The sky hung heavy with gray clouds, but Jun-seo's mother seemed to bring her own kind of chaos to the somber scene. As Jun-seo continued bowing politely to the mourners, he noticed her movement from the corner of his eyes.
She walked awkwardly, exaggerated steps that drew subtle glances from the guests. Her posture was rigid, almost comical, as if she was performing rather than mourning. Her laughter—light, careless, almost musical—cut through the quiet murmurs, a stark contrast to the grief surrounding them.
Before anyone could stop her, she grabbed a handful of flowers from a nearby arrangement and threw them toward the coffin, petals scattering across the polished floor in a reckless shower. Some petals landed on Jun-seo's shoes, some brushed the edge of the coffin, but the sight left him silent with a mix of disbelief and quiet irritation.
As she munched on snacks she had smuggled from the car, she casually opened a can of beer and took a swig, grinning at strangers she barely knew. She seemed entirely unaware—or completely unconcerned—about the social decorum of a funeral.
Jun-seo's eyes followed her carefully, noting every movement. She spoke loudly to anyone who would listen, recounting stories about herself, her wealth, her "close relationship" with the deceased, oblivious to the fact that her plans for inheritance were already ruined. Every word, every action, revealed her ignorance: she had assumed she would inherit everything, but the truth of his grandfather's will was untouched, safe, and completely in Jun-seo's favor.
He kept his composure, bowing and nodding politely to the other mourners, masking the amusement and quiet satisfaction growing inside him.
She doesn't know. She doesn't know a thing, he thought, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Everything she's doing—every ridiculous display—is meaningless. The property, the estate, the wealth… all mine, as grandfather intended.
As she laughed, ate, and drank, oblivious to her failure, Jun-seo felt a cold clarity settle over him. Some people never learn, he realized. Some people thought money could bend the world to their will. Others—like him—knew patience, knowledge, and timing were far more powerful than greed.
And as he glanced once more at the sealed documents his grandfather had left, he knew: the game wasn't over, but the victory was already his.
Jun-seo's mother had been walking around the funeral grounds like she owned the place, laughing loudly, taking bites of snacks, and swaying unsteadily as she tried to balance a beer can in one hand and a handful of flowers in the other. Guests shifted uncomfortably, whispering behind her back, but she seemed blissfully oblivious, wrapped up in her own theatrics.
Just as she tossed another handful of petals toward the coffin, a stern, measured voice cut through the commotion.
"Excuse me, ma'am."
She turned, frowning, only to see a man in a crisp suit approach—her father's long-time manager, the one who had handled the grandfather's estates with meticulous care. His gaze was unwavering, and there was a hint of warning in his tone.
"I believe you need to know the truth," he continued, holding a folder firmly in his hands. "The property, the estate, and all assets have been left entirely under Jun-seo's name, as per your father's will. None of it will come to you."
For a moment, her laughter froze mid-air. The cheerful sway of her body stilled. Then reality hit like ice water. Her face paled, and the corners of her mouth twisted into a grimace of disbelief.
"What?" she shrieked, her voice rising, trembling with rage. "That's impossible! I—how could this happen? I… I'm his daughter! Everything should come to me!"
Her hands flailed, scattering flowers, crumbs, and her beer across the polished floor. Guests gasped and stepped back, unsure whether to intervene. The funeral had become a spectacle of her fury.
Jun-seo remained calm, standing slightly apart, observing. He bowed politely to the others, masking the small, almost imperceptible smirk forming on his lips. She doesn't realize how thoroughly she's lost.
"I don't understand!" she yelled, pacing wildly, kicking over a vase of flowers, sending petals spilling across the tiles. "Everything… the money, the land, the property—how can it all go to him?"
The manager's tone was firm, unyielding. "Your father made his decision clear. The inheritance belongs to Jun-seo. All legal documents have been executed. Nothing can change that."
Her scream rose to a pitch that made some of the older mourners wince. She grabbed another handful of petals and threw them, hitting a guest in the shoulder. "This is unfair! I—this is fraud! Lies! I want what's mine!"
Jun-seo finally spoke, his voice calm and icy, cutting through the chaos.
"Mother," he said, his tone polite but carrying a weight that silenced her for a heartbeat, "this is not about what you want. This is what grandfather decided. Everything he left… it is mine. You can scream, throw flowers, drink your beer, make a scene—but it changes nothing."
Her face twisted with fury and disbelief. Her hands shook, her body trembling. The reality of the loss, combined with the public humiliation, seemed to crush the self-assured image she had carried into the funeral.
Jao, if present in the shadows watching this, would have noted the bitter satisfaction on Jun-seo's face—the quiet, patient victory over someone who had always assumed the world owed her everything.
And as she continued to yell and stomp, scattering petals and crumbs, the guests whispered, the manager stood firm, and Jun-seo remained calm, a king in his grandfather's rightful domain.
Jun-seo's mother continued screaming, stomping, and throwing flowers, her voice echoing across the solemn cemetery. Guests had started to step back, murmuring anxiously. The manager and a few family members exchanged worried glances.
Jun-seo remained calm, his posture straight, his hands relaxed at his sides, his eyes fixed on her. He had endured her theatrics for years—this display was just another attempt to intimidate, to regain control. He opened his mouth to speak, his voice smooth and commanding.
"Mother… calm down. You're making a scene. Please—this isn't helping you."
But she didn't listen. Instead, she straightened, chest heaving, and glared at him with eyes filled with fury and bitterness.
"You think this is all over, don't you?" she spat. "You think you've won? You think your grandfather's little plan means anything?"
Jun-seo's expression remained neutral, his patience unwavering. "I don't care what you think. The documents are clear. The estate, the property—everything belongs to me. You can scream, throw tantrums, make a spectacle… but the law doesn't lie."
Her lips curled into a bitter, twisted smile, a new kind of venom behind it. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper, meant only for him.
"And there's another thing you should know," she hissed. "Something your grandfather never told you. Something that will make all this… meaningless."
Jun-seo's eyes narrowed. He had endured her schemes, her greed, her insults—but this tone was different. Cold. Dangerous.
"You… you're not my biological son," she said, her voice dripping with triumph and cruelty. "Your father… was not who you think. You were a mistake, a secret kept from the world. Everything you've believed about this family… it's a lie."
For a heartbeat, Jun-seo said nothing. His mind raced, but his face betrayed nothing. The crowd held their breath, sensing the gravity of her words.
"And now," she continued, voice rising again, "you have no claim! No right! The grandfather's fortune… it doesn't belong to you! It belongs to the real heir!"
Jun-seo took a slow breath, his calmness like steel against her storm. His gaze didn't waver. His voice, when it came, was soft but deadly.
"Mother," he said, every word measured, controlled, "you can say whatever you like. You can yell, you can throw flowers, you can make a spectacle in front of everyone. But the truth—legal, factual, and real—is this: I am the heir my grandfather chose. Documents, witnesses, the law… all confirm it. Whether I am your biological son or not does not change that."
She gasped, rage and disbelief colliding. Her face contorted, her hands trembling, and yet she refused to stop. She wanted to hurt him, shake his confidence, destroy the satisfaction he now held.
Jun-seo didn't flinch. He bowed slightly to the remaining guests, a gesture of respect that masked the fire of determination within him. Then, quietly, to himself, he added:
"Biology doesn't define me. My grandfather's trust, my actions, my life… that's what matters. You could scream until the end of time, but nothing will change that."
The whispers in the crowd grew louder. Some were shocked at the revelation; others were impressed at Jun-seo's composure. His mother, red-faced and trembling with fury, realized that her words, her schemes, and her secrets had failed to shake him.
And Jun-seo, calm as ever, finally understood something fully:
Some truths are weapons—but the right preparation makes them powerless against a will forged in patience, resilience, and the lessons of a lifetime.
Jun-seo's mother's words hung in the air, heavy and sharp like knives. She leaned closer, eyes flashing with bitter triumph.
"Your grandfather… he adopted you," she said, her voice bitter, almost venomous. "He didn't want you to know the truth. He brought you into this family… but only as a replacement, a child to keep appearances. You… you've never truly belonged here, Jun-seo."
For a moment, the world around him seemed to blur. The funeral murmurs, the rustling of flowers, the whispers of guests—all faded into a quiet, oppressive silence.
Jun-seo blinked, and the first tear escaped, tracing a warm line down his cheek. Another followed, then another, each one a release of years of bottled-up pain, confusion, and heartbreak. His composure, so carefully maintained for the sake of others, began to crack.
"I… I've been your son all this time," he whispered, voice barely audible, trembling with the weight of revelation. "I thought… I thought I belonged here…"
His mother's face twisted, a mix of fury and satisfaction. She saw his tears as weakness, as confirmation that her words had struck true.
"Yes," she hissed, leaning even closer, "you were never meant to inherit, never meant to truly be one of us. Your grandfather brought you here, but he never… never loved you as his real grandson would. You were… a replacement. A mistake."
Jun-seo's hands clenched into fists, and yet his tears continued to fall. Not all were of sorrow—they carried frustration, betrayal, and a strange, simmering determination. Each drop was a reminder of what he had endured, of what he had accomplished despite knowing nothing of his origins.
He looked out over the gathered guests, at the whispers and the shocked faces. His mother's words had tried to shatter him, but something within him remained unbroken.
"I… I may not be your biological son," he said, voice stronger now despite the tears, "but I am still Jun-seo. I am still the one my grandfather trusted. I have lived, fought, and earned every moment of this life. That… cannot be taken from me."
His mother opened her mouth to retort, to lash out further, but Jun-seo, with a calmness that startled even himself, turned his gaze toward the manager who held the will.
"The inheritance is mine," he said, voice steady, resolute, commanding attention. "All of it. The law, my grandfather's trust, and everything I have worked for… it remains mine."
She sputtered, rage and disbelief flashing across her face, but Jun-seo no longer focused on her. His tears, now fewer, were a release—a cleansing of the past, a quiet acknowledgment that pain and betrayal had shaped him but would not destroy him.
He had been adopted, yes. He had been a "replacement" in someone's eyes. But Jun-seo knew something far more important:
He was still himself. Stronger, wiser, and capable of facing any storm—even the storm of family betrayal.
And as the funeral continued, with the autumn wind carrying the scent of flowers and earth, Jun-seo allowed himself one more tear. Not for his mother's words, not for the past—but for the clarity, the resilience, and the life he had truly earned.
The grand halls of the palace, usually gleaming with opulence and elegance, were now witness to chaos. Ajin's footsteps echoed through the marbled floors, heavy and unsteady. Each step carried the weight of anger, frustration, and heartbreak, though no one could see the storm raging within her.
In the aftermath of Seonghee's attack and the villa incident, something inside Ajin had fractured. The fire in her eyes, usually sharp, calculating, and unyielding, now flickered like a candle in the wind—sometimes bright, sometimes threatening to go out.
She picked up a vase from a gilded table and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall with a deafening crash, the porcelain splintering into jagged shards. Servants froze mid-step, and the palace manager's jaw tightened as he watched in silent horror.
"This… this is… impossible!" one whispered to another, clutching the edges of a nearby table, unsure whether to intervene.
Ajin moved from room to room, hands flailing, tossing papers, knocking over priceless ornaments, throwing cushions onto the floor in a whirlwind of rage and despair. Every object destroyed seemed to mirror the chaos she felt inside—a life once meticulously controlled, now slipping through her fingers.
Her breaths were uneven, sharp, each one carrying the raw edge of her emotions: fury, grief, and the lingering weight of guilt she had carried about her past manipulations. Yet there was also confusion, a disorientation that seemed to blur the lines of her own reality.
The manager and servants dared not approach her directly, their eyes wide with apprehension. They had seen wealth and power, elegance and pride, but never this raw, untamed chaos. They whispered among themselves, trying to maintain composure, but fear hung heavy in the air.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, Ajin stopped. Her chest heaving, hair disheveled, clothes smudged with dust and scratches, she looked around at the destruction she had wrought. A blankness overtook her eyes.
"What… what happened?" she murmured softly, tilting her head as if seeing the scene for the first time. "Who… who made this mess?"
Her voice carried a disarming innocence, almost childlike. The servants and manager exchanged shocked glances. One dared to speak, trembling:
"Your… your highness… you… did this…"
Ajin blinked slowly, as though the words themselves were foreign to her ears. A faint smile ghosted her lips, almost amused by the absurdity of the scene. "Me?" she asked, lightly, almost teasing. "I… I don't remember. It must have been someone else."
The grand halls, once symbols of power and order, now stood as silent witnesses to her unraveling—her emotions raw, unpredictable, and volatile. Behind the delicate mask of elegance she usually wore, a tempest raged, and no one, not even herself, could contain it.
And though she seemed to forget the destruction she had caused, the palace would never forget.
The palace servants and the manager stood in the ruined room, whispers barely audible over the remnants of shattered vases, scattered papers, and overturned furniture. The youngest servant, trembling, finally stepped forward, voice low but urgent.
"Your Highness… if I may… I think I know what happened," she began, glancing nervously at Ajin, who leaned against a gilded pillar, hair disheveled, her eyes distant and haunted.
The manager nodded slightly, encouraging her to continue.
"The day before… you went to the forbidden floor," the servant said cautiously. "The one Myun Hyuk never allows anyone to enter… you must have… entered that room."
Ajin tilted her head slightly, as if hearing the words but not fully processing them. Her lips curved faintly, almost a smirk, though her eyes betrayed a growing unease.
The servant swallowed, continuing. "In that room… there were pictures… of Myun Hyuk's ex-wife. She… she had eyes that seemed to watch you. And… I think… somehow, you imagined her presence. Watching you… judging you… following you."
A chill rippled through the room. The manager's face tightened, and even the older servants exchanged worried glances. They had seen Ajin act unpredictably, but this… this was different.
Ajin's hand twitched slightly, as though the words themselves summoned memories she hadn't wanted to confront. The corners of her eyes darkened as if recalling shadows she had tried to bury.
"I… I imagined her?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, trembling. "Watching me… judging me… seeing everything I am…"
Her mind seemed to replay the images: the ex-wife's cold, unforgiving eyes in the photographs, the perfect posture, the faintly mocking smile frozen in time. In Ajin's imagination, they weren't just pictures anymore—they were alive, following her every movement, whispering silent threats, haunting the hallways of her mind.
The servant continued cautiously, "Yes, Highness. We think… the forbidden floor, the room… it triggered something inside you. You remembered… or imagined… everything. That's why the mess… the throwing, the screaming, the chaos… it all… came out."
Ajin's hands clenched at her sides, her breath quickening. She laughed softly, a sound that was both hollow and unnerving. "So… that's why I… lost control," she murmured, voice low. "The shadows… the eyes… they never leave me… do they?"
The manager stepped forward, voice firm yet gentle. "Your Highness… you need to rest. The palace is yours, but the past… the fears… you cannot face them alone."
Ajin tilted her head, staring at the ceiling, as though seeing the ex-wife's image reflected there, eyes burning into her soul. "Alone… yes," she whispered. "Because no one… no one can understand… what watches you… when you think you are safe."
The room fell silent. The servants held their breath, sensing that Ajin had crossed into a mental space far removed from reality. She wasn't just clumsy or sad—she was haunted, her mind weaving the past and imagination into a nightmare of her own making.
And in the shadows of the forbidden floor, Ajin felt the ex-wife's presence—cold, watching, accusing—stirring the chaos she could no longer control.