About Two Years and Nine Months Later
Legends had circulated across the southern provinces—whispers of Mt. Suksu's ancient guardian slain by evil spirits, and of a radiant immortal who descended from the heavens in his stead. Wielding a golden sword said to shimmer with divine light, the youth vanquished the demons and restored peace to the sacred mountain. Locals spoke of him with reverence, calling him the young mountain god.
Drawn by more than curiosity—by instinct—Gami journeyed to Huaham Garrison with her family. Though, no one could say with certainty who this divine figure truly was. Moreover, the tales they heard were vague, exaggerated, and often riddled with contradiction.
Just as they prepared to depart—disappointed, and no closer to the truth—a quiet murmur passed between two young farmers who had been unloading baskets nearby. One of them, ears pricking at the sound of conversation, nudged his brother sharply.
"Did she just say… Goi?"
The other blinked. "It can't be. That's…"
He turned his head, eyes scanning the group—then froze as he caught sight of a boy with the same bright gaze, the same curious face as someone he once knew.
"No, look. That little one… doesn't he look just like—?"
They dropped the baskets without a word. Faces flushed, eyes wide with disbelief, the brothers ran toward the group, their excitement spilling out before their manners could catch up.
Without so much as a bow, they blurted, "Are you… are you the wife of the mountain god?"
Caught off guard, Gami turned, blinking at the breathless young men. "I… don't know," she said gently. "That would depend on who you mean."
The brothers exchanged glances, joy blooming on their faces like sunlight through clouds.
"It's him," one whispered. "It has to be him."
The other nodded fervently, then stepped forward, half-laughing. "He told us his name once—Goi. Said we could call him that, just us. We promised we'd never tell anyone."
His voice cracked with emotion.
"But now you're here—and the little ones… they look like him."
He straightened, almost solemn now. "Please, come stay with us. Our home isn't much, but if you're truly his family, it would be an honor."
Thus were Gami and her family welcomed as honored guests into a modest farmhouse nestled at the foot of Mt. Suksu. Inside the warm guest room, the brothers laid out bowls of rice wine and steaming dishes, their hands trembling slightly from excitement. They introduced themselves as Goney and Jidal—once soldiers, now farmers. Survivors of a day unlike any other.
"We were on a hunt with the sheriff," Goney said, pouring wine. "For pelts, mostly. And some meat for the garrison. That's when it happened…"
Taking turns, the brothers recounted the events: the monstrous beasts, the living wraith who bent arrows from the sky, and the lone warrior who descended like judgment itself. Their words tumbled over one another in their eagerness. They mimicked Goi's movements with their arms, slashing invisible enemies in midair, their admiration glowing in every gesture. The more they spoke, the more the room seemed to come alive with the echo of that distant day.
Eventually, the wine dulled their voices. Goney leaned back and sighed. "I never imagined that the one who returned as a Living Wrath… was Sergeant Dalsana's wife."
"Did the sheriff confess?" asked Zeali, eyes narrowing.
Jidal nodded. "After the golden sword struck him down, he changed. Told us everything."
"Sergeant Dalsana and his wife were accompanying Sheriff Roka on a diplomatic mission," Goney said, his voice growing quieter. "They'd been assigned to support the delivery of salted meat to Biyou Land in Gosa Gaya—a formal gesture of goodwill. But on the journey back, their ship was caught in a violent storm."
"Their ship wrecked near an uninhabited isle," Jidal continued, his voice low. "They were stranded for days. No food. No help. And then… the sheriff's men lost their minds."
He hesitated. Then spoke the words no one wished to hear.
"They killed Sergeant Dalsana. Ate him."
A stunned silence swept through the room like a cold wind.
"And the next night," Goney said grimly, "they turned their eyes on his wife."
"But just before they could act," Jidal added, "a Baekje trade fleet happened to pass near the isle. The survivors were rescued."
He paused, jaw tight.
"All of them, including Dalsana's wife."
"And that's when the sheriff and his men began to panic," Goney said. "They feared she'd speak. Reveal everything."
"So they plotted," Jidal whispered. "Planned to silence her before they reached the next port. To kill her while the others slept."
He swallowed hard. His next words were almost inaudible.
"But she knew. She understood what they meant to do."
"So rather than let them finish what they'd begun—" Goney said, "she threw herself into the sea."
A long silence followed.
"She didn't survive," Jidal murmured. "Not truly. But… something found her. She was remade. Returned. A Living Wrath."
Goney's gaze drifted, remembering. "She said a man wearing golden bracelets saved her. Appeared out of nowhere. But when she awoke… she wasn't herself anymore."
"A man with golden bracelets?" Gami echoed, her eyes narrowing. "Did she say what he looked like?"
"She didn't finish," Jidal said softly. "She passed before she could."
The weight of sorrow filled the room like incense. Gami rose silently, lifting a bowl brimming with rice wine. She opened the door, walked to the threshold, and knelt. With both hands, she tilted the bowl slowly, letting the wine stream gently into the earth—
not spilled, but offered—like a final word spoken to the dead.
The brothers, watching her, were moved beyond words.
Gami returned and sat. "By the way," she asked, voice even, "what happened to the criminals?"
The two men hesitated. At last, Jidal said, "The mountain god was furious. He beheaded them all."
Sui nodded firmly. "Good. Goi did well."
Gami's brow furrowed. "No. He didn't."
Dui blinked. "Why, Sis-in-law? Are you saying he should've spared them?"
"No," Gami said, her voice sharp with clarity. "Death is too easy. For crimes that vile—against comrades, against humanity—it's not enough to be executed. They should be remembered. Shamed. Publicly punished, year after year, as a warning to all."
The brothers fell silent, not merely in awe of her words, but shaken by the weight behind them.
For a long while, they had sensed something was wrong—something unspoken, buried beneath the ever-growing tales of the mountain god. The awe had grown louder, while the crime had faded into whispers, and finally, to silence.
It had never sat right with them. Even without education, they knew: a man eating another man—especially in front of his wife—was a sin too grave to forget.
They had watched as the garrison turned the horror into legend, gilding it with reverence, washing away the blood with songs and shrine offerings. They had said nothing. They didn't know how.
But now, this woman—Lady Gami—had spoken what they couldn't. Not just that the crime was real, but that it must not be forgotten. That execution was not enough. That true justice meant remembrance.
And in that moment, something within them settled. The ache they hadn't been able to name eased. As if the world had tilted back toward balance.
Jidal swallowed. Goney looked down, then back up at her.
And together, they said, almost in unison—earnest, hopeful, and filled with something like reverence:
"Lady Gami… you should govern Huaham."
Gami smiled faintly.
Little Dui, unable to contain himself, blurted out, "You don't get it! Our sister-in-law is actually—"
But before he could finish, Sui gave him a sharp nudge and clapped a hand over his mouth.
"Enough, Dui," he said with a chuckle, though his eyes spoke more than mirth—a quiet respect for the woman seated before them. He knew it well—how she reserved her sharpest gaze for those of rank, and her warmest kindness for those with none.
Gami, unfazed, lifted her cup once more, gently steering the moment away.
"Let's drink instead."
And so they did—laughing, pouring, drinking—beneath the humble rafters of a farmhouse that had once seen a mountain god pass through its fields.
Outside, the stars over Mt. Suksu flickered like old truths remembered.