Gyeonwoo trudged into his home, the weight of the day pressing down on his shoulders. He barely noticed the familiar walls, the soft hum of the ceiling fan, or the quiet stillness that usually comforted him. His hands were stained with the ink and marks that Yeomhwa had cruelly drawn on the photographs of his grandmother and himself. Each smear, each line, felt like a violation, a reminder of how powerless he sometimes was against the chaos surrounding him.
He knelt on the floor, spreading the photos out before him, and carefully tried to erase the marks, the paper crinkling under his fingers. Memories of his grandmother flooded back—the warmth of her hands, her gentle smile, the way she had always been his anchor. But those memories only made the present sting sharper.
And then, unexpectedly, his mind drifted to Seong-ah. He remembered how she had arrived at his home that day, the soft warmth of her hand brushing against his, the way she had smiled at him so innocently and sweetly. His chest tightened, a mixture of relief, frustration, and something deeper he couldn't name.
Anger bubbled up suddenly, fierce and hot. Not just at Yeomhwa for her cruel tricks, but at the helplessness he felt, at the injustice that seemed to shadow his every step. His jaw clenched, and he pressed his palms harder against the photographs, almost as if his frustration could erase the pain as easily as the ink.
Why does everything keep happening to me? Why can't I just have one day of peace? he thought bitterly. His eyes flicked toward the window, toward the street where shadows lingered like reminders of the unseen world, and he knew that this anger—this helpless, consuming fury—was only the beginning of what he had to face.
And yet, buried beneath it all, was a small, reluctant warmth—a memory of Seong-ah's touch, her gentle concern, her unwavering presence. It irritated him, confused him, and yet… it was a light he couldn't ignore.
Gyeonwoo's eyes, already clouded with frustration and hurt, fell upon the lipcare stick Seong-ah had given him. A small, innocent gesture, meant to comfort him, now seemed to mock him. Without thinking, he tossed it across the room. The stick rolled along the floor and clattered against the wall, a silent symbol of the tension and mistrust that had grown between them.
Night settled quietly over the town, but Seong-ah couldn't find peace. She sat alone in her room, the dim light from the lamp casting shadows across the walls. The amulets lay spread before her, their intricate designs glowing faintly with spiritual energy. Do Ryeong sat nearby, watching her, both of them murmuring about the protective charms, their plans, and the rituals necessary to shield Gyeonwoo from harm.
Hours passed, and the quiet was broken by soft whimpering. Do Ryeong stirred in his sleep, a faint noise of distress slipping from his lips. The baby ghost, restless and unsettled, had begun to cry somewhere in the house, its wailing faint but unmistakable. Seong-ah's heart clenched as she realized how strong the connection was between the spirits' turmoil and the living.
The next day, the uneasy atmosphere carried over to school. The baby ghost's crying persisted, echoing in the corners of the classroom. Students fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging nervous glances, sensing the invisible presence that disrupted their day. Seong-ah's eyes scanned the room, sharp and alert, until they finally rested on Gyeonwoo.
He had been injured—the glass from the library incident the day before had reopened, and his hand bled more than before. Pain etched across his face, he couldn't bear to sit through the lesson. Without hesitation, he sprang to his feet and bolted from the classroom, clutching his injured hand, racing to the nurse's room. The whispers of the baby ghost seemed to follow him, mingling with the murmurs of curious classmates and the unspoken tension that lingered in the air.
Seong-ah felt a surge of urgency. She knew she had to act—not just to protect Gyeonwoo from the ghost, but to shield him from the fear, the pain, and the lingering mistrust that weighed him down. Her grip tightened on the amulet she carried, her resolve hardening. Today, she thought, she would not fail him.
After the final bell rang, signaling the end of another long school day, Seong-ah made her way to Do Doyeon's house once again. Determined to get hold of the doll connected to the baby ghost, she approached with a mixture of hope and anxiety. "Please, just let me see it… I only need it for a moment," she pleaded softly, her eyes glinting with urgency.
Do Doyeon, however, was unmoved. Her expression hardened, and without a word, she shook her head in refusal. Seong-ah's shoulders slumped in frustration, and in a moment of exasperation, she grabbed a nearby cup of water and splashed it over her face, wiping away her tension in one quick motion. "Why is this so difficult?" she muttered to herself, feeling the weight of the spirits' presence pressing down on her.
Later, at the school library, tension hung thick in the air. Hyeri, red-faced and exasperated, was yelling at Do Doyeon for splashing water on Seong-ah. "What's wrong with you? Can't you see what you're doing?!" she shouted, her voice bouncing off the tall shelves lined with books. Seong-ah sighed, her patience thinning, but she didn't respond—her focus was elsewhere.
Gyeonwoo, calm and focused, had wandered to the bookshelf, reaching for a particular book. Seong-ah followed silently, her mind racing with thoughts of protecting him from the baby ghost, her heart tightening with each step. As she moved to gently touch his arm—her usual method to subtly protect and shield him—he caught her mid-motion.
In one swift movement, he pressed her against his chest, and their bodies collided. Seong-ah froze, surprised and breathless. "I know what you're trying to do," he said, his voice firm yet tinged with worry. "You're casting a spell on me by touching me, but I won't let you do that."
The baby ghost's cries suddenly grew louder, echoing through the library. Their attention snapped to the sound, but it was too late—the vibrations had destabilized a nearby bookshelf. Books tumbled down, crashing around them. In the chaos, Seong-ah and Gyeonwoo fell to the floor, pressed uncomfortably close against each other amidst the scattered books and the ghostly wails.
Seong-ah's chest heaved with emotion as she muttered, almost in despair, "I couldn't save him…" Her voice trembled, carrying both guilt and fear, the weight of responsibility pressing heavily on her. She looked at Gyeonwoo, his face tense, his eyes full of questions and hurt, and she realized that protecting him wasn't just about fighting spirits—it was about guiding him through the unseen dangers that threatened his heart as much as his life.
Gyeonwoo's head throbbed fiercely, the crimson streak on his forehead spreading slowly, and it wasn't long before the school nurse insisted he be taken to the hospital. Seong-ah followed closely, her heart pounding in panic and guilt. Every step seemed heavier than the last, as if the weight of what had happened pressed on her shoulders. Once inside the hospital room, she quietly took a seat beside Gyeonwoo, her hands nervously clasped in her lap, her gaze flickering between the monitors and his pale, tired face.
A few moments later, Jiho hurried in, concern etched deeply on his face. "Is he… okay?" he asked softly, settling into the chair across from her. Seong-ah shook her head slightly, unable to find the right words, her throat tight.
Before anyone could speak further, Coach Park burst into the room, his expression a mixture of worry and urgency. "Oh, Gyeonwoo! What happened to you?" he exclaimed, rushing forward. His usual composed demeanor was replaced with frantic concern, and he hovered near the bedside, hands hovering as if to reach out but unsure how.
Gyeonwoo, with his usual stubborn pride, managed to mumble, "I'll pay the bill myself," his voice weak but firm. Seong-ah and Jiho exchanged worried glances.
At the reception, the nurse handed the payment slip over to him. "Sir, the total comes to forty thousand won," she said politely.
Gyeonwoo blinked at the number, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, the tension in his face easing just a little. Coach Park, witnessing the interaction, let out an awkward chuckle, scratching the back of his head. "Ah… well, alright then," he muttered, feeling slightly out of place, yet relieved that Gyeonwoo's pride was intact despite the incident.
Seong-ah's eyes softened as she watched him, her heart aching at his stubbornness and bravery. Jiho, sitting quietly beside her, shook his head in quiet disbelief. "He's really something, isn't he?" he murmured. Seong-ah only nodded, her thoughts tangled between worry, admiration, and a growing desire to protect him no matter the cost.
Seong-ah and Jiho sat quietly in the small, sterile corner of the hospital waiting area. The faint hum of machines and distant footsteps echoed around them, but her mind was elsewhere—focused entirely on Gyeonwoo lying unconscious in the hospital bed. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, trying to steady the nervous tremor that ran through her fingers.
"Jiho…" she began softly, her voice barely above a whisper. He turned to look at her, his brow furrowed in gentle curiosity.
"I… I haven't told him the truth yet," she admitted, her eyes dropping to the floor. "About why I've been touching him so often, why I've stayed close no matter what." She took a deep breath, her chest tightening with the weight of her secret. "It's because… I became a human amulet for him. Mother Goddess told me… if I want him to stay safe, to keep the spirits away, I need to become the warmth and protection he can hold onto. So… every time I touch him, it's to keep him safe, even if he doesn't know it."
Jiho's eyes softened, understanding immediately. "So… every little gesture, every time he felt you near him… it wasn't just chance. It was you protecting him," he said gently, his tone a mixture of awe and concern.
Seong-ah nodded, biting her lip. "Yes… I risk everything just to keep him alive, to keep him away from the ghosts that haunt him. And yet… he doesn't know. He can't know, not yet." Her voice cracked slightly as the weight of her responsibility pressed down on her.
Jiho reached over, lightly placing a hand on hers. "Seong-ah… he'll understand one day. And until then, just keep doing what you're doing. You're his anchor, even if he can't see it yet."
She let out a small, shaky sigh, finally feeling a flicker of comfort in his words. "I just… I can't let anything happen to him. Not now, not ever." Her gaze drifted toward the hospital room, and for a moment, she imagined herself standing beside Gyeonwoo, her warmth shielding him from every shadow, every ghost, every danger that might come near him.
Jiho smiled faintly, seeing the determination in her eyes. "Then that's exactly what you'll do, Seong-ah. You'll be his shield… his human amulet. And he'll need you more than ever in the days to come."
She nodded firmly, her heart steadying. The path ahead would be hard, but for Gyeonwoo, she would endure anything.
The client's words hung in the air, heavy with sorrow. "Fairy… this woman," she began, her voice trembling slightly, "she's been everywhere, wandering and shouting. She lost her baby in a miscarriage, and since then… she's been… lost, mad, drifting from place to place, unable to accept what happened. She keeps searching for her child everywhere."
Seong-ah's eyes widened, a spark of understanding lighting up within them. Finally, the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. The mad woman wasn't evil—she was broken, grieving, and desperate, and the baby ghost's presence had been amplifying her pain, twisting her actions into chaos.
Seong-ah straightened, her posture steady, radiating calm authority. "Enough," she said softly but firmly, her voice carrying a weight that made the mad woman pause mid-step. "Stop wandering. Stop hurting yourself. Listen to me. I will help you."
The mad woman's eyes flickered, wild and uncertain, but Seong-ah took a careful step forward, keeping her hands open and gentle, signaling no threat. "I understand your pain," Seong-ah continued, her tone almost melodic, weaving the warmth of her human amulet power into every word. "But harming others—or holding onto anger—won't bring your baby back. You need to let go, just a little, so that peace can come."
The room fell silent. Even the candles seemed to flicker with anticipation. The mad woman's shoulders trembled as she stood frozen, caught between despair and the strange calm radiating from Seong-ah. Slowly, Seong-ah extended her hand toward the woman, her eyes never leaving hers. "Trust me. I will guide you. Just… listen."
For the first time in months, the woman hesitated, uncertainty softening the wild edge of her grief. Seong-ah's heart thumped with quiet determination. This was her moment—not just to calm the chaos, but to finally retrieve the doll tethered to the baby ghost, to protect Gyeonwoo, and to bring a glimmer of hope back into a world that had been dark for too long.
Meanwhile, under the fading sunlight, Gyeonwoo focused intently on his archery practice. Each arrow he released pierced the target with precision, his mind sharpening with every pull of the bowstring. The rhythmic motion seemed to ease some of the tension that had been gnawing at him, even as memories of recent events flickered in the back of his mind.
Night fell, casting long shadows over the quiet streets. Seong-ah approached Do Doyeon's home, moving with quiet determination, her shaman robes swaying gently with each step. She paused at the door, drawing a deep breath, before stepping inside and revealing her true self to Do Doyeon. "I am the shaman," she confessed, her voice soft but unwavering. She explained the delicate situation with the baby ghost—how its cries could be overwhelming, how it had tied itself to Do Doyeon's life, and why her intervention had been necessary. She spoke of her intentions carefully, emphasizing the trust and bond that had formed between them through friendship, and how that connection allowed her to reach the baby ghost safely. Do Doyeon, initially startled, listened intently, the weight of Seong-ah's sincerity sinking in. Through her care and gentle words, Seong-ah managed to calm the restless spirit, successfully gaining the baby ghost's trust.
The following day, Seong-ah ventured out, searching diligently for the mad woman who had been lost in her grief. The streets were quiet, the morning mist curling around her feet as she moved from alley to alley, her eyes scanning for any sign of the woman. Finally, she spotted her—a figure in a neat yellow dress, cradling a baby gently in her arms, swaying the child back and forth with tender care. The garden around them was in full bloom, the flowers swaying in harmony with the movement, painting a serene, almost magical scene. The mad woman's sobs had ceased, replaced by soft hums and gentle murmurs to her child.
Seong-ah's lips curved into a soft, appreciative smile. The sight was calming, a stark contrast to the chaos that had plagued the past days. She observed Gyeonwoo approaching the woman with quiet confidence, kneeling slightly to speak to her in a soothing tone. His hands moved with care, adjusting the baby carrier and gently resting on her shoulder, grounding her. Seong-ah felt her heart swell at the scene: the woman and her baby, surrounded by flowers, finally finding peace, and Gyeonwoo standing there, quietly offering his strength and compassion.
As the mad woman's eyes brightened and a soft smile replaced her tears, Gyeonwoo advised her gently, "Do not cry like this again. Take care of yourself, and don't rummage through the garbage for things that aren't meant for you." The words, firm yet tender, seemed to root the woman to the present, giving her hope.
Seong-ah stepped forward, holding the doll that had been connected to the baby ghost. She handed it to the woman with a warm smile, and the gesture was met with tears of gratitude, this time of relief rather than sorrow. The mad woman hugged the doll to her chest, her eyes sparkling as she whispered a heartfelt thank you. She turned and walked through the flower-filled garden, the baby swaying gently in her arms, leaving Seong-ah standing in the soft glow of the evening light.
Seong-ah lingered for a moment, watching the pair disappear into the distance. She whispered softly, "Goodbye, little one," as she bid farewell to the baby ghost that had been tied to her heart through the chaos of the past days. Relief and satisfaction washed over her. She had succeeded—not only in protecting Gyeonwoo, but in restoring a piece of hope and serenity to a grieving soul.
Even as the mad woman and her baby disappeared into the distance, Seong-ah's gaze was drawn to something small glinting on the ground. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized it—the lipcare stick she had carefully given to Gyeonwoo, the one that now also carried the subtle power of her human amulet. She crouched down and picked it up from the discarded pile of garbage, her fingers trembling as the memory of all the effort, care, and protection she had poured into him rushed back.
Her chest tightened, and tears welled up in her eyes. She clutched the lipcare stick to her heart, feeling the bittersweet ache of her emotions. The rain, which had been quietly falling moments before, began to pour more steadily, drenching her hair and robes. Yet she didn't move, letting the cold drops mix with her tears, as if the sky itself mourned with her.
The sound of footsteps on the wet ground barely registered until a shadow appeared over her. She looked up to see Gyeonwoo standing there, his eyes full of concern, a large umbrella tilted gently over her head. "Seong-ah… are you okay?" he asked softly, his voice carrying warmth that cut through her sorrow.
She blinked, unable to respond immediately, still holding the lipcare stick as though it were a lifeline. He stepped closer, lowering the umbrella just enough to shield her from the rain, and placed a reassuring hand lightly on her shoulder. The gesture, simple but filled with unspoken care, made her shoulders tremble as she finally allowed herself to let the tears flow freely.
"I… I just…" she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. Gyeonwoo didn't push for words. Instead, he remained silently by her side, letting the rain and the shared silence wash over them both. In that moment, the chaos of the past days—the ghosts, the threats, the secrets—faded into the background.
Seong-ah's heart ached, but amidst the rain, the sorrow, and the tears, there was a glimmer of comfort. He hadn't judged her. He hadn't left her. He was here. And for the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to feel safe, even if only for a moment.
She pressed the lipcare stick to her lips, as if silently promising that no matter what, she would protect him, just as she had always intended. And Gyeonwoo, noticing the subtle glow of the amulet power within it, gave her a faint, understanding smile, one that said more than words ever could.
The rain fell harder, drumming on the umbrella above them, but under its small shield, Seong-ah and Gyeonwoo shared a quiet, unspoken moment of connection, healing, and trust.
Later that evening, Gyeonwoo stepped into his home, the familiar scent of old wood and faint incense greeting him. Seong-ah sat quietly on a cushion in the corner of the room, her hair damp and clinging to her face, still streaked from the rain. Her eyes were red, glistening with unshed tears, and in her hand, she clutched the lipcare stick as if it were a lifeline, a tether to the fragile hope she had been holding onto.
Gyeonwoo moved to the kitchen, setting water to boil and preparing hot tea, his movements deliberate and tense. Seong-ah's gaze wandered around the room, landing on the photos of him and his grandmother laid neatly on a table. Her eyes immediately caught the marks—some faint, some nearly erased. "Who made these marks, Gyeonwoo?" she asked softly, trying to mask the shock in her voice.
Gyeonwoo's face tensed, his fingers fidgeting slightly. "Well… I thought maybe you might know," he said carefully. "Who drew these?"
Seong-ah hesitated, her mind racing. "I… I don't know," she admitted, her voice small, almost fragile.
"You know her, actually," he said, his gaze fixed on her, sharp and searching. "The one who danced with you."
Seong-ah froze, the words striking her like a sudden gust of cold wind. She remembered the Mother Goddess' warning: "She is the liar… she is not a shaman." Her heart skipped a beat, and she turned pale. "What…?" she whispered.
Gyeonwoo's lips curved into a tight, awkward smile. "You can't just talk and dance with a stranger, can you?" he said, his voice low but biting.
Seong-ah stood there, completely clueless, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and guilt. "I… I really don't know—" she began, but her words were cut short as Gyeonwoo moved suddenly, holding her hands in his own.
"Please… leave me, Shaman," he pleaded, his voice breaking. The warmth in his hands was gone, replaced with a cold desperation that made Seong-ah's chest ache. Tears welled in her eyes, but she couldn't step forward.
"I… I'm already destroyed enough," he continued, kneeling before her, his fingers brushing her legs as he begged. "I don't want to die… please, leave me, Heaven and Earth Fairy."
Seong-ah stood frozen, unable to speak, her tears sliding down her cheeks in silent agony. Her heart was shattered, torn between her duty to protect him and the raw pain of watching him plead for her to let go.
"I… I'm sorry. I am so cold," she whispered finally, her voice barely audible as she turned away, leaving the marked photos untouched on the table. Her steps were heavy, and every movement was weighed down by the sorrow she carried.
As she moved toward the door, she muttered to herself, "Well… it was the first time I have met her," the words tasting bitter on her tongue, yet a faint glimmer of hope lingered—hope that one day, perhaps, he might understand.
Do Ryeong sat cross-legged on the worn wooden floor of his room, an old photo album resting in his lap. The pages were yellowed, curling at the edges, each photograph capturing moments frozen in time—smiles, celebrations, and faces now only memories. He traced a finger over one of the pictures, lost in thought, when the familiar presence of the Mother Goddess entered the room.
"What are you looking at?" her voice was gentle, yet carried a hint of curiosity.
Startled, Do Ryeong looked up, quickly covering the album. "Uh… your old photos… the old album," he blurted, his cheeks reddening slightly as he tried to hide his reverence.
---
Two days back, Jiho had confessed something to Seong-ah that had surprised her deeply. They sat quietly in a shaded corner of the schoolyard, the late afternoon sun filtering softly through the leaves.
"I… I also wanted to become a human amulet," Jiho said, his voice barely above a whisper, but earnest.
Seong-ah blinked in disbelief. "What? Are you serious?"
"Yes," he said, meeting her eyes firmly. "After everything… it's for Gyeonwoo's good. If you can protect him, why can't I? Can't I save him too?"
Seong-ah's lips curved into a small, warm smile, touched by his sincerity. "You… you can," she replied softly, her heart swelling at his determination.
---
Now, in a cozy café, Hyerii and Jiho sat across from each other, the chatter of other patrons and the aroma of coffee filling the air. Couples whispered and laughed at nearby tables, their presence a quiet reminder of the world of connections Seong-ah and Gyeonwoo had yet to fully enter. Hyerii, notebook in hand, was clearly hesitant, her fingers nervously tapping the cover.
"Hey… are you doing that?" Jiho asked, observing her with a curious tilt of his head.
"Yes…" she replied quietly, her gaze fixed on her notebook, her thoughts elsewhere.
Suddenly, Jiho's attention snapped back to Gyeonwoo. "I should be with him," he muttered, standing abruptly. Excusing himself, he dashed out of the café, weaving through the streets until he caught sight of Gyeonwoo climbing onto the bus. Without hesitation, Jiho ran to follow.
---
Meanwhile, in a quiet, sunlit room, the Mother Goddess, Do Ryeong, and the spirit of Gyeonwoo's grandmother sat together. The atmosphere was tense, heavy with questions and unspoken concerns.
"Those pictures… who drew them?" the Mother Goddess asked, her voice edged with concern. "How did you meet them, and when?"
Seong-ah's voice trembled slightly as she answered, blurting out the truth. "It was… Yeomhwa."
The Mother Goddess' eyes widened in shock, the revelation settling like a cold weight in the room.
---
Meanwhile, Jiho followed Gyeonwoo discreetly, keeping a careful distance. Gyeonwoo walked with quiet purpose, his expression somber as he approached a large, imposing house, its dark exterior standing stark against the late afternoon sky.
"What is he doing here?" Jiho whispered to himself, curiosity and worry mixing in his chest.
A sleek, black car rolled to a stop outside the gate, and an older man in his mid-forties climbed down. His expression was sharp, curious. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice steady but demanding.
Gyeonwoo lifted his gaze, calm but tinged with emotion. "I… I wanted to talk about my grandmother," he replied quietly, the words heavy with memory and loss.
Yeomhwa's lips curled into a cunning smile as she leaned back slightly in her chair, her eyes glinting with dark amusement. "Oh, so you think I'm easy to manipulate?" she said smoothly, her voice carrying a teasing, dangerous edge. Without waiting for an answer, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small black amulet, the surface gleaming ominously in the dim café light.
Before Gyeonwoo could react, she pressed it gently against his forehead, muttering a low incantation. The amulet's dark energy swirled around him, attempting to weave its binding spell. But nothing happened. Gyeonwoo blinked, and a faint warmth pulsed around him instead—a shield of protection he didn't even realize was already active.
Yeomhwa's eyes widened in surprise, quickly masking her shock with a sarcastic tilt of her head. "Oh… so your grandmother is gone, huh?" she murmured, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "And you already have a protective shield. Clever boy. Looks like your friend gave you a gift that even I can't bypass."
Gyeonwoo's gaze remained steady, calm but alert. In his hand, the small robot Jiho had given him—a human amulet in mechanical form—hummed softly, its presence silently reinforcing his protection. Yeomhwa's black amulet fizzled uselessly, unable to touch him.
She leaned back, studying him with a mixture of annoyance and begrudging respect. "I see… clever. Very clever. But don't think this ends here," she said, tucking the black amulet back into her bag. "You may have won this round, but the game isn't over yet."
Gyeonwoo simply nodded, the weight of his grandmother's memory and Seong-ah's guidance steadying him. He didn't need to speak—his calm defiance was enough to show that no dark trick or manipulation would sway him, not while he had protection, and not while his heart remained determined.