The five elderly monks inside the chamber recoiled in agony as the divine light from the bronze mirror pierced through the walls. Inman, the nimblest among them, felt his skin sear as if flayed by unseen claws. He leapt toward the rafters to escape its reach. From above, he watched as the other four—his brothers—began to writhe and contort. Tufts of coarse hair sprouted from their skin, limbs elongating grotesquely, as the light forced their hidden forms to surface.
But the illumination widened.
It touched the rafters—and Inman.
He tried to resist, to cling to the ceiling's wooden beams, but the strength in his limbs ebbed like breath from a punctured lung. He crashed to the floor with a sickening thud. Pain surged through him, ripping a scream from his throat. And then, in a blink of golden agony, the last twenty years returned to him.
He remembered the first time Sowon had come to Jigo Ridge.
Prince Sowon—younger brother to Gahn Sindo, the reigning monarch of Golpo Gaya—had climbed the mist-veiled slopes not to beg for blessings, but to speak of a world remade. He asked for no miracles—only their eyes, their advice on his judgment. He spoke not with arrogance, but with clarity: His brother Gahn had named him Prime Minister of Golpo, and he wished to build a new nation—one founded on equality, shared food, and justice.
"If you find me worthy, walk with me."
The five boar brothers, mountain guardian spirits who had dwelled in Jigo Ridge for over three centuries, were divided in their response. Two opposed. Two agreed. And it was Inman who broke the tie.
"Three years," he had said. "Let us watch him for three years. If he wavers, we strike him down ourselves."
Before they left, they had searched a worthy successor to pass down a portion of their divine essence. Deep in the heart of Jigo Ridge, coiled in silence, lived a 150-year-old imugi—a serpentine being not yet dragon, but no longer beast. To this creature, the five entrusted a sliver of their power—not as a gift, but as inheritance.
They shed their forms and descended the slopes in disguise—not as beasts, but as monks. And so began their vigil beside Prince Sowon, the man who dared to believe that equality was divine.
But Sowon did never waver.
His reforms reshaped Golpo Gaya. The more authority he gained, the poorer he became. Nobles dined on thirty dishes—Sowon restricted himself to three. As his influence grew, he sold his estates and lived in a farmer's hut. The brothers watched in silence, then in awe, then in devotion. In time, they truly became Sowon's advisors and masters—shedding not only their divine forms but also their former doubts.
Perhaps he should have been less righteous. Perhaps, then, he would have survived.
Was it jealousy that made Gahn Sindo fear him? Perhaps. But the threat came not from above—it came from below. Sowon's aides, his protégés, his dearest allies—they were the ones who betrayed him. They framed him as a traitor. They claimed he aimed to seize power and kill the Gahn Sindo.
Why?
Because they were not like him. Because Sowon's piety was a mirror that showed them their own greed. He demanded they live as the people lived—modestly, humbly. But they craved brocade robes, rich meats, the sweet rot of power.
The brothers thought of saving him. Spiriting him away.
But Sowon refused.
"The river always flows toward the sea," he said, "but currents may turn. Let them. The sea is still waiting."
He thanked them.
And the next day, he was executed.
The five, now without a cause, wandered. They watched the land Sowon had loved decay into corruption. His name was reviled. His dreams trampled. The people who once cheered him whispered now of treason.
They had expected grief.
Instead, they found hatred. For humanity.
They had once longed to protect these creatures. Now, they saw them for what they were—parasites gnawing on each other in the dark.
And then... he appeared.
That fool, Channa.
He had walked into the trap like so many others. A gang of bandits had made their den near the brothers' old hermitage. Their leader, a withered old woman skilled in illusion, could take on the form most beloved by her victims. To the desperate, she became a lost daughter. To the guilty, a slain brother.
To Channa, she became his dead mother.
It was a favorite sport among the humans: bait a man with mercy, then gut him like a fish.
They watched, amused, as Channa lunged to help. They watched him bleed, sob, scream.
And then—he spoke.
Not to them. Not to anyone. But in his rage and pain, he cursed the world exactly as they once had.
"Humans are the real beasts. The ones who devour their own."
And that was all it took.
Each brother threw a ring of power—one to bind each limb, one for his waist. They gave him strength. They made him rise. And he did not weep.
He killed.
Methodically, without joy, without hesitation. Like a god brushing ants from his sleeve.
And that pleased them most.
So they made him their disciple.
They would help him build a new world. Not a just one. But one where humanity reaped what it had sown—crushed under the weight of its own savagery.
But now…
That boy... how could a mere human wield a sacred energy like this?
With a deafening crash, the chamber doors and walls shattered outward.
Five monstrous figures burst forth—creatures with the hulking bodies of boars, their eyes burning with a dim, corrupted light.
Goi exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable save for the faint curl of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
"So," he said, unsheathing his steel blade in one seamless motion, "you were capable of masking your demonic aura all this time. Impressive."
The five demons hesitated. Weapons clutched tightly in each hand, they stood frozen under the drizzle, unnerved by the swordsman's utter lack of fear.
Goi tilted his head, the smirk sharpening.
"What's wrong? Did you expect me to tremble and run?"
One of the beasts let out a guttural snarl.
Goi answered not with words, but with a casual flick of his blade, sending droplets of rainwater scattering like shards of silver in the air.
"You've already lost half your demonic power," he mused, voice almost pitying. "Why should I fear a pack of piglets?"
The boar-demons stiffened. Their leader—the largest among them—tried to react, but it was already too late.
Goi moved.
A single, swift stroke of his blade cleaved through the leader's defenses.
The massive beast staggered, shuddered once, then collapsed with a thundering crash that shook the courtyard stones.
Two of the remaining demons howled in fury and lunged—but Goi was no longer there.
The creatures, propelled by their own momentum, collided headfirst with a sickening crack that echoed across the courtyard.
Before the others could even turn, Goi's blade struck again.
One demon, thinking it had endured the blow, attempted to retaliate—only to find its limbs betraying it. It pitched forward, face-first into the mud, and lay still.
The onlookers—villagers, former prisoners, even stunned soldiers—erupted into cheers and shouts of disbelief.
The final demon, still gripping its weapons, felt the last dregs of its courage evaporate. It took a staggering step backward—then another—before, with a shriek of primal terror, it turned and fled toward the far courtyard wall.
Closer, closer—the top was within reach.
Almost there—
But then the wall before it shimmered. A golden light flooded the stones, blinding and absolute.
The demon's legs gave out. It slammed headfirst into the glowing wall with a brutal thud, its consciousness fraying like a thread in the rain.
In its blurring vision, it saw Goi—calm, relentless, sheathing his gleaming bronze gladius with deliberate grace.
The demon clawed desperately for its power—for the rage, the malice that had once burned so easily within its veins. But there was nothing.
Only emptiness.
Its final hatred escaped in a shuddering gasp, lost beneath the roar of villagers celebrating their long-awaited freedom.