Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You might think of demons as mere stories invented to discipline disobedient children. Monsters of nighttime tales, fables shaped to scare and domesticate. Or, at best, scapegoats for cowardly adults who prefer to dump their own misery onto invisible shoulders. That is the illusion, the sweet dream of those who have never had the misfortune of facing such horrors.

When you see them for the first time, you realize that horns and tridents would be tame caricatures, lucky charms compared to what actually crawls, slithers, and rises through the cracks of reality. Creatures so abyssal they would make anyone beg for blindness. You would wish to lock yourself in a room without windows, never face the night, never let darkness touch you. And for many, the idea of taking their own life might seem like relief. But then the cursed thought comes: what if there’s something beyond? What if the other side is just another iron gate opening straight to hell, with those things waiting? The mere possibility is enough to paralyze even the bravest.

The world becomes even crueler once you accept that they exist. How can you live in peace knowing there is something out there — older, more patient, thirsting — that wants not just your blood, but everything that makes you human? How can you hold a smile knowing that somewhere in an alley, forest, or forgotten ruin, eyes are waiting for the right moment to tear you apart?

It is in this space between anguish and madness that hunters emerge. Men and women condemned. People who have abandoned any pretense of normalcy to face daily the nightmares that walk and breathe. Each of them is paid in gold, in glory, in morbid respect. But the price never appears in books: what is paid is sanity itself. What is lost is the soul.

Statistics do not lie: a hunter rarely survives more than ten years without wishing to shove their own weapon into their mouth. Each battle leaves invisible scars, each mission steals a piece of the mind.

Yet, exceptions exist. They always do. And it is they who make the rules seem fragile, almost comical. Among all, Celine is the name that hovers like shadow and halo.

Celine was, in her days of glory, a Honmoon. That word, heavy with superstition and fear, still makes demons tremble when they hear it. Honmoons are rare. They are not just strong; they are almost mythical. Women chosen, forged at the limit, whose hearts beat with a power beyond human flesh.

And the greatest of their gifts is not strength, nor speed, nor endurance. It is what happens when their hands close around a weapon. Swords, scythes, pistols, bows — everything they touch becomes a Honmoon weapon. An extension not only of their skill but of their essence.

Ordinary weapons can wound demons. They can draw screams, open wounds, even make them beg for death. But they never destroy them. At most, they force them to retreat, to return to hell emptied and humiliated, only to come back later hungrier, more vengeful, closer to the apocalypse.

Honmoon weapons, however, leave no ellipses. When one pierces a demon, nothing remains but ashes and silence. The end is absolute.

Celine was living proof of this. An icon for a generation that grew up between fear and hope. For young hunters, her name was both legend and curse.

But even legends bleed. And when they bleed, they leave behind orphans, helpless followers, broken promises. Celine survived what no other Honmoon of her generation could endure. Those who fought alongside her now lie only as names engraved on cold stones, while she still walks, carrying on her body scars as deep as those of the soul.

She is the survivor. And that title does not sound like glory — it sounds like condemnation.

It was under her shadow that the new generation was born. The triad that, against all odds, inherited the weight of a destiny that no sane person would wish for. Zoey, Mira, and Rumi: three names whispered with reverence and expectation, as if humanity’s future depended on every move they made. And, in a way, it does.

Zoey, the youngest, is the spark that will not extinguish. Her eyes seem to laugh even in the face of horror, as if mocking death itself. Her joy is not lightness — it is a double-edged blade. A stubborn, desperate joy that hides an understanding of the hell she lives in. Between throwing weapons and rapid-fire pistols, her fingers dance as if slaughter were music.

Mira, on the other hand, is the opposite. A tall, destructive flame that never bows. Tall, strong, a wall of flesh and bone. With every swing of her woldo, it feels as though the ground trembles, as if the demons themselves hesitate to advance. But behind the fury, there is a hole impossible to fill: the brother who fell to a demon before her eyes. Every fight is revenge; every victory, insufficient.

And then Rumi. If Zoey is spark and Mira is flame, Rumi is the blazing heart of the bonfire. A natural leader, body trained to exhaustion, instinct so precise it feels like a premonition. Her blade cuts like decision, like sentence. Strength and clarity — her cruelty is as steady and real as the highest notes a singer could reach.

Three young hearts ablaze, each broken in a different way. And all of them, inevitably, bound to Celine.

She shaped them. Trained them with an iron fist, between pain and discipline, between insults and demands bordering on cruelty. Perhaps because she knew tenderness has no place on the battlefield against monsters with no compassion. Perhaps because carrying the burden of a lost generation had made her hard, a rock refusing to break.

To the young, Celine is both mother and executioner. Idol and shadow.

And the world gives them no time for doubt. For while they train, while fury tempers them, demons continue to emerge. Each night brings new rumors: devastated villages, bodies drained to bare bones, entire battalions swallowed by something unnamed.

And yet, around these three, there is a spark of hope. Hope that, if not carefully nurtured, could very well become a flame that consumes everything.

The generation of new Honmoons is ready to take the stage. And the stage is already soaked in blood. 

• ★ •

The alarms didn’t just sound — they tore through the night of Seoul like a metallic howl, echoing across skyscrapers and alleys. Too late, too loud. When the siren finds its voice, the blood is already flowing.

Gwishi demons had seized Gangnam Station. Beasts of twisted bones and greasy fur, resembling deformed coyotes, leapt across the tracks, shredding anything alive. Children torn apart, passengers reduced to crimson stains against white tiles. An urban carnage, as public as it was inevitable.

The Organization tried to contain it, but reports were clear: a delay of seconds meant dozens dead. The Gwishi were fast, voracious, and knew no retreat.

In the underground barracks, three figures were already rising without hesitation.

The uniform awaited them like a funeral ritual: reinforced black fabric, fitted to the body like a second skin. The hunters’ emblem on the shoulder, nearly erased by time and the blood of past battles. Across the chest, a protective vest — no luck in a single strike would save lives, but it would prolong seconds of resistance. Boots that echoed firmly against the metal floor. Combat gloves that hissed as fists closed.

Zoey was the first to finish. She tightened the vest straps with a smile that seemed out of place amid the urgency, as if daring terror itself to follow. Her hair, tied in braided buns, bounced with haste, and the metallic jingle of her twin pistols alongside the set of blades kept rhythm with her movements.

Mira drew the woldo from the rack as if tearing a blade from an enemy’s flesh. The weapon, too heavy for ordinary hands, rested naturally on her slender shoulders. The Honmoon energy glimmered around the blade — an iridescence blessed against every curse that filled the air. She fastened her boot buckles with a glare, as though already seeing the monsters before her.

Rumi, last, closed her gloves, each movement measured, almost ceremonial. Her expression was absolute silence, brown eyes reflecting the coldness of steel. Strapped to her hip, the straight combat blade seemed an extension of her body. She didn’t need to speak; the air around her carried its own weight.

Celine watched from a distance, arms crossed, clad in nothing but her black overcoat. She no longer needed to mingle with them — her time on the battlefield had passed. But the shadow of her presence was enough to weigh on the shoulders of the new generation.

“Little Wolf is ready.” Bobby’s voice over the communicator broke the moment — dry, urgent.

The vehicle waited for them at the exit: an armored car, painted matte black with details reminiscent of najeonchilgi, heavy lines and an engine that roared like a beast chained. Reinforced walls resisted bullets, claws, even demonic fire. They had nicknamed it Little Wolf — a cruel irony for a steel beast with teeth enough to tear through an entire hell.

The rear door opened with a hydraulic click. The smell of oil and gunpowder escaped. One by one, they boarded: Zoey leaping with lightness, Mira almost crushing the step under the weight of her fury, Rumi entering in absolute silence, as if accepting the sentence of an invisible tribunal.

When the door closed behind them, the engine’s roar swallowed the quiet. Little Wolf surged through the city’s secret tunnels like an enraged animal, carrying with it the last wall between Gangnam and absolute chaos.

The Little Wolf burst onto the surface with the deep roar of its engine and the stench of gasoline mingled with the ozone of the rainy night. The streets around Gangnam Station were deserted, barricades hastily erected, police sirens blending with the distant sound of screams. On the horizon, columns of smoke rose from the underground, as if the entire subway system were breathing sulfur.

The rear door opened with a metallic click. The three Honmoons leapt onto the soaked asphalt. The air was thick with iron — the scent of fresh human blood.

Ordinary hunters were already on site, lined up behind armored cars, weapons aimed at the station entrance. Gunfire erupted in short bursts, but the sound of bones being crushed and flesh torn drowned out even the machine guns. One hunter staggered, an arm ripped off, while another vomited black blood after being impaled by claws extending beyond the flesh.

And then the enemy appeared.

From the broken escalators, the Gwishi creatures ascended. If hell had zoos, they would be its most popular exhibit. Long, quadrupedal bodies, muscles taut like cords. Skeletal coyote heads, mouths full of teeth too sharp to be natural. Their eyes were golden spheres, shining with sick fury. Each step left scorched marks on the floor, as if matter itself refused to support their paws.

They came in packs, howling in unison. Howls that resonated like the wails of a thousand dead being dragged into the earth.

“Mira.” Rumi’s voice cut through the chaos. “Front line.”

Mira was already in motion. The woldo spun in the air and descended in an arc, shattering floor tiles, the blade sinking into the skull of the first beast to leap. Black blood sprayed like boiling oil, splattering the armor plates. A second Gwishi lunged from behind — Mira swung the weapon back and, in a lateral motion, severed its front legs. The creature fell screaming, dragging itself across the floor until she crushed its head with her boot.

Zoey ran beside her, each step punctuated by the dry crack of gunfire. Her pistols danced in her hands like toys, yet every bullet pierced a skull or shattered a golden eye. The dexterity was absurd: two Gwishi jumped simultaneously, and with an acrobatic spin, she fired mid-air, each projectile tearing through throats that opened like ripped velvet. When she landed, she was smiling — teeth clenched in defiance.

“Send more if you want, these ones are falling too easily.” She spat the blood that had splattered into her mouth, wiping her lips with the back of her glove.

Rumi moved like a living blade. Her sword gleamed under the light of the burning station, each cut too precise to be human. A Gwishi leapt — she twisted her body and drove her blade upward through its belly, opening it to the throat. Another tried to grab her from the side; she twisted her wrist, driving the sword through its jaw and ripping out its monstrous tongue. Her expression remained unchanged — eyes fixed, cold, as if every strike were just exact calculation.

Behind them, the ordinary hunters regrouped, catching their breath at the sight of the Honmoons in action. One shouted, voice hoarse:

“They’re breaking through! Advance!”

But the Gwishi’s response was immediate. The entire floor seemed to tremble. From the underground, a deeper, more resonant howl traveled through the structure. The horde of infernal coyotes made way. And from it emerged a larger one — twice the size of the others, skin stretched over irregular muscles, with bony spikes jutting from its spine like blades. The alpha. Its golden eyes were slits burning like furnaces.

It descended the steps slowly, each one cracking the concrete. It stopped before the hunters, baring teeth still dripping with fresh human blood.

Mira stepped forward two paces, woldo in hand. “This one’s mine.”

“Don’t screw up.” Rumi didn’t raise her voice, but the tone was pure steel. “Focus.”

The alpha Gwishi roared, and the sound that escaped was not animal. It was as if a hundred human voices were crying together, echoing through the station. Human hunters covered their ears, some bleeding from the nose.

And then hell erupted.

The alpha leapt, knocking down three of its own minions in the impact. Mira raised the woldo and blocked the strike, sparks flying from the friction between steel and bone. The floor cracked beneath her feet. Zoey fired relentlessly, bullets ricocheting off the monster’s back, which seemed made of living stone. Rumi spun her sword and ran along its flank, aiming for the creature’s joints.

Blood spurted, the air filled with screams and gunpowder. Gangnam Station, one of the busiest in the world, was now just a slaughterhouse illuminated by broken lights and the fury of three Honmoons.

The alpha crashed onto Mira like a living avalanche. Its claws ripped through concrete, each strike capable of splitting a car in half. The woldo vibrated in the air, but the monster’s strength was immense. The clash of blade and bone generated a shockwave that sent shards of glass scattering across the station. Mira stepped back three paces, boots sinking into the cracked floor, spitting blood that burned her throat.

“Finally, something worth it!” she roared, spinning the weapon in a circle before striking again.

The alpha responded with a guttural howl, opening its jaw at an impossible angle, triple rows of teeth meshing like gears. It bit the blade, locking the metal between its fangs. The force was so great the woldo groaned as if it might snap in two. Mira planted her feet firmly, pulling with all the rage in her body until her muscles burned like embers.

That’s when Zoey entered the fray.

She ran along the destroyed escalator railing, firing in arcs. Each bullet pierced flesh and exploded in sparks against hardened bones. The alpha shook its head in irritation and threw Mira against the wall like a rag doll. The impact sent tiles cascading down.

“Mira!” Zoey shouted, but didn’t stop. She landed nimbly on the beast’s back, unloading her pistols directly into its skull. The monster’s golden eyes turned to her, as if the bullets were mere mosquito bites.

The creature arched its body and hurled Zoey through the hall. She landed on her back against a metal bench that bent under the impact. The air left her lungs with a painful snap.

Rumi moved silently. As chaos spread, she ran low, dodging paws and debris, sword raised at her hip. In a leap, she struck the alpha’s flank, blade sinking deep into its rear joint. The monster let out a roar that vibrated the broken windows.

“Target the joints!” she shouted at last.

Mira was already up, blood streaming from her forehead, insane grin on her face. She swung the woldo in a double arc, severing half of the alpha’s front leg. The floor shook as it fell to the side, yet it still roared, still a mountain of bone and muscle trying to rise.

Zoey reappeared, coughing but laughing. “Who said a dog can’t learn a new trick?” She swapped magazines and began firing straight into the creature’s open mouth. Each shot exploded inside the skull, scattering shards of rotting flesh.

Even then, the beast did not die. The alpha Gwishi rolled across the floor, sweeping everything around. Human hunters were thrown like rag dolls. One tried to stand, but was crushed by the weight of its bony tail, spilling entrails across the floor.

Rumi advanced again, but the monster spun, colliding with her side with its head. The impact threw her against a support column. She fell to her knees, spitting thick blood. Her brown eyes burned with fury, but also with something she hid: the beastly instinct clawing to escape.

Zoey ran to her. “Stay up, leader. This thing won’t fall by itself.”

Rumi rose, leaning on her sword. “Mira, again. I open.”

She charged, leaping onto the monster’s side and plunging the blade into the alpha’s shoulder. The Gwishi roared and rose instinctively, exposing its neck.

“Now!” Rumi shouted.

Mira exploded forward, woldo spinning like a flaming scythe. The strike cut through the beast’s throat side to side, black blood gushing in a torrent. The blade almost got stuck in bone, but she pulled with brute strength, ripping away part of the lower jaw.

The alpha fell to its knees, still roaring, still trying to advance. Zoey leapt again, driving a pistol straight into the left eye and emptying the magazine. The skull exploded in black mass and sulfurous smoke.

For a moment, silence.

Then the headless alpha Gwishi still took three steps forward, knocking down the station turnstiles before finally collapsing. The floor shuddered under the carcass’s weight.

Around them, the other Gwishi hesitated. Without their leader, the howls turned into guttural, confused, desperate cries.

Rumi wiped the blood from her face with the back of her glove, panting. “Finish them. No mercy.” She pointed toward the anguished demons.

And the Honmoons moved like shadows, falling on the remaining pack. Mira crushing skulls with circular swings, Zoey spinning through gunfire and acrobatics, Rumi cutting with surgical precision. The human hunters could only watch, unable to match their speed.

When the last Gwishi fell, the hall was unrecognizable: a mosaic of entrails, blood streaming down the steps, human and demon bodies intertwined in a grotesque panorama.

The three exchanged silent glances. The job was done. Gangnam Station had been purged.

But the scent in the air was not victory — it was the prelude to the realization that this had been just another normal day in a damned city.

• ★ •

The silence that followed the fall of the last Gwishi was not peace — it was merely the heavy breathing of the survivors trying to convince themselves they were still alive. The air was thick with iron, gunpowder, and smoke. On the floor, indistinguishable pieces of flesh formed a slippery carpet.

Zoey cleaned her pistols with almost automatic movements, still smiling nervously, as if unable to tell the difference between adrenaline, grief, and madness. Mira, woldo resting on her shoulder, scanned the area for another enemy, her face smeared with black and human blood, eyes sparking as if craving more.

Rumi, however, could barely breathe.

The smell of human blood clung to the air. Not just the raw stench of death, but something sweeter, metallic, that seemed to coat her tongue, climb her palate, even itch her insides. It was as if every drop spilled on the floor were a summons. Her throat burned, her stomach twisted. The uniform clung to her skin, too tight, as if her body were expanding under the weight of a desire she dared not name.

Hunger.

She closed her eyes for a second, trying to stifle the impulse, but revulsion followed — the hatred of herself. Her nails dug into her palms through the gloves, and only the pain kept her standing. She could not allow anyone to see. Not Zoey, with her insane laughter, nor Mira, with her blatant brutality. And certainly not the ordinary hunters, who looked at them as soldiers look at gods.

When she opened her eyes, Rumi returned to the role the world demanded: leader. Her expression closed, posture straight, the sword sheathed silently.

“Let’s go.” Her voice was firm, even though the words nearly choked in her throat. “We need the reports.”

They moved through the debris toward the containment point. A group of ordinary hunters was gathered, uniforms torn, some still stained with their own blood. An Organization officer, dark suit wrinkled, bulletproof vest worn, waited with a clipboard and a tired look.

“Honmoons.” He greeted them with a trembling voice, as if speaking to deities. “The situation was… contained. But…” He hesitated, lowering his eyes to the paper. “We counted forty-three dead. Twenty-eight civilians, fifteen hunters. Injured… we don’t know how many will survive.”

Zoey grimaced, kicking a piece of rubble. “Forty-three because it took you so long to call us. Always the same story. You don’t even seem to consider that these are people with families, routines. Damn it, this can’t keep happening!”

Mira spat blood to the ground, glaring at the man. “If only you had held the line for five more minutes…” She let the sentence hang, dripping with contempt. “The Organization relies too much on us, has grown lazy. It’s always like this.”

Rumi kept her face impassive, even as the smell of fresh blood on the injured’s bandages made her whole body shiver. She crossed her arms behind her back, like an officer inspecting troops.

“The main enemy of this wave has been eliminated.” She spoke, each syllable measured. “But if there was an alpha Gwishi, it means the breach in the veil is larger than reported. I want immediate mapping of the underground area. Every tunnel, every entrance. And send reinforcements for evacuation.” She turned to the officer, eyes like blades against his throat. “No family should return home under the lie that this was an ‘isolated incident.’”

The man swallowed hard, but noted everything.

Behind her, Zoey and Mira exchanged glances. They knew something in Rumi was off — the way she delayed speaking, the way her eyes seemed too fixed, too hard. But no one questioned it. Not then.

Rumi took a deep breath, trying to ignore the throb of hunger gnawing at her. The blood in the air was a constant temptation, but she transformed it into fuel for discipline. The leader the world saw was a mask, and it was this mask that would keep everyone alive.

She lifted her chin, facing the other hunters. “Gather your wounded. We will hold the rear until the evacuation is complete.” Her words were decisive, and in that moment, the lower-ranking teams knew they had no power to question.

The evacuation dragged on amid the unbearable stench of burnt flesh. Improvised stretchers carried groaning survivors, their eyes vacant, as if already dead inside. Zoey helped push a barricade to clear the way, still spitting nervous jokes to keep from collapsing. Mira kept the woldo raised, scanning the alleys like a sentinel hungry for revenge.

Rumi remained still until the last civilian had left the hall. Only then did she take a deep breath and order the withdrawal.

As she moved, her steps remained tense. The Little Wolf waited on the asphalt, headlights glowing like the eyes of a beast. The rear door hissed hydraulically, swallowing the trio back into the armored belly. When the door shut, the engine’s growl drowned out the sounds of the outside world.

Inside, silence weighed heavy.

Zoey broke it first. “Forty-three dead. And what do you think those little chiefs’ faces will look like? Bet they’ll call it ‘efficient.’” She laughed, humorless, carrying the spent pistols in her lap. “Efficient my ass.”

Mira snorted, wiping dried blood from her cheek with her glove. “The problem wasn’t the killing. It was the timing. They sent us too late. Always. As if we were pets they could release once the house is already on fire.”

Rumi didn’t answer immediately. The Little Wolf swayed through curves, but she stayed rigid, hands resting on her knees, eyes fixed on the floor. The image of blood spread across the hall still burned inside her. The metallic taste clung to her tongue.

Zoey noticed the leader’s silence. “Hey, Rumi… you really okay?” she asked casually, but there was hidden concern in her voice.

“I am.” The reply came too firm, almost cutting. “We need to stay focused. The alpha Gwishi was a signal. This wasn’t random.”

Mira spun the woldo before securing it to the car’s magnetic wall. “Then let them come. For every monster they throw at us, I’ll cut down two.”

• ★ •

The car trembled as it passed through the underground tunnel connecting the city’s outer areas to the heart of the Hunters’ Confederation. The administrative center rose above Seoul like a military labyrinth of steel and concrete. There, political decisions, strategies, and judgments were made far from the eyes of a population sleeping in ignorance.

The Little Wolf parked at a restricted platform. Armored doors opened with multiple codes. Armed guards lined up but dared not lift their eyes as the three Honmoons passed. Their steps echoed down the corridor, boots wet with dried blood against the polished floor.

They ascended to the main command room. A vast space, walls lined with surveillance screens showing demonic outbreaks across the globe. Digital maps blinked in red. The air was heavy, thick with authority.

And at the center, surrounded by other Confederation superiors, stood Celine.

The black coat fell over her shoulders like a shroud. Hair tied in a tight bun, gaze like steel. She seemed taller than remembered, or perhaps it was just her overwhelming presence.

When the trio entered, conversations ceased.

Celine did not smile. Did not greet. She merely watched in silence, like a predator assessing whether her prey was alive or dead.

“Report.” Her voice sliced the air, dry, leaving no room for embellishment.

Rumi stepped forward, ignoring the throb of hunger and the tension still gnawing at her inside. Her posture was rigid, disciplined. She was the leader, and nothing in the world could change that now.

“Alpha Gwishi eliminated. Forty-three confirmed dead. Breach in the veil requires immediate investigation. Continuous reinforcement in Gangnam recommended until secondary threats are ruled out.”

Celine’s gaze did not move. It stayed fixed on her, heavy, almost piercing through her. For a moment, Rumi felt as if her skin were transparent, as if the woman could see the demonic blood burning in her veins.

But Celine merely raised her chin. “Sit. We need to discuss what this means.”

And the three obeyed, carrying with them the dust, the blood, and the shadow of what they had left behind at the station.

The Confederation command hall was thick with cigarette smoke and muffled voices. Generals, ministers, and operations chiefs spoke over one another, spitting numbers, partial reports, victim graphs. The room vibrated like a hive in fury.

Rumi, Mira, and Zoey sat before the dark steel oval table. Three battle-drenched presences in a sea of lined suits. They still wore the black uniform, boots marked with blood, gloves hardened by the heat of combat. The contrast was grotesque — and deliberate.

One advisor, too old to hold a rifle, pointed at them with trembling fingers. “Forty-three civilians dead!” His voice rasped. “You call this a victory? This isn’t efficiency, this is a slaughter spectacle!”

Zoey twisted a crooked smile, but Rumi held her back with a glance. She herself responded: “There was no room to maneuver. If we had been sent earlier, the number would have been lower.”

Another superior, in a gray uniform, scoffed. “Always the same excuse. ‘If we had arrived sooner.’ We are tired of this. The public doesn’t want excuses. They want to believe you are invincible.”

Mira leaned forward, slamming her gloved palm on the table with a crash that silenced many. “Invincible? We’re hunters, not gods. Want miracles? Pray to the heavens. We do what must be done, and what we did today was prevent hundreds from dying.”

The room trembled. Looks of contempt now mingled with fear.

Celine, silent until then, raised a hand. That gesture alone brought the room to quiet.

She looked at the three, slowly.

“The truth—” she began, “is that you three are our last wall. And a wall cannot crack. Cannot fail.” Her voice cut sharply without raising tone. “Today you won, but you won dirty. Every body on the ground is a fracture.”

Rumi felt the weight fall on her like molten iron. Her throat burned. Inside her, the smell still pulsed — the call of flesh — and resisting it made her shiver slightly. But she did not look away.

“There was no field failure,” she said. “The death toll is not a reflection of our action, but of the delayed response. If you want someone accountable, hold the chain of command accountable.”

A murmur of indignation ran through the officers. But Celine remained motionless, watching her.

Zoey bit her lip but did not intervene. Mira, arms crossed, looked ready to crush the skull of anyone who opened their mouth against the team.

Finally, Celine concluded, “It is decided. The Gangnam case will be reported to the media as a successful containment. Casualties will be justified as inevitable given the nature of the attack.” She turned to the other superiors. “Session adjourned.”

The officers rose in silence, some muttering, others casting venomous glances at the trio. In minutes, only the Honmoons and Celine remained in the room.

Celine collected the papers before her without raising her eyes. “Mira. Zoey. Give me a few minutes with Rumi.” The two hesitated, then obeyed, leaving through the side door.

The silence now was different. Heavy, intimate, suffocating.

Rumi remained standing, rigid. Her heart raced. Celine rose, walking slowly around the table, each step echoing like a hammer. “You’re trembling.” Not a question. A statement.

Rumi clenched her fists. “Just adrenaline.”

Celine stopped in front of her. Her face was inches from hers, eyes cold, cutting. “Don’t lie to me.” Her tone was low, almost a whisper, but carried threat. “I saw it in your eyes while watching through the monitoring drones. I felt it. The blood stirred you, didn’t it?”

Rumi’s throat tightened. She tried to hold the gaze, but the weight was overwhelming.

“I… I maintained control.” Her voice was dry, unconvincing.

Celine leaned closer still, as if she wanted to hear even her breathing. “For now.”

And silence returned, dense as a cell. Celine stepped back just enough for Rumi to breathe. The flick of a lighter cut through the quiet; the red tip of a cigarette glowed on the veteran’s face. She drew slowly, exhaling smoke toward the metallic ceiling.

“You think you fool me, girl?” Her voice was cold steel, yet not without poisonous sweetness. “I saw your jaw lock on the field. Saw how you hesitated stepping into the blood pool. You didn’t just want to kill… to do your duty. Oh no… you wanted… to prove.”

Rumi swallowed hard, shoulders stiff. “I… I didn’t…” she began, but stopped. The lie would be obvious.

Celine smiled, a smile without warmth, only calculation. “You are different. Always were. The beast inside you is not ordinary. Not even common demons could bear it. It’s a crooked thing, a mistake, something that should have been snuffed out at birth.” She drew a final drag and crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, as if speaking of herself. “But, ironically, that is what makes you essential.”

Rumi breathed deeply, almost panting. With each word, she felt the beast writhing in her flesh, as if recognizing the call.

“Then eliminate me.” The phrase slipped like a razor. “If I’m a risk, cut me from the wall I defend so fiercely.”

Celine laughed, short and low. She stepped close again, touching her shoulder with a gloved hand. “Oh no, my dear. You don’t understand. A risk can be controlled. Channeled. That’s why suppressors exist.”

Rumi looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. The metallic taste of her own blood rose to her tongue. "They’re already destroying me. My body can’t take it anymore.”

“So what?” Celine lifted her chin, forcing her to meet her eyes. “You are not a body, Rumi. You are a Honmoon. Your duty is to endure the unbearable. There is no room for weakness. No room for humanity.” She paused, letting the weight of her words sink. “Either you carry this beast, or it carries you.”

The air reeked of tobacco and iron. “Then keep doubling the dose. Three times, if necessary. Bury that hunger deep in your stomach until it forgets what it is.” Her tone softened, almost maternal. “Do this, and you remain at the top. Do this, and the world continues to believe Honmoons never falter.”

Rumi closed her eyes, trying to expel the knot of nausea and rage rising inside her.

Celine leaned to her ear, whispering as if a confession: “You are not a person. You are a wall. And walls do not bleed.”

Celine’s hand released her chin, and the cold absence almost hurt more than the touch. Silence again. And within the silence, the beast throbbed in Rumi’s chest, famished.

• ★ • 

She left the hall with stiff shoulders, as if every vertebra were under watch. The metal door closed behind her, muffling the smell of smoke and command. The corridor was empty, except for Zoey and Mira leaning against the wall.

Zoey raised her eyes first. She tried to force a short, playful smile, but the tension etched across her face betrayed concern. “So… still alive?” she murmured.

Mira said nothing. She just studied Rumi with a gaze that seemed to search for invisible cracks.

“Let’s go.” Rumi cut in, voice firm, almost rehearsed. “Done for today.”

Neither of them pressed. They followed in silence through the Confederation’s labyrinth: gray concrete corridors, cold lights, the echo of heavy boots marking each step. The place never slept — there were always voices, machines, guards, reports being carried — but at the same time, there was a silence that swallowed everything, the silence of duty.

Outside, the night draped the complex like a dense veil. The wind carried the smell of wet grass mixed with kerosene from the stationed helicopters. Among blocks of administrative buildings, one stood apart, its windows darkened: the Honmoons’ residence.

Home. That’s what they called it, but it wasn’t. No neighbors, no warmth. Just a building erected to keep them close, like weapons in an arsenal.

The Little Wolf parked before the entrance. They stepped down slowly, the weight of the night still clinging to their clothes. The perimeter was protected by high fences, watchtowers, and invisible sensors. Isolation was absolute.

The building’s lobby was empty, lit only by yellowed lamps. No reception, just silence and the sound of their own breaths. Automatic doors opened, revealing the elevator.

Inside, the three stood side by side, each sinking into their own exhaustion. Zoey drummed her fingers against her leg, restless. Mira kept her fists clenched, as if still in the field. Rumi stared at the metallic panel, avoiding any reflection that might betray eyes still tainted by hunger.

The elevator rose in silence, stopping at the top floor. Here was their exclusive floor — spacious, yet cold, made for three human weapons. A short corridor led to three individual suites, plus a common room with sofas and an improvised meeting table.

The door opened with a whisper.

The space was too quiet, almost serene, but serenity as prison. It was where they lived, where they slept, where they bled in silence. Always there, always near. Never a home.

Zoey tossed her jacket onto the sofa and stretched exaggeratedly. “Home sweet home, huh?” The irony sounded weak, a feeble attempt to break the mood.

Mira just grunted and went straight to her door. “I’m taking a shower. Don’t want to dream that smell.” Her voice was dry, leaving no room for reply.

Zoey stayed in the room, fiddling with her boots. Her eyes drifted to Rumi, who remained rigid at the entrance.

“And you?” she asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

Rumi took a moment to respond. Inside, the beast stirred, demanding, begging, clawing. But she simply said, “…I’ll write the report.”

The answer made Zoey’s expression falter, though it wasn’t as if her tact mattered much here. Mira and Zoey did not push or try to pry into Rumi’s struggles at the moment. There was only silence and acquiescence; after all, they knew: this would never be a home. It was a gilded cell, an altar built to keep the monster caged. The monster of her outbursts — the monster of the anguish of being what they were. But there was no room to complain. Hunters existed because it was necessary.

• ★ •

Rumi straightened the papers, aligning each sheet with military precision. The reports were ready: data on the recruits, response failures, possible adjustment points for the next wave. Being a Honmoon wasn’t enough; she was also expected to shape those who would come after. The weight never left her shoulders.

She glanced at her phone: 2:17 a.m. Midnight still chewed on the Confederation and the city outside, indifferent. She muttered under her breath, a hoarse sound, almost a growl. Zoey and Mira were likely at their sleep limit, or at least trying. She, however, was not. Her body was exhausted, but her blood burned inside, restless.

She pushed the chair back and switched off the lamp. Her room — functional to the bone, empty, devoid of life — was a caricature of her own existence. Nothing beyond the essentials, nothing beyond what sustained the fight. No room for memories, no room for personality. Only weapons, uniforms, manuals.

She walked through the silent room. The cold floor echoed her steps in muted repetitions. She reached the kitchen and put water on to heat. This ritual was her lifeline: mint tea, simple, constant, a small lie of normalcy.

Leaning against the counter, she waited. The whistle of the kettle cut through the midnight silence in a sharp hiss. She prepared the infusion with automatic movements, her hands already memorized for the gesture. She sat at the table with the steaming mug. She inhaled the menthol vapor, trying to force her mind to relax.

But memory would not relent.

The alpha Gwishi’s scream tearing through the station concourse. Blood spattering against her blade. The Honmoon energy glinting, cold and absolute, slicing flesh that should never have existed. The heat of demon blood mingling with human, scattered across the floor.

Rumi closed her eyes. For a moment, she wasn’t in the kitchen — she was back on the battlefield. And before she realized it, her tongue brushed her teeth. A quick, instinctive lick, revealing the sharp, protruding fangs, ready.

The shock was immediate. The mug trembled in her hand. Her heart raced, her breathing uneven. The steam from the tea did not mask the metallic taste that climbed insistently from memory to mouth.

She sprang to her feet, almost spilling the hot liquid over herself. Her body moved before her mind. She ran down the narrow hallway to the bathroom, hand already on the latch.

The door slammed behind her. Rumi faced the mirror.

The fangs were still there. Small, almost imperceptible — but present. A cruel reminder that the monster never slept.

Her breathing was heavy. Her hand gripped the sink, bracing herself. Eyes fixed on the reflection. For a moment, it was as if she were not herself staring back.

Rumi slammed open the bathroom cabinet. Bottles of painkillers, antiseptics, gauze — nothing she needed. Her heart hammered in her chest like it wanted to escape. She yanked the second shelf, hands trembling, sending glass shattering across the floor.

“Where…?” The voice was hoarse, strangled, as if it wasn’t entirely hers.

Every second without the suppressors was gasoline on a fire. The beast inside her roared — not with sound, but in pulses that raced through her blood.

Then came the snap. Literal. Her bones complained, twisted from the inside out. Her spine arched, creaking. The skin on her chest glowed: demonic patterns. The mark that had always remained discreet, centered over her heart, now spread like iridescent lightning fracturing the glass of her body.

Rumi gasped, gripping the fabric of her own shirt. The cloth strained, stretching, tight. Every seam seemed about to burst. Her muscles swelled beneath her skin, a strange, brutal strength that didn’t seem entirely hers — at least, that’s what she tried to believe, every single day.

Her vision blurred, saturated red. The imagined scent of the station’s blood returned, more intense, almost tangible. She stumbled against the sink, scraping the marble until it chipped. “Suppressors…” she whispered, as if repeating it would make them appear.

But the shadow in her body waited for nothing. The glowing patterns spread faster, crawling up her neck, down her arms, across her legs. Iridescent roots, alive, pulsing against flesh.

Her jaw snapped. Teeth clashed. Fangs forced their way out. Her body demanded surrender, demanded release. Rumi dropped to her knees on the cold floor, breath failing. The world spun, narrow, fevered. Then, among the shards scattered on the tiles, she saw the transparent bottle. White label marked with the Confederation’s seal.

The initial suppressors.

The beast roared louder, as if it knew it would be contained.

Rumi extended a trembling hand, snatching the bottle from the shards. It nearly slipped from her sweaty fingers, but she forced it open violently, spilling half the pills to the floor. It didn’t matter. She shoved three into her mouth at once, swallowing dry, feeling the rough edges scratch her throat.

Phase one. Short-term. An initial block, but insufficient .

Her body still groaned. Muscle fibers throbbed beneath the skin as if wanting to tear her from the inside out. Veins pulsed under the iridescent patterns, each heartbeat a drum. She panted, each breath sounding almost animalistic.

With nimble fingers, despite the tremor, she opened a drawer and grabbed the reinforced glass syringe. She unwrapped the sterile vial, loaded the medication, the sharp tip gleaming under the cold bathroom light. Without hesitation, she lifted her shirt, exposing the abdomen already streaked with lightning-like lines.

Using the muscle tension, she pressed the needle between two protruding fibers. The thick liquid invaded her bloodstream, burning. The muffled scream that escaped echoed off the tiles, stifled, almost inhuman.

Phase two. Mid-term. A stronger wall, but still not permanent.

Rumi struggled to breathe but managed to rise, eyes fixed on the cracked mirror. The reflection showed a stranger — veins pulsing, jaw distorted, iridescence alive like liquid fire coursing through every inch of skin.

Phase three. The final step.

She grabbed the small white device, smooth, the size of a thick coin. Innocent, discreet — almost medical. She applied the adhesive with trembling hands, then pressed the device against her upper arm near the shoulder, hearing the click. A cold surge coursed through her veins like ice, spreading slowly, stabilizing, rooting.

Long-term. The final weight of the cage.

For minutes, her body resisted, trying to erupt against the chemical prison. Bones ached, fibers burned, the iridescent patterns still snaked across her skin like lightning trying to escape. But slowly, they dimmed, receding, until they settled back over the familiar mark above her heart.

Rumi slumped against the wall, panting, sweating, every muscle still throbbing. The entire bathroom smelled of chemical blood — not real, but the blood inside her.

She raised a hand to her lips. The fangs were still there, throbbing. She pressed them back with her tongue, forcing control. She closed her eyes. The beast was back in the cage. But the cage was cracked. Tears streamed down her brown eyes, the remnants of amber still glimmering.

She sank against the wall, pulling her knees to her chest. She tried to steady her breathing, but her throat burned, dry, tainted with the chemical taste of the pills and the persistent iron tang of her own fangs.

The suppressors were beginning to take effect. The iridescent glow on her skin receded, like rivers forced back into their beds. The prominent veins cooled, the body that had threatened to tear itself apart finally yielding. But the memory of the sensation — muscles ripping from within, bones straining against flesh — still made her tremble.

It was in the private bathroom that she kept everything. A false compartment behind the towel cabinet. Always locked. Always clean. No one entered there — not Zoey, not Mira. Only her and the secret that kept her alive — or imprisoned.

For several minutes, she remained there, staring at the floor as if she could dissolve into the tiles. She thought of Celine, of the sharp words disguised as care. She thought of Zoey’s ever-curious gaze. She thought of Mira’s fury, which would certainly never understand.

Fear gnawed deeper than pain. Fear that one day, even that bathroom would not suffice.

When she finally rose, she washed her hands carefully, as if she could scrub away what she had done. She dried her face, poured cold water over her neck, trying to compose herself. She didn’t want to stumble out, didn’t want to leave a trace.

She left the bathroom and returned to the dark room. The tea in the kitchen had gone cold, ignored. Her body begged for movement, but her mind dragged her down.

She lay down without changing clothes. The mattress felt harder than ever, the ceiling lower, the room suffocating.

The moment her eyelids gave way, she dreamed that the walls were covered in iridescent patterns, veins of light cracking through the concrete. And she dreamed that, deep down, there would never be enough suppressors in the world.

• ★ •

The clock read one in the afternoon when Rumi opened her eyes. Her body still felt heavy, as if she had crawled through a battlefield of remnants. Her mind, clouded, throbbed with echoes from the previous night. She dragged herself out of bed, tied her hair haphazardly, and left the room.

The living room was bathed in the soft light of early afternoon, filtered through the blinds. And it was there that the scene hit her: Zoey mounted over Mira, hands firm on her shoulders, mouth pressed against hers with a hunger disguised as affection. Mira, always the toughest, lay relaxed, holding Zoey’s waist as if nothing in the world could disturb them.

The snap of the door closing behind Rumi was enough to shatter the moment. Zoey pulled back quickly, lips still moist, staring at Rumi with wide eyes. Mira simply brushed her hand over her face, uncomfortable but not ashamed.

“Rumi…” Zoey tried to laugh, nervous. “You slept in, huh?”

“Yeah. Not my usual.” Rumi replied dryly, heading straight for the kitchen. Her voice sounded hoarse, lifeless.

Mira lifted her torso from the sofa, adjusting her posture. “Everything okay with you? You seem… different. Are you in pain?”

Rumi grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, opened it, and drank it in a single gulp without looking at them. “Just tired. The report was long.”

Zoey frowned, biting her lip, still flushed from being caught. “Tired, just tired? You’re pale. Didn’t even look like you’d slept.”

“I did sleep,” Rumi cut in, already stepping away, leaning on the counter. “It’s nothing.”

Silence hung heavy. Zoey and Mira exchanged quick glances, sensing something was off but unsure how to press.

Rumi kept her eyes fixed on the bottle in her hand, avoiding any eye contact. She knew that if she looked at them, they would see more than they should. The metallic taste still lingered in her mouth. The iridescent scar, hidden beneath her shirt, still burned like embers.

“Changing the subject,” she said finally, with false calm, “any updates from the Confederation?”

Mira huffed, impatient. “Not yet. Just orders to stay on standby.”

Zoey, however, didn’t take her eyes off Rumi. “You know you don’t have to pretend with us, right?”

Rumi forced a hollow, half-smile. Her smiles had always been the strangest and most fragile of the three. “Pretend what? I just need coffee.”

“Coffee without lunch?” Zoey let it slip, still sitting on the sofa, her tone low, almost guilty at the comment. “Your stomach’s going to hurt…”

Rumi only turned her head, expression unchanged. “No problem.” The reply came sharp, cold, shutting down any attempt at concern.

Zoey swallowed the words she was about to say. Mira, still adjusting her blouse, let out a heavy sigh, slapping her hand against her thigh. “It’s a problem, yes.” Her gaze cut across the room to Rumi. “And since you want to change the subject, I’ll remind you of something you seem to have forgotten: recruits’ training. Three PM.”

Rumi froze mid-motion, the mug raised to her lips. Steam from the coffee curled before her face, fogging her tired eyes. “Training?” she murmured, as if the word carried weight.

“Yes. Thursday, remember?” Mira crossed her arms, tone harsh but with a trace of provocation. “If you don’t show up, Celine will rip your head off.”

Zoey tried to ease the tension, forcing a smile. “Better take extra coffee then. Don’t want you collapsing on the mat.”

Rumi took a long sip, ignoring the burn on her tongue. When she spoke, it was with the calm of someone who knew exactly how carefully she had to maintain the façade. “Don’t worry about me. Just be ready at three.”

Silence fell in the room. Zoey bit her lip, uneasy. Mira simply watched Rumi like one studies a dangerous puzzle.

And Rumi leaned on the coffee as if it were the last line between her and the abyss. She left the room like a ghost. The dry click of her bedroom door was the only trace of her passage, leaving behind only silence, broken by the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Zoey sank into the sofa, shoulders slumping, resting her head against the back. The sigh she released carried more than just fatigue. “She disappears even when she’s right in front of us,” she murmured, biting her lip. “It’s like… she’s not really part of us… not anymore.”

Mira shifted beside her, stretching an arm over the back to pull Zoey close. The dark-haired girl rested her head on Mira’s chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart.

“Rumi’s always been like that,” Mira’s voice was deep, steady, but tinged with a shadow of resentment. “Always.”

Zoey closed her eyes briefly, savoring the closeness. “You talk like it’s normal.”

“It’s not normal,” Mira replied, running her hand through Zoey’s short hair, fingers entwining. “But that’s just her way. She carries too much alone.”

Zoey lifted her face, looking at her closely, pale eyes catching the light filtering through the blinds. “And us? Aren’t we supposed to carry it with her?” The question came wounded, almost a confession.

Mira didn’t answer right away. She held Zoey’s chin and pulled her into a slow kiss. It wasn’t the same as the stolen moment from minutes before. This one was slower, more intimate, filled with a tenderness they both knew was an attempt to patch cracks that weren’t theirs.

When they pulled apart, Mira pressed her forehead to Zoey’s. “Maybe she thinks if we know everything, we’ll break too.”

Zoey gave a sheepish smile, the kind she always made to hide pain. “What she doesn’t realize is that she breaks us anyway.”

Silence returned, but it wasn’t heavy. It was the quiet complicity of two people who loved each other deeply, even in a life that allowed no room for love. Mira wrapped an arm around Zoey, pulling her to lie across her lap, caressing her cheek with calloused fingers.

“She’s our leader,” Mira murmured, almost to herself. “But I wish, just once, she could be our friend.”

Zoey closed her eyes, letting herself melt into the warmth of the redhead, heart pounding. “Me too,” she whispered. “Sometimes it feels like there are three of us, but at the same time, only two.”

Rumi’s absence, even just a few meters away, weighed heavier than any battlefield wound.

Zoey let out a soft sigh as Mira pulled her closer, sinking her into the embrace as if there were a refuge the world couldn’t invade. Mira’s loose black shirt carried the scent of cheap soap mixed with the lingering sweat from the previous night, and to Zoey, it smelled like home.

“But… at least with you, there’s finally a little peace…” Zoey murmured, tracing the tip of her fingers along Mira’s arm, feeling the warm skin over the slender limbs.

Mira let out a short, hoarse laugh. “Peace? Here? Do you even know where we live?” Her half-lidded eyes carried more tenderness than irony.

Zoey lifted her face, dark hair brushing her cheek. “Doesn’t matter.” She gave a crooked smile. “When I’m with you, even this place feels less like a prison.”

Mira studied her for a few seconds, too serious for the light tone. Then she cupped Zoey’s face in both hands, rough fingers contrasting with the gentleness of the gesture. “Do you have any idea how much I think about you? How I cling to you when everything seems to collapse?”

Zoey blushed, looking away. “Mira… don’t say things like that…” But the smile betrayed her.

“I say it because it’s true.” Mira lifted her, letting Zoey slip from her lap to lie against her chest. Zoey’s white shirt bunched up, but she didn’t care. She rested her head, listening to Mira’s heart beat steady and strong.

Mira’s fingers ran through her hair slowly, deliberately, as if memorizing each strand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I might have lost my mind already.”

Zoey rose just enough to kiss her again, this time unhurried, savoring the rare moment without blood, without screams, without monsters. Just the two of them.

When they pulled apart, Zoey rested her forehead on Mira’s shoulder. “Then don’t ever let me go. Not even if this world collapses.”

Mira wrapped her arms tighter around her, closing her eyes. “I won’t let go. Not even dead.”

The room seemed suspended in time: sunlight streaked across the floor through the blinds, the silence broken only by their gentle breathing. Casual clothes, skin against skin, quiet words — it was the closest thing to normalcy they’d ever know.

And in that stolen moment, Mira and Zoey allowed themselves to believe, even if it was a lie, that they were just two young women — loving each other like breathing — living an ordinary afternoon.

• ★ •

The Confederation’s armored transport crossed through Jeju’s iron gates as if swallowed by the perimeter itself. The island, transformed into a fortress since the founding of the UN, was the heart of order. And in the heart of the island rose the sight no Honmoon could ever forget: the Dangsan.

The colossal tree, older than any human empire, spread its gray-black crown across the sky. Its roots, thick as ramparts, burrowed so deep it was impossible to guess how far they reached. From its trunk emanated a vibrating, cruel energy, pulsing in rhythm with the ground itself. And from it was born the Veil, the translucent curtain invisible to ordinary eyes, yet felt by the Honmoons like searing iron against their skin. It was the thin wall separating the human world from the infernal abyss.

The Confederation’s main building in Jeju had been built as a ring encircling this natural dome. A perfect circle of reinforced concrete, bulletproof glass, and long corridors that opened to the inevitable sight of the tree. Everything there existed to remind the hunters why they did.

Zoey, Mira, and Rumi stepped down from the Little Wolf in silence. They had traded casual jackets for training uniforms: black, functional, stripped of combat plating, but still heavy. Side by side, they walked down the wide corridors, their footsteps echoing against the metallic floor.

To the left, the hall opened into enormous windows stretching from floor to ceiling. Beyond them lay the full vision of the dome that shielded the Dangsan. Afternoon light filtered through, tinting the Veil with liquid-like reflections. The tree seemed to pulse, each branch like veins carrying the world’s blood.

Zoey paused for a second, pressing her hand against the cold glass. “Sometimes I think… if that thing stops breathing, so do we.” Her voice came out low, almost a whisper.

Mira walked past without looking, her jaw tight. “Well… we’re not here to think. Just look, and remember what we’re forced to do.”

Rumi moved in the middle, never slowing. She refused to grant the Veil more power over her than it already held. Her chest burned faintly, the iridescent scar reacting in silence. She only adjusted her gloves, eyes fixed straight ahead.

The corridor ended at a reinforced double door. The Training Center. Inside, the shouts of recruits, the dry thuds of impacts, and the clatter of wooden weapons echoed, composing a symphony of human effort.

Rumi drew a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and pushed the door open. Here, she — they — had to be nothing more or less than what everyone expected: the wall, the heroines, the Honmoon.

The noise died almost the instant the doors swung open. The air, thick with sweat, tatami dust, and cold iron, seemed to compress when the recruits realized who had entered.

The three Honmoons.

Black uniforms, firm boots, each one bearing on her body the marks of battles the recruits had only read about in reports or heard whispered in the dormitories. Zoey was the first to cross the threshold, her sharp gaze sweeping the hall as if it were a battlefield. Mira followed close behind, her stride hard, implacable, every muscle radiating authority. Rumi, at the center, wore a neutral, direct expression — the perfect mask to hide the storm inside.

One of the instructors lifted his whistle but never had to blow it. The recruits were already lined up, their eyes a mix of respect, fear, and youthful thrill.

“Attention.” Captain Park’s voice, the training wing’s supervisor, cut through the space. He approached them with a stern face, though there was something almost reverential in his posture. “Honmoons. Welcome back to Jeju.”

Mira crossed her arms, scanning the lines of sweat-drenched youths. “How many dropped out since the last trial?” she asked bluntly.

Park adjusted his vest. “Sixteen. Some couldn’t handle the physical strain. Others… couldn’t endure their first exposure to the Veil.”

Zoey let out a dry laugh, tilting her head. “Sixteen’s still too few — most of them still haven’t grasped reality. These kids have no clue what it’s like to watch a Gwishi drive through the chest of someone you know.”

A murmur of discomfort rippled through the line of recruits, but none dared lower their gaze.

Rumi stepped forward, chin raised. Her voice rang firm, almost militaristic “You’re here because you chose the worst profession in the world. Forget glory, forget recognition. Out there, what waits for you is pain, loss, and monsters that feed on the flesh of the innocent. If you can’t handle that, quit now.”

The silence was so heavy that even the distant pulse of the Dangsan seemed to seep into the hall. One of the recruits actually walked out.

Captain Park cleared his throat, trying to reclaim control. “Today, you’ll take part in an exercise under the supervision of the Honmoons. Stay sharp. Watch, learn.”

Zoey shot Mira a quick, almost conspiratorial glance. “Looks like we get to play teachers.”

Mira didn’t smile. “If they stick around, good. If not, that’s less dead weight in the future.”

Rumi said nothing. She simply walked to the center of the tatami, the recruits parting as though her very presence were an invisible blade cutting through the air.

While the recruits held their stance, the three Honmoons approached Captain Park and the other training wing supervisors, where a large holographic screen floated above the center of the tatami, bathing the hall in cold, metallic light.

“We need to reinforce one point,” Rumi began, her tone firm. “The demonic hierarchy isn’t just theory. It defines how you survive. There are hunters all over the world, but Korea requires constant oversight. This is the cradle of Honmoon energy. That’s why the three of us cannot leave the country.”

Zoey added, her smile never reaching her eyes. “It’s not privilege, it’s prison. But it’s also the reason you’re here. Each one of you must understand that the presence of the Honmoon triad is the thin line between survival and massacre.”

Mira pointed to the screen, where four images materialized in hologram — each displaying the grotesque, distinct visage of a different type of demon.

“First category,” she said, voice low and steady. “Dokkaebi. Violent, irrational, ravenous goblins. They attack in packs and adapt quickly. Never underestimate their numbers. A lone hunter can’t handle more than three without specialized equipment.”

The hologram shifted. A tall, pale specter appeared, golden eyes gleaming.

“Bhoota. Specters with a human guise, but amplified strength, teleportation, and shadow manipulation. Beware: they prey on fear. Never split up.”

Rumi continued, each word measured, as though her syllables sharpened invisible blades inside the recruits’ minds. “Gwishi. Vengeful spirits turned monsters: vampires, werewolves, murderous sirens, ghouls — things like that. Each one with specific weaknesses, but all lethal if underestimated. Learn to identify vital points. Always prioritize the neck, in all three cases.”

The final image emerged, towering, almost divine in its monstrosity.

“...Magwi. Demon kings, dragons, supreme entities. Strength, intelligence, and malice in proportions the human mind cannot withstand. A single Honmoon might survive them… but to win? That takes flawless teamwork — if you’re willing to sacrifice what’s left of your sanity.”

Zoey gestured, hammering in the weight of her words. “Each type of demon demands different techniques, different weapons, and above all, absolute respect. Underestimate any of them, and there’s no excuse that can save you.”

“Today,” Mira said, turning her gaze back to the lined-up recruits, “you’ll learn to identify, neutralize, and eliminate all four categories in simulated exercises. Watch, ask questions — but remember: no one survives if they ignore the hierarchy.”

The hall was thick with tension. Even the youngest recruits could feel the Honmoons’ presence like a wave of energy, a silent reminder that this wasn’t just training: it was preparation for war.

Rumi crossed her arms, her gaze sweeping over each recruit. Her voice was firm but quiet, almost a whisper that seemed to pierce their skulls. “Learn fast. The Dangsan does not tolerate mistakes.”

Behind them, the hologram of the colossal tree flickered, reminding everyone that here, the veil between the human and infernal worlds was as thin as paper, and the lesson wasn’t only about killing — but about surviving in a world that never forgives failure.

The training field erupted into motion as the holograms gained physical form: Dokkaebi appeared first. Small, fast, grotesque, attacking in choreographed packs. The recruits moved into blocks, trying to respond, but the raw energy of the simulated goblins was overwhelming. Zoey stayed a few meters away, her eyes tracking each strike.

“They need to remember speed isn’t everything,” she muttered, almost to herself. “But if they falter, they’ll be clawed before they even notice.”

Mira, arms crossed, watched every recruit with a cutting gaze. “See how they lose their stance when they react emotionally. Fear is visible. I’m already seeing four fatal mistakes.”

Rumi stayed silent, but her mind wasn’t only on the training. As she analyzed the movements, she felt something that made her shiver: the beast’s instinct, the force inside her calculating each blow as if it were real.

The judgment pressed down on the rookies as harshly as the high-end holograms. The native sharpness of her dual nature. Superiority in both of her bloodlines.

The holographic screen shifted to the Bhoota. Tall, pale, golden eyes glinting with simulated malice. They teleported, testing the recruits’ reflexes and presence of mind. Zoey stepped forward just slightly, pointing discreetly at one recruit who recoiled on instinct. “He won’t react fast enough. He thinks, but he doesn’t feel. Not enough.”

Mira scoffed, her eyes following the group’s stumbles. “They don’t notice when they’re being manipulated. Every hesitation is an opening. They think they’re defending, but they’re just dancing to the monsters’ rhythm.”

Rumi swallowed hard. The phantom scent of fear, the pressure crushing the recruits — it all stirred something inside her awake. The feeling was both painful and intoxicating. She knew she could crush any one of them without effort. But it was forbidden. She looked at each of those poor kids, sacrificing their youth so others could live theirs in peace. She tasted both sides. Prey and hunter. And she drowned under the guilt.

The next wave came: Gwishi. Vengeful spirits in twisted forms, mixing claws, fangs, and inhuman speed. The recruits now turned to face predators far more complex. From her safe distance, Rumi stood still, her black eyes like steel tracking every movement, calculating, measuring.

Zoey whispered low, just for Mira. “They’ll get lost if they don’t focus. Each Gwishi is different. A unique strategy for every one.”

Mira exhaled. “Learning that fast is the difference between coming back alive or becoming a statistic.”

The training center felt small under the shadow of the Dangsan, but to Rumi, every movement, every breath of the recruits, every strike and block was a mirror of herself. A reflection of everything she could be — if she chose to abandon discipline and surrender to the chaos burning inside her.

The entire mat was a stage for artificial war. The holograms of the Gwishi multiplied into diverse forms: one with claws long as blades, another with a mouth torn from ear to ear, another moving on all fours like a possessed hound. The simulation spared nothing; it was a faithful portrait of the hell awaiting the recruits outside.

One of the young hunters tried to get too close to a spectral Gwishi. The creature raised its deformed arm and tore through his defense with a brutality that ripped the air from his lungs. He collapsed backward, coughing, his chest marked by the impact of the solid illusion.

Zoey let out a short whistle, almost mocking. “They warned you not to cling. Gwishi aren’t lightweight — they’re brutal as hell. If you get close without killing, you’re just a toy. Don’t think you’ll ever handle them head-on alone. Sometimes even I think it’s bullshit!”

Mira didn’t laugh. She was serious, analyzing every step, every mistake. “That one would already be dead. And the problem isn’t him falling. In real life, when one drops, the rest lose focus. And losing focus against a Gwishi is asking to have your heart ripped out through your mouth.”

The recruits regrouped. Two tried to circle one of the abominations, but their timing was off. The Gwishi leapt between them, shattering their formation, forcing them to retreat stumbling.

“They’re stupid,” Mira said flatly. “The trick isn’t just isolating — it’s using synchronicity with the others to crush it. Never a direct, solitary clash. Force the monster to miss, don’t throw yourselves into its mouth.”

Zoey added, her voice calm, “And don’t look into their eyes. They manipulate even fear.”

Rumi stood watching with arms crossed, posture flawless. But inside, her heart pounded to another rhythm. Every movement of those monsters vibrated in her nerves as something far too familiar. That gleam in the Gwishi’s eyes, that insatiable hunger… she knew it. She felt it inside her.

With every failed strike from a recruit, with every simulation of flesh being torn, she thought, I’d be worse. I wouldn’t give them a chance to escape. I’d crush their bones before they even realized they were being hunted.

A Gwishi charged the line. The hologram had no scent, no real blood, but Rumi swore she could taste the metallic fragrance on her tongue. Her jaw clenched, her fangs throbbing beneath the gum.

She turned her gaze away not to lose herself. She had to hold discipline. She had to remember who she was. Honmoon, not abomination. Leader, not beast.

Zoey noticed the tension in her face and exchanged a quick look with Mira, but neither said a word. They respected her silence, even without understanding.

The training pressed on with growing intensity. The recruits’ bodies now dripped with sweat, breaths ragged, muscles strained to their limit. The weapons they wielded were ordinary, incapable of killing, only delaying. That was the lesson: without Honmoons, demons always return.

“That’s the point,” Mira explained, to both the instructors and the recruits still standing. “You can bleed a Gwishi to the end of the world. If there’s no Honmoon, it comes back. That’s why the hierarchy exists. That’s why we exist.”

Her words echoed through the training ground.

Rumi closed her fists discreetly. Every letter weighed as a warning to herself too: to exist as a Honmoon, to exist as a wall. Never as the thing burning inside.

The lights on the mat shifted in tone. The hologram, once just a machine of lethal illusions, reconfigured itself. A thunderous sound rippled through the floor, as if the building itself breathed in sync with the terror about to be born. The recruits, still panting from the clash against the Gwishi, exchanged nervous glances.

“Wait…” one of them murmured. “Weren’t we stopping at the Gwishi?”

Zoey curved her lips into a crooked smile, resting her elbows on the railing of the observation gallery. “Surprise.”

Mira didn’t smile. Her jaw was set tight, her eyes locked on the central dome. “If you can’t even bear to look, then you’ll never have a chance to fight.”

The air trembled. The entire ceiling seemed to suck the light into a single point. And then it appeared.

A Magwi.

The illusion had been toned down by the technicians — yet even the weakened version was enough to drive recruits to their knees under the weight of its spiritual pressure. A body of impossible proportions, skin black and cracked like burning coal, twisted wings dragging through the air like blades. Its eyes were pits of viscous red. Its mere presence made the space groan.

The terror was physical. The simulated aura was overwhelming. The air vibrated, heavy with noise, the stench of cadaverous rot spreading. The environment was too close to reality — even in reduced form.

One recruit vomited, unable to withstand the pressure. Another began to cry, sobbing with the rifle trembling in his hands. Those still standing raised their weapons, but their fingers locked stiff on the triggers.

Zoey whispered, just for Mira and Rumi to hear, “And these are the chosen of the new generation. If a ghost of a Magwi already breaks them… imagine the real thing.”

“Do you feel it?” Mira’s voice was grave. “This isn’t combat. This is despair. A Magwi doesn’t fight, it devours. You don’t defeat a Magwi. You survive the encounter, if you’re lucky enough to have a Honmoon nearby.”

The monster took a step, and just the impact against the floor spread holographic cracks across the mat. It was only an echo, yet it felt far too real.

Rumi didn’t blink. Her eyes stayed fixed on the creature, while inside her the beast stirred, restless, vibrating like a caged animal recognizing a rival. Her heart pounded, her body broke into a cold sweat. Part of her wanted to rise, to leap down there and tear out the creature’s throat. Another part trembled with the certainty that if she did, she would lose what scraps of humanity she still had left. What a wretched existence — what was meant to be a lesson of motivation for the recruits turned into a monotonous pastime of feeding the ego of her worst side, while her human half withered further with each breath.

The simulation room blared alarms, the technicians shutting down the projection before the recruits collapsed en masse. The Magwi dissolved into sparks of energy, but the silence that remained was suffocating. Many were still on the floor, sweating, pale, some sobbing softly.

Mira turned to the superiors. "This is what they must understand. Dokkaebi bite. Bhoota manipulate. Gwishi destroy. But Magwi… they erase hope.”

Zoey stretched, breaking the tension. “Congratulations, recruits. You’ve just met the line between the living and the dead. Maybe some of you would rather die than deal with this.”

The mat still reeked of sweat and fear. The recruits lay scattered across the floor, some struggling to catch their breath, others staring blankly, silent, as if the Magwi still loomed before their eyes. The superiors whispered among themselves, scribbling notes, trying to disguise their own discomfort.

Zoey stepped away from the observation rail, leaning her shoulder against the wall, arms crossed. Her eyes gleamed with that tired irony that masked something far crueler.

“Look at this…” she muttered, low, but loud enough for Mira to hear. “This is our army? Kids crying at the sight of a shadow, officers hiding behind clipboards, people who’ll never hold a city against a real attack.” She let out a humorless laugh, a dry puff through her nose. “The whole damn world is screwed. And the wall holding back hell is just three miserable women, trapped inside their own skin. Us.”

Mira didn’t answer. Her jaw was rigid, eyes locked on the recruits as if she wanted to crush every weakness into steel. Zoey, however, went on, without her usual levity “You know the funniest part? Humanity thinks it can live in peace. Goes to school, buys houses, falls in love, has kids… all of it only exists because three Honmoons haven’t broken yet. If one of us falls, just one, everything collapses.” She kicked at the floor, lightly, as if to shove away the weight of the thought.

“You know what we are? Plugs in a sinking boat. Hell already won. Time is all that’s left.”

Rumi heard. She didn’t comment. But the words echoed deep, because inside her, the beast throbbed as if in agreement.

Finally Mira spoke, firm “Then we won’t fall.”

Zoey glanced at her from the side, a bitter half-smile tugging at her lips. “You say that like it’s simple.”

Rumi drew in a deep breath, masking the tremor in her hands. The leader had to rise. She had to be the foundation even while crumbling inside.

“We’ll end it here for today,” she said, her voice calm, cold. “They’ve already learned the lesson.”

The superiors nodded, almost relieved. The recruits began to be gathered by the instructors, dragging heavy steps, eyes fixed to the ground.

Meanwhile, in Zoey’s mind, the same sentence echoed mercilessly: three women against all of hell.

The training center slowly emptied. The noise of recruits being rounded up faded down the corridors, officers dispersed with papers and tense stares. Only the Honmoons remained, walking through the circular glass hallway, where the sight of the colossal Dangsan dome dominated the horizon. The tree pulsed, as if it were breathing, spreading that ethereal glow that separated the human world from hell.

Zoey trailed a few steps behind Rumi, who walked ahead, rigid and silent. Mira, beside Zoey, noticed the way she kept her eyes lowered, so unlike her usual irreverence. Her silence weighed heavier than any sarcasm.

“What is it now?” Mira asked, her tone half sharp, half concerned.

Zoey took her time to answer. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her casual jacket over the uniform, her fingers tapping nervously against the fabric. “Did you see their faces in there?” she murmured. “The recruits, the generals… all looking at us like we’re walls, monsters, goddesses… anything but human. It’s too much… expectation…”

Mira frowned. “And isn’t that what we are?”

Zoey let out a humorless laugh, low. “I’m not, Mira. I’m just a girl who… tries not to shake when someone expects me to save the world.” She bit her lip, eyes still downcast. “And if one day I fail? If I hesitate, if I lose focus… it’s not just me who falls. It’s everyone.”

Mira stopped walking. She grabbed Zoey’s arm and pulled her to face her. The corridor was empty, the glass reflecting the light of the tree, giving the scene an almost sacred tone.

“Zoey.” Her voice came out firm, like hammered steel. “You’ve never been alone. Not once. If you fall, I fall with you. And you know what? I’d rather die in hell with you than live in this world without you.”

Zoey lifted her eyes, and for an instant all her bravado collapsed. The mask of jokes, false optimism, fearless girl — fell away. What remained was raw fear.

She smiled crookedly, a smile full of pain.“You talk like it’s easy to carry this weight.”

Mira stepped closer, resting her forehead against hers. “It’s not easy. That’s why we share it.”

Zoey closed her eyes, breathing deep, as if Mira’s warmth was the only place where she could feel alive. The touch of hands, the firm grip, the lips she knew were just inches away.

And deep down, even there, even in that stolen moment of intimacy, she knew: the fear would never vanish. It only hid, in the silence between kisses, in ragged breaths, in a love that was also a trench.

Up ahead, Rumi walked alone, as if she hadn’t heard a thing. But her shadow, cast against the glass, seemed heavier than her own body.

• ★ •

The flight back from Jeju to Seoul was short, but silent. The Confederation helicopter landed in the middle of the militarized courtyard, surrounded by electric fences, floodlights, and armed guards. The base was a living fortress, cold, metallic, a pulsing heart that never slept.

The three disembarked from the aircraft. The rotor wash scattered Zoey’s loose hair and Mira’s jacket, while Rumi led the way, posture erect, as if she were carrying the weight of all the concrete around them. The soldiers on the perimeter stopped to stare — not out of genuine respect, but from that mix of fear and fascination that always followed them.

They passed through the steel corridor, where every door had scanners and biometric locks. The sound of their own steps echoed like hammer strikes. After crossing the final checkpoint, the Confederation loomed before them: the living hive of Hunters, divided into tiers of housing, command, research, and training.

The Honmoons’ building stood farther apart, raised in a reserved sector and guarded by inner walls. There was no luxury, no freedom. It was comfortable, clean, isolated — but it was also a prison of white walls.

When they entered the lobby of the quarters, the atmosphere wavered between military silence and the false idea of home. Minimalist furniture, corridors too wide, everything lit by artificial lamps. Mira was the first to let out a heavy sigh, throwing herself against the back of the sofa.

“Uh, here again, um? Cute little house.,” she muttered with sarcasm, kicking off her sneakers and tossing them into a corner.

Zoey walked slowly to the open kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a bottle of water. She drank in long gulps, her body still tense from the memory of the simulation and the Magwi.

Rumi stood for a few seconds in the middle of the room, surveying the space as if it were hostile territory. Then she said only “Rest. Meet tomorrow morning.”

And she went straight to her room. The door shut with a dry thud, muffling the click of the automatic lock.

Mira followed the leader with her eyes until the last second, her face marked with concern. Then she turned to Zoey.

“She’s getting worse. Like, a lot.” Her voice came out almost a whisper.

Zoey set the bottle on the counter, crossed her arms, and replied, “I know.”

Silence returned, heavy as the base’s steel. Outside, the Confederation buzzed with artificial lights, but inside that reserved building, the sensation was pure claustrophobia.

This was what they called “home.”

• ★ •

The steam from the shower wrapped around Rumi like a dense cocoon. Hot water poured in torrents, striking against skin etched with old scars — scars no one but her remembered the origin of. She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against the cold tile, her breath heavy, muffled by the fall of water.

Suddenly, flashes — not from the Gangnam mission, not from the trip — or any specific battle or report — but from the night before. Her bathroom overtaken by the reflection of iridescent patterns tearing across her skin, bones cracking under pressure, the sensation that her body was no longer hers but a shell in mutation. The desperation of clawing for the suppressors. That feeling of being seconds away from unraveling into pure monstrosity.

Her eyes snapped open, dragging in a deep breath. The memory still burned in her throat like acid.

She stepped out of the shower and let herself sink down before the fogged mirror. Wiping her face with the towel, the blurred surface slowly unveiled itself.

She looked at herself. A body rigid, disciplined, shaped by years of training. Muscles firm and sculpted, built to kill and endure, yet so far from anything human. Her abdomen still bore the mark of the injection site, her arm showing the faint ridge of the suppression device. Every mark reminded her she was not only the perfect soldier — she was also an unstable vessel, a secret carved into living flesh.

The mirror reflected more questions than answers. Rumi traced her fingers along the iridescent mark on her chest, as if she could pull from it the solution to something impossible.

“Honmoons do not falter.” Celine’s words echoed in her mind like iron striking iron.

What did her mother think? Love? Weakness? Or simply no choice at all — a victim bent by a force that should never have touched the human world? The doubt gnawed harder than the memory itself — because Celine’s silence always weighed heavy whenever the subject arose.

Her eyes followed every detail she could recall of her own metamorphosis. She was not a Dokkaebi — there was no famished savagery, no grotesque smallness. Nor a Bhoota — shadows did not belong to her, nor the cruel elegance of those beings. Gwishi? Celine claimed yes, that she was closest to them. But no. That felt insufficient, forced, as if someone had tried to shove her body into a uniform it could never fit.

Memories of the outburst took shape: fur spreading across her back, the purple burning at the edges of her vision, the animalistic yet still-too-human sensation.

Eyes that never lost their humanity — and perhaps that was what terrified her most.

Because Magwi were absolute monsters. And she… she was a contradiction that fit nowhere in the hierarchy.

A body larger than the standard. Muscle fibers twitching like ropes on the verge of snapping. Wild teeth, yet her expression never truly fierce. A mistake? A hybrid condemned never to belong — neither in the human world nor among demons?

Guilt…was it in the human blood? Or in the weight of being a Honmoon?

After all, only three per generation. Only three, destined to hold back the fury of hell. Perhaps she was nothing more than an experiment of existence itself, an impossible fusion.

Then she thought the cruelest truth: did it matter? No.

Whatever it was, it would die with her. The world would never see the true form coursing through her veins. One day, the beast sleeping inside her would be buried in the same silence in which it was born.

Rumi drew in a deep breath, the vapor still clouding the mirror around her. Her lips moved almost without sound, a private confession “I know what you are. Nothing.”

And for a moment, the reflected image seemed to return her gaze with darker, deeper eyes, as if the monster within had heard. She simply turned her face, finished drying off, and left the bathroom.

• ★ •

Rumi dressed without haste, each movement weighted as if the fabric of her casual uniform still reminded her of the black armor she never seemed to shed. She pulled the dark long-sleeved shirt over her head, adjusted her training pants, tied her hair into her usual braid. She picked up her phone from the table — screen filled with notifications from superiors, mission reports, small administrative reminders. She replied coldly, mechanically, each keystroke just another cog turning in a machine that never rested.

Only then did she leave the room, crossing the corridor toward the kitchen. Her stomach grumbled faintly — not from hunger — the heavens knew what she truly craved — but from the need to keep her body upright.

But she never made it.

In the living room, the barrier was alive: Mira leaning against the sofa, arms crossed, a sly smile; Zoey sitting on the edge, an old guitar in her arms, polished from care and insistence despite its worn strings. The contrast between the instrument and the weight of their world was almost absurd.

“Rumi…” Zoey began, voice low, carrying a softness that clashed with the hardness of last night. “Stay a while. Sing with us.”

Mira added, leaning forward with her usual directness, softened this time: “Just a little. Like when we were recruits. No orders, no reports, no demons. Just the three of us.”

Rumi froze. The silence between them was dense, threaded with fragments of the past: exhausting nights of training, when instead of sleeping, they gathered around Zoey’s guitar; muffled laughter, voices hoarse from exhaustion but carrying something rare, almost impossible — true joy.

Zoey plucked the strings gently, a simple, repetitive sequence, as if trying to spark memory in Rumi through music. Her gaze was a silent plea, reinforced by Mira’s unwavering firmness: “You’re not running away this time.”

Rumi stayed rooted, immobile, as if the words struck against an internal wall. Her body demanded food. Her mind demanded silence. But something inside her, buried as deep as the beast she concealed, wavered before the sound of the guitar.

Rumi took a deep breath, as if the air could dissolve the weight pressing on her chest. Her eyes lingered on the guitar in Zoey’s hands — it wasn’t just an instrument. It was a relic from a time when they could still be girls, when the world hadn’t yet shown its rot. She reached out slowly, and Zoey handed over the guitar as if offering a sacred weapon.

The touch on the strings sparked an immediate memory. Rumi adjusted the tuning by ear, her fingers instinctively finding the exact positions. The sound resonated low, intimate, as if awakening something dormant in the room’s air.

“Balcony,” she said, flatly, but without harshness.

The three moved there. The balcony was the only space in the residence that could be called home: wide, with discreet plants that, miraculously, Rumi insisted on tending; chairs worn by time; a view of the Confedération’s lit perimeter. Here, the world felt suspended, as if the iron gates were walls against everything breathing outside.

Rumi sat, resting the guitar on her lap, and began. The first chords were simple, almost childish. Zoey joined immediately, her voice light, playfully humming like she had on recruitment days. Mira, who always claimed she had no gift, added a hoarse contralto, still trying to recall the order, but not caring if it wasn’t perfect.

Rumi wavered between the notes and memories. Her voice came last, low at first, then firmer, its tone warm and serene, filling the space alongside the others. There was no flawless technique, no stage — only honesty.

The three voices intertwined like a sturdy rope. The harmony, imperfect and true, seemed to pulse with the walls of the Confedération. For a few moments, they were not hunters, not soldiers, not monsters. They were just Zoey, Mira, and Rumi. Three voices remembering what it meant to be Honmoon: not merely to fight the darkness, but to hold a thread of light when the world shows only shadow.

The sound echoed across the balcony and, for a moment, seemed to pass through not just air, but time itself. Together, the three of them had reclaimed something the Confederation and the weight of the world had almost erased: the ancient magic of the Honmoons.

In the past, before humanity had grown bitter and anxious, before fear and separation spread like weeds, Honmoon hunters protected the world differently. Not just with weapons and brute force, but with music that enchanted the human heart. It was the union of souls, the harmony of voices, and the sincerity of art that created invisible barriers against hell.

Now, it seemed almost mocking. Humans were scattered, unconscious, divided — and demons grew stronger with each step they took away from the light. But there, in that moment, it was different.

As they sang, the veil around the Dangsan — even miles away, the monumental tree sustaining Honmoon energy — pulsed. A living gold, warm and fluid. Rumi felt the vibration ripple through her body, not as command or obligation, but as a caress. A rare moment in which the weight of the beast inside her quieted, the rage and hunger receding.

And, for the first time in a long while, her heart allowed itself to exist simply as itself. No strategies, no suppressors, no masks. Just Rumi. Just body and soul, breathing the peace only this moment could offer.

When they finished singing, they allowed themselves to laugh like people without obligations, without expectations resting on their shoulders.

“I guess if we weren’t in such a stupid ass cruel world, we could have been… hmm. A girl group!” Zoey said, in a dreamy tone.

“Girl group? Seriously? Like Kpop?” Mira asked, sarcastic. But beneath it, there was a trace of interest and appreciation for her girlfriend’s imagination.

“Yes! That’s it!” Zoey exclaimed, animated. “I’d be the lyricist or rapper, or both — I’m damn good at it! You’d be the main dancer or visual! Like, you’re really beautiful, and you already told me you danced before entering this hell,” she pointed at Mira, smiling. “And you!” Now pointing to Rumi, “would be the main vocalist!”

“Me?”

“Yes! Rumi, your voice is beautiful… like a sweet dream. Too bad we get so few chances to hear it…” Zoey said, a sympathetic but genuine lament.

Rumi shrank slightly in her own place. She looked at the guitar in her lap and allowed herself to smile. Not one of those awkward, forced smiles. Just a slight curve of the lips, as real as the beauty of the voices enriching the hearts of the three of them.

It was in moments like these that walls crumbled and flags waved. Because fragility exists behind the fortifications. And there, away from missions, reports, and the world, fragility could be lived without guilt, as a reminder of what the Honmoons truly carried: humanity.

Chapter Text

Mira had long been an accomplice.

An accomplice to the sharp neuroses of her parents. An accomplice to the demands that piled up in every corner of the house like dust that could never be cleaned away. An accomplice to the lies they told at luxurious dinners, smiling at guests who spoke of investments and status, while their own daughter sat upright, like a porcelain figurine trained not to breathe too loudly.

She was complicit in the theater of the Hong family — an empire of appearances held up by silence, discipline, and fear.

From early on, Mira learned that the house she grew up in was not a home, but a stage. There were always invisible spotlights, always hidden audiences. Her parents did not see her as a daughter, but as a reflection. Every gesture, every word, every smile had to reflect the family’s prestige. And any mistake, any shadow of inadequacy, was treated as an irreparable flaw.

Her father, rigid, was a man who spoke as if every sentence were a verdict. His words were sharp, always about honor, respect, power. Her mother, in turn, was more subtle, but no less cruel: she controlled every detail, from the clothes Mira wore to the way she held her cutlery. A single look from her hurt more than any slap.

And so Mira grew up with an invisible collar around her neck.

She could not run through the hallways. She could not laugh loudly. She could not cry without permission. She could not be.

The days were long and regimented: mornings of study, afternoons of extra lessons, evenings of social events where she had to present herself as “the model daughter.” A slip in posture? Punishment. A grade below perfection? Punishment. A misplaced word in front of guests? Public humiliation, followed by glacial silence at home.

But Mira had too much fire inside her to accept that prison without a fight.

She began to sabotage. Small rebellions, hidden behind a mask of obedience. She would run through the gardens when no one was watching. Tear expensive dresses just to feel the fabric unravel in her hands. Break glasses on purpose and invent excuses. Small acts of war in a house designed to kill any spark of freedom.

And, as always, her parents noticed. Parents always notice.

Her father reacted with restrained violence: endless lectures about shame, about disappointment. Her mother with silence, that suffocating silence that hurt more than any scream. To them, Mira was a problem, a crack in the perfect crystal the family needed to display.

Until the day of her sentence came.

It was a stifling night. The main hall was empty except for Mira and her parents. Her father, seated at the head of the table, looked at her as though she were on trial. Her mother, motionless, arms crossed, said nothing. The silence dragged on until, finally, he spoke:

“You do not belong in this house.” The words fell like a blade. “If you insist on living like an…uh, animal, then you will be treated like an animal.”

There were no screams. No discussion. Just a cold decree, as if he were deciding the fate of a defective object.

The next morning, Mira was woken early, before sunrise. She barely had time to dress before being dragged to the family’s black car. No luggage, no personal belongings. Only the plain uniform handed to her by one of the maids. Her parents did not accompany her; they sent her off as though discarding something.

The road to the port seemed endless. Mira watched the city through the window, every lit building, every busy street, as if she were seeing them for the last time. The car crossed bridges, followed the coastal road, until it reached the military terminal. There, surrounded by uniformed hunters and transport ships, she understood what was happening.

It was not a regular school. Not a boarding house for rebellious daughters. It was something much worse: the Confederation.

That was when it sank in.

This was not just punishment — it was exile. Her parents no longer wanted her under the same roof. They would rather hand her over to the hunters than endure her defiance.

Mira did not cry. She did not scream. She simply fixed her eyes on the dark sea stretching before her. A sea that seemed to announce the end of one life and the beginning of another.

The ship departed, and every wave crashing against the hull tore away the last roots of her former existence.

In her mind, her father’s words echoed like a final sentence: If you insist on living like an animal… you will be treated like an animal.

In that moment, without knowing it, Mira was not being cast into death, but into the beginning of a fate even more brutal.

• ★ •

The ship cut through the dark sea, slicing the dawn into blades of foam. Mira did not move. Sitting on a metal bench, surrounded by silent recruits, she clung to the only possession she had left: her fury. No suitcase, no memories, no farewell. Only the coarse uniform scratching her skin and the bitter taste of abandonment.

Some of the youths around her trembled, others wept quietly. Not Mira. She was empty. Nothing remained inside her but a hardened heart, beating heavy like a war drum.

The crossing lasted for hours. When Jeju’s silhouette finally appeared on the horizon, it looked more like a shadow than an island. Jagged mountains, dense clouds, a lighthouse blinking like a tired eye. The ship drew closer to a militarized port, where watchtowers and armed soldiers made one thing clear: there was no way out.

As soon as they docked, the recruits were shoved ashore. The first thing Mira noticed was the smell — sea salt mixed with gunpowder, sweat, and iron. The ground was rough concrete, scarred by armored tracks and old bloodstains no one bothered to clean.

“Double line!” an instructor barked, his voice cracking like a whip.

They obeyed. Mira, upright, stared ahead without blinking. The rebellion that had always burned inside her did not vanish, but it now hid behind tense muscles and a cold gaze. The instructors moved between the lines, assessing like predators.

“Welcome to the gates of hell,” one of them said, smirking. “Here, you will cease to be children and become weapons. Or you will die trying.”

They were marched toward the main structure: a massive circular complex built around the dome that housed the Dangsan tree. The presence of that tree was impossible to ignore. Even from a distance, Mira felt a shiver crawl down her spine. A colossal trunk, roots that seemed to pulse beneath the ground, leaves shimmering as though drinking something invisible from the air.

Everything came from there — the energy, the hunters, the demons. The living heart of the war.

The barracks were cold, stripped of any comfort. Rows of metal beds, small lockers, gray walls. Nothing resembled a home; everything reeked of discipline. Mira was assigned a bed in the back, near a barred window. The mattress was hard, but she did not complain. On the contrary: when she lay down that night, she felt for the first time that she was in a place where pain was tangible, not invisible like at home. A hard bed was better than cutting glances.

Training began at dawn.

The blare of the siren dragged them from their beds at five in the morning. Fifteen minutes to dress, line up, and run to the yard. Anyone late paid the price. Payment came in the form of push-ups until vomiting, punches from instructors, or running kilometers with doubled loads. Mira was never late. Not once.

The days fractured into sessions of exhaustion: running, hand-to-hand combat, weapon handling, open-field survival. The sun scorched, the rain punished, and the orders never ceased. The instructors did not treat recruits as apprentices but as cattle in a forge. Every mistake was punished without hesitation.

Many cried, many gave up, some were dragged away bleeding. But Mira felt something different.

Each drop of sweat was liberation. Each aching muscle was a scream of revolt she could finally unleash without fear. She did not need to hide. She did not need to pretend to be graceful, perfect, docile. Here, it didn’t matter if she broke glasses or tore dresses. Here, breaking bones and tearing flesh was expected.

And for the first time, the fire inside her was not a flaw. It was power.

On the third day, during a sparring exercise, she took down three recruits in a row. An instructor watched her with interest, not contempt. That lit something in her chest.

Of course, it wasn’t easy. Her body screamed, her lungs burned, her skin blossomed with bruises. At night, she collapsed onto her bed exhausted, but sleep did not come easily. She dreamed of her father’s face, of the words he had spoken: You do not belong in this house. A cruel mantra, echoing in the shadows of her mind. But the more she heard it, the more she swore to herself: she would never return. Never beg forgiveness. Never bow.

Weeks dragged on in a cycle of training and pain. Mira began to notice that, unlike most, her body responded quickly. Her strength grew at a frightening pace. The instructors noticed too: the way she lifted weights others could barely drag, the speed with which she recovered from cuts and blows.

Some recruits whispered: that she was different, that there was something in her beyond mere discipline. Mira did not fully understand, but she felt it. There was a raw fury inside her, a reservoir of energy she didn’t know the source of. Sometimes, at the peak of strain, her eyes seemed to burn, and her muscles pulsed as if trying to break free from her skin.

It didn’t take long before she was summoned to the center of the dome.

An officer awaited her before the Dangsan tree. The air was solemn, heavy. Enormous roots cut across the ground, and at the center lay an altar with golden fruits, small but radiating palpable energy. Mira didn’t know what it meant, but rumors among the recruits were already strong: the test.

“Sit.” the officer ordered.

She obeyed, though her heart raced. The fruit was placed before her on a metal plate. The light it gave off was almost sacred, yet there was nothing divine about it. Only judgment.

“Eat.”

Mira hesitated for an instant. She didn’t know what would happen. But she remembered her father’s gaze, his cold sentence, and felt her rage boil. If this was another test, she would not retreat. She took the fruit and bit into it.

The taste was bitter, sharp, like liquid poison sliding down her throat. She nearly choked, but kept going. She swallowed every piece, ignoring her body’s attempt to reject it.

Then came the pain.

It was not ordinary pain. It was as if every cell were combusting. Her stomach twisted, her chest burned, her bones cracked. Mira fell to her knees, gasping, drenched in cold sweat. The world spun, and amid the vertigo came an overwhelming sensation: strength. A strength not human.

Instructors drew closer, ready to restrain a seizure or witness sudden death. But Mira did not collapse. She gripped the ground, raised her head, and drew a long breath, as though surfacing from underwater.

She survived.

The silence in the hall was heavy. The officer stepped closer and murmured a single word:

“Honmoon.”

Her life would never be the same again. It wasn’t a title. It wasn’t a privilege. It was a sentence.

When the officer spoke it before the Dangsan tree, Mira felt no pride, no victory. She felt vertigo. Her pupils dilated, sweat slid down her back, and for a moment she thought she would vomit the cursed fruit she had been forced to swallow. But she kept herself upright, because weakness was no longer an option.

Two soldiers took her by the arms — not to help, but to restrain a beast just broken in. They led her out of the dome, down silent underground corridors that smelled of mildew and gunpowder. No windows, only flickering yellow lamps that cast warped shadows across the walls.

At the end of one corridor, a reinforced door opened. Inside, a woman waited.

Mira had never seen anyone like her.

Tall, lean, black hair thick and swept to the side, skin lined by time and battle. She wore a black uniform, plain, without adornments, yet her presence crushed heavier than any medal. Her brown eyes—tired, but merciless—cut through Mira like blades.

“So… you survived.” Her voice carried no warmth, only fact.

Mira didn’t answer. She was panting, drenched in sweat, but steady.

“My name is Celine.” The woman stepped forward, the echo of her boots sharp. “I am the last Honmoon alive from the previous generation. From now on, you belong to me.”

“Belong.” The word burned. But Mira had no time to react. Celine turned on her heel and ordered: “Follow me.”

The soldiers released her and withdrew. Mira followed the woman, through another corridor that led to a vast chamber, like a dojo scarred by violence. Cracked walls, worn floors, dark stains that might have been blood. In the center, weapons rested on racks: swords, spears, staves, axes. A primitive, lethal arsenal.

“This is where you will die — or be truly born.” Celine’s eyes were cold. “Honmoons are not ordinary soldiers. We are the knife’s edge that keeps humanity from extinction.”

Mira stayed silent, studying her. There was something on Celine’s shoulders, an invisible weight, as if every word dragged ghosts along with it.

“Listen carefully.” Celine stepped closer, her brown eyes locked on Mira’s. “A generation produces three Honmoons. Never more, never less. That is the law of the Dangsan. I was one of them. The other two are dead. And you…” her voice hardened, “you have taken one of their places.”

Mira felt her stomach drop. Three per generation. And now she was bound to this cursed trinity.

“The fruit you swallowed is not just a test. It is a bond. It fuses your flesh with the power of the Dangsan, leaving a scar that never heals. You will have strength beyond any human, but also hunger. There will be days when you feel it burn, as if something inside you is trying to break out. The damned desire to see every demon before you slaughtered. That is the curse you inherited.”

Mira swallowed hard. The memory of her body combusting still pulsed inside her.

“Why me?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Celine didn’t hesitate. “Because you didn’t break.”

The words hung there, crueler than any truth. Not destiny, not blessing. Pure endurance. Mira hadn’t fallen — and for that, she was chained to an eternal burden.

Celine walked to the weapons rack and drew a long staff of dark wood, curved blades at each end. The metallic sound cut the air. “Your training begins now.”

Without warning, she hurled the weapon toward her. Mira caught it by instinct, almost losing it under the weight. The impact reverberated through her arms. Before she could adjust her grip, Celine lunged with a short blade, aiming for her flank. Mira dodged on reflex, her staff clashing against the blade with a sharp crack.

The fight began. No warm-up, no instructions. Only Celine’s relentless rhythm, attacking like a predator. Every strike was fast, lethal, leaving no space for hesitation. Mira blocked, retreated, faltered, got hit. The master’s blade cut her shoulder, her knee, her ribs. Blood spilled, pain throbbed — but she never let go of the staff.

Celine was merciless, unyielding. This wasn’t a lesson. It was war. When Mira collapsed to her knees, gasping, mouth full of iron, she heard her voice, cold:

“You survived the fruit. That means nothing. If you don’t learn, you’ll die fast. And if you die, the cycle will have to wait for another. Do you understand? You are not permitted to die.”

Mira didn’t answer. She spat blood onto the floor and raised the staff again. Eyes locked, breath ragged.

Celine finally allowed something that almost looked like respect. “Good. Then get up.”

And so, day after day, week after week, hell repeated itself.

• ★ •

Honmoon training was unlike anything Mira had ever endured. It wasn’t only physical; it was spiritual, mental, psychological.

Celine forced her through exercises that bordered on torture: hauling stones up a mountain with chains locked around her ankles (to simulate the many bodies she would one day have to drag from destruction); crossing freezing rivers with her arms bound (to simulate the worst terrains she might traverse to reach her target); fighting veteran soldiers while blindfolded (to simulate that demons could be anyone, anywhere). Every mistake ended in pain — but also in learning.

“Your body is only the vessel,” Celine would say. “What you need is discipline. Rage without control is nothing but useless fire. Learn to shape it.”

And yet, Mira felt there was something more within her fury. In moments of exhaustion, when her body seemed ready to collapse, a surge of strength rose from inside — almost miraculous, perhaps more than that. Her strikes grew heavier, her movements sharper, her muscles charged with impossible energy. It was as if something pushed her beyond the human threshold. The Honmoon energy itself was driven by hunger — the desperate need to overcome.

“Control,” Celine repeated, striking her with a staff until blood streamed down. “Or it will consume you.”

The nights were worse. In her reserved quarters, alone, Mira writhed in nightmares. Faces twisted, voices whispering in tongues she couldn’t recognize. The fruit still burned inside her stomach, an internal scar. She woke drenched in sweat, fists clenched so tight her nails pierced her skin.

In those moments, she remembered her parents. The silence, the rejection, the words that cast her out: You do not belong in this house.

Now, finally, she belonged somewhere. Even if that place was hell.

Months bled into years.

Mira grew — not only in strength, but in brutality. She became a machine forged beneath Celine’s cold gaze. Her lean frame disguised muscles like iron. Her reflexes sharpened to razors. Her endurance bordered on the inhuman: she could run for hours without faltering, endure blows that would have knocked out any soldier.

But the most frightening part was the hunger swelling inside her. With each simulated battle, with each drill, she felt she could destroy more, devour more. Not just survive — win, crush, dominate.

Celine watched her closely. She knew what it meant.

“You are more violent than the others,” she said one night, after Mira had torn through five soldiers without mercy. “But don’t fool yourself. That violence is a double-edged blade. I’ve seen Honmoons lose themselves to it.”

“What would you rather I be, huh? Gentle?” Mira spat blood, sneering. “Like some little lamb?”

Celine held her gaze for a long time. In her brown eyes, memories stirred — of friends who no longer lived.

“I’d rather you survive.” It was the only answer.

Between sessions of torture and learning, Celine also told stories. Not as someone who teaches, but as someone who carves scars into the mind.

She spoke of the first generation of Honmoons, legendary huntresses who faced hordes of Gwishi and prevented the fall of Seoul. She spoke of battles against Magwis, monsters that resembled gods, capable of devouring cities. She spoke of failures, of deaths, of names erased from history because they succumbed too soon.

“The books only tell of the victories,” Celine said in a low voice, while sharpening a blade. “But we, the ones who remain, remember the losses. You have no idea how many fell before you even existed.” Mira listened in silence, fists clenched. What she had inherited was not heroism. It was mourning.

The training cycle lasted years, but Mira never forgot the first day she faced Celine. Never forgot the word that chained her: Honmoon.

And even in the midst of exhaustion, something grew inside her — a dark certainty, a vow she never spoke aloud:

She would not be the lamb. Never again. If it was a wolf they expected, she would devour.

• ★ •

At ten years old, Mira arrived at the Confederation a broken child. At sixteen, she was already a complete Honmoon. Her body rigid, muscles carved to the limits of war, reflexes sharpened through exhaustion. She was the most feared cadet on the base, the shadow instructors used to terrify recruits. Inside her, nothing had softened. It was apathy. A hardened void, coated in discipline and pain.

And it was in this state that Celine summoned her.

It was dawn when the master appeared in her cell. No warning, no formality. Only the order: “Get dressed. It’s time for a real test.”

Mira obeyed without a word. The training uniform weighed on her shoulders, but her heart remained still. She followed Celine through dark corridors, crossing iron gates until they reached the outer courtyard.

The Dangsan rose there, like a petrified titan. The sacred tree, its trunk massive and roots exposed, pulsed with a golden, suffocating energy. Mira had seen it countless times, but never at night under the pale moonlight. It looked more alive, more monstrous, as if it were breathing.

Celine stopped before it, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on Mira.

“Today you will prove you are not just a vessel. Today you will kill.”

Mira did not flinch. “I’ve killed before.”

“Rats. Traitors. Training dummies.” Celine spat the words. “Today is different.”

A sound echoed. Chains dragging across the ground. And then, they brought him.

Two soldiers dragged a figure into the clearing. Mira first saw the bare, scratched feet. Then the wrists bound in shackles. The thin body, still recognizable. And when the face lifted, the blade she kept buried in her chest pierced straight through her.

“…Minjun.” Her brother.

The only one who had written her letters during six years of hell. The only one who still spoke of childhood, of afternoons in the garden, of secrets hidden from their parents. The only memory that didn’t hurt.

But his eyes were no longer his. They burned with feverish gold, skin marked by dark purple veins crawling like roots up his throat. His teeth lengthened, his body convulsed.

“He made a pact.” Celine’s voice was cold, a clean cut. “A Magwi answered. Now he pays the price.”

“No…” The word escaped Mira like a sob.

“He chose.” Celine did not avert her eyes. “And now, he is no longer human.”

Mira felt her legs weaken. For a moment, she was not the strongest cadet, not the designated Honmoon. She was only the girl who received letters from a distant brother, letters stained with coffee and hope.

“Kill him.” The order fell like a stone into the depths of a lake.

“...I can’t.” Mira barely recognized her own voice.

Celine stepped forward. “Either you kill him now, or he completes his transformation and devours you. Choose.”

The silence was broken by a guttural roar. Minjun raised his head, his eyes blazing like embers. His body contorted, skin tearing with black-purple lines. The chains rattled, soldiers straining to contain him.

Mira stepped back, tears stinging, burning her eyes.

“Mira.” Celine’s voice was now a blade pressed against her throat. “If you are not capable of killing what you love, you are not worthy of being Honmoon.”

Her hands trembled. The heavy staff slipped in her grip. Never, in all the drills, in all the nights of torture, had her body refused her like this.

But when Minjun looked at her, he was no longer her brother. The sweet smile was gone. In its place, a snarl, sharp teeth, the hatred of the creature breaking through.

Mira wept. She wept as she had never allowed herself. Tears fell in silence, mingled with sweat and the distorted blood her brother spat as he growled, spraying her skin. And then, with her chest shattered, she raised the weapon. The Honmoon energy shimmered, falsely pure, wrapping the blade.

“Forgive me…” she whispered, begging for something neither he nor the world could give.

The beast’s roar drowned everything.

Mira charged, the staff swinging in a perfect arc, striking his neck. Chains snapped, his body crashed to the ground. A second blow split his skull. Silence.

Minjun’s body stopped moving. The golden eyes went out, leaving only the shadow of who he once was.

Mira let the staff fall. She collapsed to her knees beside the corpse, fingers clawing at the dirt. She didn’t scream. She didn’t allow herself. She only let the tears flow until they dried.

Celine watched her. Without expression, without pity. “Now you are a true Honmoon. Hm… how proud.” The words slipped from the veteran’s lips like crimson poison that echoed inside her ribcage.

Mira did not reply. Deep down, she knew: there was no return. The last part of her that was still human — not weapon, not expectation — had died along with Minjun.

The silence that followed Minjun’s fall was not merely the absence of sound. It was a vacuum that suppressed even the memory of breathing. Mira remained standing, the staff still slipping between her fingers, her eyes fixed on the ground, and it was in that moment that the coldness became real. Not the coldness of training or of forced discipline, but the absolute coldness of someone who had learned that kindness is a debt the world refuses to pay. Every fragment of tenderness from her childhood evaporated the instant her brother’s body became a corpse through the weapon she wielded — under the promise of protecting the world.

There would be no more needless tears. No more soft gestures. Every smile, every hesitation, every emotional weakness that dared to exist would be crushed before anyone could notice. Mira rose slowly, each muscle aware, each joint a memory of survival, and walked to the edge of the courtyard. The light of the Dangsan bathed the scene in golden and shadowed tones, as though time itself had warped. She felt the pulse of the tree, the veil of energy separating the human world from hell, and understood, with brutal clarity, that everything was now different. She was a Honmoon of flesh and iron, of mind and absence.

• ★ •

At dawn, she received the summons to cross the training center. Every corridor of the Confederation breathed history, discipline, and death. The architecture was functional, yet designed to crush the spirit: corridors of dark steel, armored windows filtering natural light into a neutral spectrum, polished concrete floors that reflected each step as though the ground itself judged the cadet. Guards patrolled every entrance, eyes sharp, faces expressionless, weapons ready for the slightest break in protocol.

Mira felt the cold air cut her exposed skin beneath the light training uniform. The metallic sound of boots echoed across all the floors, resonating like a premonition. The walls were adorned with photos of former Honmoons, all with resolute gazes — some nearly human, others marked by the savagery the role demanded. One in particular, beside Celine, held the most human look of all — but that seemed unreachable now. She passed by simulation rooms, where holograms of demons cast shadows that would make any cadet’s heart hesitate. She did not hesitate.

In the cafeteria, cadets ate quickly, bites filled with energy and sweat. There was no conversation, only eyes measuring one another’s strength. Mira walked among them without anyone daring to look directly. Some tried, only to realize the difference: the cadet who had killed her own brother, the girl who had learned too early that human life was nothing more than raw material for the survival of their enemies.

She passed through the weapons hall, where rifles and blades rested on steel racks, gleaming under cold light. Instructors drilled recruits in repetitive movements, strike after strike, until each motion became instinct, brutal by nature. In one corner, holograms of Dokkaebi and Bhoota were projected, simulating attacks and deaths. Mira did not look for long; she had already studied every pattern, every predator’s instinct. Her mind processed, classified, evaluated, always a step ahead of any other cadet.

When she reached the central training field, the scale shifted. A circular arena enclosed by reinforced walls, with observation platforms for instructors and giant holograms projecting Magwi, Gwishi, Bhoota, and Dokkaebi in real time. The ground was marked with lines of combat, each stroke measured to calculate positioning, distance, reaction time. Mira felt the air vibrate with concentrated energy, the same kind radiated by the Dangsan, but denser, crueler. Every cadet there was a warrior in training, but the atmosphere made it clear that, in reality, the selection had already taken place: few would survive without being corrupted by the weight of the world.

Instructors barked orders — some in low, threatening tones, others in deafening volume. Mira observed, absorbing every detail: cadets falling, rising, being corrected brutally, screams of pain, groans, ragged breaths. No sign of mercy was tolerated. Every movement was timed, every gesture evaluated. Mira’s body responded instinctively: firm posture, straight spine, hands relaxed but ready. She felt no anxiety. Only cold study and calculation.

As she walked along the perimeter, she noticed the generals stationed on upper platforms. Their stares differed from the instructors’: sharper, as if they saw through every cell of Mira’s being. Each of her steps was evaluated not only as a cadet’s, but as that of a potential living weapon. And that did not unsettle her; it was expected. She no longer belonged to herself.

Finally, Celine stopped her before an isolated chamber, heavy armored doors engraved with ancient symbols — Honmoon signs, energy runes that protected the interior. Mira knew what that meant: no common training awaited inside. Here lay the final test of the generation, the official designation of her partnership.

Celine looked at her, gaze piercing through the cadet, measuring every nuance of expression.

“Mira.” Her voice was firm, but carried something deeper. “You’ve endured all this and remain unbroken. But now, the true trial begins.”

The doors opened slowly, revealing the interior. The first thing Mira noticed was the short, agile figure that stood out even in the carefully controlled darkness of the room. The girl smiled broadly, yet the vacant look in her eyes betrayed an absence of humanity. Every movement radiated charisma, every gesture seemed inviting, but there was a void — an aura that reminded Mira she was facing someone trained just as extremely as herself.

“Hong Mira…” Celine’s voice cut through the air. She extended her hand, pointing to the girl. “This is Cho Zoey… the second Honmoon of this generation and your new partner.”

Mira swallowed hard. Zoey’s wide smile seemed so genuine it was almost impossible not to be deceived by the surface. But Mira’s instincts did not fail. She felt the other’s coldness, her calculation. She sensed the magnetism born from the same absence of mercy she had cultivated. They studied one another, mutually recognizing the danger in each other, even beneath the mask of a cadet or the disguise of a smile.

It was the beginning of something that would define not only their generation but the very survival of the Confederation.

The training space was wide, circular, illuminated in a controlled manner. Every corner cast precise shadows, every platform offered a complete view of the floor below. Mira stood motionless, analyzing Zoey with the kind of attention only a Honmoon could possess. The girl smiled, but her gaze was cold. Every fiber of her body seemed ready to react within fractions of a second, every muscle trained for sudden bursts or to absorb impact.

The silence between them was not uncomfortable. It was charged. Two prey, two survivors, measuring the strength and intent of the other. Mira drew a deep breath, controlling her posture, every step of the training already calculated before she moved a single muscle. Zoey shifted her eyes slowly, almost playfully, but the smile remained, wide and intense, and Mira knew it was not just a façade — it was strategy.

Celine, from the top of the platform, observed every gesture.

“First instruction: mutual recognition,” said the ex-Honmoon. “Before you face any demon, you must learn to face each other. No mistakes.” Her voice echoed firm, leaving no room for doubt.

Mira stepped forward. Zoey did not step back. No hesitation. Both understood the meaning of the test. Celine lowered her hand, releasing the simulation. Holograms of demons emerged, projecting attacks, howls, combat patterns — but the true trial lay elsewhere. Each had to calculate, predict, and react to the other’s moves.

Zoey’s first movement was quick, almost graceful, a simulated strike that Mira dodged with ease. The elder’s body responded instinctively, every muscle tuned to intercept without harming. They circled closer, each step measured, each breath observed. The sound of their movements echoed through the metallic arena.

“Good reflex,” Mira murmured, surprised at her partner’s precision. Zoey only smiled.

The instructors observed in silence. No comments, only subtle signs of approval and notation. Mira realized that Zoey possessed something she had not yet fully developed: a strategic lightness, almost artistic, which did not reduce lethality but heightened efficiency.

“Do not be fooled by the smile,” Celine warned in a low, near-whispering tone. “It is not innocent. It is deadly.”

Mira nodded, already aware. Each movement that followed was sharper, faster, more calculated. Simulated strikes, evasions, projections of attacks — all in perfect synchrony, as if each tried to anticipate and surpass the other. The tension never eased, yet respect began to take shape. They understood one another without speaking.

Between attacks and defenses, Mira reflected on her own coldness. All that remained was calculation and survival. Any trace of fragility could be fatal. And still, something in Zoey’s presence stirred a silent recognition. It was a warning: this was not only about physical strength. The battle would be mental, emotional, strategic.

After hours of relentless training, both fell to their knees, gasping. Sweat streamed down their faces, but neither had faltered. Celine approached, her steps measured across the arena.

“You have not only survived your first joint simulation,” she said, looking at Mira and then at Zoey. “You have learned to sense each other’s presence. That is more important than any strike or defense.” Her voice was firm, yet carried a rare nuance of approval.

Mira lifted her eyes to Zoey. The shorter girl’s smile was still there, but now it seemed less a trick and more a promise: equal skill, equal survival, an unbreakable partnership.

“Remember,” Celine continued, “the world outside is cruel. Every demon you face will be faster, stronger, and more unpredictable than anything trained here. You will only survive if you trust in yourselves and, at times, in each other.” The ex-Honmoon paused, locking her gaze on both. “That is the only way to honor the title of Honmoon.”

Mira lowered her head. Part of her wanted to reject any form of emotional connection. But one inescapable thought lingered: Zoey was not just a training partner, not just a talented cadet. She was the only person, at this moment, who understood the intensity of what they had faced together — even without words.

The first physical contact came when Zoey, testing Mira’s reaction, lightly touched her shoulder during a position shift. Mira froze for an instant, startled by the audacity, but did not pull away. The touch was not intimidation, but a silent provocation. A reminder that Zoey was there, as an ally, and that neither of them could afford to falter.

As they walked back through the training center’s corridors, both kept silent. The air was thick with tension and respect. Every shadow seemed to watch them, every step echoed like judgment. The instructors did not intervene; there was no need. The learning was present in every gesture, every breath, every glance.

Mira thought of her own path: from the moment her parents abandoned her, every choice, every sacrifice, every fragment of humanity she had shed to survive. She knew her coldness was now her greatest weapon. And still, with Zoey beside her, something unexpected lingered: a sense of balance. Her partner’s presence showed she did not have to bear it all alone. Not that she would admit it, nor soften — but it was perceptible.

In that corridor lit by the cold glow of lamps, Mira finally grasped the implicit lesson: strength alone is not enough. Strategy, observation, calculated trust — and the silent comprehension of another equally prepared mind — could decide who lived and who fell.

When they reached the decompression room, the first rest permitted after hours of training, Mira sat, still on guard. Zoey approached, sitting beside her while keeping respectful distance. No words were spoken, only a look. Each knew that the newly forged respect was the foundation of everything to come.

Celine entered, her gaze carrying the weight of someone who knew the price of extreme discipline.

“The generation that rises will not be tested only by monsters,” she said. “You will be tested by yourselves and by the partnership you build. Allow no weakness, allow no mistakes.” She paused, staring deeply at Mira and Zoey. “Today you began the construction of a wall. You must be strong, cold, precise. And above all, together.”

Mira felt the weight of those words like a cold mantle settling on her shoulders. But now, she was no longer alone. Zoey, enigmatic as she was, walked at her side along the same frozen path.

By the end of the day, as the artificial sun vanished behind armored walls, Mira understood something crucial: the coldness she had cultivated, the erasure of any trace of kindness, remained essential. But there was room for silent recognition, for calculated respect, for a partnership that, despite life’s harshness, could strengthen each of them in ways neither could achieve alone.

And it was within that fragile balance between coldness and recognition that Mira took her first real step toward understanding the function of being a Honmoon: not mere survival, but the construction of something that transcends brute strength — something that, even in a cruel and desolate world, could protect, even silently, what was still worth protecting. It would not be easy, not after all she had sacrificed to reach this point.

But one does not live in mourning.

• ★ •

Zoey was born in a house that smelled of freshly baked bread and old books, in Burbank, California. It was a family that looked respectable, ordinary: a Korean mother, elegant, with a discreet smile and what seemed like infinite patience; an American father, second generation in the country, rigid, methodical, always concerned with schedules, duties, and an impeccable routine. Zoey’s early years unfolded between music lessons, mornings at the park, and family meals where soft conversations filled the air. Everything was predictable, ordered, safe — nothing that could suggest the abyss that would later open.

At first, Zoey felt everything was under control. The house had warm colors, soft rugs, framed photographs of smiling faces on the walls. Neighbors spoke of her as the “polite and intelligent girl,” her father smiled with restrained pride, and her mother offered quiet looks of approval. Every detail seemed to radiate normalcy. Her routine was simple: school, homework, piano, piano again, required readings, dinners, and goodnights. Zoey grew up surrounded by books and melodies, between rigid schedules and sporadic, but affectionate embraces.

The first sign of instability was almost imperceptible. Her mother began spending more time at work, her smiles shorter, her laughter less frequent. Zoey didn’t fully understand, but she noticed. Her father, on the other hand, became more anxious. Small arguments about nothing grew into long silences, cutting words not directed at her, yet still reaching her. Zoey learned early that emotions could be silent, but sharp as blades.

She took refuge in books, invented stories, doodled in the margins. That became her shield. The fragility of her family’s balance was countered by her inner world, a place where she could control time, space, and the people around her — if only in imagination. By the age of ten, she already understood that life was made of invisible rules, and breaking them meant chaos would seep in.

When her mother finally announced she was moving back to Korea, Zoey felt a mixture of curiosity and confusion. The idea seemed like a dream: to see her mother again, to speak Korean fluently once more, to feel the warmth of arms that had been a rare comfort. But there was also fear, a sharp pang of anguish she didn’t yet know how to name. The separation wasn’t abrupt, but measured in packed bags, adjusted schedules, silent shifts that cracked the balance she thought she had.

Her father stayed. He took full custody of Zoey. At first, the girl didn’t grasp what that meant, but soon she felt the difference: stricter rules, less tolerance, no flexibility. Every tear had to be contained, every smile carefully measured. Zoey learned that now, more than ever, she had to be prudent, silent, watchful.

Life in Burbank continued, but no longer with the ease of her early childhood. Mornings were still for school, recess still for play, but tension hung in the air. Her father’s small bursts of anger became common: a spilled glass, unfinished homework, a late bus. Every move of Zoey’s was weighed, judged, punished with severity. She could afford no mistakes.

The house, once welcoming, now carried undertones of warning. Every room seemed haunted by the memory of her parents’ unspoken fights. Zoey’s bedroom, once bright with colors and toys, was now soberer, meticulously organized, as though she needed to keep absolute control over her space to preserve her sanity. She spent hours writing in journals, scribbling thoughts she couldn’t voice, sketching figures that represented the invisible chaos around her.

It was during this time that she intuitively learned the duality that would mark her life: to present a calm, obedient, charming face, while inside lived a storm of fears, frustrations, and contained rage. The child who smiled at her teacher, who behaved at the dinner table, who obeyed her father’s commands, was at odds with the girl who, alone in her room, wondered if anyone truly knew her.

As months passed, Zoey watched her mother with longing and silence. Each letter, each brief phone call, was absorbed with intensity. The words were precious, secret shelters, reminders of an affection she knew she couldn’t keep in reach. Distance taught her that presence was fleeting, and attachment was a risk. She began to realize that, to survive, she had to build an inner fortress no one could breach.

The divorce was finalized at last. There were no screaming matches, no public fights — just signatures, documents, a bureaucratic formality. But its impact was devastating. Zoey looked at her father, still tense and unyielding, and her now-distant mother, and understood nothing would ever be the same. The world felt smaller, colder. For the first time, she felt the real weight of having to choose between two versions of love and care that could not coexist.

She held firm, but within her grew a silent resolve. Strength wasn’t a choice; it was survival. From then on, Zoey understood that joy would always be temporary, comfort always fragile. She needed to be resilient, not to depend on anyone, to protect herself above all. The child in Burbank was turning into a survivor — the seed of something stronger, more calculating, more aware of her own worth and her limits.

• ★ •

There was no longer that comforting silence that bathed the morning in soft light, but a tense quiet, heavy with expectation and judgment. Zoey walked Burbank’s sidewalks as if traversing a minefield; every step, every gesture, was observed, measured, and evaluated. Her father, ever present, ever vigilant, had such meticulous attention that she could feel his eyes even when he was in another room.

She grew. Each year made her more like her mother — in her eyes, in her expression, in the curve of a smile that occasionally slipped out unbidden. To Zoey, the resemblance was natural, inevitable. To her father, it was a silent provocation, a constant reminder of something lost, of a presence he could no longer control.

Small tensions became routine. A dinner began in silence, Zoey rushing to finish her schoolwork on time, her father inspecting every detail: the table arrangement, the utensils used, the way Zoey served the food. A minor slip — a spoon out of place, a strand of hair falling across her face — could provoke a cutting look, a sharp comment, an order to redo everything. Zoey learned to breathe slowly, move precisely, and never give anything away that could be used against her.

Discussions escalated, no longer about trivial matters, but about who she was becoming. Her father bitterly remarked, “You’re becoming more and more like her.” The words, simple in appearance, carried cruel weight. Zoey didn’t fully grasp the full meaning at the time, but she felt the implicit accusation: you are not what I want you to be. You are not my creation.

Over time, punishments appeared, not only verbal but structural, almost surgical. Her father controlled schedules, decisions, interactions. Zoey couldn’t go out with friends unsupervised, choose her clothes or activities freely, or even voice an opinion without weighing each word. Every action had consequences; every deviation left a mark he recorded silently, as if each mistake of hers were a flaw in his own existence.

She remembered mornings when she tried to dress herself. A shirt he deemed inappropriate meant three days of restrictions: no visits, no extra activities, no indulgences. An innocent comment about her mother would provoke a storm: disapproval, cold stares, doors slamming. Zoey learned early that she could not speak of longing without risk; the simple act of thinking about affection, about her mother, was enough to tighten her heart with guilt and fear.

Despite everything, Zoey continued to grow in intelligence and perception. She began to notice patterns — the choice of her father’s words, the rhythm of his voice, the expression preceding a punishment. Every detail became a map for survival. She learned to navigate the rules, to anticipate what would be accepted and what would trigger anger. It was a subtle dance, almost silent, yet intense.

Her father observed every small change. Each trait inherited from her mother was a spark that could ignite his already limited patience. Zoey felt his heavy gaze in mundane moments: drawing, packing her bag, sitting at the table. She had to restrain her expression, suppress instincts, reduce any sign of personality that might be interpreted as defiance.

And yet, she could not prevent part of her mother from surviving in her — in the smile, the voice, the way of thinking and questioning. Each fragment of this enraged him. He wanted to mold her, erase her, reconstruct her in his image. Every failure to obey the rules exactly was met with rigor. There were no loud screams, but firm orders, long stares, silent restrictions. It was a subtle, strategic violence that slowly eroded her autonomy.

Zoey felt divided. Part of her wanted to please, to seek her father’s approval, to follow the rules, to survive within his system. Another part wanted to scream, cry, run away, seek her mother, claim her own existence. But these emotions were carefully contained. She developed, unconsciously, the ability to mask her feelings — outwardly calm, obedient, even affectionate; inwardly, a whirlwind of rage, sorrow, and silent determination.

The emotional distance grew day by day. Interactions with her father became less about affection and more about calculation. Every phrase was analyzed, every silence interpreted. Zoey learned not to trust anything that seemed simple or genuine. Everything had layers, intention, consequence. Every smile from her father carried a warning; every gesture of affection came with a condition.

One winter morning, Zoey remembered an episode that cemented this duality. She had prepared breakfast on her own, trying to show she could be responsible. Her father entered the kitchen, looked at the table — taking in every detail, from the fried eggs to the steaming coffee — drawing a shallow breath just to speak:

“You still don’t understand what is enough.”

Without further explanation, he turned and left, leaving Zoey with a racing heart and the sensation of absolute failure. The girl felt that everything she did was insufficient, that every effort would be judged and inevitably penalized.

These moments repeated. Every step Zoey took was a balance between obedience and survival. She learned to calculate smiles, measure words, control gestures. The need to hide her true nature, thoughts, and feelings became instinctive. The child who once marveled at life’s simplicity now lived in constant alert, every detail of the world around her transformed into challenge, test, and potential trap.

At the same time, there was the constant reminder of her mother. Each letter, each phone call was proof that love existed, but was out of reach. Her mother returned to Korea, to her own life, while Zoey remained under her father’s strict supervision. The absence of her mother, combined with her father’s rigidity, shaped Zoey into someone who early understood the need for absolute control, resilience, and emotional calculation.

She grew up this way, learning to be the perfect daughter on the surface while cultivating a strategic mind and underground emotional strength. Every step, every gesture, every smile was carefully rehearsed. Yet the girl also instinctively knew that no disguise could entirely hide who she was. Something inside demanded expression, longed for freedom, even if in secret, even if silently.

It was in this environment of control and frustration that Zoey began to build the foundation of what would later become her shield: the ability to mask fragility, to present superficial joy, to transform suffering into functionality. The child from Burbank learned early that survival required more than physical strength: it required intelligence, emotional discipline, and the capacity to hide the truth from both herself and others. 

• ★ •

The day in Burbank was gray. There was no sun, no warmth, only the diffuse light filtering through the kitchen window where Zoey was once again trying to prepare lunch on her own. The smell of toasted bread mingled with the cold morning air, and everything felt poised to snap. Her father, already impatient, crossed his arms, watching her every movement as if policing not only what she was doing but who she was.

“You always do everything wrong,” he said, his voice calm but carrying that cutting weight that made the air feel heavier. “I don’t know why I even try.”

Zoey took a deep breath, steadying the tremor in her fingers as she tried not to drop the skillet. Every word he spoke was an invisible blow; every pause afterward was a silent punishment. She had grown up hearing this, accumulating years of small tensions that, in that moment, converged into an inevitable eruption.

“Dad…” she began, hesitating. “I… I just wanted things to be different.”

He raised an eyebrow, a short, almost mocking smile tugging at his lips. “Different? Zoey, you don’t understand. There is no room for ‘different’ here. Nothing you do will ever be enough. You’re becoming more like her every day, and it only reminds me of what I lost.”

The words fell like stones into Zoey’s heart. She felt a rising heat, silent rage mingled with an old sorrow she had never allowed herself to show. Every trait inherited from her mother, every gesture, every natural inclination of her body or expression, was interpreted as betrayal, as provocation.

She swallowed the pain, trying to stifle the sob threatening to escape. But the frustration finally erupted:

“…then… then… I wanted to be with her!” she said, voice trembling but firm. “I wanted my mother! I don’t want to be here!”

Her father took a step back, shock evident in his eyes. The hand resting on the table trembled slightly, but his gaze remained hard, incredulous. The confession, simple and true, cut like a blade. He wasn’t prepared to hear it, to accept that the absolute control he believed he had over his daughter was being rejected in raw words.

“…How dare you say that?” His voice was firmer now, heavy with restrained anger. “You don’t understand what it means to say something like that—”

“I understand perfectly!” Zoey shot back, her anger rising, igniting every word. “I understand that you want me to be someone else! That you want me to erase who I am! But I can’t anymore! I can’t be you, I can’t be someone who doesn’t feel, who never makes mistakes! I just want… I just want my mother! I just wanted my family!”

Her father exhaled, every muscle tense, every line of his face compressed in fury and pain. He stepped away from the table, walking slowly toward the window, staring out at the gray street. Every word from Zoey felt like a dagger driven into something deeper than pride; it was the certainty of failure, the confirmation that his attempt to shape her had failed.

Silence fell for a few seconds, heavy and almost suffocating. Then he turned, his expression taking on a cold, definitive resolve.

“If that’s how you feel…” he began, voice low but firm, leaving no room for discussion. “Then maybe it’s better for you to leave. Far from here. To Korea.”

Zoey swallowed hard, surprise and fear mingling. “Korea?” she murmured, almost disbelieving.

“Yes,” he said, his eyes flashing with a mixture of pain and anger. “Not for your mother, not for comfort… it’s the spoiling I gave you that made you weak… you’re going to” — he paused, as if weighing the words on the tip of his tongue, in the crease of his lips — “to the Confederation. To the cadet center. You will learn discipline, obey, become useful.”

The words fell like a hammer, and Zoey felt the ground vanish beneath her feet. It wasn’t escape, reunion, or love. It was exile, punishment, separation. It was the continuation of control, now manifesting in physical distance, forcing her to accept a new world, cold and impersonal.

She wanted to protest, argue, cry, but her father’s gaze, icy and firm, paralyzed her. Any word would be insufficient; any gesture could be interpreted as weakness. She felt the tightness in her chest, the mix of fear and anger, and understood there was no room for tears. The decision had been made.

In the following days, everything became a silent preparation. Her father organized documents, instructions, tickets, and Confederation contacts. Every movement reminded Zoey that the separation was final. She packed her clothes, her books, her keepsakes — each object chosen carefully, as if carrying not just material things but fragments of her own identity.

The night before departure, Zoey sat on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The walls of her room, full of photos and memories of a childhood growing ever more distant, seemed to shrink around her. The absence of her mother, her father’s gaze, the restrained anger, and silent disappointment mingled, creating a pressure that almost suffocated her. She realized, with painful clarity, that her childhood had ended there, that innocence had been ripped away, and that the world awaiting her would be brutal, cold, and demanding.

On the plane, Zoey kept her eyes fixed on the window, watching the clouds drift slowly by. Her heart raced, her mind churned with conflicting thoughts, and she felt the weight of her father’s choice, her own rebellion, and the inevitability of the destiny that awaited her. Each cloud seemed a barrier, an obstacle to cross, and she knew she could not afford weakness.

Arriving in Korea, the reception was swift, meticulous, and impersonal. A Confederation representative awaited, taking her directly to the cadet school. There was no time for adaptation, explanation, or acclimation. Zoey was thrust into the rigid flow of discipline, rules, schedules, training, and instruction. Every moment was structured, every step monitored, every mistake observed.

The girl who had left Burbank was now in another world. A world where rules were not merely social but vital for survival. Where each action could mean the difference between life and death. Where discipline, strength, and intelligence needed to merge instinctively.

As she walked through the Confederation corridors, sensing the military routine around her, Zoey realized that the distance enforced at home had also distanced her from the senses of the real world. But she also recognized something new: the possibility of rebuilding herself. Not as an obedient daughter, not as a reflection of someone lost, but as Zoey — capable, strategic, prepared.

The initial shock of arrival, the forced distance, the severity of the new world were, in truth, the first step in shaping what she would become: a Honmoon, someone who would learn to hide fragility beneath smiles and absolute control, transforming pain into discipline, fear into strategy.

And in that moment, watching cadets train, the uniforms impeccable, the polished floors reflecting cold lights, Zoey understood: what her father thought was punishment would, in fact, forge her into someone able to face not only demons but the brutal reality of humanity itself.

The flight, the farewell, the frustration, the anger, the sorrow — all converged into a single, firm thought: survive, learn, control, and, when necessary, smile to deceive.

• ★ •

The air inside the Confederation was gray, filtering a dull light through the polished concrete corridors of the training center. Zoey aligned herself with the other cadets, uniforms tight, boots heavy, backpacks carrying only essential gear. Her frail body did not command immediate respect — thin arms and legs, narrow chest, muscles still underdeveloped. Yet her eyes burned with an intensity that defied her physical appearance.

Instructors watched every move, every step, every gesture. Orders were short, precise, almost suffocating. Zoey stumbled, misstepped through movement combinations, struggled with the endurance required for hours of continuous training. Every failure was recorded, scored, analyzed. Fatigue burned in her shoulders, her hands tingled with wrist pain, and her breath seemed insufficient to supply the energy demanded.

But Zoey did not give up. Every mistake became calculation, every stumble adjustment. She learned to anticipate the instructor’s movements, to predict the weight and trajectory of every training apparatus, to transform weakness into strategy. While the other cadets relied on brute strength, Zoey relied on calculation, observation, and memory. Each repetition became a map, each exercise a study.

Time passed, and slowly, the body began to respond to the mind. Arms that once couldn’t support weight grew firm, thin legs transformed into agile, precise levers. Physical strength would never be her only weapon. Zoey discovered that rapid thought could create advantage in fractions of a second: calculating angles, anticipating attacks, dodging strikes, and using an opponent’s force against them. Mind became more powerful than muscle, and courage began to grow where fear had once dominated.

Every day of training was exhausting, yet every day revealed new capabilities. She began to understand the interaction of body and mind almost scientifically: how breathing affected strength, how posture altered endurance, how strategic thought could turn a seemingly weaker cadet into a real threat. Confidence grew silently, relentlessly — but it was still incomplete.

Then came the Honmoon test. A clear morning — too hot, sunlight striking the Dangsan tree’s dome, its monumental shadow casting intricate patterns across the training center. Zoey was led to an isolated area, surrounded by instructors and Confederation representatives. In the center lay the fruit: deep red, veins of gold pulsing faintly, almost as if alive.

The test was simple in explanation, impossible in execution. Eating the fruit meant confronting the shinbyeong, the demon disease that tested body and mind. All who tried would die — except the women chosen to form the trio. Every fiber of Zoey’s body sensed the danger; the fruit’s slightly sweet, poisonous aroma sharpened her awareness while drawing her fascination.

She glanced at the instructors, at Celine, at the sacred space surrounding the Dangsan. The decision was hers. One bite, and nothing would ever be the same. Zoey drew a deep breath, feeling the weight of the world settle on her shoulders. She closed her eyes and bit into the fruit, tasting metallic acidity spread through her mouth.

The effect was immediate. A wave of heat surged through her body, burning, expanding, pressing on her organs. Her head spun, thoughts jumbled, vision blurred. Every cell seemed to fight an invisible force; fever rose, pain intense and unrelenting.

But Zoey did not yield. Every muscle, every thought, every memory of her mother, her lost childhood, the injustice of being torn from home — everything became fuel. She focused her mind, organized her thoughts, transforming pain into momentum, fever into clarity.

Her body trembled, bones ached, veins pulsed visibly under her skin, yet her mind remained sharp. She studied her reactions, anticipated every wave of pain, controlled her breathing, allowing the disease to consume her without breaking her. Each second stretched into an eternity, each movement a battle. Determination overpowered the toxin.

Then, after what seemed like hours, the effect began to subside. Fever dropped gradually, the internal heat dissipated, clarity returned. Zoey exhaled, exhausted but conscious. She had survived. The Dangsan fruit had been digested without her body succumbing. The shinbyeong was contained, and the test was complete. She was officially a Honmoon.

Celine remained impassive, but approval shone subtly in her gaze. Other instructors observed, evaluating the transformation: not merely a strong cadet, but a strategic mind capable of enduring where many failed. Zoey did not smile, but the sense of internal victory ran deep. Every fiber of her being, every cell, every thought had proven worthy of the title.

From that moment on, everything changed. Training continued, more intense, more cruel, more demanding. But Zoey was no longer just a cadet: she was a Honmoon, someone who would survive, surpass limits, and learn to master pain, fear, and sorrow. And, at the same time, the mask of superficial smiles began to take shape — an emotional armor for a world that expected not compassion, but efficiency.

• ★ •

The Honmoon training center was silent, almost unnaturally tense. Pale light filtered through the Dangsan dome, casting long shadows across the polished floor, outlining the precise contours of combat equipment and obstacles. Zoey felt her heart pound, hands slick with sweat, breath measured, every muscle taut. Today would be different. Today, she would be tested not only in body, but in mind and heart.

The instructors had prepared an advanced simulation: an alpha Gwishi, a rank A entity, vicious and cunning, capable of manipulating shadows and illusions to attack a cadet’s psyche. Zoey stood alone in the combat arena, centered between walls of observation and cameras recording every micro-gesture, every expression, every breath.

The Gwishi appeared. First, a pale, elongated shadow writhing along the floor. Its golden eyes glimmered with intelligence and malice. The air chilled; the scent of ozone, tinged with something more — human, carnal — invaded Zoey’s senses, triggering a visceral mix of fear and repulsion.

She advanced, body quick, muscles tense, but something was off. The Gwishi did not strike directly; it manipulated images and memories. Zoey saw flashes of her past: her mother’s absence, her father cold and distant, the traumatic separation. Memories of loneliness, rejection, deep sorrow cut through her like invisible blades. Her step faltered. The armor of the strong cadet, the Honmoon, began to crack.

Attacks came in waves. Not physical blows, but mental ones. Shadows contorted, taking the shapes of people she loved, eyes full of disappointment or sorrow, accusing her. The weight of melancholy pressed down. Her breath grew erratic; muscles trembled. The world seemed to compress. She dropped to her knees, mind assaulted by doubt: I’m not enough. I never will be.

The Gwishi exploited every hesitation, every thought, every fragment of fear. A shadow formed in front of her, her mother’s shape, eyes dull, whispering: “You will never be like me. Never like your real family.” A tear slid down Zoey’s cheek — but something inside her snapped.

A part of Zoey, trained to survive pain, refused to break to illusions.

She drew a deep breath. Closed her eyes for a moment, recalling her mother’s smile, rare happy childhood memories. She refused to let sadness take over. Instead, she forced something else: a smile. A faint, almost painful smile, deliberate. Not genuine joy — it was functional. Armor.

Opening her eyes, Zoey saw the Gwishi advancing again. She reacted with calculated speed, using every learned movement, every refined instinct. Her body moved with precision: short evasions, rapid strikes, controlled energy beams. Each attack measured, every breath synchronized. Mind and body became one, guided by artificial joy that masked panic.

The Gwishi, recognizing resistance, shifted tactics. Illusions intensified, memories grew crueler, yet Zoey held firm. Every smile maintained against the pain functioned as an emotional shield, a barrier against melancholy. She had learned that sadness was vulnerability; joy — even superficial — was a weapon.

The fight escalated. The ground trembled under the Gwishi’s steps, shadows twisted and stretched, forming multiple simultaneous images. Zoey attacked, dodged, analyzed every pattern. Each time melancholy threatened to rise, she repeated mentally: I will not yield. This is function. This is control. This is survival. Cold calculation replaced fear; false joy became real enough to propel her.

The climax came. The Gwishi lunged with a direct strike, combining physical force and shadow manipulation, seeking to crush the cadet against the floor. Zoey reacted instinctively: she dodged, leapt, spun through the air, and with the precision her training had instilled, delivered the final blow — a concentrated Honmoon energy strike, channeling all strength and mental calculation into the short blade she wielded. The impact toppled the Gwishi, shadows dissipated, and the simulated entity collapsed, defeated.

Zoey sank to her knees, exhausted. Her body burned, breath ragged, hands and feet throbbing. But the victory was complete. She had survived not only the physical assault, but the psychological torment, the Gwishi-induced melancholy. The faint, deliberate smile remained on her lips, concealing the intensity and fatigue of the moment.

Celine appeared beside her, posture impassive, approval subtly evident in her eyes.

“You survived,” she said, low, firm. “It’s not just strength, Zoey. It’s control. Mastery. Melancholy is the deadliest weapon in the world, and you’ve learned to suppress it. Not because you forgot it, but because you turned it into fuel.”

Zoey exhaled, letting her body relax gradually. The pain had not vanished, but the certainty of her capability filled every space once occupied by fear. She understood that, in a world where demons exploited every weakness, the mind itself could be the difference between life and death.

And in that moment, as sunlight filtered again through the Dangsan dome, Zoey realized something vital: the superficial joy she had adopted was not falsity. It was functional. It was defense. It was part of what it meant to be a Honmoon in a world that forgave nothing.

Her first alpha Gwishi was defeated. But the internal battle — the fight against her own feelings — had only just begun.

• ★ •

She had been ready since before sunrise; today was supposed to be special. The air was thick with the metallic scent of freshly polished weapons, the stale sweat soaked into climbing ropes, and the unmistakable odor of energized equipment prepared for simulations. Zoey moved through the wide, circular corridors, her steps echoing with their own cadence, reminding her that every inch of this building had been designed to forge soldiers, to refine predators.

Fluorescent lights reflected off the polished floor, casting shadows that twisted and danced over the tired faces of cadets in training. Some moved mechanically, practicing hand-to-hand combat, others manipulating weapons in tactical drills. Every sound — the click of a training pistol, the crack of a baton, the whisper of instructions — was absorbed by Zoey, who seemed to move in slow motion, analyzing each detail, cataloging every behavior, every reaction.

She knew Celine would summon her. The notice had been brief, a laconic message: “Report to the command room after waking.” But the tone allowed no delays. She drew a deep breath, muscles still taut from the alpha Gwishi test, and proceeded down the corridor toward the central Dangsan dome. Light streaming through the broad windows revealed the giant tree, its colossal trunk, the golden veil pulsing faintly in sync with the energy flowing through the building. Zoey felt, as always, the reverberation of that force, a reminder of the weight she now carried: survive, master, become Honmoon.

The corridor narrowed as she approached the core. To her left, a series of panels displayed information on cadets and recent simulations. Zoey skimmed the names quickly, analyzing results, attack patterns, tactical efficiency. Her mind worked like a cold, mechanically efficient gear. No distractions, no hesitation. Every movement, every breath, was controlled, molded by necessity — survival and perfection.

Rounding the final curve, the command room door appeared. Robust, polished steel, discreet inscriptions denoting authority and secrecy. Zoey paused for a moment, feeling the weight of expectation. The previous training had been not just a test of strength, but of who she was within — and now Celine would assess more than physical capability.

She opened the door carefully, the metallic sound echoing behind her. The space was empty, save for Celine, standing in the center, posture impeccable, eyes fixed on something Zoey could not yet see. Zoey stepped forward, each footfall echoing, conscious of her mentor’s gaze. Tension hung in the air, a vibration that seemed to pulse with the building itself.

Celine made a short gesture, signaling Zoey to approach. The young cadet obeyed, posture straight, body ready for any instruction. Finally, Celine’s voice cut through the silence “Cho Zoey… you survived your first real test. You demonstrated capability, control — but today will not be only about you.”

Zoey felt her heart rate increase slightly, but her expression remained neutral. Any sign of nervousness would be noted, recorded. Every Honmoon knew that Celine could read any trace of emotion they tried to hide.

“Today,” Celine continued, her eyes gleaming with calculated intensity, “you will meet your generation partner. Someone with whom you will share the burden all three of you will carry. Someone who will see the world the same way, through the same eyes.”

Zoey swallowed, steadying herself, keeping her gaze fixed. Curiosity and anticipation stirred within her, a silent alert that flexed every muscle.

Celine walked to the door ahead and paused. She placed her hand on the cold metal, pressing lightly. A soft click, and the door began to open, revealing a silhouette on the other side. The golden light of Dangsan spilled into the corridor, outlining the tall, slender figure within.

Zoey’s breath quickened just slightly. She recognized immediately the presence of strength, concentrated energy, even before seeing the details. Every movement radiated discipline, agility, a confidence that required no words.

Celine inclined slightly, her voice slicing the air again, now in an almost ritualistic tone

“Here… Hong Mira.”

Zoey had only a moment to absorb the scene: the tall, lean, athletic adolescent standing before her. The gaze might have been impassive — but the heart? An untamed flame.

And that made Zoey’s smile widen even further.

• ★ •

The wind from the sea swept through the cracks of the training center, rattling the glass and producing a high-pitched sound, as if the very veil separating the human world from hell were groaning. Celine walked down the main corridor after leaving Mira and Zoey facing each other. Fate had been sealed: two Honmoons had already been introduced, and the bond between them would be inevitable. She had witnessed that spark herself — Mira, her impassivity stiffened by pain, and Zoey, with her wide, artificial smile pulsing with near-desperate energy. It was a combination that could work. Or it could break them forever.

Celine moved as one who sought no solace in any decision. Her black coat swayed around her torso, steps echoing on the concrete of the circular corridor. The scent of iron, sweat, and incense lingered—the familiar odors of Jeju, where training never ceased. She passed recruits who fell silent at her approach. To them, Celine was a living legend, the last survivor of a generation of Honmoons who had fallen in battles against horrors too unspeakable to describe.

But the legend carried fatigue.

Passing through the final passages, she left the living circle of training behind and moved toward the southern slope of the island, where few buildings stood. There, isolated from the rest, rose her residence. It was not a house meant to be a home. Built from dark stone, with simple roofs, narrow corridors, and rustic furniture. The architecture resembled more a military refuge than a dwelling. The wood creaked, but it was solid. No ornaments, no flowers, nothing beyond what was necessary to survive.

Celine entered and removed her coat, tossing it over a worn chair. She ran a hand through her black hair, loosening it before tying it back into a loose ponytail. The mirror by the entrance reflected the image of a hard face, features carved by time and war. Her brown eyes held something unyielding: constant vigilance, guilt, and the rigidity that had become her second skin.

She sighed, long and heavy, as if every muscle were exhausted from bearing the weight of survival. She walked through the room slowly, letting herself sink for a moment into the silence. No laughter, no voices, just the sound of wind moving through the wood.

But she did not climb the stairs. She did not seek the nonexistent comfort of a bedroom upstairs. She descended. With each step, the light from the lamps faded, until the narrow stone corridors enveloped her. The basement smelled of rust, mold, and objects stored for too long. But above all, it smelled of fear.

At the end of the corridor, a reinforced door. Padlocks, bars, layers of security. Celine removed each lock one by one, like repeating a ritual. The iron creaked, and the door opened to reveal the room where Ryu Rumi was kept.

The young girl did not rise. She was curled on the thin mattress against the wall, chains attached to her neck and ankles clinking softly with her movements. Her long, purple hair, too unkempt, fell over her pale face. The brown eyes, now hidden in the shadow of her strands, did not immediately seek Celine’s. They seemed to flee. Or perhaps they no longer had the strength to meet a gaze.

Celine entered. The smell of the basement mixed with the odor of unwashed skin, dust, and the rust of chains. She stepped closer, her voice low but firm, breaking the silence:

“Today, I have brought together the two Honmoons already introduced.”

Rumi did not respond. She merely pulled her knees to her chest, as if that gesture could shield her from any words.

“Hong Mira and Cho Zoey,” Celine continued, her tone always devoid of warmth. “They are strong. Controllable. Soldiers, even if rebellious. They complement each other. They are what we need.”

A metallic sound echoed as Rumi shifted slightly, the chain around her neck tugging. Her eyes, half-hidden by hair, lifted just enough, as if pleading for explanation.

Celine crossed her arms, standing before her. Her face softened not an inch.

“And you could be there too.” The words cut through the space like steel. “You could be training with them, part of the triad the world awaits. But you are not. Do you know why?”

Rumi said nothing. Her silence was a weapon she wielded against herself.

“Because you are undisciplined.” The phrase sliced through the air. “Because you are unreliable. Not human enough. Not demon enough. Nothing but a risk… but that must change, and quickly.”

The girl drew a deep breath, a tremor running through her frail, scar-marked body. The chain around her neck seemed to weigh even more, as if the memory of those words were the true shackle.

Celine stepped closer still, leaning slightly, casting the shadow of her body over the girl.

“You are a monster,” she said, her tone unchanged. “And monsters do not form bonds. They do not lead. They do not inspire trust. Monsters are only tolerated until the day they must be sacrificed.”

The silence that followed was almost tangible. Rumi closed her eyes tightly, curling further into the mattress. Her bony fingers scratched at the worn fabric, seeking support where none existed.

Celine straightened, her gaze unwavering even as she turned to leave the room.

“Tomorrow, when the bells ring, I will be upstairs with them.” Her hand gripped the door, poised to close it. “And you will remain below. Until you prove you are more than an aberration. I suggest you hurry.”

The door slammed with a metallic crash, the padlocks’ echoes returning to the corridor. The basement fell back into absolute silence. Rumi, alone, sank deeper into the mattress, feeling the weight of the words settle inside her like invisible chains.

And so, in that instant, the Honmoon triad had already formed in the world above — but the heart of the third remained buried, confined, marked as something that could never be trusted.

— Flashback: start; 

The smell of iron and blood was still fresh. Celine crossed the room with heavy steps, as if every movement were an insult to her own survival. The dim light of the flickering lamp revealed what could never be erased from memory: Miyeong’s body, torn, violated beyond reason, open as if monstrous hands had ripped away not only flesh but the future itself.

The ribcage, broken, exposed bones twisted like gnarled branches. Organs were missing, violently removed, and the pale skin was stained with dark red that had begun to dry. Death had been cruel, and the room, now silent, seemed to mock any promise of safety they had ever dreamed of.

Celine knelt, fingers trembling, but did not dare touch the body. Her eyes burned, her throat ached. The urge to vomit was so strong she had to press her lips tightly together. The world spun around her — there were no more Honmoons by her side, no comrades remaining. The last one left, the only one who had endured this far, was dead.

Miyeong.

Her name was a knife cutting through Celine’s mind. Miyeong was not just her partner. She was her hope, her reason. The one who kept her upright amidst the hell they had crossed. Since the third of her old triad had given up, disappearing into the anonymity of cowardice — a death for the world — Miyeong had become the anchor. Her face was all that still made life bearable. And now it was there, mutilated, destroyed, forgotten by any god.

Celine swallowed, seeking air.

And then she heard it.

A sound that did not belong in that scene. A thin, high-pitched cry, desperate. Crying as if the world had already been too cruel for such a short life.

Celine froze. Her eyes scanned the room, still disbelieving. The sound came from a corner, muffled, hidden behind a pile of rags. Her body moved on its own, pushing aside bloodied clothing and broken furniture until it found what should never have been there.

A baby.

Frail. Emaciated. The skin too pale, eyes squeezed shut in tears, hair sparse yet already revealing a strange hue, a lilac tinge in the dim light. It writhed, hungry, abandoned — but alive.

Celine’s heart stopped for a moment. Beside it, carefully folded, a letter.

Her hands trembled as she opened it. The handwriting was unmistakable. Miyeong.

"Sorry, Celine."

The words burned her vision. She continued reading, even as the child’s cries seemed to fill every silence.

Miyeong explained. The pregnancy, the secret, the mistake — or forbidden love, Celine would never be certain. She spoke of an encounter with a being that should never have touched the human world. A demon. And from that encounter, that mixture of horror and tenderness, the child had been born. Miyeong knew she would not survive. She knew Celine would find only the trail of tragedy. And so she left the note, as a testament:

“Please… take care of her. I know you will hate her. I know you will hate me. But she is my daughter. The only thing I leave behind. Even if it is far from everyone, even if she never sees the light of day… do not kill her. Please, Celine. Do this for me.”

Celine let the paper fall, fingers clenching into trembling fists.

Rage. It was the first thing that exploded in her chest. A visceral, instinctive fury. The child before her was no miracle, no memory. It was an aberration. The living proof of Miyeong’s weakness. A reminder that, in the end, all succumb. And the urge to crush that tiny life, to snuff out the crying at its root, grew with nearly unbearable intensity.

She leaned forward, bringing her face close to the baby. It stopped crying for a moment, as if recognizing something, and opened its eyes.

Brown. Clear, bright, innocent.

Celine felt the world collapse. Those eyes were Miyeong’s eyes. That fragility, that small nose, the way the lips trembled — everything in her echoed the woman she had lost.

And suddenly, the rage shifted. It became both poison and grief at once.

Celine bit her lip until it bled, her breath failing. She could not. She would not. If it were only a monster, if it were only an enemy, it would be simple. But it was not.

It was Miyeong’s daughter. And Miyeong had asked her.

“Even if isolated from the rest of the world…” the words burned. “…do not kill her.”

Celine closed her eyes. She breathed deeply. When she opened them, she was resolute.

Yes, she would care for this child. But not out of love. Not out of pity. Not because there was anything human in her. It would be for Miyeong. Only for Miyeong.

She bent, picking up the baby with hands hard, almost mechanical. It cried again, but calmed when pressed against her chest. Celine looked down at the tiny creature, the name echoing in her mind.

“Rumi.”

So Miyeong had named her in the letter. Ryu Rumi.

Celine exhaled deeply, eyes misted with contained rage.

“Very well,” she murmured, more to herself than to the baby. “I will raise you. I will hide you. I will make you into something that does not destroy the world.”

The baby sighed, as if understanding, resting its head against her chest. But within Celine, the sentence had already been pronounced.

She would never let Rumi forget what she was: a mistake. A flaw. An aberration that existed only because Miyeong had the weakness to love a demon.

And if one day that child dared to reveal any instinct…Celine would not hesitate to correct it. With pain. With discipline. With violence.

It was the only gift she could give the daughter of her fallen friend: survival, even if in chains.

• ★ •

The basement of the house in Jeju was cold, damp, steeped in the smell of iron, old wood, and mildew. This was where Ryu Rumi’s childhood began and ended. The world for her was not vast, colorful, or welcoming. The world was the confined space of chains, bars, and the rigid breathing of Celine — her jailer, mentor, and tormentor.

From the very first month of caring for the child, Celine learned there was no treating her like an ordinary baby. Rumi did not cry for the absence of milk. She did not wail for porridge or bread. Her cries were different — low, hoarse, a hunger that was not for food. When her eyes opened, starving, they sought flesh. Life. Something that pulsed. Demons feed not only on matter, but on the act of taking life, of dominating and absorbing.

Celine realized this in the worst possible way. She tried feeding her normal baby foods, the kind distant neighbors would consider ordinary. Rumi rejected them. She vomited. She grew weak, nearly died. But when, by accident, a rat wandered into the basement and was crushed by a piece of wood, the baby looked at the fresh blood and stopped crying. She tried to crawl toward it. And Celine, horrified, understood what that meant.

She would not allow it. Never. She would not let the world have the aberration Miyeong had left behind. She would not let Rumi become a slave to her demonic instinct. So she made a cruel but unwavering decision: to repress it. At any cost.

The method was simple in its logic: the child’s body needed to learn that she would never have what she desired. That she would never taste human or animal flesh as sustenance. Rumi cried for days. Tears ran down, her skin grew paler, her bones appeared like winter branches. But Celine kept her alive just enough. Bitter broths, root mixtures, liquids that looked more like dirty water than food. Rumi swallowed because there was no other way. Swallowed because her body begged.

But the instinct never vanished. Celine noticed it in her eyes, when they fixated on someone’s pulse or when distant heartbeats reached her. Her eyes would flash gold, deep amber, and quickly return to brown. As if something lurked beneath. Celine did not deceive herself: it was there. Always.

It was then that she introduced the suppressants.

The United Nations had developed chemical compounds for combat and demon torture — serums capable of reducing vitality, spiritual energy, regenerative capacity. Normally, they were used in interrogations of Rank B or C demons to break resistance. Celine began administering them to Rumi in controlled doses. Weekly injections. Liquids that burned through the child’s veins, leaving her immobile, trembling, vomiting white foam.

Rumi grew to associate the touch of the syringe with the onset of pain. Her frail body learned to endure constant nausea, the cold coursing through her. The cruelest part was that she did not understand. She did not know she was half-demon. She only felt that something was wrong within her — something that needed fixing. And Celine repeated it like a mantra, like a truth: “You are defective. You need to be fixed.”

Before learning the alphabet, Rumi learned to lift a wooden sword. Celine placed the weapon in her hands when she barely had the strength to hold a spoon. The blade was heavy, larger than her thin arms could bear. But every morning, before any food, before any rest, the order was to train.

“Lift,” said Celine, voice cold as steel. “Lift or you will not drink today.”

Rumi’s arm trembled. She dropped it. The sword hit the floor with a dry echo in the basement. Celine showed no mercy. She commanded her to lift it again. Ten, twenty, a hundred times. Until the fingers bled, until the muscles failed. Only then did the girl receive a cup of murky water, a bowl of tasteless broth.

This is how she learned the weight of the world. The weight was not in books, not in the games of other children she glimpsed laughing on the streets of Jeju. The weight was in iron, in steel, in the blade cutting the air.

When she finally learned to speak clearly, the first phrases she mastered were not nursery rhymes or stories. They were combat commands: “Block. Attack. Advance. Retreat.” Words spat out between gasping breaths as Celine made her repeat strikes until exhaustion.

The years passed. The routine was immutable. Injections. Hunger. Training. Punishment. If she made a mistake, she went without food. If she cried too loudly, she was struck. If she dared question, she was hit with a training baton. Celine tolerated no weakness. Every weakness was a reminder that this creature was not truly human.

And yet, the girl grew. She grew differently. The body, though thin, began to respond. Reflexes sharpened. Mind became more alert. The gaze deepened. Even without ever having learned to play, Rumi developed a ferocious type of reasoning. Instead of falling a hundred times, she fell ninety-nine. She learned to observe Celine’s movements and anticipate them. To survive not just the training, but the hatred itself.

Hatred, after all, was the first thing she learned. Not against the world or Celine, but against herself.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, alone in the basement, she curled against the chains and closed her eyes. She imagined a different world. A world where she could run in the fields of Jeju glimpsed through the window when Celine dragged her back and forth. A world with friends, with laughter. But whenever real hunger struck, the stomach twisted in pain, the body burned from deprivation — and she remembered that none of it was real. Her life was not for dreaming. It was for fighting.

That is why Rumi never cried for long. Her tears dried early. Her face hardened early. Even as a child, her eyes already carried a shadow that should not exist. Not from lost innocence, but from an innocence that never had the chance to exist.

Celine did not stop at merely watching. She spent entire nights studying Confederation reports, collecting fragments of old research — remedies used in demon interrogations, drugs lost in the corridors of secret prisons. And when she finally formulated the cocktail that allowed human food to substitute for flesh…

For the first time, Rumi ate rice, watery soup, wilted vegetables. Her body, until then emaciated, began to change. The ribs that had protruded under thin skin slowly disappeared. The belly, once fused to the spine, now supported muscles that formed day by day like freshly hewn stone.

Celine observed. She always observed. At first, it seemed a triumph. The child who could barely lift her own head now lifted stones, logs, swords. Arms gained volume, reflexes became faster than her age should allow. In a few months, the small creature who once crawled out of bed could cross the entire yard running, as if her body had finally discovered the speed it was capable of.

But as the muscles grew, dread also grew inside the ex-Honmoon. It was not pride. Not hope. It was fear. What would happen when the thing before her discovered its true hunger? Celine imagined — and these were not empty fantasies. In Rumi’s eyes, when she stared at raw meat laid out on the table, there was always a spark. Something warm, golden, a predatory flicker that no suppressant in the world could erase.

And then she made a decision.

 If she had managed to tame the appetite, she would now tame growth. Rumi could not be too strong, too weak, too tall or too short — she had to be perfect.

Months of testing followed. Pills to halt hormones, ampoules injected into muscles with clinical precision. Heavy drugs, forbidden even among demon torturers. Each dose left Rumi feverish, her body trembling in convulsions, skin mottled with purple bruises that never fully healed. But it worked.

The child who should have emerged as an imposing monster was suspended in a controlled, contained body. She grew, yes, but too slowly, as if every inch of bone were watched by invisible chains. Weak metabolism prevented an explosion of power. Rumi gained weight, muscle — but never enough to be free. It was as if she were fed only to the brink — and then pulled back before she could leap.

Celine justified it to herself every night. “Better this way. Better to keep her small, fragile, disguised as human. If I let her grow… if she discovers what she can be… no chain in the world could hold her.”

Rumi, for her part, never fully understood. She thought it normal for her body to ache so much, normal to have fevers that felled her for days, normal to be unable to keep up with other children — on the rare occasions she glimpsed them playing outside, behind the fence. When she asked, Celine answered curtly, never lifting her eyes from the papers:

“The world was not made for you to play. It was made for you to endure.” And so, she endured.

The sword she already knew how to wield began to gain new versions — heavier, sharper, closer to real steel. If the body did not grow at the proper pace, discipline grew. And that was what Celine wanted: the beast to never realize the size it could reach, only the weight of the collar.

Yet, in every strike, every exhausting drill, something escaped. The gaze. Rumi’s eyes never stopped shining as if a second heart beat within them — a heart that did not beat, but burned.

Celine pretended not to see. But she knew. She knew that, even contained, even drained, Rumi was a bomb. And sooner or later, the silence would end in explosion.

• ★ •

The child’s body was fragile, muscles still restrained, bones kept in check by suppressants, yet there were things that could not be erased. A trace of determination, a stubborn flame burning silently at Rumi’s core. Celine watched every step, every gesture: how she lifted the sword even with arms trembling from exhaustion; how she rose after falls that any other body would have collapsed from; how she inhaled deeply, eyes shut tight, before facing the training again. Any discipline forged from iron and steel seemed minimal against the will emerging from the child herself.

For the first time in years, Celine found herself questioning. The doubt crept in slowly, like a cold wind through her always-rigid mind: Could Rumi… be a Honmoon?

The thought was absurd. A half-demon child, raised by force, limited, tortured, chained from the moment she could reason. How could a Honmoon emerge from such a distorted seed? The world inverted, cruelest irony. And yet, the possibility pulsed in every glance from Rumi that insisted on standing.

Against all reason, Celine made the most dangerous decision of her life. She went to the secret storage where the sacred fruits of the Dangsan tree were kept — fruits that should never be used lightly. She picked one up, feeling its weight and familiar scent — sweet, metallic, charged with power. A fragment of the very heart of the world, capable of separating Honmoons from all others.

She entered the basement, where Rumi remained chained, motionless, eyes fixed on any corner of the room. Celine approached, hands steady, expression unreadable, every muscle tense with anticipation. She placed the fruit before the girl.

“Eat.” The command was short, definitive. No offering, no coaxing, no kindness.

Rumi looked at it curiously for a moment. Perhaps she understood that the fruit meant something beyond flavor. Perhaps she sensed the test. She bit the fruit. Chewed. Swallowed.

Nothing happened. No fever, no convulsion, no sudden weakness. No sign of shinbyeong, which in all others had manifested brutally. It was as if she were eating any other harmless food, without resistance.

Celine remained motionless, heart tight, chest torn. A part of her, deep and unexpected, felt a wave of sorrow. A Honmoon should not be born in an aberration. Should not be raised by such cruel, limiting methods, confined in a body that could neither grow nor explode. A Honmoon should emerge with the world at her side, not suffocated by invisible chains, medicated down to the last atom. And yet… there was Rumi. Immune. Indestructible.

Another part of Celine, darker and wilder, felt a strange satisfaction. Finally, there was something she could shape. A monster — yes, an aberration — but also the purest, most singular weapon any generation had ever seen. A Honmoon created from scratch, free from past errors, free from human habits that might compromise her purpose. She could train, guide, mold. Not a child, not a mere apprentice, but a Honmoon whose every aspect of existence could be directed with surgical precision.

She approached Rumi, lifting the girl’s chin, raising her face to meet those amber eyes that now shone even brighter from the fruit.

“You are…” she began, then stopped. There were no words capable of encompassing this. No praise, no reprimand. Only the silent acceptance of an impossible truth. “You are a Honmoon.”

Rumi blinked, perhaps not fully comprehending the meaning. The concept was abstract, unattainable. She knew only Celine’s training, pain, hunger, and discipline. Yet somehow, something changed in her body at that moment — not in her physical strength, still restrained by the suppressants, but in the awareness that she carried something beyond herself.

Celine stepped back a few paces, breathing deeply, fists clenched until the veins in her hands turned white. There was fear there, yes. Fear of what Rumi could become, of what might explode if a suppressant failed. But there was also anticipation. A plan, a chance to create something surpassing everything that had come before.

She knew this child carried the potential to be the most powerful of her generation — or the most uncontrollable. And indeed, the risk of failure, of losing control, was infinite. But in that moment, Celine felt the power that only Honmoons carried: the certainty that even amid an aberration, discipline, will, and training could turn a monster into a bastion.

Rumi remained still, watching the now-chewed, swallowed fruit. The silence in the room was absolute, heavy, as if even the air had solidified. Celine moved to the shelf and began taking small vials of suppressants, checking doses, adjusting combinations, mentally testing future effectiveness. Every movement precise, every gesture calculated. Nothing could be left to chance.

The first decision had been made. Rumi was officially a Honmoon — the first of her generation — and Celine knew the weight of that could never be underestimated. The child who had cried and screamed through the first weeks of her controlled life now carried the potential to challenge the very world. Yet she remained chained, restrained, watched, as if every step might be her last without disaster.

What lay before Celine was not just a promise, but an overwhelming responsibility. She looked at the girl, silent, heart torn between love and fear. A strange, almost obsessive love for this existence that should not exist. A deep fear that any second could turn fatal if control slipped.

But Rumi was a Honmoon now. And she was Celine’s to shape — every trace of her strength, every spark of her monstrosity, every aspect of her life that could ensure, one day, she would be capable of protecting humanity — even at the cost of her own death.

Rumi’s special training began immediately after her status as a Honmoon was confirmed, though no one outside of Celine knew of her true existence. To the outside world, she was merely a strange girl, raised in isolation — a sort of “domestic experiment” of the former Honmoon. The Confederation had no idea what was happening in that Jeju basement, and Rumi grew under an absolute veil of secrecy, watched only by Celine, who turned every movement into discipline, every instinct into precision, every impulse into total control.

The first weeks were brutal. Celine adjusted the suppressants daily, alternating doses to control muscle growth, metabolism, strength, and reflexes. Human food was nearly tasteless to Rumi; her body craved something more primal — flesh, blood, energy. Celine compensated with combinations of drugs and supplements that allowed Rumi to gain weight, strengthen bones and muscles, yet never exceed the “acceptable humanity” that kept the girl in a functional state. Every meal was monitored, timed, weighed, calculated. Every muscle that grew according to plan was quickly restrained by other methods. Canines filed down, claws removed until her cells had strength only for normal nails, burning each monstrous hair follicle that dared thicken on her pale skin.

Even under these restrictions, Rumi displayed signs of strength that could not be ignored. And each time she failed, Celine punished her — but always with surgical precision: no gratuitous humiliation, only the exact pressure needed for Rumi to learn to control both pain and fear.

The first exercise involved raw strength. Rumi lifted weights that challenged her capacity, always under Celine’s silent supervision. There were no words of encouragement; only the clang of metal, the girl’s breath, the snap of muscles under strain. Each time a suppressant failed to mask a surge of strength, Celine adjusted the dose, refined the combination. A delicate balance between allowing Rumi to grow and preventing her from becoming uncontrollable.

The second exercise was simulated combat, using dummies — but Celine spared no realism. She programmed the environment to mimic real demon attacks, forcing Rumi to react. Blades were sharpened, even for simulation, so every cut left a mark, every impact reminded her that real life forgives no failure. Rumi learned to feel pain, anticipate movement, synchronize her breathing with each action. And yet, despite the brutality, her body grew elegant, athletic, deadly — a perfect form of war, shaped in absolute secrecy.

Celine also introduced mental control. Rumi had to learn to suppress instincts that could arise at any moment: desire for blood, hunger for life force, rage that erupted like lava. This was achieved through rigorous meditation, isolation, and exercises mixing pain and pleasure, frustration and accomplishment, until the girl could feel every impulse without ever yielding. Every attempt to escape control was punished; every display of self-restraint was rewarded quietly, but perceptibly.

During the training, Rumi began to realize she was different from any cadet she had heard of. She was faster, stronger, more resilient — but above all, she sensed that her body, even restrained, held secrets she did not yet understand. And Celine was always there, analyzing every movement, every reaction, as if she could read her mind.

Isolation became a second skin for Rumi. She had no friends, no peers, no interaction beyond Celine. Her view of the world was filtered, shaped by her guardian. But the girl began to perceive patterns, anticipate movements, learn to “read” Celine’s intentions and react before being asked. This kind of learning was not found in books or traditional cadet training — it was the training of a Honmoon, forged in the shadows, hidden from all.

Over time, exercises evolved into simulated confrontations with beings programmed to mimic demons. Dokkaebi, Bhoota, and Gwishi were represented by devices and combat maneuvers forcing Rumi to think, react, and execute with surgical precision. Each simulation she overcame strengthened not just the body, but the mind. Every failure was recorded, analyzed, and used to refine the next session. Celine noted every detail, adjusting doses, strategies, and exercises, always keeping the girl within limits only she could measure.

Later, Celine introduced exercises combining physical combat with strategic analysis. Rumi had to face multiple simulated opponents, predict patterns, plan attacks and defenses in real time. Each wrong move could mean the end of the exercise and, symbolically, the loss of control Celine so feared. Still, the girl continued to grow, astonishing more and more with each session.

What impressed Celine most was how Rumi, even restrained and isolated, could integrate physical and mental learning in unprecedented ways. Every training session reinforced Celine’s conviction: this half-demon child, raised in absolute secrecy, was indeed a Honmoon. But more than that, she was a unique Honmoon, with the potential to redefine strength, discipline, and control within the confederation.

And so time passed. Under Celine’s extreme vigilance and care, Rumi began to master every aspect of her body and mind that the suppressants allowed. Every advance was measured, every progress recorded, every failure corrected with surgical precision. The girl learned to smile when necessary, to remain calm under pressure, to control any demonic impulse that might emerge.

Still, Rumi’s consciousness remained fragmented. She knew something lived within her, something that could never be fully controlled, something Celine called “the beast.” Yet, under training, discipline, and suppressants, the beast became a tool — a contained, trained power, ready to be unleashed when needed.

No one else would ever know of her existence. Not cadets, not officers, not even the Confederation. Rumi was Celine’s secret weapon, the Honmoon that no one could touch or understand. A molded monster, hidden, waiting for the moment she could be revealed — or deployed.

And in the silence of the basement, among chains, shadows, and the metallic scent of simulated blood, Rumi grew. Each day, each exercise, each suppressant adjustment, each instruction from Celine brought her closer to what she would become: the third Honmoon of her generation, the hidden legend, the beast in sheep’s clothing, ready to face a world that would never know she existed.

• ★ •

The day had been chaotic from dawn. The veil, normally firm and defining the boundary between the human world and the infernal, had cracked in multiple points along the Korean coast and even into China. The Honmoon energy lines trembled and faltered, as if the earth itself felt the invasion. Demons spread with ferocity, tearing through villages, burning forests, attacking any living being that drew breath. It was a day no containment plan — no matter how intricate, even those of Celine — could have fully anticipated.

When the former Honmoon finally returned to her isolated residence on Jeju Island, she found what remained of her sanctuary utterly devastated. The walls bore deep scratches, furniture was burned or shattered, the floor stained with blood and hair. The metallic scent of iron and charred flesh permeated every surface. Every corner seemed to tell stories of destruction and violence that should never have happened there.

Celine moved through the house with heavy steps, eyes sharp, analyzing every trace. The destruction was widespread, but however much she expected to find signs of common demons — Dokkaebi, Bhoota, Gwishi — none had left marks so singular. There was no scent of decay typical of a corpse consumed by lower-ranked spirits. There was something else… more familiar, more terrifying.

Following the traces, Celine slowly descended into the basement. The air there was heavier, charged with an energy that was not only demonic but profoundly personal. She first noticed the glimmers: a magenta and violet shimmer, flickering in the corners, reflecting against the ruined walls. And then the silhouette.

Gigantic, shadowed, disproportionate, yet with a posture that, strangely, did not convey immediate aggression. Purple fur, and two golden eyes, bright and intensely human, stared at her through the dimness. An iridescent point hovered above them, glittering with colors like jagged lightning trapped in broken glass.

A trail of blood led to the creature, small marks of destruction indicating heavy steps. Among them, something even more disturbing: a fawn, sprawled out, a clear victim of the overwhelming presence before Celine. Yet the true devastation was not in the spilled blood — it was in what the creature’s eyes conveyed.

It was not mere violence. Not animal instinct or blind hunger. There was humanity there. Regret, confusion, fear. And there was power — a power Celine had never thought she would see in such a peaceful form.

The former Honmoon swallowed hard. Her mind raced, connecting signals that should never have coexisted: size, presence, strength, the iridescent glow. In all her years of training and experience, she had never seen anything like it. Her heart raced, and a strange mix of terror and disbelief washed over her body.

Then comprehension struck like a sharp blade: this was no ordinary Gwishi. Not a banal aberration. Not even a Magwi — the apex of the demonic hierarchy — could possess such a vibration, as if immersed in the sea or surrounded by flames without touching anything. And, most unbelievably of all, it was Rumi.

The transformation was complete. Every human trait obscured, every fiber of her body reorganized into pure power. The color of the fur, the flashes of energy, the size, the concentrated strength — all signaled an ascension beyond what any Honmoon could have predicted.

Yet the creature did not attack. Its eyes, though filled with infernal light, carried the fragility of a child. A living paradox: the most powerful monster Celine had ever seen so close, standing there containing its fury, its predatory instinct, its immense strength, merely looking at the one who had always cared for it.

Celine felt her chest tighten. Her breathing became irregular. Every strategy, every control measure, every suppressant — everything seemed useless in the face of that gaze. The perfect plan, the meticulous discipline, the years of training and restraint — all had failed. Rumi had transcended any expectation.

Her heart oscillated between anger, fear, admiration, and guilt. The creature before her was Rumi, but not the girl Celine had painstakingly molded. It was something greater, wilder, impossible to fully contain. And yet, there was recognition. A bond only those who share blood, memory, and deep discipline could feel.

Celine’s consciousness struggled to comprehend. Each passing second, each exchanged glance, every muscle of the transformed daughter conveyed a clear message: this power could no longer be contained the old way. Rumi was no longer merely the secret creation. She was alive, immense, unpredictable. An emerging Magwi? Yet still Rumi.

The creature did not attack. The regret, the fragility, the humanity — all overflowed. Celine realized that despite everything, remnants of the girl she had known remained, the monster she had contained through extreme discipline still partially domestic. But if the beast lost control, if rage or hunger took over, nothing could prevent complete destruction.

Celine drew a deep breath, every muscle taut, eyes fixed on the towering silhouette. She felt fear — not for her own life, but for what Rumi could become, for what still lurked in potential within her. And above all, for the unavoidable acceptance that discipline, training, and suppressants, while effective until now, could no longer fully define the daughter she had shaped.

And in that moment, Celine understood. Rumi’s strength could no longer be contained by orders, suppressants, or fear alone. She had become what she was always destined to be: a unique Honmoon, a potential Magwi, the demon hidden beneath the guise of a child. Yet, for now, there was still humanity, regret, and connection.

And that was enough — if only for a few seconds.   

When the energy finally waned and the golden flashes in her eyes began to fade, Rumi returned to her human form. Her body still carried traces of the monstrous tension that had manifested — tense shoulders, still-rigid muscles, heavy breathing, and eyes that, for a moment, retained that golden gleam, reminding Celine of the beast that had always lived within her. But outwardly, the purple-haired girl seemed fragile once more, almost vulnerable.

Celine looked at her carefully, controlling every flicker of emotion that threatened to surface. The mix of anger, fear, admiration, and panic in her chest had to be contained. She could not allow Rumi to perceive any hesitation — that would be a greater danger than any demon they might face. So, with a rigid, neutral expression, Celine moved forward, collecting the previously used suppressants and preparing the next stage.

There was no longer any denying the existence of the inner beast. Rumi was a Honmoon — yes — but also the first in history to carry within her the full potential of a Magwi. This meant that physical training and discipline alone were no longer sufficient. Every part of Rumi’s mind needed conditioning, every natural instinct had to be mediated by a precise mixture of chemical suppressants, intensive meditation, and self-control exercises that surpassed any limits ever imposed.

The new suppressants were crafted with near-surgical precision. Celine had spent weeks analyzing the effects of each compound, every combination of medications, every fragment of substances used in the past to contain demonic potential in cadets and test animals. She did not limit herself to suppressing hunger or physical strength. Now, each suppressant specifically targeted the instinctive sparks of transformation, the thrill of power, and the natural inclination toward demonic violence.

But chemical control alone would not suffice. Meditation became a daily obligation, but never a tranquil or relaxing practice. Celine taught Rumi to focus on every breath, every movement, every heartbeat. Every sensation was a test of self-control. Every mistake was punished — physically or mentally, with meditation sessions extending hours beyond the girl’s natural endurance.

And Celine’s hatred grew alongside this necessity. It was not hatred only for the danger Rumi represented, but for the implicit betrayal of fate. How had the universe dared to give that half-demon girl such power, knowing that the responsibility of containment rested entirely on a single woman? Every failure in her planning, every spark of demonic instinct that escaped, fed the fury Celine hid behind her mask of absolute control.

The training intensified. Rumi did not merely lift swords, run, or practice combat techniques. Every action carried hidden layers of mental discipline. She was forced to confront simulated transformations, to feel her own power pulsing within her and to redirect it back into self-control. Every mistake resulted in direct punishment — but never arbitrary. The techniques were precise, surgical, calibrated to instill fear and respect, not gratuitous pain, though physical discomfort was inevitable.

With each session, Celine observed and adjusted. She tested limits no other hunter would dare, analyzing physiological responses, breathing patterns, micro-expressions, and the way Rumi controlled the flickers of her energy. Every advance was recorded, every slip noted, every new ability carefully documented. The process was not merely training — it was engineering, the refinement of a living weapon that carried the weight of the entire Confederation’s future.

Rumi, for her part, learned to coexist with the constant presence of the demon within. She felt, at every moment, the weight of the beast, the call of power and blood, but also the ever-steadier control that training provided. She instinctively understood that every flicker of transformation could be disastrous, and that Celine’s discipline was not cruelty — it was the only safeguard against destroying the world around her.

The result was terrifying and magnificent. Rumi, still a child, still a girl, became increasingly perfect at containing what could not be contained. Yet, deep inside, each session, each suppressant, each intensive meditation left an invisible emotional scar. Celine saw it, but did not consider it a flaw. To her, it was the necessary cost of creating a monster who could also be a Honmoon, carrying the weight of an entire generation.

When training ended, Rumi collapsed exhausted, but never completely defeated. There was always a flicker of triumph in her eyes — that golden, iridescent light, controlled, contained, yet still there. Celine knew that flicker was the essence of the girl she was shaping: a wolf in disguise, a domesticated monster, a living weapon.

And still, every time she looked at Rumi, Celine felt a mixture of pride and fear. Pride at witnessing the progress of her creation; fear at knowing that, despite all control, the creature could still become something she might not contain. The hatred she felt for the cruel fate that had forced such responsibility upon her persisted, now channeled into constant vigilance, method adaptation, and endless refinement.

The tension between caretaker and creature, between power and control, became the new normal. Each day brought new challenges, new sparks of power, new tests of patience for both. Yet in the end, every step taken reinforced Celine’s certainty: Rumi would be the most powerful weapon ever seen among the Honmoons. And, simultaneously, the only one who could fail with the force of a Magwi if she ever allowed the beast to take full control.

So life continued — rigid, calculated, lethal, and perfect — a dance between monster and discipline, creation and destruction. And in every moment, the memory of the Magwi Rumi had once been reminded Celine of the fragile balance sustaining all her engineering of power.

— Flashback: end;

Two months had passed since Zoey and Mira had begun to get used to one another, since their mutual presence had started becoming part of the grueling routine imposed by the Confederation. Now, sitting in the meeting room, they talked about whatever came to mind — strategies, training, even trivialities that served as an escape valve. It was a rare moment of calm before the inevitable storm.

The door opened. Celine entered, as always, silent and precise. The air in the room seemed to contract as she walked with measured steps. Her posture demanded no respect — it imposed it. When her voice finally cut through the silence, it did so without raising a tone:

“The team is complete. You will finally have your third Honmoon.”

Zoey arched an eyebrow; Mira merely crossed her arms, eyes alert, analyzing every nuance of the message. Celine continued:

“She will be different. Different from you, but essential. Her integration will require discipline and adaptation. Observe, learn, and absorb.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted. A chill ran down both their spines. Zoey felt anticipation and tension coil in her stomach like serpents. Mira, impassive, showed no fear, but her body was ready to react to any command.

Celine walked to the door, opened it slowly, and for the first time, the third Honmoon entered.

Rumi appeared. Impeccable black uniform, fitted chest armor, boots and gloves aligned as if every detail had been meticulously sculpted. Her posture was perfect, straight, firm — each movement calculated with the precision of someone who knew her own weight and power in the world. Her purple hair, long to mid-back, tied in a single flawless braid, had not a strand out of place. Her face was delicate, beautiful, neutral, showing no trace of emotion — as if in the eye of a hurricane, absolute calm, the rock resisting the tide.

Her brown eyes, fixed and direct, scanned the room without lingering on any detail, showing no sign of fear, curiosity, or surprise. The passivity was firmness; the firmness was silence. Rumi embodied absolute calm, yet every fiber of her body spoke of latent strength, a containment that no one but Celine could ever know.

Celine moved to the table, raising her hand with surgical precision. “Hong Mira, Cho Zoey… this is Ryu Rumi, the third Honmoon of this generation.”

Silence took over the room. Zoey felt the girl’s presence like a wave of solid energy — not measured by eyes alone, but by the weight that absolute calm imposed on the air. Mira, still rigid, drew a deeper breath, trying to absorb the magnitude of what she saw: a perfect cadet, apparently neutral, yet carrying a force that did not need to manifest to be felt.

Rumi advanced a few measured steps, stopping at the proper distance, neither coming closer than necessary nor stepping back, as if occupying a fixed point in the world. Every detail — impeccable uniform, perfect posture, direct eyes — indicated absolute training, but also a natural discipline that could not be bought, taught, or broken.

Zoey felt a shiver — not of fear, but of fascination. There was something about her that hinted at the promise of greatness, something she could not yet comprehend. Mira tightened her arms across her chest, her entire body alert, mind calculating, testing.

Celine remained at the front, observing every reaction, every expression. No further words were necessary for the introduction. Rumi, for her part, moved only as much as required, breathed without drawing attention, looked directly at no one beyond the fixed point she had chosen. And yet, her presence filled the entire room.

Zoey bit her lip lightly, almost imperceptibly, and smiled faintly, feeling a mix of excitement and curiosity. Mira held her posture, but a flicker of interest passed through her eyes. Both knew, without speaking, that Rumi’s arrival would change everything.

And in that instant, before any word could be spoken, the weight of responsibility, the promise of strength, and the certainty that nothing would ever be the same settled into the air. Rumi was there — neutral, calm, relentless — the third piece of the Honmoon triad, still a complete enigma.

Rumi stood still for a few seconds, breathing in precise cadence, her brown eyes fixed straight ahead. Not a muscle in her face moved. The room seemed to breathe around her, every shadow and reflection amplifying her silent presence.

Zoey was the first to break the ice — or at least, to try. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, audible just enough across the distance between them “So… you’re Rumi, right?”

Rumi tilted her head slightly, a minimal gesture, enough to indicate acknowledgment, but nothing that could be interpreted as enthusiasm or receptiveness. Her neutrality was absolute, but not hostile.

Mira, arms crossed, continued to study every detail — the posture, the rhythm of her breathing, the firmness of her gaze. Finally, she broke the silence “You’re here to train. Not to talk. So let’s keep the formalities.”

Rumi remained perfectly upright, shoulders aligned, as if every word Mira spoke had been predicted, measured, and rendered completely irrelevant to the necessity of fulfilling her role. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, low, impeccable “Confirmed.”

Zoey couldn’t help but let a barely perceptible smile cross her face, admiring the cadet’s precision. Even under extreme neutrality, there was something about her that inspired confidence — something Zoey felt without needing words.

Celine, observing from the side, stepped forward, her tone still cold but carrying a faintly motivational edge “The three of you will form the Honmoon triad of this generation. The effectiveness of every operation depends on your integration. Watch one another. Trust, coordination, and silence are as vital as strength and skill.”

Rumi did not move her eyes from the front, yet Zoey and Mira could sense, like a nearly tangible current, that Rumi’s presence was more than physical. She exuded absolute control, the assurance of someone trained to endure anything — and yet, to trust no one but herself.

Zoey drew a deep breath, feeling a mix of almost childlike excitement and reverence. Mira gave a slight nod, her own way of acknowledging understanding.

Celine continued, pausing to ensure each word sank in “Initially, there will be no intense physical tests. The first stage will be integration and observation. You need to feel each other’s presence, learn patterns, understand the cadence of movements and reactions. Rumi, you will follow the Confederation’s rules. No exceptions.”

Rumi responded, with the same serene cadence, “Understood.”

Zoey took another breath and stepped slightly closer, maintaining a safe distance. Her voice was gentle, almost timid “Well… maybe we can start slow. Just… to get to know each other.”

Rumi did not divert her gaze. Nothing in her posture indicated affection, fear, or any visible human emotion. Only a slight tilt of the head, which Zoey interpreted as acceptance.

Mira, arms crossed, furrowed her brow slightly. She wasn’t used to softness but had no reason to intervene. She knew Zoey had her own way of handling new situations — and, at that moment, the calmest cadet of the triad needed time to adjust.

Celine observed silently. A subtle touch on her hand suggested that the window for initial interaction was limited; soon, attention would need to shift to the next steps of training. Yet, in that moment, the room remained suspended, with three distinct presences — three forces that needed to learn to coexist.

Zoey broke the silence again, this time with a concrete suggestion “How about… we start with something simple? Basic coordination training? Nothing intense… just to feel what it’s like to work together.”

Rumi replied concisely but firmly “Accepted.”

Mira exhaled lightly but also nodded. Formality remained, yet a line of understanding was beginning to form.

Celine stepped back, satisfied. The first contact had been made. The three cadets had acknowledged one another’s presence and established, even minimally, a channel of communication and respect. It wasn’t friendship, it wasn’t affection — it was pure professionalism, discipline, and awareness of each one’s role within the triad.

Zoey couldn’t hide a small, almost inaudible smile. She knew the journey ahead would be difficult, but there was a promise of strength and learning that thrilled her. Mira remained steadfast, body ready to react to any command. And Rumi… remained unshakable.

The first verbal interaction was over. Each cadet understood, instinctively, that the triad’s unity would not be built on easy words or friendly gestures. It would be forged through discipline, mutual observation, and the silent recognition of the strength each carried.

And in that instant, as Celine watched from the side, she knew the process had been initiated correctly. The Honmoon triad was complete. But the true test — of trust, coordination, and survival — was still to come.

• ★ •

The training began the following day. There was no room for hesitation.

The first session was simple: step coordination in simulated combat. Mira advanced with brute force, smashing wooden and steel targets with blows that reverberated across the courtyard. Zoey, more agile, used the space to find angles, creating rapid routes that even the instructors found disorienting. Rumi… was different. Her movements were contained, calculated to the extreme. She never expended energy beyond what was necessary. Every thrust of her short sword, every step, was clean, cold, as if she already knew the outcome before impact.

The second session tested mental endurance. They were placed in isolation chambers, where demonic illusions attempted to infiltrate their minds. Mira trembled with rage, beating the walls until her hands bled. Zoey, in tears, nearly gave in to voices whispering abandonment. Rumi… remained motionless, eyes closed. When she emerged, her pupils were still serene, as if no voice had the strength to penetrate her.

The third session, attack synchronization, revealed the contrasts within the team. Mira complained about the lack of time for full strikes. Zoey insisted on new strategies that changed every five seconds. Rumi simply responded with the same word, without a change in tone: “Adjust.”

Celine watched from a distance, each session confirming what she already knew: the triad would work, but not organically. It would be through force, necessity, inevitability.

Then came the night.

The alarm thundered across the island like metallic lightning. A tear in the Veil had appeared to the north, not far from the coast. The sky split with black lines that bled like burning cracks, and from them emerged deformed Dokkaebi in droves, mixed with Bhoota leaping from the shadows like living lightning.

The three were summoned immediately. It was too early, but there was no alternative: the Confederation had no other squad ready to respond in minutes.

“Be precise. Do not scatter,” Celine ordered before hurling the trio into chaos.

The battlefield was hell. The screams of ordinary cadets mixed with the sound of tearing flesh. The scent of blood soaked the air.

Mira moved first, crushing Dokkaebi with her woldo, but the wave was relentless. Zoey fired with precision, each bullet piercing eyes and throats, but the shadows of the Bhoota blurred her vision, causing her to falter.

Then the ground opened beneath them: a smaller Gwishi emerged from the rift and leapt at the group. Its eyes were a golden whirl, radiating paralyzing melancholy. Zoey hesitated, almost dropping her weapon. Mira, despite her roar, began to feel the weight in her shoulders, as if her entire body turned to lead.

And then, Rumi.

Until that moment, she had been just a disciplined shadow — neutral, passive. But the instant she saw the others about to be crushed, something ignited in her gaze. She surged forward without hesitation, grabbing Zoey by the shoulder and dragging her back as Mira’s woldo slipped from her hands.

“Stay behind me.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the battlefield like a blade.

Mira’s eyes widened. It wasn’t an ordinary order. It was as if it had come from someone always at the center of the war. Zoey, gasping, struggled to regain her composure.

Rumi raised the short sword, body leaning forward. Her movements became aggressive for the first time, yet still controlled — each strike severing tendons, each dodge millimetric. Amid the carnage, she spoke, giving rapid, firm directions: “Mira, left flank. Now. Zoey, fire when I drop.”

They obeyed — without question.

The Gwishi roared, charging. Rumi did not retreat. She leapt forward, dodging low, and at the same instant shouted:

“Now!”

Zoey’s shot shattered the creature’s left eye, and Mira, recovering her woldo, crushed its spine with brutal force. The Gwishi fell, screaming, until it disintegrated into dark dust.

The three stood panting, covered in blood and sweat, but alive.

Zoey looked at Rumi with nearly childlike astonishment. Mira, as tough as she was, couldn’t hide the silent respect born in that instant.

Rumi simply drew a deep breath, wiped the blood from her blade with a precise gesture, and returned to the same neutral posture she always held. As if nothing had happened.

Celine, watching from the shadows, knew: in that moment, natural leadership had revealed itself. Not through vanity, not through imposition, but through the cold efficiency of one born to bear the weight of the impossible.

The field finally fell silent. The air, still thick with sulfur and blood, quivered with the last echoes of demonic screams. Dark dust drifted away like heavy smoke, leaving mutilated cadet bodies and black stains of dissolving demons scattered across the ground.

Zoey dropped to her knees, gasping, hands shaking as she wiped the blood smearing her face. Mira rested her woldo on the ground, panting, muscles still buzzing from the violence of her strikes. Both were wounded, exhausted — but alive.

At the center, Rumi stood upright. Her brown eyes stared unblinking at the horizon, her face devoid of emotion, posture firm as if she had not just thrown herself into death to save the others. She was unnervingly calm, as if every move had been predicted, as if bearing the weight of those lives came naturally.

Celine crossed the battlefield in silence. Her boots crushed the blood-soaked mud. Her gaze swept over the three cadets like blades, measuring every detail — the collapse of Zoey, the restrained ferocity of Mira, and Rumi’s unbreakable neutrality.

She stopped in front of them.

“You survived,” she said, cold, but there was a subtle, almost imperceptible note in her voice — respect.

Zoey lifted her eyes, still in shock, expecting reprimand. Mira clenched her fists, ready to be called out for her failures. But Celine diverted her gaze from them, locking it onto Rumi.

“The proof is clear.” Her tone hardened — relentless, definitive. “Ryu Rumi has shown the instinct, discipline, and capability that the two of you lack.”

Silence. The wind sliced through the night, carrying the metallic scent of blood.

“From this day forward, she will be the leader of this generation of Honmoons.”

Zoey’s eyes widened, stunned, almost disbelieving. Mira ground her teeth, wounded pride throbbing in her flesh — but deep down, she knew Celine was right. Only one of them had remained calm, only one had taken command at the abyss.

Rumi, for her part, did not react. She simply lowered her sword, wiped the blade once more with a piece of cloth, and sheathed it. She did not smile, did not speak, did not question. She only accepted.

Celine turned away and concluded, leaving no room for argument: “This is the Confederation’s order.”

And so, in the blood-soaked heart of the night, the new generation of Honmoons found their leader — not by choice, but by necessity.

The weight of the future, brutal and inevitable, now rested on the shoulders of the girl with serene eyes and braided purple hair.

Chapter Text

The air in Ulsan was saturated with sulfur and adrenaline. Every corner, every street vibrated with the torn screams of civilians and the distorted roars of demons. The ground was stained with blood, scraps of flesh, and torn-out hair, like a macabre map of destruction.

Zoey kept her breathing steady, finger firm on the trigger. Children transformed into demons twisted and howled, but every shot was precise, every bullet struck the exact point to halt the transformation before it had the chance to inflict real damage on innocents. Her eyes gleamed with something almost childlike, a mix of excitement and the brutal awareness of duty. With each shot, she felt the height of exaltation, almost as if she were striking a perfect note amidst the chaos.

Mira delighted in a more physical way. A short laugh escaped between blows, the heat of battle shaping the power in her muscles as she tore tails from a kumiho. Each pull was deliberate, cruel, and she made no effort to hide the pleasure she took in dominating the beast. For her, it was poetry: the destruction of a demon in harmony with her own inner fury.

Around the maelstrom, Rumi moved with precision. Her steps were calculated, each turn, each block, each raised blade directed to keep demons from reaching the other two. Her eyes were fixed, her breathing controlled, her body taut with the restrained energy of someone who knew a single mistake could be the last. Every demon that came close was met with clean cuts and containment strikes, her presence holding the chaos at bay, ensuring Zoey and Mira could act without interference.

She smelled the metallic tang of blood mixed with sulfur and did not flinch. There was no hesitation, no doubt. Every demon that fell before her only sharpened her presence, the Honmoon energy flowing through her body like electric current. The roar of a child turned demon was almost music to her ears — a cruel reminder of what they were there to destroy, of the thin line between humanity and horror.

The city had become a battlefield where death and destruction were choreographed with the precision of three bodies in perfect sync. Zoey fired, Mira mutilated, and Rumi held the perimeter. None of them needed words. Their communication was silent, almost telepathic, every gesture, every movement anticipating the next strike, every breath counting the time between life and death.

What would have gone unnoticed by any outside observer was the near-orgasmic intensity they felt. Every demon ripped apart, every scream silenced, every fleeting victory was fuel. There was no fear, only ecstasy and the sense of absolute control over what threatened to corrupt the world.

Rumi sensed the growing pressure on the eastern side of the street. A group of Gwishi advanced in a straight line, ready to break the formation. Without hesitation, she surged forward, her blade reflecting the pale sun slipping between shattered buildings. One strike, another, and another. Each impact calculated to topple, to incapacitate, to repel. There was no room for compassion, no room for error. She was the wall.

Zoey kept aiming at the transformed children — the consequences of an infection in a daycare — and one nearly slipped free of the bullet’s control. Rumi noticed the movement, slid across the side of the street, shoved the creature back down with force, while Mira spun her improvised weapon — a beam torn from a demolished house — crushing another monster that lunged with terrifying speed.

Time seemed to both compress and stretch. Each second lasted an eternity and vanished in the blink of an eye. They felt no pain, no fear — only a primal, pure thrill, the pleasure of being alive and in combat, the macabre dance of destruction and survival.

Rumi stepped back, gauging the distance. She spotted a smaller Gwishi trying to flank Mira, a fleeting smile of impatience crossing her face. With a swift movement, she cut through the air, intercepting the charge, and felt the echo of her blade strikes resound like music in her mind. Every demon that fell, every scream that ceased, every victory fed the energy coursing through her body, reminding her she could not falter — not for herself, not for the other two.

As the battle raged, the three of them seemed to form a single organism. Zoey was the mind anticipating movements, Mira was the heart radiating force and destruction, and Rumi was the backbone, the spine holding the entire structure together. There was no margin for failure. The city burned around them, but for them, every spray of blood was poetry, every fallen body a rhythm.

And amid that chaos, Rumi felt something never taught. A silent respect for the instincts of the other two, a mutual trust that needed no words. They were the walls of humanity, but also the bearers of a cruel truth: survival demanded pleasure in destruction.

When the last Gwishi fell, and silence swept over the devastated streets, Rumi drew a long breath. The stench of blood, the sight of corpses, the pain and adrenaline still pulsed, yet she remained firm, a statue in the eye of the storm. Zoey lowered her weapon, a slight smile hiding the weight of what they had done. Mira exhaled, hands still stained with blood and kumiho tail.

Rumi finally looked at the other two. Her brown eyes fixed on them, serious and calm. The battle was over, but the ecstasy still pulsed through every fiber of her being. No words were needed. They had won — and they had done it together, as Honmoons, as the walls of humanity, and as monsters wielding control over monsters.

The city of Ulsan lay in ruins, but for the three of them, it was only another memory of the price they bore and the power they carried.

The silence after the devastation was almost sickening. Zoey and Mira moved along the perimeter, eyes sharp, but all they found were lifeless bodies and debris. No sign of movement, no sound of breath beyond the cold wind slipping between the ruined buildings. They began to ease, believing the wave of horror had finally ended.

Rumi, however, could not afford that luxury. Her instinct, honed as always, caught something out of step with the natural rhythm of death. A faint but pulsing aura drew her attention. She stopped, lowered her body slightly, eyes sweeping the shadows between the destroyed buildings.

There it was. A Bhoota — but different. It wore a black hanbok that swayed with the wind, its dark hair stark against the pale skin that shimmered with purplish hues, almost ethereal. In its eyes, or where eyes should have been, only flickers of molten gold glimmered, uneven, as if the spirit were toying with her. Its presence was cold, intelligent, provocative.

Rumi raised her hand, signaling Zoey and Mira to stay put. They hesitated, but trusted. The Honmoon advanced, silent as a predator, following every movement of the Bhoota without haste, but with absolute focus. Every step, every shift of the spirit seemed calculated to provoke her, to stretch the pursuit, to toy with her sense of time and space.

The wind carried fragments of murmurs — distorted voices, macabre laughter coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. Rumi felt the Bhoota’s energy curling around her own, an invisible dance of hunt and pursuit. She couldn’t understand why it had led her there, but her instinct told her she had to keep going.

The spirit guided her, almost as if conducting a private performance. Each time she advanced, it retreated; each time she hesitated, it drew closer, dangerously close, but always maintaining a safe distance. Rumi felt her own breath quicken, the iridescent patterns on her chest and arms responding, pulsing faster with the anticipation of combat.

At last, she reached an abandoned hospital. The building lay in ruins, windows shattered, doors ripped away, but it still carried an aura of the forbidden, almost ritualistic. And there, the Bhoota stopped. Rumi instinctively took her combat stance. Blade in hand, body flexible, eyes locked on the purplish flickers radiating from the creature.

The atmosphere was surreal. The silence among the wreckage was filled only by the echo of her own breathing, the creak of loose doors, and the faint clink of some fallen metal. The Bhoota seemed amused, circling her, leaving behind faint trails of shadow as though it were playing with her.

Rumi felt a strange blend of tension and exhilaration. The pure instinct of survival mingled with adrenaline and curiosity. She didn’t need to rationalize why she was there. Every muscle, every sense was calibrated for the anticipation of the strike, for assessing the adversary.

She advanced, and the spirit fell back, keeping the taunting rhythm. The battle was about to begin, and Rumi knew that, even alone, every fiber of her body already knew what to do. The abandoned hospital was the stage, and the Bhoota the adversary who would test her, toy with her, force her to explore the limits of her own Honmoon strength.

Rumi drew a deep breath, her eyes locked on the Bhoota’s flickers. No words were spoken, no commands given. Only her, the spirit, and the moment that would become memory, training, and proof of her capacity for leadership before anyone else ever knew her true power.

The Bhoota, now fully visible, revealed an almost human form. Tall, slender, with broad shoulders and an elegant posture, the spirit looked more like an ordinary young man than anything demonic. Short black hair, with a long fringe parted to fall over his golden eyes as if to both obscure and highlight the intensity of his gaze. The light filtering through the cracks of the hospital made his face appear sculpted, flawless — a disturbing beauty that contrasted with the malevolence he exuded.

He didn’t move. He just stood there, measuring Rumi as though she were nothing more than a curiosity to be examined. Then he spoke. His voice was neither a roar nor a demonic whisper. It was smooth, seductive, almost charismatic, yet laced with malice. Every word was measured to slip past Rumi’s defenses, to crack the concentration she had maintained ever since entering the building.

“Do you really think you can stop me alone, little Honmoon?” his voice spread through the dark corridor, reverberating off the broken walls. “Look at you… so serious, so firm… but so fragile.”

Rumi drew in a breath, feeling the air grow thin around her, and kept her blade at the ready. Every muscle trembled with anticipation, but she did not back down.

“Hm, fragility,” she replied, ironic and firm, though her voice carried a trace of alertness, almost human.

The Bhoota smiled, an expression both charming and cruel. Each movement was calculated, weaving between light and shadow. He seemed to toy with the environment, turning lightly on his feet while his golden eyes measured every reaction of hers.

“Ah, but every Honmoon has fragilities,” he taunted. “Melancholy, fear… even hunger for control. I can feel you. I can feel what you repress, what you crave, and even what you fear to admit.”

A chill ran down Rumi’s spine. The Bhoota wasn’t just trying to attack her physically; he was probing her mind, her heart, her emotions. Every provocation was an attempt to crack the stone she had built around herself, to make her falter and expose a weakness.

She tightened her grip on the blade, the feel of cold metal against her steady hands grounding her. The dim light slipped through the hospital’s gaps, projecting long shadows that shifted as though they belonged to the spirit himself, dancing around him, multiplying his presence.

“You talk too much,” Rumi said, her voice low, sharp, but controlled. “And still… still, you can’t touch me.”

The Bhoota laughed, a low, entrancing sound that reverberated down the corridor. He moved closer, silent, calculated steps. Each motion was a blend of grace and threat, always a step ahead, always two steps beyond her reach.

“Touch you?” he teased. “Touching isn’t the problem. It’s tearing down your wall, seeing what really hides behind that stern face. That’s harder, isn’t it?”

Rumi inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for a moment, focusing only on the flow of her own energy. The iridescent patterns across her chest began to intensify, pulsing in response to danger, to provocation, to the inhuman presence before her. The Bhoota’s taunts would not dominate her. She could not allow herself to falter.

“I know who I am,” she answered, opening her eyes and staring directly into the golden flickers. “I won’t fall for your provocations.”

The spirit moved swiftly, vanishing and reappearing behind her, the faint rustle of his ghostly hanbok whispering through the dark. He tilted his head, almost as if acknowledging her determination, then stepped back, keeping that provocative dance, measuring her reactions with precision.

The hunter adjusted her stance, breath quickening, adrenaline flooding every fiber of her being. This was a test unlike any she had ever faced. It was not only about strength or skill; it was about absolute control of mind, patience, of her very essence. Every word from the Bhoota clawed at her, but the stone held firm.

She knew this moment would define more than her combat skill. It would define her capacity to lead, her strength as a Honmoon, her ability to protect the others when chaos struck. And, as she held her stance, brown eyes locked on the golden flickers of her adversary, Rumi felt that the dance of light and shadow, provocation and resistance, was only just beginning.

“…it would be so amusing if your companions found out what you really are, wouldn’t it?” The Bhoota’s voice reverberated in Rumi’s ears, smooth, melodic, spreading through the air as though he were everywhere at once, though he remained distant, just out of immediate reach. “Which one would kill you first: the frustrated redhead, or the cunning little one? Perhaps both, simultaneously, hm?”

His laughter echoed through the abandoned hospital corridor, metallic, almost musical. There was something perversely enchanting in that sound, the spirit delighting at the hunter’s expense. A shiver ran down Rumi’s spine, adrenaline surging through her veins with more intensity than any physical battle before. Each word was calculated, a sharpened scalpel slicing into her mind, probing her fears, her doubts, and above all, her conscience.

She drew in a deep breath, keeping her blade steady before her tense body. But the Bhoota’s laughter and taunts were difficult to ignore. It was more than psychological manipulation — it was a cruel game, a test of endurance, of who could better master their own inner darkness.

“You… you won’t break me,” Rumi said firmly, though her breathing betrayed the tension. The iridescent patterns on her chest began to flare, pulsing in response to the demon’s nearness, casting shards of light across her skin like shattered glass.

The Bhoota stepped forward, though he seemed to float. Every movement of his was calculated, elegant, and yet predatory. A golden gleam in his eyes tracked each microexpression on Rumi’s face, anticipating her reactions, exploiting hesitations she hadn’t even known she carried.

“Even while hunting demons, you don’t know us,” he murmured, his voice low, insinuating. “Perhaps that’s why humanity is so doomed. They strike before they see what.” He laughed again, cold and sharp. “Stop being the drain that keeps this wretched society from collapsing… you’d benefit from it too.”

Rumi felt the ground beneath her tremble with the intensity of the Bhoota’s power. He wasn’t merely challenging her physical strength — he was assaulting her ethics, her convictions, the very essence of what it meant to be a Honmoon. It was a game of provocations meant to push her into despair, rage, or doubt — any crack that could weaken her defenses.

She raised her blade, trying to carve a physical barrier against the spirit’s mental invasion. But the Bhoota moved with disorienting speed, each step making him both visible and invisible at once, a shadow stretching and ensnaring the fractured light.

“Look at you,” he continued, drawing closer, every word more cutting. “So controlled, so precise… and yet, a monster ready to tear through its own chains. I can feel it, I can see the beast clawing inside you. Would your little friends notice? What would they say if they saw what truly lies within?”

Rumi clenched her fists, the blade trembling slightly. But instead of retreating, she began to move, turning with her usual deftness, Honmoon energy flowing through her body, amplifying her reflexes and her strength. The iridescent patterns across her chest and arms flared brighter now, as though trying to shatter the aura of manipulation surrounding her foe.

“You don’t understand anything!” Rumi’s voice rang out sharp and firm, reverberating down the empty corridor. “I know far more than you imagine. I am not vulnerable to your words.”

The Bhoota smiled — and this time, it wasn’t merely charming, but predatory. His elongated teeth caught the light, each word from his mouth sharp as blades. He lunged suddenly, almost teleporting, and in an instant was before her, striking with a blow more provocation than killing intent.

Rumi slipped aside with precision, feeling the air split close to her face. Every step, every motion was a calculated dance, a weave of defense and counter, reaction and anticipation. And most of all, each instant served to measure her own strength, her own resolve.

“I told you,” the Bhoota teased, laughing softly, “this would be fun. And look at you — you’re enjoying yourself too, aren’t you?” He pressed forward again, and Rumi felt that every strike, every move, was crafted not only to test her body but to shake her mind.

She breathed deeply, absorbing every word, every provocation, transforming them into fuel. Instead of weakening, each verbal assault became another reason to stand firm, to focus harder. This was a battle not just of blades and reflexes, but of control, of awareness, of inner strength.

The Bhoota stepped back slightly, studying the hunter before him. His golden eyes gleamed with curiosity and amusement all at once.

“Well done, little Honmoon,” he said, his voice still melodic, almost a whisper cutting through the silence of the hospital. “Let’s see how long you can endure me. How long your beast inside can stay caged, without breaking free.”

Rumi stood motionless, her breathing controlled, energy flowing steady through her body, blade firm in hand. She knew she could not falter — not for a heartbeat. Every taunt, every laugh, every motion of her enemy was a test, and she was determined to pass it.

The Bhoota’s laughter rang through the hospital, both music and menace, while the patterns across Rumi’s body pulsed, mirroring her power and the intensity of a confrontation that had only just begun. The battle of mind, emotion, and flesh was far from over, and she was ready to face every cruel nuance of this game, every provocation designed to rip her control away.

Four new figures emerged from the shadows, identical to the Bhoota who had been taunting her — tall, beautiful, wrapped in the same black hanbok, with golden eyes burning like embers in the gloom. They moved in perfect sync, each step a distorted reflection, a multiplied echo.

Rumi raised her blade, breath steady, but something was wrong. She was precision — she had always been. But now, every thrust clashed against nothing. Every slash struck only rarefied air, as though the specters were slipping through the cracks of the hospital, mocking her haste.

They laughed, soft, echoing laughter, mingling with the metallic creak of the hanging lamps swaying above.

“So fast… but not enough.” One whispered behind her.

“A reflection that never reaches.” Another spoke ahead.

“What a waste of destiny…” a third finished, elongated teeth catching the faint light.

The first Bhoota, the original, only watched, his smile wide and languid, as though he knew something she could never grasp.

For a moment, Rumi felt the weight of the encirclement — their presences spinning around her like predators who did not hunt to kill, but to humiliate. A spectral blade rose behind her, aimed at her exposed nape. The movement was silent, precise. She turned too late.

The strike never landed.

A blade tore through the specter before his could descend. A clean, sure curve — splitting the creature in two. Its form unraveled into violet smoke, dissolving into the air with a muffled crack.

“Rumi!” Zoey’s voice rang out, sharp and urgent.

The other Bhoota withdrew, dissolving as easily as they had appeared. But not before the original, golden-eyed with an immortal smile, leaned slightly forward, staring at Rumi. His lips curved into a wider arc, cruel, almost intimate.

A smile that said: I know what you are.

And then he was gone, vanishing into the dust of the abandoned hospital.

Zoey entered first, her firm steps echoing across the hollow floor. The rifle still smoked hot, and her gaze cut like a steel blade. She found Rumi standing in the middle of the corridor, body impeccably straight, sword in hand — but something was wrong. Her military precision, her calculated calm, seemed fractured.

“You okay?” The question came out dry, almost harsh, like a veiled order. There was no sweetness there, only the urgency of answers.

Rumi slowly turned her face toward the smallest of the Honmoons. Her expression remained neutral, but her brown eyes — still smoldering with a golden trace she didn’t notice — held the hardness of someone who refused to waver. She only nodded once, minimal, restrained.

Mira appeared right behind, woldo resting on her shoulder, her silence as cutting as Zoey’s. The redhead scanned the corners of the room, observed the magenta marks and the lingering trace of the demon’s passage, then let her gaze fall on Rumi. “You’re always bragging about never failing.” Her voice dragged, a crooked smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “But looks like today you almost became a statistic.”

Zoey raised her brows, finger still resting on the rifle’s trigger. Distrust already dripped from her tense posture. “Mira’s right. You don’t make mistakes, Rumi. Not from reflex, not from distraction.” Her words came hard, incisive, each one sharp as a bayonet. “So what the hell happened here?”

Tension filled the narrow corridor. The silence pressed against the walls, as though the whole hospital were waiting for an answer.

Rumi drew in a deep breath, so deep it seemed she wanted to drown the questions along with the air in her lungs. She turned to face them directly, sword still in hand, her posture upright like a soldier before an invisible tribunal.

“They were toying with me.” Her voice didn’t tremble. There was no doubt, only abyssal gravity. “Toying the way ghosts do. They weren’t the real demons…”

Zoey narrowed her eyes, lips tightening in doubt, ready to snap back. Mira frowned too, her hands gripping the weapon’s shaft as though the provocation cut deeper than she could bear. But when Rumi stepped forward, shadow swallowing half her face and her eyes fixed on them like blades driven into flesh, the atmosphere shifted.

“And even if that wasn’t the case…” her voice dropped, low, grave, deliberate, as if hammering each syllable into their chests, “do you think you could question me? Do you think you’d have the strength to stop me?”

The weight of those words made the entire corridor feel smaller. Words born from a friend too brutal for lips as delicate as hers.

Zoey opened her mouth, but nothing came. Mira took half a step toward her, then instantly retreated, her eyes burning with restrained frustration. Both felt, even without admitting it, that this was an invisible line they dared not cross.

Rumi lowered her blade slowly, the metallic sound of steel echoing in the silence. Her stance returned to what it had always been: calm, unshakable, untouchable. But her words still reverberated in the air like invisible claws scraping the concrete.

They left the hospital together, but the silence between the three was no longer just silence. It was a wound. Zoey kept her gaze sideways, trying to decipher something she couldn’t grasp. Mira bit her tongue, unable to spit out the rage building inside her.

And Rumi walked between them, the echo of the Bhoota’s smile still burning in her memory — alongside the bitter certainty that her comrades would never dare confront her for real.

• ★ •

Dawn in Ulsan brought no relief. The sky was veiled in haze, streaked with thin cracks of lilac energy pulsing like diseased veins, a reminder to all that the tear in the veil had yet to heal. The local outpost was an improvised block of reinforced concrete, the smell of iron and sweat soaked into every corridor. Soldiers came and went in silence, carrying ammunition, bodies, and reports.

Zoey and Mira leaned against a corner of the break room, bodies weary but eyes sharp with irritation. Mira tore at a piece of stale bread as if she wanted to crush the world with her jaw.

“That fucking bitch.” She snarled, spitting the words out along with crumbs. “Just because she’s the ‘strongest,’ huh? Just because Celine kisses her ass?”

Zoey sighed, adjusting the holster at her waist. She’d heard this rant before, but today it carried more weight, sharper venom. “Mira…” she tried to soften it, but the redhead was already ablaze.

“No, seriously!” She slammed her fist on the table, making the mug of cold coffee rattle. “Rumi looks at us like we’re a couple of mediocre recruits. Like the fucking mission is her personal little game. And worse: when she feels like it, she even manages to be…” she bit her lip, scoffing, “a sweetheart. Out of nowhere. A word here or there that makes you think maybe, just maybe, she’s human and not some weird robot from HQ!”

Zoey raised an eyebrow, a tired half-smile escaping. “But that’s almost as rare as a perfect cosmic alignment, isn’t it?”

Mira laughed without humor, running a hand through her tied-up hair. “Rarer, actually. Lately it feels like it doesn’t exist at all.”

The silence between them thickened, heavy as gunpowder smoke. Zoey rested her chin on her hand, eyes drifting toward the window where soldiers were setting up barricades. The memory of the night before still burned in her mind: Rumi standing still, her gaze distant, the Bhoota laughing as if he knew something they didn’t.

“I know she’s unbearable sometimes… lately, almost always, really,” Zoey continued, low, too drained to dress up her words. “But she makes things work. Can’t deny that.”

Mira clicked her tongue but said nothing.

Zoey turned her eyes back to her girlfriend, narrowing them with a doubt that had been gnawing since the hospital. “…Don’t you sometimes think her eyes are weird?”

Mira frowned, caught off guard. “What?”

“The way she looks…” Zoey hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s like… I don’t know… something that doesn’t match the rest of her.”

The redhead leaned back in her chair, a muscled arm draped over the backrest, and let out a short laugh. “Uh, well… yeah, she’s got a gaze sharp as hell. Weird as fuck. Like she’s got those piercing blue eyes that cut right through your soul — but then you look and they’re brown. Creepy.”

Zoey bit her lip, stifling a nervous laugh. “No, that’s not it.” She shook her head, as if trying to push the thought away. “It’s just… nothing. Forget it. I think I’m seeing things.”

Mira tilted her head, curious, but didn’t press. Zoey fell silent, fingers drumming nervously against the table, her thoughts running in circles. What she had seen that night in the hospital — that golden flicker in Rumi’s eyes — was it just a hallucination from exhaustion? Or was it something far worse?

And outside, the sun climbed higher, offering no answers.

The silence between Zoey and Mira still burned when the metallic door of the room creaked open. A soldier appeared, standing straight, his uniform streaked with dust and dried blood. His military rigidity seemed ready to crack in his tired eyes, but his voice held firm with discipline:

“Honmoon cadets.” He gave a brief bow. “The significant tear in the veil has been sealed. We’ll remain in Ulsan for only two more days. If we keep the current pace, the veil should remain stable for at least a few months.”

Mira straightened her back, her jaw still tight with the venom of the words she’d spat minutes earlier. Zoey just nodded, subtle. The soldier inclined his head, lingered as if waiting for instructions, then withdrew. The door creaked again, returning the sense of confinement to them.

But not for long.

Another set of footsteps echoed in the corridor. Lighter, but weighted with authority. The door opened smoothly, and Rumi stepped in.

Uniform pressed, every seam in perfect order, her posture flawless as if carved from stone. Her face — delicate, beautiful, yet absolutely neutral — carried the unsettling calm of a hurricane’s eye. Her brown eyes, steady and fixed, blinked no more than necessary. Her braid had been redone, not a strand out of place. She said nothing. She simply entered and took her place beside them, like an unyielding rock against the tide.

Zoey suddenly felt the silence in the room shift into something dense, almost sacred. Mira, no matter how much she wanted to keep her tongue sharp, restrained herself. There was something in Rumi that crushed every impulse of confrontation: that steel-forged passivity, that firmness that needed no words to assert itself.

And yet, for Zoey, the weight wasn’t in the perfect discipline. It was in the eyes — always the eyes. What she had seen that night still throbbed in the back of her mind, a golden flicker hidden beneath the brown surface.

The room felt on the verge of suffocating. Rumi stood still, as if she were part of the architecture, indifferent to the heavy air Zoey and Mira had left to boil.

But Mira was not made for silence. The redhead had always been the opposite: the inevitable explosion, the spark that couldn’t be contained. Her jaw moved first, like a tremor before an eruption.

“So, you’re just gonna stand there with that saint-of-stone face?” her voice cut sharp, loaded. “You always act like you’re better than us, like some kind of supreme judge.”

Rumi didn’t answer. Not a muscle moved.

Zoey cleared her throat, trying to stop the fall. “Mira… let it go.”

But Mira wasn’t letting anything go. Her body leaned forward, palms flat on the iron table. “Say something, damn it! You just command, just look down on us. No wonder Celine drools at your feet.” She spat the words with venom, eyes blazing. “And the rest of us can rot, right?”

Rumi’s silence struck like a slap. With every word Mira hurled, her brown eyes stayed fixed, cold, unshaken.

Zoey shot them both a nervous look, biting her lip. “Mira, seriously…”

“No, Zoey.” Mira pressed on. “I want to see if this statue has blood in her veins or just poison!”

A faint twitch rippled at Rumi’s jaw. Nothing more.

Mira’s rage swelled, each breath more suffocated by the other’s passivity. Until, without realizing it, she struck too deep.

“Imagine if your mother saw this.” The words came out like a dagger. “Ryu Miyeong, the most human Honmoon to ever walk this cursed earth… if she saw her daughter today, she’d die of shame.”

The room froze.

Zoey’s eyes widened, her heart racing. “Mira…!”

Rumi’s gaze shifted for the first time. It wasn’t an explosion — it was a crack. The stone mask gave way, and a shadow of something ancient, untamable, crossed her eyes. A flicker, subtle but immense, of burning gold Zoey had seen before.

When Rumi’s voice finally rose, it wasn’t loud. It was low, grave, cutting. “Don’t you dare speak of her.”

The tone was so heavy the air seemed to vibrate. Even Mira, who rarely backed down, felt her shoulders lock.

Rumi rose, her posture impeccable, but now carrying a controlled fury — so dense it seemed to burn in silence. Her gaze pinned the redhead, not like a blade, but like a wall that suffocated by sheer presence.

“You know nothing about her,” she said, each word a stone cast into the void. “Or about me.”

And the silence that followed was worse than any scream.

Zoey drew a deep breath, feeling sweat slide down her back beneath the uniform. No reply could stand against that weight. And for the first time, Mira had none.

Her chest heaved, her face flushed, fists trembling. Zoey bit her lip, too afraid to cut in.

Rumi remained unmoving. But when she finally spoke, the room seemed to shrink. Her voice didn’t rise; it didn’t need to. It was low, sunk deep, and razor-sharp.

“If you want equality… grow.” The silence between the words struck like a blow. “If you want equality, earn it.”

Mira held her breath, stunned by the weight those words carved into the air.

“I’m doing my job.” Rumi stepped forward, her eyes locking onto hers, glowing gold for an instant in the shadows. “Do yours… and everything will be fine.”

The final syllables echoed like a verdict.

Zoey felt her spine turn cold. There had been no shouting, no open violence, but the balance was about to tip into chaos.

Mira stepped back a few paces, her chest rising and falling quickly. The harshness of her voice couldn’t hide the dampness in her eyes, the reflection of tears she refused to let fall. Every word carried rancor, longing, and desperation.

“…Where’s the girl who, even when everything was shit…” her voice broke for an instant, swallowing the knot in her throat “…still managed to give an ugly smile and say she was fighting for a better world for us…” Rumi stared at her, unmoving, her expression almost impassive, but her brown eyes remained locked on her, piercing, as if trying to measure every fraction of pain and frustration. “The ‘us’ was never real…” Mira swallowed hard, her voice low, cutting. “Or did you just forget what that means?”

Absolute silence. Zoey, standing at the side, felt the weight of the room compress her lungs. Neither of them was breathing right. The intensity of the clash wasn’t in their hands or gestures, but in the unspoken truths and the history they shared.

Rumi finally moved, a short and precise step, as if the gravity of her own voice had hardened her body. She tilted her head slightly, maintaining absolute calm, but an aura of control emanated from every gesture.

“I didn’t forget.” Her voice was firm, almost too low to be heard, but carried enough weight to shake Mira. “I only learned that the world doesn’t wait for us, Mira. Not for ugly smiles, not for noble dreams, not for ‘us.’ Whoever doesn’t fulfill their role… is left behind.”

The echo of her words lingered in the air like a lash. Mira felt the invisible blade cut inside her, but there was no ready reply. No argument strong enough to nullify Rumi’s calculated coldness.

Zoey, for an instant, closed her eyes, trying to breathe, feeling that the line between leadership and tyranny had just been drawn.

Rumi held firm, every fiber of her body tense, controlling every nuance of emotion, every whisper of power that might spill out. The air seemed to vibrate with the silent promise of command: she was the leader. And Mira, even with all her rage and broken heart, had to recognize it.

Mira shoved the door hard, the creak echoing down the corridor, hurried footsteps carrying her away, anger and pain mixing with every beat of her heart. Zoey hesitated for a moment, looking at Rumi, breathing deeply, feeling the tension still reverberate. She took a few steps, approaching, stopping just a few meters away.

“Rumi…” she began, her voice low, almost a whisper, but laden with sincerity. “I know Mira pushed you out of this… but I didn’t.” The cold-eyed hunter remained upright, her posture impeccable, but something in her expression seemed to soften slightly, as if hearing a distant sound she had forgotten. “You don’t understand…” Zoey went on, choosing every word carefully. “I know you always need to be in control. Always need to be the strongest, the sharpest. But… none of us want to be your subordinates. None of us want to tear you down.”

Rumi blinked, her gaze fixed on Zoey, trying to measure the honesty and fragility contained in that moment. The silence lasted several seconds, heavy, almost suffocating.

“I know, Zoey…” Rumi finally said, her voice calm, firm, but less cutting than before. “But sometimes… control is all I have.”

“No, Rumi… it’s not… but—” Zoey stepped forward, almost reaching for Rumi’s hand, but keeping the distance.

“Anyway… shouldn’t you go after her?” Rumi asked, the first note of irony slicing through the neutrality that usually cloaked her.

Zoey blinked, surprised, and then smiled faintly.

“Yeah, I should… the way she is, she’s probably punching some lieutenant. But… wouldn’t it be better if it were us, don’t you think?”

Rumi tilted her head, assessing, then let out a soft, stifled laugh, almost inaudible:

“Hm… I don’t know if that’s a good idea. She’ll want to smash my face in.”

“Ah—” Zoey said, with a gentle, almost conspiratorial smile “you deserve it. You should let yourself get beaten up a little.”

The silence that followed was no longer heavy, no longer carried the weight of the earlier tension. It was comfortable, even if fleeting. A faint spark of humanity and irony appeared in Rumi’s eyes. For an instant, the stone she carried around her heart gave way, and a light, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.

“Alright…” Rumi murmured, in a tone that blended defiance and humor, “then let’s go.”

And in that moment, the crack opened by Mira’s rage needed neither clashes nor screams to be sealed; it was mended by a flicker of irony and complicity, discreet but powerful, between Rumi and Zoey.

• ★ •

Rumi entered Celine’s silent office, each step measured, her body still vibrating from the adrenaline of the encounter. The Honmoons’ leader lifted her eyes from the map spread across the table, and for a moment, said nothing. The silence was heavier than any battle cry.

“So…” Rumi began, her voice steady but laden with restrained tension, “the spirit I followed, the Bhoota… wasn’t ordinary. Different from anything I’ve seen. He provoked, tried to destabilize me.”

Celine remained motionless, her black eyes studying every trace of the purple-haired cadet who, to everyone else, appeared as nothing more than an exemplary recruit.

“Describe him.” The command was direct, without a trace of emotion.

Rumi inhaled deeply, recalling the iridescent gleam over the spirit’s golden eyes.

“He… he seemed human. Tall, black hair, fringe falling over golden eyes. But there was something… off. The way he moved, the way he toyed with my attention, the way he laughed…” She swallowed hard. “As if he were studying me, testing me.”

Celine leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced.

“A Bhoota never acts like that without reason. It exploits fear, doubt, even the pleasure of witnessing failure. What did you feel?”

Rumi looked to the floor, recalling the weight of fear, the suppressed anger, and the strange thrill coursing through her veins.

“I… felt everything. Fear, anger, excitement… but also… a strange… attraction to his strength. It’s confusing, but it wasn’t just hate. It was… as if he was challenging me to be more.” Her breathing quickened, the confession almost involuntary.

Celine remained impassive, but when her voice came, it cut the air like a blade.

“That is precisely a Bhoota’s objective. It senses weakness and curiosity, exploits instinct, forces the cadet to confront limits she never knew she possessed. He tried to manipulate your perception of strength and desire — and you resisted, even if barely.”

Rumi lifted her brown eyes to Celine, insecurity clashing with her discipline.

“Barely?” she whispered, the phrase tasting bitter. “He… confused me.”

Celine leaned closer, eyes fixed on her, ice-cold and piercing.

“He tested your mind, but did not dominate it. What did you do when you sensed the manipulation?”

Rumi clenched her fists. The spirit’s words still echoed in her mind: Which one would kill you first… maybe both, simultaneously…

“I… I ignored it.” Her voice was firm, but carried a trace of emotion she would never admit in front of the others. “I focused on what mattered: preventing him from reaching the other two. I kept the priority.”

Celine nodded slightly, unsurprised.

“That was correct. Mission before all else. But a Bhoota isn’t merely brute force. It challenges the mind, tests emotional limits. You must understand that the next encounter won’t be different — and it could be worse.”

Rumi swallowed hard, the memory of Zoey’s blade saving her still alive and the spirit’s ironic smile seared into her mind.

“I know. But…” she paused, hesitating for a fraction of a second before straightening her posture. “I did not fail. None of the others, no human or cadet, will have a chance if I’m present.”

Celine leaned back in her chair, observing the cadet she had raised under secrecy, suppression, discipline, and fear.

“That is exactly what I expect from you. Leadership is not only command or strength. It’s perceiving danger, anticipating it, and acting with precision regardless.” She paused, studying Rumi’s face. “And you, my creation, have learned to balance the beast within with the cadet who must lead.”

Rumi closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the words. The golden flicker in her eyes, a product of her demonic heritage, seemed to fade for a moment, but the tension in her muscles remained.

“So… if another spirit tries to manipulate my colleagues, if another Bhoota appears… I must be ready to control it before any other thought or reaction.”

Celine nodded, her voice softer but still firm. “Exactly. You are the line separating their safety from failure. But do not be mistaken: your mind and body are still targets. And if you fail, there is no room for regrets.”

Rumi opened her eyes, meeting Celine’s gaze with a mixture of respect and defiance. “I will not fail.”

“See that it is not an empty promise. It is a decision you must internalize. Not out of fear of failure, but because of the weight of your responsibility.” Celine stepped closer, placing a hand on Rumi’s shoulder with light pressure. “And remember: what you saw today, the manipulation, the distraction… it was never personal. It is always the test, the lesson, the preparation.”

Rumi inhaled deeply, her heart still racing at the memory of the Bhoota. The recollection of provocation, irony, and the ongoing challenge. But also of Zoey’s precise blade and Mira’s sadistic smile, even in battle.

“I understand,” she murmured, firm. “Not personal. Training. Duty.”

Celine withdrew, assessing her for a few moments. The purple-haired cadet, half-demon, her secret creation, was now a finely honed instrument of war.

“Very well. Now go. Prepare yourself. Other tests will come, and you must lead without hesitation. The only weakness that may exist is the one you allow within yourself.”

Rumi straightened, her posture impeccable, deep brown eyes fixed, her long braid swaying slightly with her movement. She nodded silently and turned, leaving Celine’s office. Each step measured, each breath controlled.

The battle in the abandoned hospital, the provocative Bhoota, Zoey’s saving blade — everything had transformed into learning, tension, and a brief flicker of internal irony. But above all, there was clarity: as a leader, there was no room for hesitation. And she was ready.

• ★ •

The sound of laughter, applause, and euphoric shouts cut through the corridors of the Ulsan center. The soldiers’ celebration, after months of tension, was an explosion of relief, noise, and disorder. Mugs clashed, toasts were raised, voices thick with alcohol and adrenaline. The veil had been sealed, the city apparently secure, and the soldiers celebrated as if each fleeting second of revelry could erase the terror they had endured.

Zoey laughed, leaning over Mira, trying not to spill the drink she held. Mira returned the smile, eyes shining with pure exhilaration. They were the image everyone expected: young, strong, alive, dominating the chaos with fleeting joy. Their energy was contagious, and some soldiers approached to congratulate the Honmoons on their feat, bodies already too drunk to maintain proper posture.

But Rumi was not there. She lingered at the outskirts, a few meters from the chaos, her silhouette firm and imposing even under the artificial lights competing with the moon. Her long purple hair, tied in a single braid, swayed slightly with each step, her brown eyes fixed, observing. Each laugh that pierced the air seemed to resonate within her, but it did not touch her. She was looking at a world that, in some way, did not include her.

Rumi felt the wind echo against the newly sealed veil. She knew that barrier was not permanent—only a temporary delay. Human fragility lurked everywhere, and even when the veil seemed stable, she could sense the imminent presence of entities that would not rest. Each distant laugh reminded her of mortality, of the unpredictability of all that lay beyond human protection.

She inhaled deeply, letting the cold night air fill her lungs. The calm in her posture contrasted sharply with the chaotic energy around her. She watched Zoey and Mira from afar — not with jealousy, not with envy — but with a silent analysis. They were essential, but far too human. Every gesture, every movement carried a vulnerability she needed to perceive, to anticipate.

“To the Honmoons!” a soldier’s shout rang out, mug raised, echoing through the night. “They closed the veil faster than ever seen!”

Rumi raised an eyebrow, almost ironically. The words did not spark enthusiasm. She understood the exaltation, but she also knew that jubilation was fleeting. The time of fear and death would not vanish in a single night of celebration.

She walked slowly around the perimeter of the courtyard, her steps nearly silent on the concrete. Every detail was absorbed: the stance of each soldier, the way they lifted their mugs, the smiles that didn’t reach their eyes. Her colleagues’ glances brushed against something Rumi felt deep within: an ancient, fierce instinct, ready to erupt.

As the shouts echoed, Rumi closed her eyes for a moment. Images of the abandoned hospital surfaced suddenly: the provocative Bhoota, the iridescent gleam, the sensation of being studied, tested. The adrenaline of the fight still pulsed through her blood, mingled with the cold control she cultivated to show no vulnerability.

She knew that distance was not only physical. It was the space separating the demonic instinct she carried from her posture as a Honmoon. And while the world around her danced in celebration, Rumi felt the weight of her own singularity: no one, except Celine, knew who she truly was. And perhaps it was better that way.

“They don’t need to know,” she murmured, almost to herself, brown eyes fixed on the horizon where the city stretched silently beyond the celebration. “It’s safer this way.”

Yet a small flicker of irony danced in her mind, almost a smile that never reached her lips: while Zoey and Mira allowed themselves to laugh, she remained at the edge, knowing that in battle, there would be no laughter. No celebration. Only instinct, decision, and survival.

And still, she watched, analyzed, anticipated. Every gesture of her colleagues, every movement of the soldiers around her, was information that could save lives. She was not isolated out of weakness, but out of a deeper understanding of what it truly meant to lead.

The party continued, the noise rising in intensity, and Rumi remained at the edges, still, silent — a steadfast rock in the eye of a storm of laughter and alcohol. She knew this moment of calm was temporary, and that the real test would come sooner or later.

She exhaled, allowing, for a brief instant, the weariness of the past days, of battles and confrontations, to press against her skin. But not fear. Fear would never dominate her.

Rumi lifted her head, brown eyes meeting the night sky, and a silent determination bloomed. No matter how the world celebrated and distracted itself, she was ready. Always ready.

And yet, she allowed herself a fleeting trace of irony:

“To the Honmoons…” she whispered softly, almost teasingly, knowing that behind the laughter and exaltation, only one truth remained: responsibility never slept.

Rumi leaned against the balcony railing, the night breeze brushing against her pale skin and the strands of purple hair that fell in a flawless braid halfway down her back. Her brown eyes, fixed on the darkness stretching beyond the city, seemed to absorb every detail of the faint light escaping from distant lamps. She didn’t turn immediately; she let Mira and Zoey approach, knowing they would feel the weight of the distance she always maintained between them.

Finally, with an almost inaudible sigh, she spoke. Her voice — always calm and controlled — now carried an unexpectedly delicate, measured tone, almost reflective:

“I know my behavior over the past few months… has been unbearable.” A pause, her eyes drifting briefly to the ground before returning to her colleagues. “I know I seem distant, cold, as if nothing you do or say has any effect on me. But it’s not disdain. Not disrespect. It’s… fear. Fear of failing, fear of not being able to protect you, of not being able to fulfill what Celine expects of me, and, in the end, of us losing each other.” She inhaled deeply, shoulders still firm, but relaxed just enough to reveal a fraction of vulnerability. “I know that sometimes my way of leading seems authoritarian, insensitive, and that I can hurt you without even realizing it. But every decision I make, every silence I keep, comes from the same place: the need to ensure no one else pays for the cruel world we inhabit. I… I never meant for you to feel diminished or ignored.” She lifted her chin slightly, the braid swinging with the movement. “But I understand that my actions might come across that way. And for that… I apologize.”

The wind seemed to carry her words, letting the night’s darkness embrace the balcony with silent intimacy. Mira swallowed, arms crossed relaxing slightly. Zoey simply tilted her head, as if trying to absorb every syllable of the rare sincerity emanating from Rumi.

Rumi continued, her voice now a bit firmer, yet retaining raw honesty. “I don’t know if I can change completely — maybe I never will. But I want you to know that my goal was never to be above you, nor to place myself in a position of superiority for pleasure. Every action of mine, every cold word, is… so that we can stay alive. So that we can keep moving forward together, even in ways you might not understand.”

A silence followed, heavy yet comfortable. For the first time, the three of them could feel something beyond anger, frustration, or fear: trust, however slight, beginning to bloom in that moment.

Rumi finally relaxed her shoulders, resting her hands on the balcony railing and meeting their eyes, letting the subtle glow of sincerity reach them. “I know my flaws and my distance hurt.” A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. “But if you accept that as part of me, perhaps we can find a way to move forward… together.”

The silence that followed was not empty. It was a space filled with understanding. For a brief moment, the weight of leadership, responsibility, and power didn’t seem to crush only Rumi; it seemed to be shared, gently, with Mira and Zoey.

The wind continued to blow, light and steady, as if bearing witness to the honesty of the most isolated of Honmoons, and to the first time her colleagues felt that behind the impenetrable rock, there was someone who truly cared — someone willing to acknowledge her mistakes, even if only in fragments of carefully chosen words.

Mira stayed silent for a few seconds, arms still crossed, body stiff as if the night wind itself held her at a distance. Slowly, though, her posture eased, shoulders dropping, and she let out a low, almost resigned sigh. There was something in Rumi’s carefully chosen words that even the stubborn redhead could grasp: the coldness wasn’t a lack of humanity, but armor. Armor that weighed tons on the eldest Honmoon.

“Hmph…” Mira began, her voice still rough from fatigue and restrained anger, but less sharp. “Seriously, Rumi… I don’t know if you’ll ever really understand, but… I think I get it.” She let out a small, dry laugh, a mix of incredulity and relief. “At least a little.”

Zoey didn’t need many words. She approached silently, almost gliding across the balcony, and extended her hand toward Rumi’s. A simple gesture, yet heavy with meaning. Rumi looked at her, surprised that such modest ceremony could convey so much trust.

“We understand…” Zoey said, her voice low and steady. “You don’t need to hide behind all that coldness. We know you do it for us, even if it seems distant.” She held Rumi’s hand firmly, sending an unlikely warmth through the chilly night. “And, look… no one here will judge you for being who you are. We just want you to know it’s okay… you can be more human, if you want.”

A silence loaded with meaning lingered between the three. For a moment, they felt more than anger, frustration, or fear: they felt trust, however fragile, beginning to bloom.

Rumi finally relaxed her shoulders, resting her hands on the balcony railing and meeting their eyes, letting the subtle shine of sincerity reach them. “I… I’ll try. Not for me, but for… us.” A brief, almost imperceptible smile appeared on her lips. “And even if I don’t know how to do it perfectly yet, thank you… for not giving up on me.”

Mira exhaled the air she had been holding for minutes, finally letting a small smile appear, just at the corner of her lips. She stepped back slightly, observing Rumi and Zoey as if trying to memorize that fragile moment of humanity amidst their harsh, violent lives.

“You know…” Mira began, her voice now softer, warmer. “Sometimes you irritate me so much, Rumi, that I want… well, for you to feel all my anger. But now… I think I understand why you do what you do. Even if you’re still a real pain in the ass sometimes.”

Zoey chuckled softly, squeezing Rumi’s hand a little tighter. “That’s a compliment, you know?” she said, in a joking tone but with sincerity beneath. “Sometimes, you learn to love the pain in the ass too.”

Rumi let out a small, dry laugh, the first genuine sound since they had arrived in Ulsan. The sound was timid, yet it carried the weight of releasing tension she had carried for months, perhaps years. The feeling was strange: being recognized, without judgment, without reservation, without the need for an absolute mask.

For several minutes, the three stayed there, side by side, feeling the night breeze, the closeness of hands, the reassurance that despite everything, they could trust one another. It was a rare breath amidst the storm of their lives as Honmoons. The world outside was still at the mercy of demons, the veil still required repair, and insane missions awaited. But for a moment, all those worries seemed secondary.

“You know…” Rumi said, still calm, but with a thread of vulnerability, “I don’t know if I’ll always be able to maintain this stance. But… I can try. For us. For all of us.”

Zoey squeezed her hand once more, a silent seal of trust. Mira, now smiling more openly, stepped a little closer, letting go of any pride or resistance. The night wind continued to blow, but no longer carried the weight of distance between them; now, it was just the night witnessing a rare moment of shared humanity among three hunters cursed by the world.

“So, then…” Mira said, her voice finally light, almost teasing, “Let’s try to survive one more night without nearly killing each other, alright?”

A more genuine smile spread across Rumi’s lips. “Alright.”

And for a few fleeting moments, three souls bound by violence, duty, and blood could simply be. No masks, no coldness, no hidden fears — just present, conscious, and strangely human, before the next day demanded everything from them once again.

Mira leaned toward Rumi, a mischievous smile teasing her lips, still flushed from the night breeze.

“Hey, you gonna stay there all night? Come with us to the party, it’ll be fun… even a little fun for you,” she teased, trying to crack the stiffness that still clung to Rumi’s posture.

Zoey chuckled softly in agreement. “Yeah, Rumi, come on. We promise no one will bother you. Just a few drunk soldiers and some exaggerated smiles. It’ll be good to let off steam.”

Rumi didn’t move. She remained leaning on the balcony, eyes fixed on the horizon, absorbing the cold, sharp night air. She shook her head with a calmness almost painful.

“No… I won’t.” Her voice was neutral, stripped of any challenge or irony. “Parties have never interested me. I’d rather stay here.”

Mira frowned but didn’t press. She knew forcing Rumi would only spark frustration — or worse, irritation. Zoey sighed, a mix of disappointment and understanding.

“Alright, fine. But… if you change your mind, the party will still be there.” Zoey gave an encouraging smile, lightly pressing Rumi’s shoulder before stepping away.

Mira huffed but followed Zoey. “Enjoy the quiet then, Rumi. But don’t sleep on the balcony, okay? Or, I don’t know… do any of your weird little things.”

The two walked off, laughing and whispering to each other as they headed toward the soldiers’ celebration. Rumi remained alone, the wind tangling her long purple hair, the chill scratching at her pale skin. The night felt quieter, as if respecting her choice — or perhaps merely absorbing the tension wound tightly in her emotions.

Minutes passed slowly. The distant sounds of voices and laughter blended with rustling leaves and the whisper of wind. Rumi stayed still, eyes on the horizon, when something caught her attention. A familiar presence.

She blinked, adjusting her focus, but there was no doubt. The silhouette of the Bhoota from the abandoned hospital appeared in the distance, motionless yet undeniably there. The posture was the same, the aura distant and provocative, the golden eyes reflecting an almost supernatural light, and the iridescent glint above the brows, now impossible to ignore.

Rumi felt the air around her tremble, a familiar tension crawling up her spine. Her instincts, honed and sharpened through years of training and suppression, immediately ignited. She raised her hand, a silent signal for Zoey and Mira to wait — though they were still far from the party.

Without hesitation, Rumi began to follow the silhouette, step by measured step, maintaining her outward calm while every fiber of her body readied for the inevitable confrontation. The Bhoota seemed to toy with her, each movement deliberate, each shadow shifting from the light in a way meant to provoke and destabilize.

Night fell around them, and the balcony that had once been a refuge of reflection now served as the launch point for a confrontation Rumi could not ignore. The silence was pierced only by the distant echo of the party, contrasting with the tangible tension between hunter and spirit.

The air felt thick, charged with supernatural energy. Even as she maintained control, Rumi’s mind replayed the dark hospital — golden eyes, teasing smile, silent challenge. She knew that this time, hesitation was not an option.

The night wind cut across her skin, but it could not touch the determination growing within her. Each step toward the Bhoota was measured and precise, yet carried the ferocity of someone who could no longer afford error.

And so the hunter remained on the balcony, watching, breathing slowly, while the spirit silently dared her, as if aware the game begun months ago was about to resume — now with the full intensity Rumi had always kept hidden.

The night wind still tousled Rumi’s hair as she lowered herself slowly, picking up a twisted piece of metal from the balcony railing — just a useless remnant of the structure. Her fingers closed around it firmly, and the invisible Honmoon energy traced the object, vibrating until the gray surface gleamed with a pale, threatening light. It was the mark of the Honmoons: the power to turn anything into a lethal weapon against demons.

Ahead, the Bhoota watched with an infuriating calm. His silhouette seemed even more solid now, as if the darkness itself nourished him. When he smiled, his long teeth caught the meager moonlight.

“The little dog can’t enjoy a party… without wanting to bite, hm?” His voice came like torn velvet, insinuating, echoing across the balcony as if it inhabited every shadow.

Rumi didn’t answer. She simply raised her makeshift blade, her brown eyes fixed, impassive, as if facing any ordinary enemy. But the Bhoota didn’t flinch. On the contrary, he stepped forward, the magenta marks on his pale skin pulsing, letting out a low laugh.

“Ah, so serious… so rigid.” He tilted his head, and the shadows followed the movement. “Let’s start properly. My name is Jinu.”

The silence from Rumi was heavy. A name. Demons rarely introduced themselves. It was as if he had thrown a piece of his essence toward her — a gesture far too intimate to ignore.

Jinu’s smile widened, seeing the subtle flicker of shock cross the Honmoon’s face. “By the look in your eyes, I guess you didn’t expect that. What’s the matter? Didn’t know demons have feelings too?”

“Demons don’t have feelings.” Rumi’s voice was firm, deep — a clean cut through the night. “No will. Nothing.”

Jinu laughed, a clear but dissonant sound that carried on the wind. He raised a hand, as if to caress his own laughter.

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, armed child.” His voice now dripped with a dangerous sweetness. “Everything a demon does is felt. Intensely. Abysmally. Decisively. Or simply… pleasurably.”

He took another step, and the air around them seemed to compress, vibrating with a presence that was not merely threatening, but tempting.

“We are creatures who abandon the moral burden…” the word “moral” slid from his lips like an insult “…to live under our own law. A pure law. A law without masks, without illusions. While you humans rot inside invisible chains you call ethics, duty, honor.”

Rumi narrowed her eyes, the improvised blade still steady in her hand, her muscles tense — not from fear, but from the controlled fury simmering beneath her skin.

“You’re nothing but beasts trapped in instinct.” Her voice rang like cold iron. “There’s no law there. Only emptiness.”

Jinu smiled again, slow, lascivious, as if savoring every word she spoke. His golden eyes gleamed, reflecting the Honmoon’s contained rage like a perverse mirror.

“Emptiness?” He tilted his face, lips almost whispering, but the voice still resonating in every direction. “Then why do you seem so… much like me?”

Rumi stood firm, the piece of metal gleaming with Honmoon energy. The night was too calm, but it was a silence that cut the skin like a blade. The party behind her seemed another world — muffled laughter, distant music, unsteady steps of drunken soldiers. Here, though, there was only darkness, wind, and him.

Jinu.

The Bhoota appeared far too comfortable, as if the balcony were his private stage. His lazy smile didn’t falter, not even in the face of the makeshift blade pulsing in the Honmoon’s hands.

“Do you know what amuses me most about you?” he began, golden eyes flickering like molten fire. “It’s the seriousness. That rock-like pose. That… desperate attempt to pretend you feel nothing.”

Rumi kept her gaze steady, impassive. “Pretend?” Her voice was icy.

Jinu leaned forward slightly, closing the physical space as if it were irrelevant. The wind carried the strange scent of him — too sweet, too metallic, like blood spilled over flowers.

“Yes. Pretend.” He chuckled low, almost conspiratorial. “Because deep down, I know. I see. You tremble inside. Not from fear… but from hunger.”

Rumi’s heart jumped in her chest. The blade glowed brighter in her hand, but she remained silent.

Then Jinu raised a hand, as if drawing something in the air, and murmured:

“The body will get used to all this chemistry one day, little fool.” The soft melody of his voice seemed to scrape her bones. “Those suppressors, those tiny control potions your ‘mistress’ pumps into you… soon, they won’t work anymore.”

He smiled — a sharp smile, but at the same time… intimate. “And when that happens… you’ll have only a syringe in your hand. And a monster in the mirror.”

Rumi felt ice run through her veins. For a moment, just a moment, the metal vibrated unevenly in her hand. The blade’s energy nearly dissipated.

Jinu noticed. Oh, he noticed. “Ah…”—he drew a deep breath, delighting as if he had found a crack in a wall. “So that’s it. The little secret. You don’t like hearing it aloud, do you?”

He stepped closer, his voice lowering, intimate, as if whispering into her ear.

“You don’t fight demons, Honmoon…” the word came like mockery “…you fight yourself. You strike mine as if you were striking yourself. Because that’s what we are: demons.”

The silence exploded between them. Rumi held her stance, but her breath came short, rapid. His words ricocheted in her mind like blades: syringe in hand… monster in the mirror.

She tightened her grip on the metal, and the energy blazed again, firm, almost furious. “Shut up.”

Jinu laughed, the sound echoing like a dissonant orchestra in the void of night. He leaned back against the railing, relaxed, as if nothing could touch him.

“Oh, little one…” His voice dripped like sweet poison “…the more you deny it, the more I know I’m right. If you truly wanted me dead, you’d be trying to shove that in me right now.”

He snapped his fingers, and the shadows on the balcony quivered in response, as if part of him.

“You’re one of us. No matter how much you bury yourself in discipline, no matter how many times Celine drugs you, no matter how many orders you follow like a good little soldier.” He tilted his head, his golden eyes burning like corrupted suns. “Deep down, you’re just waiting for the moment to break free.”

Rumi gritted her teeth, the blade sparking so violently it seemed ready to shatter into pure energy. “I am not you.”

Jinu laughed again, this time lower, his expression shifting — from amusement to something almost… pitying. “No. You’re worse.” He took another step, now close enough that Rumi felt the pressure of his presence like a tide against her body. “Because you still believe you can choose.”

The wind blew harder, carrying his laughter away into the night.

Rumi didn’t blink. But inside her, the words echoed like a drum: syringe in hand, monster in the mirror.

“I keep wondering… what kind of creature you’d be, hm?”

The Bhoota’s smile seemed to stretch beyond the possible, shadows sketching themselves across his pale face as the tips of his fingers grazed Rumi’s braid.

“By your stance… a stupid Gwishi, one of those who think they’re predators but die easily, early, with any old stake driven through their chest.” He mocked, his voice sharp, almost slicing the flesh of the silence. “But…”

His golden eyes narrowed, fixed on her as though they were blades buried straight into her soul.

“…your soul pulses differently.”

The touch on her braid became a grip. He lifted it slightly, forcing Rumi to face him up close. His breath smelled of the metallic tang of ancient blood mixed with the rotting sweetness of forgotten flesh.

“Celine really did a fine job… making it harder to read what’s inside you.” He tilted his head, smile wide, eyes flickering like embers in oil. “Layers, seals, walls, drugs… an entire labyrinth just to hide what you are. As if locking up hell could snuff out the fire.”

Rumi clenched the energized piece of metal in her hand, the bluish glow pulsing in sync with the rage boiling in her chest. But her breathing was uneven, and the Bhoota noticed.

“Oh…” his laughter cracked like bones. “The little bitch is trembling? Or is it just your body trying to decide whether to obey the human… or the demon?”

He leaned closer, so close his lips almost brushed her ear.

“It’s fascinating… the body adapts, the suppressors turn to water. And I think that day is very near.” The braid was released — but not gently. He let it slip from his fingers like a rope already marked by a knot. “You look at yourself in the glass sometimes, don’t you? The reflection changes, even when you don’t want it to. The amber seeps into the depths of your eyes.”

Rumi clenched her teeth. The piece of metal in her hand vibrated harder, the Honmoon aura burning in raw lines.

But Jinu only smiled wider, as if that were exactly what he wanted. “Tell me, Rumi…” her name came out as an intimate, poisoned whisper. “What will happen first? You kill me…” he spread his arms, theatrical, as if offering himself. “…or you kill her? Sweet, dear Celine… who always knew what you are.”

He laughed, low, a sound that slid through the bones.

“Or maybe you’ll kill yourself. That would be beautiful… the perfect Honmoon devoured by her own heart.”

The scrap of metal burned in her hand as if it had been torn from the sun. The veins in her arm trembled, sparking blue. Her chest heaved — not with fear, but with fury compressed beneath too many layers of silence.

“You…” Rumi began, her voice low, deeper than usual, almost a contained growl.

Jinu’s eyes glittered. He tilted his head, savoring the moment. “You know nothing about me.”

The Bhoota laughed, short and disdainful. “Oh, I know enough. I know you’re a walking lie. I know Celine splits herself in two just to keep you whole. I know it was because of you that your mother—...”

“SHUT UP!”

The shout rang out like an explosion. The energy in her hand flared into a flash, lighting the balcony like lightning. The improvised blade lengthened, vibrating with Honmoon force until it became something larger than a simple piece of metal — a weapon of pure conviction.

Rumi lunged.

The strike was quick, direct, aimed at his throat.

But Jinu was no longer there. His body dissolved into shadow and reappeared a few steps away, casually leaning against the balcony wall as if nothing had happened.

“Ahhh…” he sighed, smiling, his teeth too white in the dark. “There it is. The spark I wanted to see.”

Rumi’s heart pounded so hard the sound drowned out even the noise of the party behind her. The cold wind seemed to sear her skin.

“If you dare say her name again…” she said, each word spat like venom, “I will rip out your tongue and make you swallow it.”

Jinu chuckled softly, his golden eyes fixed on hers, not looking away.

“That’s what I like about you, Rumi.” He licked his lips, slowly. “You don’t know whether you’re human enough to forgive… or demon enough to carry out the threat.”

The attack turned into a frenzied dance of shadow and metal. The blade in Rumi’s hands sliced the air with a high keening, as if trying to split the very sound of the world. Jinu slid between her blows like smoke learning steps — vanishing, reappearing, jeering with that broad smile. The balcony filled with sparks of Honmoon energy that traced across the fractured metal, shattering the night into shards of bluish light.

Rumi fought with a violence that seemed ripped from years of containment; each thrust carried the intent to erase that face from the universe. He moved with the cruelty of someone familiar with every angle of a guilt, replying with provocations that cut deeper than steel. With each of his advances she remembered the hospital, the ration of suppressants, the basement drills, Celine’s steady hand guiding her fist — and for that reason the fury inside her grew hotter, more inevitable.

In an instant the metal in her hand vibrated as if it were an extension of her chest. Rumi delivered a strike that should have finished it: his throat was the target, the blade a filament of truth. But Jinu evaporated into shadow at the exact moment of impact. Only the echo of a distant laugh remained, making the balcony boards reverberate.

“Rumi!” Mira’s voice cut the air, sharp. She came running down the corridor, the woldo ready, courage translated into muscle. Zoey was with her, gun raised, quick-stepping, eyes burning with a mixture of fear and alarm. The two swept forward like nets thrown over something living. But when they reached the center of the balcony, Jinu was gone. There was only the metallic smell of dried blood on the wood, traces of spent energy, and Rumi — standing — trembling.

Her face was changed: red, hard, broken by a mix of fury and exhaustion. Her brown eyes shone with raw, desperate anger, and a streak of unchecked tears cut across her pale skin. It was the first time Mira and Zoey had seen her like this: not the neutral mask, not the unshakable stone, but an open wound in living flesh. The hardness in Rumi’s body cracked; the tears fell, costly and real.

Mira swallowed alone — losing his voice for a second as if the emotional landscape had turned into a strange place. Zoey dropped the rifle a hair’s breadth from its sling and ran to Rumi without thinking. She hugged her, clumsy, trying to apply warmth where there was a blaze. The two were human presence and noise; the sight of Rumi’s face hurt them like both betrayal and supplication at once.

Rumi cried with the violence of someone trying to pull out her own entrails. The tears were not only of pain; they were of guilt, of relief, of a rage so vast it came from places she herself could not name. It felt strange that the anger stemmed from something inside her that had once been tamed, and therefore hurt more: it hurt because the tamer had failed, because the web of years of self-restraint had creaked like old rope.

Inwardly, while her sobs crashed, a thought cut like a blade: why hadn’t she killed him? Why had she allowed him to whisper those things? Jinu wanted to hear. Jinu needed to hear. There was a little monster inside the demon that craved justification — and a predator’s greatest weapon is the hunter’s excuse. If the hunter yielded to the sound of their own justification, prophecy was fulfilled: the excuse to exist turns into fuel.

She realized, with a clarity that hurt, that Jinu’s voice had not been mere provocation. It was an intentionally held mirror. He wanted the verbal justification, the plea that transforms guilt into reason. He wanted her to say aloud why she deserved to exist; to turn her own story into permission. He wanted the shelter of confession that legitimizes the beast.

Rumi felt in the back of her throat the answer she had tried to avoid: maybe, if only the monster in the mirror remained, if that golden, hungry face became all that was left of her — then she would kill it. She would cut down her own image before it could become fact. Kill the reflection so the reflection could not possess her. It was a fierce option: to assassinate oneself symbolically before the monster became inevitable.

But there was another terrifying question: what if, for a second, that monster seemed justifiable? What if the excuses spoken aloud altered something inside that Celine had tried to hide with needles, salves and steel? Just thinking it made her stomach churn. Perhaps that’s why she hadn’t killed Jinu. Perhaps, deep down, she feared discovering that his words might actually be true.

Zoey leaned in but did not touch or restrain. Mira, as hard as ever, felt something break inside her. The fury that had seized Rumi moments before was now nothing less than a reminder of how human and dangerous they all were. The anger deflated into something like pity. There was no accusation, only presence. They stayed there, three figures at the edge of the night, the distant party noise an absurd echo.

Jinu, if that was indeed his name, was no longer present — he did not need to be. He had done what he always did: provoked, sparked, and fled. He had left the trail that now burned in Rumi’s chest in the form of doubt: was the mirror-monster irreparable? Was the excuse to exist hidden in the demon’s whisper?

She closed her eyes, wiped her face with the side of her arm, and in a voice so low that none of the other Honmoons could hear, she said, dry as steel: “If only the monster remains in the mirror, I’ll kill it before the reflection becomes fact.”

It was promise, threat, farewell to something she did not yet know whether it was her own end or her liberation. Zoey squeezed her hand. Mira remained silent, steady at her side. The three shared a moment of wordless understanding: the war was not only against what came from outside, but against what could be born within. And Rumi, though trembling, had decided she would not be a hostage to her own shadow — at least not without fighting to the end.