, she raised her arm—fingers trembling—and pointed.
Not broadly. Not at random.
One by one.
Each motion of her hand, sharper than any sword. To Goi, each motion of her hand felt like a name spoken aloud.
And Roka's face collapsed into ash.
The soldiers who didn't know looked on in confusion, hearing only the hush of wind. But the others—the ones marked—stepped back in alarm.
"We must do something," one hissed to Roka. "Before the others ask…"
Roka glanced around. Most of the garrison still stood frozen, watching the young warrior with awe, not suspicion. He nodded—barely.
Carefully, he reached for an arrow and drew it—not high, not boldly, but low and slow, angling it toward the earth. The movement was furtive. Guilty.
Yuhua slumped, her final breath spent. Her body settled into stillness.
And Goi rose.
Without a word, he strode toward Roka—blade still sheathed, but fury in his every step.
Roka hesitated. He still couldn't be sure. Couldn't believe she had survived, that she had become this. Couldn't bring himself to strike the man who had saved them all.
But Goi's voice rang out—clear, furious, unrelenting:
"You wretches. Stranded by storm, you chose to eat your own? A fellow soldier?!"
Roka flinched—and released the arrow.
At the same instant, two of his men rushed forward, weapons drawn.
But the arrow never reached him—Goi had already sidestepped it in one smooth motion.
Then, a flash of golden light burst from the bronze mirror at his chest, which made the charging soldiers blinked—blinded.
His bronze gladius swept out in a wide and flowing arc, like drawing a golden curve on the void. Goi had flowed between them like mist between stones, his blade singing with holy fire. By the time the soldiers hit by golden light were on their knees, their swords flung aside.
They only wept.
Roka reached for his own sword—but it was too late.
With the bronze gladius in the air, Goi's steel blade passed so closely it brushed the edge of the man's limbs, like a whisper made of iron. Roka crumpled to the ground.
The clearing fell into stunned silence. Only the leaves whispered. Goi sheathed both of his swords in a motion.
Jidal, the young soldier, still seated on the bloodied soil, stared in speechless awe.
He had seen it—had survived it—but could not comprehend what had just unfolded. The light, the movement, the sheer power—it defied everything he knew of battle.
Roka, gasping, groaned through clenched teeth. His arms would not move. His chest burned. He forced out his final words:
"We… we had no choice… We were starving. Anyone would have—"
Goi raised his bronze gladius. The blade gleamed. The wind caught its edge.
"Cleansed."
A wave of golden light erupted like a silent explosion, sweeping through the field. It passed over the wounded, the dead, the broken—and left behind only peace.
No vengeance. No sound. Only silence.