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Part One: The Breaking Point

The snow fell silently outside the windows of the Goblin’s house, coating the garden in a soft white that seemed at odds with the storm building inside. Kim Shin stood frozen in the dim living room, the shadows of flickering candlelight throwing harsh lines across his face. The words he had just heard echoed in his ears, as though the walls themselves were intent on reminding him of his misery.

Wang Yeo.

The name was a curse. A blade twisted into a wound that had never truly healed, no matter how many centuries had passed.

Park Joong-Heon’s laughter still clung to the edges of the air, the malignant whisper of a ghost that reveled in old agony. “The one you call your companion,” he had sneered, eyes gleaming with cruel delight, “is none other than Wang Yeo himself. The king who struck the final blow in your tragedy. The boy-king who chose my lies over your loyalty. The husband who destroyed your sister.”

Kim Shin’s fingers tightened around the sword hilt lodged in his chest. It pulsed against his palm, as though reacting to the fury igniting inside him. His immortal body rarely trembled — but in that moment, rage and disbelief coursed through him with such violence that even he struggled to contain it.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely. His lips parted as though denial could undo what had been revealed. “No.”

But when he turned his eyes across the room, they landed on the man who had stood beside him through rain and snow, through quarrels and shared silences — the Grim Reaper.

And suddenly, he could not unsee it.

That pale face, too youthful to betray the sins of an ancient life, now carried the shadow of a crown he once despised. That hesitant voice, usually so measured, seemed soaked in guilt that he hadn’t noticed before. And those eyes… those eyes that sometimes lingered on Sunny with aching confusion, as though searching for something he could never name.

The truth rang like a death knell.

“Dokkaebi…” the Grim Reaper began, his voice faltering. His hands trembled slightly where they hung at his sides, as if the truth had shattered him as much as it had Shin. “I—”

But the Goblin moved before he thought.

In two steps he closed the distance, his hand seizing the Reaper’s collar with a force that lifted him off his feet. His rage burst like fire against dry kindling, centuries of bitterness pouring into that single instant.

“You!” Shin’s roar shook the rafters. His eyes burned with a fury only old ghosts could summon. “It was you. All along—you!”

The Reaper’s lips parted, searching for words, but none came quickly enough.

“You killed her!” Shin’s voice cracked, the anguish of his sister’s blood staining his memories. “You killed my sister, my queen — her hands clasped in prayer while you struck her down. You ended my life! My soldiers’ lives! And all these centuries, you have lived beside me as though you were innocent.”

The Reaper’s hands lifted to Shin’s grip, but he didn’t resist. He couldn’t. There was no justification, no defense for the sins carved into a past life he had no memory of choosing. His breaths came shallow, trembling with the weight of guilt he couldn’t even fully remember, but instinctively bore.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered, his voice barely audible above Shin’s rage. “I didn’t know who I was… I didn’t know until—”

Shin’s fist collided with his jaw before he could finish. The sound reverberated through the house.

The Reaper staggered backward, stumbling into the coffee table. A vase toppled, shattering against the floor. For a moment, silence filled the space — heavy, suffocating silence.

The Goblin loomed above him, his chest heaving, his sword trembling in his body as though begging to be unleashed.

“You sit at my table,” Shin snarled, his voice ragged. “You drank with me. You laughed with me. You—” His voice broke, anger tangling with grief. “All this time, I thought you were… my friend.”

The Reaper’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, his lip split and bleeding from the blow. “I was,” he whispered hoarsely. “I am.”

Shin’s rage flared again, his foot kicking the broken shards aside as though they were extensions of his own shattered trust. “You dare call yourself that?”

The Reaper lowered his gaze, shame consuming him. The truth was undeniable. He had been Wang Yeo, the foolish boy-king who had trusted the wrong man and ruined lives. Whether he remembered or not, whether he had been reborn or punished into this cursed duty, the blood was still on his hands.

Shin’s breaths slowed, but the fury did not ebb. His sword thrummed, aching for vengeance. For a brief, terrible moment, he imagined pulling it free and driving it into the Reaper’s chest — ending what Wang Yeo had begun centuries ago.

But no one’s voice interrupted, no presence softened the edges of his rage. Only the oppressive silence of the house bore witness to their undoing.

With a guttural snarl, Shin turned his back, unable to look at the man on the floor. “Get out,” he spat.

The Reaper froze.

Shin’s shoulders trembled as though under unbearable weight. His voice came again, sharp as a blade. “Get out of this house. Out of my sight. Take your lies with you.”

The Reaper opened his mouth, but no words came. None would bridge this gulf. None would undo what had been carved into their shared history.

So he obeyed.

Slowly, shakily, he rose to his feet. His hat lay on the floor where it had fallen; his teacup sat half-full on the kitchen counter. His slippers waited at the door. But he touched none of them.

Without a sound, the Grim Reaper crossed the threshold. The night swallowed him, his silhouette fading into the falling snow.

Kim Shin remained in the center of the living room, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. He told himself it was righteous — that he had finally faced the ghost of his past. But as the door clicked shut and silence reclaimed the house, the emptiness that followed was louder than any storm.

And across the city, the Grim Reaper walked with no destination, only the weight of his sins for company.

Part Two: Fractures in Silence

The house was too quiet.

Kim Shin sat in the living room long after the Grim Reaper had left, long after the snow had buried the path outside in a white so heavy it seemed determined to erase every trace of footsteps. The fragments of the shattered vase still glittered on the floor, tiny shards catching the dim light. He had not moved them. He could not bring himself to touch anything.

His body ached with the remnants of fury, but his heart… his heart ached differently.

The silence pressed against his ears, suffocating, mocking. For years he had complained about the Reaper’s presence: the sound of the kettle whistling too often, the quiet but constant shuffling of slippers, the curt mutters of irritation whenever Shin left his shoes out of place. And yet now, without them, the house felt hollow.

He told himself this was justice. Retribution. But the words felt shallow.

He was Wang Yeo.

The thought stabbed him again and again. How could he have been so blind? The boyish awkwardness, the unexplained sorrow that lingered in the Reaper’s gaze — was it not always the shadow of the past he carried, even without knowing? Shin had let himself believe in companionship, in an unlikely friendship that had been carved out of centuries of solitude.

And that belief had betrayed him.

Or had it?

Shin clenched his fists, his head bowing forward until his hair shadowed his eyes. Rage had burned away quickly, leaving the embers of doubt and guilt in its place. The Grim Reaper had not fought back. He had not denied it, not even when Shin’s fist split his lip. He had only looked at him with the eyes of someone who already carried his own punishment.

Shin’s hand rose unconsciously to the sword hilt in his chest. The blade pulsed faintly, as if aware of his turmoil. He gripped it tightly, whispering through gritted teeth, “You would have me kill him, too, wouldn’t you?”

The weapon gave no answer. It never did. Yet Shin felt it thrum against his palm, not in agreement or refusal, but in resonance with his own confusion.

He closed his eyes. Memory lanced through him: laughter shared over late-night drinks, quiet evenings where no words were spoken but the silence had been companionable, the odd comfort of finding someone just as displaced in the world as he was.

He shoved the memories away. They made his chest ache.

When dawn broke, he had not slept. The snow outside glowed faintly gold with the rising sun, and still the house remained empty.

Across the city, the Grim Reaper wandered.

His steps left shallow prints in the snow, but he noticed none of it. His hat was gone, left behind in his haste. His robe dragged through the slush, collecting flecks of white until he seemed half a ghost himself.

He had no destination. His work as a Reaper was forgotten for now. No doors opened before him, no names whispered themselves into his ear. For the first time since he had awoken into this cursed half-life, he allowed himself to exist outside the duty that defined him.

But the weight of identity bore down all the heavier.

Wang Yeo.

The name clawed at him like thorns. He had no full memories — only flashes, glimpses, half-formed emotions that had always haunted him. A woman’s sorrowful gaze. A crown that weighed heavier than his shoulders could bear. A hand, pale and delicate, slipping from his own.

And death. Always death.

His body remembered it even when his mind did not. The taste of poison, the collapse of his breath, the guilt of a hundred decisions too late regretted.

He stopped beneath the branches of a bare tree, tilting his face upward toward the pale winter sky. His lip stung faintly where Shin’s fist had landed. The pain felt righteous. Deserved. He touched it briefly, but there was no resentment in the gesture.

How could there be?

The Goblin had every right to his fury.

The Reaper’s hands curled loosely at his sides. “I didn’t know,” he whispered to no one, his breath fogging in the cold air. “I didn’t know who I was. But that doesn’t change who I am.”

And who was that?

He no longer knew. Was he Wang Yeo, the cowardly king who had destroyed all he touched? Or was he the Reaper, cursed to guide lost souls for eternity as punishment? Or… was he the man who had laughed at a Goblin’s stubbornness, who had sat across a table and shared meals in silence that wasn’t quite lonely anymore?

He pressed a hand to his chest, where no heart should ache. Yet the ache was there, sharp and hollow all at once.

The city bustled faintly around him, distant, uncaring. No one noticed him — not the living, not tonight. He was a shadow, untethered, unwanted.

And yet his thoughts returned again and again to the house he had left behind. To the warmth he had abandoned. To the door that had closed between them.

His steps resumed, slower this time, as though weighed down by memory itself. He did not know where he was going. He only knew that he could not go back.

Not yet.

Perhaps not ever.

Kim Shin stood by the window, staring at the untouched expanse of snow. His reflection glared back at him from the glass — a weary face, eyes too old, mouth pressed into a line of bitterness.

He thought of the Reaper’s silence. The way he had not defended himself, not once. The way he had left everything behind — the hat, the slippers, the mug.

It should have satisfied him. But instead it hollowed him out.

He whispered into the quiet, almost against his will, “Why didn’t you fight back?”

The question went unanswered.

And for the first time in many long years, the Goblin felt something unfamiliar rise in his chest. Not rage. Not grief. Not even hatred.

It was regret.

And regret was far heavier than any sword lodged in his chest.

Part Three: The Empty Trail

The house remained still. Days bled into one another, snow falling, melting, falling again. Kim Shin’s body moved through its routines, but his soul was elsewhere, gnawed hollow by a single absence.

The Grim Reaper had vanished.

At first, Shin told himself he didn’t care. He had demanded the man leave — he had every right to. He had shouted, struck him, ordered him out. The silence in the house was earned, righteous.

But the lie unraveled quickly.

The slippers by the door remained untouched. The teacup on the counter still bore a faint stain of tea along the rim. The hat lay abandoned near the sofa. They should have been proof of his existence, traces of the life they had shared under one roof.

And yet the longer Shin stared at them, the more they unsettled him. They felt… hollow.

It was as though they had been left behind not by a man who had walked out the door, but by something less tangible. Something that had slipped through the cracks of the world and dissolved entirely.

By the third day, Shin’s restlessness became unbearable.

He left the house, his scarf drawn high against the bitter wind. The city sprawled before him, alive and busy, uncaring of his turmoil. His sword pulsed faintly in his chest, reacting to the tension knotting within him.

He began at the obvious places.

The teahouse.

The narrow street where souls sometimes gathered, waiting for a Reaper’s hand to guide them.

The bridges where lost spirits lingered.

But there was nothing. Not even the faintest shimmer of a Reaper’s presence.

He expanded his search — further into alleys, along the riverside, through the quiet parks that usually belonged to the forgotten and unseen. He even stood beneath the bare trees in the hills, where silence hung heavier than the snow.

Still nothing.

By nightfall, he had exhausted every corner he could think of, yet the result remained the same: no footsteps, no whispers, no trace.

It was as if the Grim Reaper had been erased.

The thought burrowed deep, colder than the winter air. He returned home with heavy steps, only to find the house even emptier than before. The walls seemed to mock him with their silence, the flicker of the fireplace throwing shadows that felt foreign without another presence nearby.

Shin lowered himself into the chair by the table, his hands curling around the edge. He stared at the abandoned teacup, at the hat left crumpled by the sofa.

“What are you doing?” he murmured, though the question was for himself, not the absent man. “Why are you searching for him? Why now?”

But he knew the answer, even as he tried to deny it.

He missed him.

The realization struck like a blade through armor. He missed the man who had once been Wang Yeo. The very name should have been poison, but instead it left only a bitter ache.

The Reaper had been guilty, yes, but he had also been kind. He had been awkward, clumsy, often irritating — but he had been there. Steady in his own way. Present when Shin had not realized how badly he needed someone to be.

And Shin had thrown that away with his anger.

His hands pressed against his eyes, fingers trembling faintly. He had endured centuries of loneliness, yet the past few days carved at him differently, more cruelly. Because now he knew what it was like not to be alone.

And he had lost it.

The fourth night, Shin walked again.

The city was quieter than usual, the snow muffling every sound. His scarf trailed slightly as he moved, his boots crunching against the frozen ground. He searched without direction, his gaze scanning every corner, every shadow.

He stopped beneath a flickering streetlamp, breath fogging in the cold air. His hand brushed against the hilt of the sword in his chest.

“Where are you?” he whispered. His voice cracked, and he hated himself for it.

The night did not answer.

Only silence.

And in that silence, the Goblin felt the weight of eternity pressing down heavier than ever before.

By the seventh day, the emptiness had begun to feel like a curse.

Shin had walked streets he had never bothered with before. He had crossed into places where the veil between the living and the dead grew thin, searching for any sign. But each time he was met with nothing.

The Grim Reaper had left no trail, no mark, no memory for others to recall.

Even among the few spirits Shin encountered, there was no mention of him. Not a whisper of the hat, not a flicker of recognition. It was as though his existence had been erased from the city itself.

Shin returned home that evening, weary in a way no immortal should be. His steps slowed at the threshold.

The hat was gone.

He froze. His breath caught in his throat. He searched the room quickly, his pulse pounding in disbelief. But the hat that had lain untouched for days was no longer there. Nor were the slippers. The teacup, too, had vanished from the counter.

The house was immaculate, stripped of his presence.

As if the Grim Reaper had never lived there at all.

Shin staggered back a step, his hand clutching at the sword in his chest. Panic rose in him, sharp and disorienting. This was not possible. This was something far crueler — not merely abandonment, but erasure.

And somehow, that wound cut deeper than the betrayal itself.

He dropped into the chair, his breaths uneven. The fire crackled faintly, its warmth unable to reach him.

He whispered into the emptiness, voice breaking with something he could no longer suppress.

“Please… come back.”

The words dissolved into the silence, unanswered.

And Kim Shin, who had endured nine hundred years of loss and grief, bowed his head into his hands and felt the ache of loneliness sharper than ever before.

Part Four: What Remains Unspoken

The city had become smaller in the Goblin’s eyes. Smaller, and yet more endless. Each street he walked, each corner he turned, only proved to him what he already feared: Wang Yeo had left no trace.

The erasure gnawed at him. He knew death, knew how the world swallowed the forgotten. But this was different. This was deliberate. Someone had chosen to vanish — chosen to deny the world even their shadow.

And Kim Shin could not endure it.

On the tenth day, he found himself standing in front of three Grim Reapers gathered in the shadow of a teahouse. They were not startled to see him; by now, most of them knew the Goblin wandered often, his sword heavy in his chest and his eyes heavier still.

He approached them with a stillness that disguised the storm inside. “I’m looking for one of your own,” he said without preamble. His voice carried weight, like a command, but the undercurrent of weariness betrayed him.

The Reapers exchanged glances. Their faces were pale, blank, as if carved from the same mold. One tilted his head slightly. “Which one?”

Shin’s throat tightened around the name. “Wang Yeo.”

The air shifted. It was almost imperceptible — but Shin felt it. A stiffness in their posture, a faint change in the current of silence.

Most of them shook their heads. “We don’t know,” one said simply, his voice even.

Another added, “If he does not wish to be found, no one will find him.”

Shin’s jaw clenched. He was about to press further when his gaze landed on the third Reaper.

The man stood slightly apart, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. His expression remained composed, but something flickered in his eyes — the faintest shadow of recognition, of guarded emotion quickly masked.

Shin’s heart stilled.

He did not call him out then. He only inclined his head, turned, and left. But the image of that hardening expression burned in his thoughts long into the night.

The following day, Shin found him again.

The Reaper walked alone, his path quiet, his black robe trailing against the snow. There was no one else in sight, no witnesses to what was about to unfold.

Shin stepped from the shadows, barring his path. His eyes were sharp, his shoulders squared with the weight of centuries — but underneath, desperation threaded through every breath.

“Tell me where he is.”

The Reaper’s expression did not falter. If he was startled, he did not show it. Instead, he regarded the Goblin with an unsettling calm, as though expecting this confrontation all along.

“Why does it matter to you?” the Reaper asked coldly. His voice cut like frost. “Don’t you hate him now? I thought you would be happy that he’s gone from your house.”

The words struck harder than Shin anticipated. He faltered — just for a heartbeat. His chest tightened, breath caught against his ribs. But he recovered quickly, his voice low and firm.

“I don’t have to explain anything to you. Just tell me what I’m asking.”

The Reaper’s lips curved into something that was not a smile. More like bitterness made visible. He gave a short, derisive scoff.

“You have some nerve, mister Goblin.” His eyes narrowed, finally betraying the emotion he had hidden yesterday. “After how I last saw sunbaenim…” He let the word linger with heavy weight, respect layered into the syllables. “…I don’t ever want him near you again.”

Shin’s breath stilled. His composure faltered for real this time, though he fought to mask it. The Reaper’s words cut deeper than his sword ever could.

He opened his mouth, but no reply came. No defense, no justification. Because the truth was laid bare in the bitterness of another’s voice: Kim Shin had hurt him. Hurt him enough that even those who respected him no longer wished for his return.

The silence stretched.

Finally, the Reaper stepped past him, shoulders squared, his expression unreadable once more. He did not look back. His footsteps faded into the snow, leaving Shin rooted to the spot.

For a long while, the Goblin remained there, unmoving, the cold wind biting against his face.

He had faced kings, ghosts, gods, and centuries of exile. Yet never had he felt as powerless as he did in that moment, standing in silence, abandoned by words that might have mended what he himself had broken.

And so he remained, sword heavy in his chest, silence heavier still.

The days dragged by, heavy and indistinguishable. Kim Shin had walked every street, called on every whisper of power he knew, even demanded answers from gods that refused to look him in the eye. All for nothing.

The world was empty of him.

The house no longer felt like home. Shadows clung to the walls, whispering memories Shin wished he could silence. The laughter across the table. The quiet sound of slippers on wood. The endless bickering over nothing at all.

Now there was only silence.

And within that silence, guilt flourished.

Shin sat with his back against the wall one evening, staring at the faint shimmer of firelight. His sword pulsed faintly in his chest, as if mocking him for his weakness. He had always told himself that if he met Wang Yeo again, he would be merciless. That vengeance was his right, his duty.

So why, when the truth had stood before him, had his heart trembled with something other than rage?

Because he had known the Grim Reaper first.

The quiet, awkward man who counted tea leaves too carefully. The hesitant voice that faltered when laughter slipped free. The man who had guided souls with gentleness, not cruelty. That was the one Shin had known. That was the one who had shared his solitude.

And that was the one he missed.

He bowed his head into his hands, the weight of guilt pressing down like the centuries themselves. He had struck him. Driven him away. Perhaps even destroyed him.

Yet still… he longed for him back.

Far from the mortal world, in a place untouched by time, a man hung in chains of frost.

The cave was made of ice, each wall crystalline and sharp, reflecting a thousand fractured images of his face. His wrists were bound high, his ankles locked tight, the thin robe offering no warmth against the chill that gnawed at bone and spirit alike.

And before his eyes — again, and again, and again — his past replayed.

The crown pressing into his brow.

The voice of Park Joong-Heon whispering poison.

His queen’s sorrowful eyes, filled with disappointment he hadn’t understood until too late.

The Goblin’s blade piercing him, blood flooding his lips, the last image of betrayal etched into eternity.

Over and over.

There was no escape. No reprieve. Each cycle burned fresh into his soul, as though the gods themselves delighted in reminding him of the ruin he had been.

“Enough,” he whispered hoarsely, though the word vanished into the cold. His throat ached from the plea he repeated daily. “Enough.”

But the visions did not stop.

He lowered his head, hair falling across his face, breath shuddering white in the frozen air. His body did not die, could not die — it only endured, bound to punishment.

If he could, he would have chosen death a thousand times over. But even that release was denied him.

Still, one thought endured, stubborn as flame in snow.

I want to say it once. Just once.

His lips trembled, shaping the word in silence. Sorry.

Sorry to Kim Shin, the man he had wronged in life and in afterlife both. Sorry to the friend he had lost because of the sins of a foolish king. Sorry for every wound, every betrayal, every silence.

He would never be forgiven. He did not expect it. But if the gods allowed him one mercy, it would be to let him say it aloud, before the end.

Kim Shin walked through the snow-lined forest, restless. The cold bit at his skin but could not cut as deep as his own regret. His anger had been righteous — he knew that. Even Yeo would know that.

So why did guilt gnaw at him, unrelenting?

A voice broke through his thoughts, smooth and feminine.

“It’s because you’ve grown fond of him.”

Shin stiffened. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword as he turned.

There she stood, draped in crimson silk that gleamed against the snow: the Lady in Red, mysterious, ageless, the weaver of fates. Her smile was knowing, her gaze sharp enough to pierce through armor.

“You,” Shin breathed, his voice low with both suspicion and recognition.

Her lips curved. “Yes, me.”

His eyes narrowed. “You know where he is, don’t you?”

The Lady tilted her head, considering him with the detached amusement of one who has watched centuries pass like fleeting clouds. “Perhaps I do.”

“Tell me.” His voice was rough, desperate.

She raised a brow. “Why? You said yourself your anger was justified. And he knows it. So why do you ache as though you were the one who wronged him?”

Shin’s fists tightened. He had no answer — or rather, too many. He turned his gaze aside, jaw clenched.

The Lady in Red stepped closer, her robe whispering against the snow. “You’re conflicted. You’ve grown fond of the person he became — the naïve, kind, gentle Grim Reaper. Not the king of your past, but the companion of your present.”

Her words struck like a blade. Shin drew a sharp breath, his chest heavy.

She studied him for a moment longer, then smiled faintly, as though she pitied him. “What will you do, Goblin, when you find him? Strike him again? Or will you finally listen to the truth?”

Shin’s throat worked as he swallowed, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Just tell me where he is.”

The Lady’s smile deepened, mysterious and sharp. She did not answer.

Instead, she turned, her crimson figure vanishing between the trees as though she had never been there at all.

Shin stood alone in the snow, his sword thrumming faintly in his chest, his heart heavier than it had been in centuries.

Somewhere, he knew, Yeo still existed. But not here. Not in this world.

And for the first time since his exile began, Kim Shin felt truly powerless.

Part Five: The Weight of Silence

Snow clung to the city rooftops like silence. Even in a place that never truly slept, the Goblin moved unseen, a shadow among shadows. His long coat whipped in the bitter wind as he searched alleys, temples, shrines—anywhere his instincts led him.

But everywhere was empty.

The trail was too clean. It was as though Wang Yeo had never existed.

That thought alone sent something jagged through Shin’s chest. He had fought wars, toppled tyrants, endured centuries of exile—but he had never felt helpless like this.

At night, he would sit in the house, in the corner where the Grim Reaper used to rest, staring at the cushion left behind. It was such a simple thing, meaningless in its emptiness. But his eyes always lingered there, waiting for a presence that would not return.

The silence of the house gnawed at him. He would almost prefer the Reaper’s awkward tea-brewing rituals, his sighs of exasperation, even his timid laughter. Anything but this nothing.

Shin told himself he was right to be angry. That Wang Yeo’s sins were unforgivable. That the blade had every right to thirst for the king’s blood again and again.

But when he closed his eyes, he saw not the king. He saw the Reaper. The man who had once placed a trembling hand on his shoulder and said nothing at all—yet somehow, in that silence, had made Shin feel less alone.

That was what tormented him.

He began his search with mortals. Priests, shamans, fortune-tellers—anyone who brushed against the edge of the divine. Most looked at him in terror, unable to meet his eyes. A few dared to speak, but their words were the same: “We know nothing, Goblin.”

From there, he turned to the shadows. Spirits hiding in alleyways, ghosts lingering at thresholds. He hunted them down, demanding answers.

Some scattered in fear. Others stammered apologies, insisting they had heard nothing.

One, braver than most, whispered: “Grim Reapers leave no footprints when they wish to disappear. If one has hidden himself… you will not find him, Goblin.”

Shin had gritted his teeth, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. But even he knew the spirit spoke truth.

Days bled into nights. Nights into days. Still, he pressed on, a man possessed.

The gods, however, were silent.

On the twelfth night since Yeo’s disappearance, Shin stood beneath the eaves of an abandoned shrine. Snow fell thick and quiet, blanketing the earth like ash. He stared at the stone altar, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles bled pale.

“Answer me,” he growled into the silence. His breath steamed in the cold. “You watch everything. You meddle in every fate. You bound me to this life and chained me to this sword. So answer me. Where is he?”

No reply came. Only the whisper of snow against stone.

Shin’s chest ached. He slammed a fist against the altar, the crack echoing like thunder. “Cowards. You let him walk this path. You made him what he is. And now you hide him from me? Why?”

Still, nothing.

The silence pressed heavier than any blade. He lowered his head, teeth clenched against the heat in his eyes.

That night, he wandered the forest aimlessly. Branches groaned overhead, weighed down by frost. His steps crunched on frozen ground, each one heavier than the last.

The guilt had sharpened into something darker now. Obsession. It wound through him like vines, pulling tighter with every breath.

He thought of the look in Yeo’s eyes, that night in the house. Shock. Pain. Betrayal. Shin had wielded his anger like a weapon, and it had struck deeper than any sword.

If only he had paused. If only he had listened.

But the past gave no mercy.

The days stretched into weeks. His search grew reckless. He began to tear into boundaries not meant for mortals, stepping across thresholds guarded by lesser gods, demanding their aid.

Most recoiled, refusing to meet his gaze. Others spoke only in riddles.

“The one you seek walks where no sun rises.”
“Even gods cannot follow him now.”

The answers enraged him. He shattered one shrine entirely, leaving fragments of stone scattered in the snow. For the first time in centuries, he felt the old fury rising—the wrath of the Goblin General, the merciless warrior who once bathed battlefields in blood.

But fury did not bring him back.

At dawn, Shin would return to the house, exhausted and defeated, only to rise again by nightfall to resume the search. His immortality mocked him now, ensuring he would never collapse, never rest, never escape the weight pressing on his chest.

One evening, he sat by the fire, staring into the flames. His sword throbbed faintly against his ribs, as though reminding him of what he was.

He closed his eyes.

He remembered Yeo sitting in that very spot, chin tucked awkwardly in his palm, eyes drooping with sleep. The Reaper had been quiet that night, but content. Shin remembered watching him out of the corner of his eye, realizing with some discomfort that the silence wasn’t heavy at all.

It had been… comforting.

Shin pressed a hand against his chest.

“I was right to be angry,” he whispered to the empty room. “I was right.”

But his voice cracked, betraying him. His eyes burned, and he pressed them shut. “Then why… why does it feel like this?”

The flames offered no answer.

It was on the twenty-first day that he felt her.

The air shifted, heavy with a strange sweetness. The snow seemed to still, the trees falling into reverent silence.

And there she was.

The Lady in Red.

She stood at the edge of the forest, crimson robes bright against the pallid snow. Her expression was calm, serene—as though she had been waiting for him all along.

Shin’s breath caught.

“You,” he said, his voice low, rough. His hand curled at his side, trembling.

Her lips curved faintly. “Yes, me.”

His chest tightened. For the first time in weeks, something like hope stirred within him—wild, desperate, unsteady.

“You know where he is.”

The Lady tilted her head, her gaze sharp and amused. “Yes, little Goblin. Of course I know where he is.”

Her tone, however, suggested nothing more would be given.

Shin’s breath quickened. His voice cracked with urgency. “Tell me! Please!”

The Lady in Red’s smile deepened.

“Hm… no.”

The single syllable hung in the frozen air.

“No.”

The word was soft, but it struck like thunder.

Shin stumbled forward a step, disbelief etched across his face. His breath came quick, harsh in the silence of the forest. “What—what do you mean, no?”

The Lady in Red regarded him with a smile that was almost playful, though her eyes gleamed with something colder. “Exactly what I said. I will not tell you.”

Her calmness was unbearable. She spoke as though his desperation were nothing more than an amusing trifle, a passing storm she could simply step aside to watch.

Shin’s hand shook where it hung at his side. “You know where he is. You admitted it. So tell me.”

“Why should I?” she countered, tilting her head. “What claim do you have, Goblin? You who demanded vengeance for centuries? You who raised your blade the moment the truth was revealed? You wounded him more deeply than any chain could. And now you wish to know where he hides? For what purpose?”

“I—” Shin faltered, the words catching in his throat. For what purpose? To strike him down again? Or to beg him back? He didn’t know. He only knew the hollow ache that consumed him.

The Lady’s gaze sharpened. “You don’t even know what you would do if you found him.”

Shin’s lips trembled. His chest heaved, heavy with words he couldn’t form. Finally, his voice broke. “Please. I just… I need to see him. Just once more.”

The Lady in Red exhaled a quiet laugh, not cruel, but laced with pity. “You really are a strange creature.”

Her eyes softened just slightly, just enough to twist the knife. “But no. He has served his purpose.”

Shin froze. The words seemed to echo inside him, repeating, distorting. “Wha—what do you mean by that?”

The Lady’s expression shifted. Amusement faded, replaced by something sadder, almost tender. “Exactly what you heard. The little Reaper is no more.”

Silence crashed around them.

Shin staggered back a step, shaking his head violently. “No. No, that’s—” His voice cracked into a broken laugh. “That’s not possible. He’s not gone. He can’t be.”

The Lady looked at him with a sorrow that was almost believable. “He violated the laws. He gave a mortal their past life’s memory. It was not his place, not his right. For that, there is no return.”

Her voice was calm, unflinching. But her eyes glimmered with something—sympathy, perhaps, or maybe only the reflection of his despair.

Shin’s vision blurred. He stumbled forward, hands outstretched as though to grab her sleeve, to anchor himself. “N-no. You’re lying. Tell me where he is. Please! Please!”

His knees buckled, forcing him to the ground in the snow. He bowed his head, tears spilling freely, breath shuddering. “Don’t take him from me. Not like this. Not after everything. Please…”

The Lady watched silently, crimson robes stirring faintly in the breeze. For a long moment, she simply looked at him—the immortal warrior, the indomitable Goblin—brought to his knees in grief.

And then, softly: “Why do you mourn so deeply for him, Goblin? He was your enemy. He was your executioner. You should have rejoiced at his disappearance.”

Shin’s hands dug into the snow, fists trembling. His voice came raw, almost unrecognizable. “Because he was more than that. He was—” His throat closed around the word. He forced it out anyway. “—my friend.”

The admission left him hollow. The truth he hadn’t dared name until it was too late.

The Lady’s eyes softened again, that fleeting, infuriating sympathy. “Then grieve him. But do not hope for his return.”

Her form shimmered, crimson dissolving into mist. “This is the way of things.”

And with that, she was gone.

Snow fell quietly around him, covering his bent figure. He remained there, kneeling in the cold, his breath ragged, his tears freezing against his cheeks.

The little Reaper is no more.

The words replayed in his mind, relentless. His chest ached as if the sword had twisted deeper, pulling every ounce of breath from him.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No. No. You’re wrong. You’re lying.”

His voice rose, cracking through the trees. “You’re lying!”

But no one answered.

The forest remained silent.

Shin bowed forward, forehead pressed into the snow. His hands trembled violently, fingers digging into the ice until blood welled in his palms. His sobs shook the ground beneath him, raw and unrestrained.

He had lost before. He had lost family, comrades, centuries of time. He had learned to endure grief, to carry it like armor.

But this was different. This loss was his own doing. His own hands had driven Yeo away. His own words had cut deeper than any blade.

And now, perhaps, it was too late.

Hours passed. The snow covered him slowly, blanketing his shoulders, his bowed head. He did not move.

When finally he lifted his face, the tracks of his tears had frozen into his skin. His eyes were hollow, red-rimmed, but burning still with something fierce.

If the Lady spoke truth, then Yeo was gone forever.

But Shin could not, would not, accept it.

He wiped at his eyes with a bloodied palm, smearing the tears away. His voice, hoarse but steady, broke into the silence.

“If he is gone… then I will find where he went.”

The sword in his chest pulsed, heavy, as though in warning. He ignored it.

“I will tear apart every realm, break every law, defy every god. I will not stop. Not until I see him again.”

The forest gave no reply. But within Shin’s chest, the vow burned like fire.

He rose to his feet, snow falling from his coat, his gaze sharp and unyielding.

The Lady had left him with despair. But she had also given him something else: a challenge.

And Kim Shin had never been one to turn away from a battlefield.

Part Seven: The Flood and the Frost

The Lady in Red left him with silence.

For a time, Kim Shin sat in that silence, bowed low in the snow where she had vanished. He told himself he would rise, that he would search again, that he would not surrender to despair. And he did rise—at first. He roamed the forests until his legs ached, combed the shrines until candles guttered and died, but there was no trace of her.

When he returned to his home, emptiness greeted him. The Reaper’s teacup still sat where it had been left. The futon, folded neatly, smelled faintly of cedar and mint. But the rooms themselves felt hollow, stripped of presence.

The Goblin had lived centuries in loneliness, but this was different. Loneliness had always been a weight he carried silently, like a stone in his chest. Now it was an open wound, raw and burning, and no amount of centuries-old endurance could soothe it.

It began with rain.

The first day, it came softly, misting the city, a drizzle that dampened roofs and sidewalks.

By the second day, it thickened into steady downpour, drums of water hammering down without pause. People ran for cover beneath umbrellas, muttering about the freak weather, but still they endured.

The third day brought thunder. Sheets of rain fell so heavy that cars slowed to a crawl on the highways, headlights swallowed by the endless grey. Rivers swelled, streets shimmered with standing water.

On the fourth day, the Han River surged past its banks, spilling into parks and streets, swallowing footpaths. Sewers overflowed, water spilling into basements, shopfronts, and homes. Sirens wailed across the city.

By the fifth day, Seoul was drowning.

All the while, the Goblin lay curled on his bed.

The once immaculate room was a chaos of overturned books, discarded clothes, untouched meals left to spoil on trays. His hair clung to his face with sweat, his eyes bloodshot, shadowed with deep hollows. He had not slept; or if he had, it was in broken fragments, dreams thick with visions of a pale face beneath a black hat, eyes rimmed in sorrow.

Rain pounded the windows, rattled against the roof. Each drop was a fragment of his grief, spilling into the world unchecked. He could not stop it. He did not even try.

He lay there, half-buried beneath blankets, staring at nothing. His lips parted sometimes in broken murmurs: apologies whispered to no one, pleas for forgiveness swallowed by the storm.

It was the sound of her voice that cut through.

“You are a pathetic little Goblin.”

The reprimand was sharp, almost scolding, like one might direct toward a child who had misbehaved too long.

Shin jolted upright, disoriented. The storm outside muted to a low roar in his ears as awareness returned. He blinked through the haze, pushing back messy hair from his eyes.

She stood at the foot of his bed, crimson robes pristine despite the ruin around her. The room itself seemed to shrink under her presence. Her gaze swept across the chaos, then returned to him, unimpressed.

“Look at yourself,” she said. “Curled in filth, drowning your city in your sorrow. I knew you could be foolish, Goblin, but this—this is disgraceful.”

Shin swallowed hard, throat raw from days of unspoken words. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, sitting on the edge of the bed. His whole body trembled, but not with fear—with hope.

“You came back,” he rasped. His eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with exhaustion, burned with fragile light. “Please—please tell me where he is. I need to know.”

The Lady regarded him coolly, her lips pressing into a faint, disapproving line. “Do you even hear yourself? You’ve turned Seoul into a floodplain for the sake of one Reaper. Humans are dying unnecessarily because of you. Entire families displaced. Do you care so little for them?”

Shin bowed his head, shame burning in his chest. “I… I can’t stop it.” His voice cracked. “Every time I try, I see his face. I hear his voice. I see the way he looked at me before he left. I can’t stop it.”

She sighed, long and weary, the sound of a teacher with an obstinate student. “Pathetic,” she repeated.

Shin looked up quickly, desperate, eyes shining with unshed tears. “If—if I stop, if I make the rain go away—will you tell me? Please. Please, just… tell me where he is.”

Her brows rose slightly, as though considering. Then she let out a soft, almost mocking laugh. “You are bargaining now?”

“Yes!” The word burst from him, ragged. He surged to his feet so fast his chair toppled over, blankets slipping to the floor. “Yes—please. Please, please, please! Take me to him! I want—no, I need to get him back! I need to apologize. Just—just help me!”

His voice broke, shattering into sobs. He bowed his head, trembling, words spilling out without dignity. “Please.”

For a long moment, she only stared. His desperation filled the room like a second storm, vibrating against the walls, crashing against her crimson form.

Finally, she sighed. Her head tilted, and her gaze softened ever so slightly, though her tone remained cool. “If I tell you where that child is, will you stop with this insufferable rainfall?”

Shin’s head snapped up. His whole body quivered with sudden, wild hope. “Yes,” he swore, chest heaving. “Yes, I swear it. Just—tell me. Take me to him.”

She studied him another moment, letting the silence stretch until it nearly broke him. Then, at last, she raised a hand.

The air shimmered.

In an instant, the walls of his room dissolved. The sound of rain muted, replaced by a sharp, biting wind.

They stood upon frozen ground.

The world around them was carved of ice, a cavernous expanse glittering with frost. The air stung Shin’s lungs as he gasped, his body recoiling from the cold. Reflexively, he summoned fire, a shield of flickering warmth that wrapped around him like armor.

His breath fogged in the air. His heart pounded. His eyes darted wildly across the frozen expanse.

“He’s—he’s here?!” His voice cracked with the tremor of cold and dread.

The Lady’s answer was calm, nonchalant, as though she were discussing nothing more than the weather. “Yes. This was his punishment. To remain in this icy place for the next three hundred years.”

Shin’s face contorted. Fury and grief warred in his eyes, his voice trembling. “You’re cruel. And so is the Butterfly Man.” His words dripped venom.

The Lady’s gaze sharpened. Her reply was swift, merciless. “And who was it that hurt the Reaper so deeply that he left in the first place?”

Her words cut through him like the blade in his chest, sharper, crueler.

Shin staggered back a step, breath catching in his throat. He had no answer. His fire flickered, unsteady, as the weight of her words pressed down harder than the cold ever could.

The icy cavern stretched endlessly before him, silent but for the echo of his pounding heart.

And somewhere in that frozen dark, a presence waited.

Part Eight: Half One — The Descent

The cold bit deeper with every step.

Kim Shin’s fire flickered at his sides, a shield against the unnatural chill, but even flame seemed hesitant here. The cavern walls glittered with frost, jagged spears of ice dripping from the ceiling like the teeth of some great beast. His breath came out in harsh clouds, his chest constricting, not from the cold alone but from the pressure of something else—an ancient dread that pressed down heavier than stone.

Behind him, the Lady in Red glided across the ice with the same calm she always wore, robes trailing like liquid flame. Her eyes were on him, not on the cavern, and Shin could feel the weight of her gaze on the back of his neck. She offered no guidance, no encouragement, not even mockery this time. Only silence.

He hated her silence.

The cavern stretched on endlessly, each step echoing into the dark. Time lost meaning; minutes could have been hours. The deeper he went, the more his fire guttered, shrinking against the overwhelming cold. It hissed angrily, flames sputtering, and Shin clenched his fists, forcing it to burn brighter, feeding it with the sheer force of his will.

He would not let this place break him. Not before he found him.

The air grew heavier the deeper he descended. It clung to his lungs, slowed his steps, made every movement feel weighted. Frost crept along the edges of his sleeves despite the heat of his fire, and shards of ice formed in his hair, clinging stubbornly no matter how he shook them loose.

Then—

He felt it.

A presence. Faint, muted, but familiar. His breath caught, heart lurching violently in his chest. He knew that presence better than he knew his own—soft-spoken, steady, tinged with the weight of sorrow but brightened by quiet kindness.

The Grim Reaper.

Shin broke into a run, his fire flaring wildly as his boots pounded against the frozen ground. The cavern narrowed, then opened suddenly into a vast chamber. He stumbled to a halt at the threshold, his chest heaving, eyes darting into the gloom.

And then he saw him.

The Grim Reaper was bound.

Chains of black iron snaked from the walls, clamping around his wrists and ankles. They glowed faintly with runes, pulsing with some cruel energy that gnawed at the air around them. His body was slumped against the ice, knees drawn close, head bowed.

He wore nothing but a thin robe, fabric torn and threadbare, barely shielding him from the merciless cold. His skin was pale—too pale—and his lips tinged blue. Frost had gathered in his hair, strands clinging to his hollow cheeks. His chest rose and fell in shallow, strained breaths, each one sounding like it might be the last.

Kim Shin’s knees nearly buckled.

“Yeo…” The name slipped from his lips in a broken whisper.

No response.

“Wang Yeo,” he tried again, louder this time, voice cracking.

Still, the Grim Reaper did not stir. His head hung limply, eyes closed, as if locked in some cruel half-sleep.

Shin staggered forward, the fire around him flaring, desperate to warm the frozen chamber. He fell to his knees a few paces from the bound figure, hands trembling, breath shaking.

“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out without thought, ragged and raw. “I’m so sorry. I should never have… I shouldn’t have…” His throat closed, tears blurring his vision.

Every detail carved into him like a blade: the bruised wrists beneath the iron shackles, the shudder of each weak breath, the fragile rise and fall of his chest.

The man who had once shared his home, who had once poured him bitter tea and scolded him for forgotten dishes, who had once listened in silence and occasionally laughed at his clumsy humor—was now reduced to this.

And it was his fault.

A faint sound broke through his grief.

Clapping.

Slow, deliberate, each strike echoing mockingly off the ice.

The Lady in Red leaned lazily against the cavern wall, her crimson sleeve trailing along the frost. Her expression was unreadable, somewhere between amusement and indifference.

“Pathetic,” she said again, her favorite word for him. “The great Goblin, brought to his knees by his own regret.”

Shin whipped his head toward her, eyes blazing with fury through his tears. “You did this!” he shouted, voice reverberating through the chamber. “You and your gods! You locked him here!”

Her lips curved faintly. “And who was it that cast him away with such cruelty that he left in the first place?”

The words struck harder than any blade. Shin flinched, mouth opening but no sound emerging.

The Lady’s gaze softened for only a heartbeat, and it was worse than her cruelty. Pity, laced into the edges of her voice, like salt in a wound. “This punishment was decreed, yes. But tell me, Goblin—would he have endured it more easily if he had not already been broken by you?”

Shin turned back to Yeo, shoulders shaking. He reached out with a trembling hand but stopped short of touching him, afraid his fire would burn the fragile skin, afraid he would hurt him again. His fingers hovered inches away, shaking violently.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to hurt him like that.”

His voice cracked. He bowed his head until his forehead touched the ice, his body wracked with sobs.

The Grim Reaper stirred faintly.

Shin’s head snapped up, eyes wide. Yeo’s lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. Only a shiver, a weak exhale that frosted in the frozen air.

Shin lurched forward. “It’s me! It’s Shin! Please—just… open your eyes. Please.” His hand finally closed over Yeo’s, careful, gentle, terrified of breaking him. The skin was like ice beneath his palm, cold enough to sting, but Shin refused to let go.

The Reaper’s eyelids fluttered, but did not open. His breath rasped shallowly, then stilled again into that same fragile rhythm.

Shin squeezed his hand tighter, tears falling freely now. “I’m here,” he swore, voice breaking. “I won’t leave you again. I swear it.”

The chains rattled faintly in the still air, an ugly reminder of their weight.

Shin looked at them, then back to Yeo’s face, torn between helplessness and rage. His hand lingered on the Reaper’s cold fingers, unwilling to let go, even as his heart screamed for action.

The fire at his sides guttered, casting shadows that danced across the frozen walls, reflecting his turmoil.

And the Lady in Red only watched.

Part Nine – Broken Chains

The second chain gave way with a brittle snap, shards skittering across the stone like jagged snowflakes. The cavern swallowed the sound, and for a breathless instant, Shin thought the silence afterward would crush him.

Two chains gone. Two more remained.

He staggered forward, bracing his palm against the frozen wall to steady himself. His sword’s flames guttered, dimmer now, but not extinguished. His strength was waning, yet the sight of Yeo — his arm fallen limp, his chest still rising faintly but so faintly — dragged Shin forward.

“Almost,” Shin whispered, though his voice broke. “Just a little more. Hold on, Yeo. Please.”

The name left his mouth like a prayer, like an apology. He didn’t know if Yeo could hear, or if his soul even lingered within this frozen husk. But he spoke anyway, words tumbling out between strikes, carried on ragged breath.

“I was wrong. I shouldn’t have—” He struck at the third chain, sparks bursting against the ice. “I let my anger blind me. I let it hurt you. And now…” Another blow, his shoulders screaming in protest. “…now I’ll spend every breath I have undoing that mistake.”

The Lady in Red shifted slightly against her pillar, her robes rustling faintly, though she said nothing. Her silence weighed more than words.

Shin struck again. And again.

The chain resisted, but fractures began to spread like cracks in glass. With every blow, his fire flared, brighter than before, no longer thin but roaring — the flame of someone who had finally stripped himself bare of everything but desperation.

When the third shackle shattered, Yeo’s ankle slumped free, his body sagging slightly to one side. Shin caught him again, kneeling quickly, his hands shaking as he pressed against the man’s thin shoulder.

The cold radiating off Yeo bit straight through Shin’s skin. He wrapped him instantly in fire, gentling the heat so it did not burn, only shielded.

“I’m here,” he whispered, though tears blurred his vision. “I’m not leaving you again.”

The last chain glimmered mockingly in the faint light — the final shackle binding Yeo’s wrist. Shin forced himself up, his legs trembling, the sword nearly slipping from his grip. He clenched it tighter.

One more. Just one more.

He set his stance, raised the blade, and struck.

The cavern erupted with light and fire, the crack of impact rolling like thunder. Shin’s cry tore through the silence, not a battle cry but something rawer, almost a sob.

The chain split, shattered, and fell away.

Yeo collapsed forward, freed but utterly limp. Shin dropped the sword and surged forward, catching him before he could crumple to the frozen floor.

“Yeo!” Shin’s voice cracked on the name. He pulled the man into his arms, clutching him against his chest. The Reaper’s head lolled weakly against his shoulder, his body alarmingly light, alarmingly cold.

Shin wrapped him tighter, encasing them both in fire. His tears fell hot against Yeo’s frozen skin, sizzling faintly.

“Forgive me,” Shin whispered, over and over. “Forgive me. I was a fool. I should have seen. I should have listened. Please… just wake up. Please.”

He smoothed a trembling hand through Yeo’s hair, brushing strands of frost away from his forehead. The man’s face was pale as moonlight, lips blue-tinged, eyes closed in exhaustion deeper than sleep. Shin’s chest caved inward at the sight.

For a long time, there was nothing. No stir, no sound, no change but the faint rise and fall of shallow breaths.

Shin pressed his forehead to Yeo’s, fire flaring around them, trying desperately to drive out the cold. His whole body shook with sobs he could no longer contain.

“I’ll stay,” he murmured brokenly. “Even if you never wake, I’ll stay. Even if you hate me forever, I’ll stay. Just… just don’t leave me like this.”

The silence stretched unbearably.

Then — faint, almost imperceptible — a shift.

Shin froze, breath caught in his throat. He drew back just enough to look down at the face cradled in his arms.

Yeo’s lashes trembled. Barely. A flutter, quick as a breath of wind.

Shin’s heart slammed against his ribs. His grip tightened, half-afraid it had been an illusion. But then he felt it — the faintest twitch of fingers against his chest. Weak, fragile, but real.

A sob broke out of him, choked and disbelieving. “Yeo—”

The Reaper’s lips parted faintly, not to speak but to drag in a thin, uneven breath. His brow furrowed minutely, as though some fragment of awareness flickered through the haze.

Shin pressed his forehead to his again, tears streaming freely now. Relief and fear tangled in his chest, so fierce it hurt.

The Lady in Red finally spoke, her tone calm, almost bored — but the faintest edge of pity threaded through it. “You’ve broken the chains. But you haven’t broken the sentence. Remember that.”

Shin ignored her. His world had shrunk to the fragile signs of life in his arms, to the faint twitch of lashes, to the shallow but steady breath against his collar.

He cradled Yeo closer, his voice breaking with love and remorse.

“I’ve got you. I swear, I won’t let go again.”

The cavern still held its frozen silence, the Lady in Red’s words lingering like a curse — but in Shin’s arms, for the first time, warmth stirred where there had only been frost.

Part Ten – The Disbelief

For a long while, there was nothing but the slow, shallow rhythm of breath against Shin’s collar. He sat there in the frost-lit cavern, cradling the man in his arms, fire flaring around them both in a cocoon of warmth, and prayed. He had not prayed in centuries. His lips moved silently, whispering Yeo’s name like it was both a plea and an oath.

And then—

A flicker.

The man in his arms shifted faintly, lashes trembling against his cheek. Shin’s whole body went rigid. He dared not even breathe.

“Yeo?” he whispered, the name breaking in his throat.

The Reaper’s brow furrowed as though in pain. His lips parted, dragging in a shallow, rattling breath. His body stirred weakly against Shin’s hold, fragile as glass.

Shin’s tears spilled hot and unbidden. He pressed his forehead to Yeo’s temple, his chest shaking. “You’re here. You’re alive. Thank the heavens, you’re still here.”

It took time — long, agonizing seconds — before the man’s eyes fluttered open. Not wide, not clear, but cracked enough to reveal dark irises dulled by exhaustion. They focused slowly, hazily, first on nothing, then on the flicker of firelight, and finally… on Shin.

The disbelief in them was immediate.

Shin felt it like a blow, the way Yeo blinked at him as if he were some phantom, some cruel dream. His lips moved soundlessly before a hoarse whisper scraped past:

“…Goblin?”

Shin’s throat closed. He tightened his hold, as if afraid answering too late would make the man vanish. “Yes. Yes, it’s me. I’m here.”

Yeo blinked again, confusion and weariness warring in his gaze. His body trembled faintly in Shin’s arms, every breath thin, uneven. “Why…?” His voice cracked, barely more than air. “Why are you… holding me?”

Shin’s chest constricted so sharply he almost couldn’t speak. “Because I nearly lost you. Because I was a fool. Because I will not let you go again.”

The words poured out before he could stop them, ragged and raw.

Yeo’s brow knit faintly, as though he didn’t believe what he was hearing. He licked at dry, cracked lips and whispered, “You… hated me.” The memory of Shin’s fury still echoed in his tone, fragile and certain.

Shin flinched. His arms tightened.

“I was angry,” he admitted, the confession tearing itself out of him. “I was blinded by it. I let the past, the betrayal, the blood — all of it — take me. And I struck at you, when you were the one who least deserved it.” His voice cracked hard. “I hurt you. I drove you away. I let you think you were unwanted.”

Yeo shook his head minutely, eyes dull with disbelief. “Your anger was… justified.”

“No!” Shin’s voice broke, desperate, almost frantic. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. You — you are not him. You’re not that king, not that boy who listened to poison. You are the man who lived beside me. The man who laughed awkwardly at my table. The one who poured tea with shaking hands but never failed to try again. That is who you are. That is who I—” His voice caught, shattering. He buried his face briefly in Yeo’s shoulder, the fabric of the thin robe icy against his skin. “…that is who I should have seen all along.”

The silence after his words pressed thickly, heavy with frost and fire.

Yeo blinked slowly, still staring down at the Goblin holding him so fiercely. His lips trembled faintly, confusion clouding every inch of his fragile face.

“I don’t… understand,” he whispered. His voice cracked as if the very act of speaking cost him. “You… were furious. You said… things no forgiveness could erase. And now…” His eyes shifted, darting briefly to Shin’s arms around him, to the fire cocooning them. “…now you hold me as if… as if I mattered.”

Shin drew back just enough to cup his face in trembling hands, brushing strands of frost-stiff hair from his forehead. His own eyes were red, swollen, brimming with unshed tears. “Because you do. You always did. I was too blind, too proud to say it. But I see it now. I see you. And I am so… so sorry.”

Yeo’s lips parted, but no sound came. His chest heaved faintly, exhaustion pulling at him, disbelief shadowing his gaze.

Shin leaned his forehead to Yeo’s, refusing to let go. “Don’t think for a second I ever stopped caring. Don’t think I didn’t notice how you tried, every day, to be more than what fate wrote for you. I should have told you. I should have protected you. And instead, I let my anger…” His words broke off into a ragged breath. “…I let it wound you. And I will never forgive myself for that.”

The Reaper’s lashes lowered, trembling faintly. His hand shifted weakly, as though testing the space between them, but he lacked the strength to push Shin away.

He whispered again, raw and bewildered: “Why…?”

Shin’s arms tightened instantly, as though afraid the question itself was a step away from vanishing. He answered with all the weight of his cracked heart:

“Because you matter more to me than my pride, more than my fury, more than my cursed life. You matter, Yeo. And I will hold you until you believe that. Even if it takes eternity.”

Shin had thought himself emptied, wrung out of every word and every tear. Yet the moment Yeo’s eyes lingered on him in that bewildered, broken way, more spilled out, unstoppable.

“I should have known,” Shin whispered, voice raw. “The way you hesitated at the threshold, the way you bowed your head though you had no memory of why. You carried guilt in silence, even without remembering what it was for. And I — I punished you anyway.”

Yeo’s brow creased faintly, his lips parting, but his throat was too dry, too weak for words. Shin caught the attempt and hurried on, unwilling to let silence deepen the disbelief in his companion’s eyes.

“I told myself you deserved my rage. That my centuries of pain justified every harsh word. But when you were gone…” His voice cracked, trembling with the storm inside him. “When you disappeared, it was as if the world itself cracked open. The rain would not stop. I could not breathe. I could not eat, or sleep, or even stand without feeling the weight of you missing.”

The Reaper’s lashes lowered, weary, as though trying to shut out the impossible sound of those words. His head tipped weakly against Shin’s shoulder.

Shin’s chest heaved. He pressed his mouth to Yeo’s damp hair, whispering fiercely, “Do you not see? You matter to me more than you will ever understand. I would burn the world to ashes if it meant you could open your eyes again.”

A faint breath escaped Yeo — too faint to be laughter, too heavy to be only pain. “You… don’t mean that.”

“I do.” Shin drew back enough to search his face, his own eyes desperate, fever-bright. “Every word. I was blind and cruel, but I will not lie to you now. You think I hated you? Then hear me: I hated myself, Yeo. For not protecting you. For letting old wounds poison me until I couldn’t see who you really were. And I swear on my cursed life, I will never make that mistake again.”

Yeo blinked slowly, as if each word were too much, as if he wanted to argue but lacked the strength. His lips moved weakly, forming a whisper that barely rose above the crackle of fire. “Goblin… I… don’t understand why…”

Shin silenced him with a trembling hand brushing over his hair. “Then don’t try. Not tonight. Just stay. Just… breathe. That is all I ask.”

For a while, there was nothing but the steady shiver of breath between them. The fire cocooned them, chasing away frost, but Shin felt the fragility of the body in his arms as keenly as the weight of his own grief.

And then—

Yeo stirred faintly, lids heavy, gaze unfocused. His lips parted again, a whisper tumbling out, broken and disjointed. “Ugly thing…”

Shin stilled, his heart tightening. “What?”

Yeo’s eyes fluttered, as though he were halfway between waking and dreams. His gaze dropped faintly, unfocused, but landed squarely against Shin’s chest. His hand twitched, the barest movement of fingers brushing air, not quite touching.

“The… sword,” he murmured, voice thin, wavering. “Buried so deep. Ugly… cursed thing…”

Shin’s entire body went rigid. His eyes widened in raw shock, breath halting in his lungs. For a moment, he wondered if he had misheard, if exhaustion had bent the words. But the way Yeo’s gaze lingered — hazy, yes, but locked to the very spot where that cruel blade lay hidden in Shin’s chest — left no doubt.

The sword.

His sword.

The one thing no one could see, no one except the Goblin’s bride.

And yet — Yeo had seen it.

“Yeo…” Shin’s voice was strangled, stunned. His hands shook where they held him, his whole face carved in shock. “How—how can you…?”

But the Reaper’s lashes were already lowering again. His body slackened against Shin’s hold, breaths falling shallow and uneven as he slipped back into exhausted unconsciousness.

“Wait—!” Shin’s voice cracked, urgent, panicked. He shook him gently, unwilling to let him drift away again. “Yeo, stay awake! Tell me—how can you see it?!”

But no answer came. Only the faint, fragile rhythm of breath, and the unbearable silence that followed.

Shin sat frozen, clutching him tighter than ever, his mind reeling. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat pounding against the phantom weight of that hidden blade.

The sword that only the Bride should see.

And yet the Reaper — Wang Yeo — had spoken of it.

The impossible truth settled over Shin like a cold, suffocating fog, leaving his face a mask of pure, unshakable shock.

The cavern dissolved like a dying flame.

In its place came warmth — or at least the memory of it. Wooden beams overhead. The faint glow of the hearth. The smell of books and candle smoke and rain lingering from outside.

Home.

Shin staggered, knees almost buckling as the icy weight of the prison vanished from his body. He gripped Yeo tighter, terrified that if he blinked, the Reaper would dissolve back into frost. But no — the fragile body was still pressed against him, still breathing in faint, uneven pulls.

A sob wrenched from his throat. Shin pressed his face briefly into Yeo’s hair, inhaling deeply as though he could anchor him here, in this space, with sheer will alone. “You’re home,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I brought you home.”

Behind him, the Lady in Red’s presence lingered like a shadow. “You begged prettily enough,” she said, her tone flat, though her eyes gleamed with something Shin could not decipher. “Do not make me regret it.”

He spun to face her, his entire body bowed in desperate gratitude. “Thank you. I—”

“Spare me.” Her words cut across his. “Tend to him. That is all that matters.”

And then, just as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone. A shimmer of red, a whisper, and nothing remained.

Shin swallowed hard, then hurried through the house, his steps uneven but urgent. He should have laid Yeo down gently on the couch, or in some quiet corner — but his heart dragged him instead toward the bedroom. Toward the softest blankets, the thickest pillows, the warmest place he could make for him.

He eased Yeo down onto the bed, every movement careful, reverent. For a moment, he simply stood there, hands hovering, as though afraid his touch would make the Reaper vanish again. Then he tucked the blankets around him, layering them thick, weaving a faint hum of warmth into the fabric with his power.

Still too pale. Still too cold.

Shin sat heavily at the edge of the mattress, one trembling hand smoothing hair from Yeo’s forehead. The room was silent save for the shallow breaths that rattled weakly in and out of Yeo’s chest.

It should have been relief. It was relief. But alongside it surged a darker tide: guilt, heavy and endless, and fear so sharp it left his chest aching.

The Reaper had seen the sword.

Shin’s gaze dropped unconsciously to his chest, where the cursed steel still sat buried in his immortal body. Invisible to all. Untouchable except by the hand fated to end him. For centuries he had borne it alone, waiting, waiting. Even Eun-tak had not seen it until destiny demanded it.

And yet, in that frozen cavern, Yeo had looked straight at him and whispered of its ugliness.

Shin’s stomach turned.

Why? How?

He shook his head, forcing the questions back. Later. Later, when Yeo was stronger, when his voice did not tremble with fevered weakness. For now, only one thing mattered.

“You will live,” Shin murmured, clutching one of Yeo’s limp hands between his own. He rubbed warmth into it, pressing his lips briefly to the chilled knuckles. “I will not let you go again. Do you hear me? I don’t care if you hate me, if you never forgive me. Just… live.”

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, filling the silence. Shin did not move from his place, unwilling to break the vigil. He watched every flicker of Yeo’s breath, every twitch beneath the blanket, as though memorizing proof of his survival.

Hours might have passed. Or minutes. Time bent strangely in his grief.

At some point, Shin rested his forehead against Yeo’s arm, his voice spilling low and fractured. “I should have protected you. I should have remembered the man you are now, not the boy from before. But I failed. And when you were gone, the world lost all color. The rain did not stop because I did not stop weeping.”

His shoulders shook, silent sobs shuddering through his frame. “Forgive me,” he whispered again, though he knew forgiveness was not his to demand.

For a moment, he thought he felt Yeo’s fingers twitch faintly against his hand. It might have been only imagination, a dream conjured by exhaustion. Still, Shin lifted his head, hope sparking wild in his chest.

But Yeo’s eyes remained closed, lashes still against his cheeks.

Shin sank back, torn between despair and determination. He would wait. However long it took, he would wait. He would guard this bed as if it were a shrine, and Yeo its unwilling deity.

And deep in his chest, the sword seemed to pulse — as though reacting to the man who had named it aloud.

Shin shuddered, clutching Yeo closer through the blankets. The mystery gnawed at him, relentless, but he forced it back into the shadows of his mind.

Later.

For now, only this: the fragile rise and fall of breath beneath his hand, and the promise that he would not let it falter.

Part Twelve – The Unexpected Bond

The fire had burned low by the time Yeo stirred again.

Shin sat slouched at the bedside, head bowed into his hands, exhaustion clawing at him though he refused to close his eyes. For hours he had sat there, rigid, as though moving even an inch would risk losing Yeo once more. The world outside had gone quiet, rain paused at last after days of unending sorrow. Inside, only the faint crackle of embers and the fragile rhythm of breath tethered him to hope.

A shift. The faintest movement under the blankets. Shin’s head snapped up, every nerve pulled taut.

Yeo’s fingers twitched against the coverlet. His lips parted, a shallow groan escaping — thin, weak, but alive.

“Yeo,” Shin whispered, the name ragged with relief. He leaned forward, brushing his hand gently across a clammy brow. “I’m here. You’re safe. Don’t force yourself.”

The Reaper’s lashes fluttered, shadows deep beneath his eyes. His gaze drifted unfocused at first, then slowly, as though pulled by some instinct, found Shin’s face.

Confusion flickered there — not surprise that Shin was near, but disbelief, as if unable to trust what he saw. His mouth moved, but the sound was too faint.

Shin bent low, close enough that his breath mingled with Yeo’s. “Don’t strain yourself. Rest.”

But Yeo shook his head weakly, a stubborn flicker of will even in his brokenness. He tried again, voice scraping out hoarse and dry. “Why… are you…”

Shin’s chest ached. He caught a cup from the nightstand, guiding a spoonful of water carefully between Yeo’s lips. The Reaper swallowed with difficulty, then sagged back, eyes never leaving Shin.

“Why… here?” he rasped.

Shin’s throat tightened. “Because I found you. Because I would not let you vanish into that cold again. Do not ask why — only know that you are home.”

Yeo’s expression shifted faintly, as though he wanted to argue but lacked the strength. His eyes drifted lower, tracing Shin’s face, then — inevitably — falling to his chest.

Shin felt it like a blade.

The gaze lingered too long, not the dazed wandering of a man half-conscious, but deliberate. As though something there demanded his attention. As though he saw what should not be seen.

Shin’s breath caught. “Don’t… look there,” he said softly, almost pleading.

But Yeo did not look away. His brows furrowed faintly, lips parting as though he might speak. No words came. His eyes shuttered again, lashes heavy, and he slipped back into restless sleep.

Shin sat rigid, staring down at him, heart hammering. The weight in his chest felt heavier than it had in centuries, the cursed blade throbbing like a wound newly torn open.

Hours blurred together. Shin refused to leave the bedside, watching through every shallow breath, every twitch of fevered dreams. Sometimes Yeo muttered — fragments, nonsense, names Shin could not piece together. Other times, silence stretched so long Shin feared the breath had gone entirely, until at last it rattled faintly in again.

It was during one of these lulls, when the fire had dimmed and shadows crept close, that Yeo stirred once more. This time, his eyes opened clearer, though rimmed with exhaustion.

Shin straightened instantly, his hands hovering, as though ready to shield him from even the air. “Easy. Don’t push yourself.”

Yeo’s voice was barely a whisper, yet every word carried the weight of something long kept. “I… see it.”

Shin’s blood ran cold. “What?”

Yeo’s gaze, steady despite his weakness, fell again to Shin’s chest. Right where the cursed sword lay buried. His lips parted, trembling with effort. “That sword. I’ve always seen it.”

The words slammed into Shin like thunder.

He reeled back a fraction, heart pounding so hard it hurt. His mind screamed impossible — but Yeo’s eyes, hazy yet unwavering, left no room for doubt.

“I… saw it before,” Yeo rasped, voice fraying. “Long before… she ever came.”

Shin’s hands trembled where they gripped the blankets. His mouth opened, closed. No sound emerged.

The truth hung heavy in the air, impossible yet undeniable, crushing down on him.

The King.

The King he had hated, mourned, raged against for centuries. The one he had thought buried in memory and fury. The same soul, standing now before him — not as a tyrant, but as the fragile, kind, broken Reaper he had come to love.

His bride. His curse. His salvation.

What an irony.

And yet, as Shin looked at him — pale, shivering, but alive — the first jolt of relief cut through the weight. For all the cruelty of fate, the truth was this: it was Yeo. Yeo, who had walked beside him through laughter and silence, who had borne guilt with quiet dignity, who had haunted his absence more than any king’s shadow ever could.

Yeo was here.

And Shin would never let him go again.

The room felt too small to contain the weight of those words.

Shin sat frozen at the bedside, Yeo’s confession echoing like a tolling bell through his skull. I’ve always seen it. The sword. His curse. The proof of his unending punishment — seen not by the destined bride, not by some merciful soul appointed by heaven, but by the very man who had once condemned him to carry it in the first place.

The King.

Shin’s breath came shallow, as if the air itself had thickened. The irony bit deep, cruel and merciless. Centuries of hatred, centuries of cursing that shadowed face, centuries of waiting for release — all turned back on him with a single hoarse whisper. The king he loathed had been beside him all along, hidden under another name, another face, another fate.

Shin wanted to laugh. Or rage. Or tear apart the heavens for playing this trick. But when his gaze fell back to the bed, all he could see was Yeo.

Not the king.

Not the boy who had condemned him to this endless half-life.

But Wang Yeo — pale, trembling, fragile in his blankets. Wang Yeo, who had carried burdens in silence. Wang Yeo, who had smiled shyly at small kindnesses. Wang Yeo, who had vanished into torment and left Shin’s world collapsing in his absence.

Yeo, who had said it as though it were nothing — I’ve always seen it — and then let his strength bleed away again.

Shin pressed both hands over his face, trembling. His chest ached, the cursed blade throbbing with every beat of his heart, as if mocking him.

How was he supposed to carry this truth? How was he supposed to reconcile centuries of hatred with the affection that now rooted deep inside him?

The girl — Eun-tak. Sweet, bright, radiant as the morning sun. He had cherished her laughter, her warmth. She had been his fated bride, the one meant to pull the sword. And yet… she had not been the only one to see it. Perhaps not even the first.

Because before her, there had been Yeo. Always Yeo.

Shin let out a harsh laugh, ragged and hollow, startling in the quiet room. “Fate,” he spat, though no one was there to hear him but the sleeping man. “What cruel jests you weave.”

His voice cracked. The laugh broke into something softer, rawer. “And yet… I cannot hate you for this. Not anymore.”

He lowered his hands, staring at Yeo’s face. Even in unconsciousness, his expression was pained, as though dreams still bound him. Shin reached out, brushing damp strands of hair from his brow, his fingers trembling.

“I should hate you,” Shin whispered, voice rough. “For that throne, for your crown, for the blood you let spill. For the centuries you bound me here. I should hate you.”

His hand slid lower, cradling Yeo’s cheek with unbearable gentleness. “But I don’t. Not now. Not when I have you back. Not when I have realized too late… that it has always been you I wanted near.”

The admission tore something open inside him. His throat burned.

Shin bowed his head until his forehead rested lightly against Yeo’s temple, clinging to the fragile warmth there. “I would have let the rain drown the world before letting you vanish again. I would tear down the sky itself if it meant keeping you here.”

For long moments, there was only silence — their breathing, uneven but alive, filling the quiet.

Then, faintly, Yeo stirred again. His lips moved, dry and slow. Shin jerked back, heart leaping.

“What is it?” he asked quickly, leaning close. “Don’t strain. Tell me.”

Yeo’s eyes slitted open, hazy with exhaustion. His gaze lingered on Shin again — searching, confused, fragile. His voice came out thin, the barest rasp.

“…you’re… still here.”

The words shattered Shin’s composure more than any revelation had. He swallowed hard, vision blurring. “Of course I am. I will not leave you, not again.”

Yeo blinked, as though uncertain whether to believe him. As though the idea itself was impossible.

Shin’s chest ached all the more. He gathered Yeo carefully, pulling him against his chest despite the man’s fragile protests. Yeo’s weight was nothing, light as mist, but the feeling of him — solid, real — made Shin’s arms tighten desperately around him.

“I will hold you,” Shin murmured, voice breaking. “Even if you do not understand why. Even if you think me a fool. I will hold you, because letting go feels like losing you all over again.”

Yeo gave no reply. His strength was too thin to muster more. But his head rested faintly against Shin’s shoulder, not resisting. That was enough.

Shin closed his eyes, burying his face in the Reaper’s hair. His own breath came ragged, but a strange, fragile relief threaded through the storm of grief.

Because the irony was unbearable. Because the truth was cruel. Because the king he had despised was the man he now clung to as his dearest companion.

But also because — for once — fate had erred in his favor.

Yeo was here. Alive. Warm in his arms.

And Shin, for all his guilt, would not let him slip away again.

Part Thirteen – Affection

The house was quiet, save for the occasional groan of the old wood under the weight of the storm outside. It was as though the weather had yet to catch up to Shin’s shifting heart: the rain no longer came in floods, but soft, hesitant drizzles, uncertain whether to relent or continue grieving.

Kim Shin sat at the bedside, his chair drawn so close he could have leaned forward and brushed his lips to Yeo’s forehead if he wished. He didn’t — though the thought crossed his mind more than once. Instead, his hands remained busy.

The blanket had slipped, so he tucked it back around Yeo’s shoulders. The water jug had cooled, so he replaced it with warm tea instead. Yeo stirred faintly now and then, drifting in and out of shallow sleep, and each time Shin straightened, ready, as if the slightest sign of wakefulness were a signal to give every ounce of his attention.

It wasn’t overbearing, not quite. He didn’t smother. He simply… stayed.

He stayed because he was terrified of what might happen if he let go.

Yeo’s lashes fluttered again, and Shin leaned forward before he could stop himself. The Reaper’s lips parted, his voice a faint rasp. “...too close.”

Shin blinked, then drew back slightly, guilty and startled, though a smile tugged unbidden at his mouth. “Forgive me. I… forgot how to keep my distance.”

Yeo’s eyes slitted open, dazed and tired, but they lingered on Shin for longer this time. There was disbelief there still, suspicion even — as if Yeo thought this was all some elaborate trick of his mind. As if Shin’s presence could vanish any moment, like the cruel echo of a dream.

Shin couldn’t bear that look. He reached out slowly, deliberately, and brushed Yeo’s hair back from his face. His fingers trembled but did not falter. “You’re not dreaming,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

Yeo blinked again, then closed his eyes, as though too weary to argue. But his lips pressed together, faint color returning to his face.

Shin exhaled, tension leaking from his chest.

The next morning, when the pale light spilled into the room, Yeo was still there. Breathing. Alive.

Shin had dozed only lightly in the chair, his head tipped against the wall, but the moment he heard Yeo shift beneath the blankets, he was upright.

“Water?” he asked at once, voice softer than it had ever been.

Yeo gave a tiny nod. His hands, when he tried to move them, trembled too violently to hold the cup. Shin didn’t hesitate; he cupped the back of Yeo’s head with one hand, tilted the cup with the other, and guided the sip to his lips.

The Reaper swallowed shakily, then coughed. Shin set the cup aside immediately and steadied him until the fit passed.

“You don’t need to…” Yeo managed, voice hoarse, “... fuss.”

Shin almost laughed — not because it was funny, but because the sound of Yeo’s voice felt like something he’d thought he’d never hear again. He held the words tenderly, even if they were meant as resistance.

“I’m not fussing,” Shin replied, though he clearly was. His hand lingered at Yeo’s shoulder, grounding him. “I am… staying.”

Yeo turned his head slightly on the pillow, regarding him through tired eyes. The disbelief was still there, simmering under the surface. Shin could read it in every line of his face: Why are you here? Why now? After everything?

Shin didn’t answer aloud. He only stayed.

By the second day, Yeo could sit up with Shin’s help.

Shin arranged pillows behind him, layering blankets over his lap. The Reaper’s fingers remained thin and weak, but there was color returning to his face. He looked more alive than the ghost Shin had found in the ice — though still far from what he had once been.

Shin placed a bowl of rice porridge in his hands, then, when Yeo fumbled, steadied it with his own. “Eat,” he urged gently.

Yeo stared at the bowl for a long while, lips pressing tight. His pride bristled — Shin could see it in the way his jaw flexed — but his body betrayed him, and at last he allowed Shin to lift a spoon to his lips.

He ate slowly, reluctantly. Shin kept his hand steady, his expression patient. Each mouthful felt like a victory.

At one point, Yeo’s gaze flicked up, landing on Shin’s face. There was something sharp there — suspicion again, disbelief. As if he couldn’t understand why the Goblin who had once struck him now fed him with trembling gentleness.

“You’re… treating me like glass,” Yeo murmured finally, voice scratchy.

Shin set the spoon down, met his eyes. “No,” he said. “I’m treating you like you matter.”

The silence after stretched long, taut. Yeo looked away first, his throat working. He muttered something too quiet to catch. Shin let it pass, though his chest ached with the weight of all that went unsaid.

That night, Yeo drifted in and out of sleep again. Each time, Shin reached for him — not clinging, not overbearing, but anchoring with small touches. A hand on his wrist, a brush of fingers against his hair, the pull of a blanket higher over his shoulders.

It wasn’t habit. It was desperation dressed in gentleness.

At one point, Yeo woke enough to find Shin sitting close, his own head bowed forward in weariness. Their hands had slipped together without Shin realizing it, Yeo’s frail fingers resting in his palm.

Shin startled, as though caught in something too intimate. He made to pull away.

But Yeo’s hand twitched faintly — not quite gripping, but not letting go either.

Shin froze. Then, with a slow exhale, he curled his hand carefully around Yeo’s.

They stayed that way until Yeo’s breathing evened again.

By the third day, Yeo’s strength was steadier. He managed to lift the spoon himself, though his hand shook. Shin hovered close, watching, but didn’t interfere until Yeo shot him a dry look and muttered, “You’ll burn holes in me if you keep staring.”

Shin’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “Better holes than silence.”

It startled a weak laugh out of Yeo, and Shin treasured the sound as though it were gold.

That evening, Shin adjusted the lamp so its glow fell soft across the bed. He poured warm tea, setting it within reach though Yeo hadn’t asked. Then he sat again, close enough that their knees brushed when Yeo shifted.

“You’re still here,” Yeo said quietly after a long silence. His voice was steadier now, though lined with confusion.

Shin’s heart clenched. He reached out, brushing the back of his fingers against Yeo’s hairline in a gesture more intimate than he had intended. “I will be,” he said simply.

Yeo swallowed, his eyes falling away, his voice low. “I don’t… understand.”

Shin’s throat burned. “You don’t need to. Not yet.”

He stayed.

And when Yeo’s strength failed him again, Shin guided him down gently, tucking the blankets close, his hand lingering until Yeo’s eyes closed once more.

Not smothering. Not pressing.

But always there.

Because Kim Shin had already lost him once. He would not do so again.

The steady rhythm of rain had dwindled to the occasional tap on the window, as though the heavens themselves held their breath. Inside, the air was still. Yeo sat propped against the pillows, his face pale but no longer ghostly. His hands rested atop the blanket, thin fingers twitching restlessly as though unsure what to do with themselves.

Shin sat nearby, watching. Always watching.

Yeo turned his head slowly, catching that gaze again. His lips pressed tight. “You’re still here.”

Shin inclined his head. “Yes.”

Yeo’s throat worked, his voice hoarse. “Why?”

The word fell like a stone into deep water. Shin inhaled, but the answer caught in his chest. For centuries, he had hidden behind duty, behind pride, behind the weight of his curse. But here, in this fragile quiet, those walls crumbled.

“Because I cannot bear the thought of you gone,” Shin said at last, voice low but steady.

Yeo blinked, disbelief flickering across his features. “That doesn’t… make sense.”

“I know.” Shin leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, his hands twisting together. He looked older in that moment, older than his endless years. “It shouldn’t. By all rights, I should hate you. I tried to. I told myself I did. But when you disappeared, it was as though I had been hollowed out.”

He lifted his gaze, meeting Yeo’s directly. “I have spent days drowning in guilt, begging the heavens to return you. Do you understand what that means? I, who once cursed your name, begged for you back.”

Yeo’s lips parted, but no words came.

Shin continued, the dam breaking. “I was cruel. I let my anger strike you down when the truth came to light. And yet, in the silence that followed, I realized… you had become more than the shadow of a king I once despised. You had become my companion. My solace. My—” He broke off, swallowing hard. “My dearest.”

The word hung between them, raw and unguarded.

Yeo’s hands trembled faintly atop the blanket. He looked down at them, refusing to meet Shin’s gaze. His voice was barely audible. “You’re saying this now? After everything? After you…” His jaw tightened. “You hit me. You left me bleeding with your fury.”

Shin flinched as though struck. “Yes.” His voice shook, but he forced it steady. “Yes, I did. And if I could carve that moment from time, I would. I cannot undo it, but I can tell you this: I regret it more than I have regretted anything in my long, cursed life. The weight of it has been suffocating me every moment since.”

Silence stretched. Yeo’s breathing hitched, uneven. Finally, he whispered, “I thought… you didn’t care. That your anger was all that remained. That I was… disposable to you.”

Shin’s chair scraped faintly against the floor as he moved closer. He reached out, carefully, until his hand hovered above Yeo’s trembling fingers. “You are not disposable. You never were. If I gave you cause to believe otherwise, then I have failed you unforgivably. But hear me now: you are not some shadow I can cast aside. You are… the one I feared losing most.”

Yeo’s eyes lifted slowly, hesitant, disbelieving. “Why? After what I did—what I was?”

Shin’s chest tightened. He wanted to rage against fate again, to curse the cruel irony, but he steadied himself. “Because what you were does not erase who you are now. And who you are now… is the one who sat with me through my silences, who shared warmth at my table, who smiled at the smallest kindnesses. That is the man I see. That is the man I could not bear to lose.”

Yeo’s expression crumpled — not with tears, but with something rawer, something caught between disbelief and yearning. His lips parted as though to speak, but no words emerged.

Shin’s hand finally settled, covering Yeo’s trembling fingers with quiet firmness. His voice dropped, rough with sincerity. “If it takes the rest of my days, I will prove this to you. You will not doubt again where you stand with me.”

Yeo’s eyes shone faintly in the lamplight, though no tears fell. His lips moved, a whisper escaping, almost too soft to catch. “You shouldn’t… say such things.”

“Why not?” Shin pressed gently.

“Because…” Yeo’s gaze broke away, staring at the blanket as though it held the answer. His voice thinned, cracking with exhaustion. “Because if I believe you, and it’s not true, I…” He trailed off, shaking his head weakly. “I don’t think I could survive that again.”

The words pierced Shin’s chest sharper than the sword ever had. His grip tightened slightly around Yeo’s hand, his voice fierce in its softness. “Then I will not give you reason to doubt. Not again. Not ever.”

For a long moment, Yeo was still. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, but before sleep claimed him again, his lips moved once more, forming a half-whispered phrase.

“…don’t let me go.”

And then his strength gave out, and he sank back into the pillows, eyes closing.

Shin froze, the words echoing in his mind like thunder. His breath caught, his body trembling with the force of his own vow. He bent forward, forehead resting lightly against their joined hands.

“I won’t,” he whispered fiercely into the silence. “Never again.”

The rain outside began to fall softly once more — not in mourning, but in fragile rhythm, as though echoing a heartbeat.

Epilogue

The days stretched into weeks, and the house slowly breathed again.

At first, Yeo was fragile — his steps uncertain, his voice faint. Shin hovered without smothering, guiding him with a hand at his elbow, steadying a cup at his lips when his hands shook. He never announced his care; he simply did it, with a quiet tenderness that made Yeo’s throat tighten each time he noticed.

And Yeo did notice. He noticed the way Shin set the teapot near the bed so Yeo could reach it without asking. The way Shin replaced the blankets before they had even cooled. The way Shin’s gaze softened whenever Yeo stirred, as though merely opening his eyes was a small miracle.

He noticed, too, the restraint. Shin didn’t crowd him, didn’t press him for words he wasn’t ready to give. He only remained — present, steady, unyielding in his affection.

It unsettled Yeo at first. After centuries of silence, of penance, of believing himself unworthy, the constancy was overwhelming. He had told himself he didn’t need anyone — and now, here was Kim Shin, refusing to let him believe that lie anymore.

One morning, weeks after their return, Yeo managed to make it to the kitchen on his own. Shin was already there, sleeves rolled, tending a pot that smelled faintly of broth. He turned at the sound of footsteps and froze, eyes widening as though he had caught sight of a ghost.

“You’re up,” Shin breathed, relief threading every syllable.

Yeo inclined his head, leaning lightly against the doorway for balance. “I thought… I should try.”

Shin crossed the room at once, though not with the urgency of fear this time. He steadied Yeo with a hand, guiding him to sit at the table. His touch lingered a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back.

“I would have brought it to you,” Shin said quietly.

Yeo’s lips curved faintly, dry but genuine. “I know. That’s why I wanted to come here instead.”

Shin blinked, then smiled — small, fragile, but real.

They began to fall into a rhythm again. Meals shared, silences that no longer weighed like stones, moments of laughter that startled them both with how natural they felt. Shin still fussed, though he pretended otherwise, while Yeo slowly let himself lean into the care without flinching from it.

There were nights when the weight of the past pressed too heavily, when Yeo’s dreams dragged him back into icy caverns and judgmental whispers. On those nights, Shin would wake to the sound of Yeo’s ragged breathing and gather him close without hesitation.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t speak. He only held him until the trembling stilled.

And Yeo, though pride warred with shame, would let himself rest there — in arms that once struck him, now holding him as though he were the most precious thing left in the world.

Spring came at last, soft and hesitant, brushing color back into the world.

One afternoon, Shin stood at the garden’s edge, watching the new buds unfurl on branches. He felt a presence at his side and turned to find Yeo there, pale still but stronger, his gaze calm.

They stood together in silence, the breeze carrying the scent of new growth. Then Yeo spoke, voice low but steady.

“I used to think I didn’t deserve this,” he said. “Life. Company. Warmth.” He looked at Shin, eyes clear. “But you stayed. Even when I thought you wouldn’t. Even when I thought you shouldn’t.”

Shin’s chest tightened. He reached out, hesitated, then let his hand settle lightly over Yeo’s. “I stayed,” he said simply. “And I will keep staying. Until you ask me to go.”

Yeo’s fingers shifted, curling faintly against his. “I won’t,” he murmured.

The words were quiet, but they felt louder than any vow.

And so they lived — two men bound not by curse, not by fate, but by the choice to remain.

Kim Shin, who had once begged for release, now found himself grateful for every lingering day.

Wang Yeo, who had once drowned in silence, now found himself learning to breathe again.

They did not erase the past — it lingered, as all wounds do. But they faced it together, not as Goblin and King, nor as Goblin and Reaper, but as two souls who had weathered centuries of sorrow and had finally, finally chosen to stay side by side.

The house no longer felt like a place of exile. It felt like a home.

And for the first time in centuries, the rain that fell was not born of grief, but of renewal — soft, steady, and alive.

.

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The End