In the governor's inner chamber, Hachu sipped his tea slowly. Yet what lingered on his tongue was not bitterness, but the cloying sweetness of justice—his own brand of it.
I am Ilmori, he thought. And only in death have I found a way to exact vengeance on this wretched man.
Hachu and Ilmori had once shared a birthplace—Gaesan. Hachu was two years older and had entered military service first, becoming Ilmori's direct superior. When they were still nameless footsoldiers, the two were closer than brothers.
Their fates changed one afternoon during a routine patrol. They came upon a group of mountain bandits ambushing a noble caravan. Together they charged in, blades drawn. Ilmori thought little of the skirmish. He was too occupied wrestling down three armed men to notice anything else.
But that single act would divide their futures forever.
The man they had saved turned out to be the eldest son of none other than Lord Beomyeon, the Chief Chancellor of Golpo Gaya.
And Hachu—clever, quick-tongued, and strikingly handsome—was the one who had personally shielded the noble's carriage with his own body. In the eyes of the noble family, Hachu alone was the savior. Ilmori, for all his bruises and blood, remained just another blade in the chaos.
Within a year, Hachu married Beomyeon's sixth daughter. And not long after, he was appointed sheriff of Gaesan.
Ilmori followed, of course. His promotions came modestly—only to unit commander beneath Hachu. Though he bled in the same battles and held the line when Hachu faltered, he remained a loyal shadow behind the rising star.
But Hachu was never fit for command. He had once faced arrows and steel without flinching, but now trembled at court rumors and his father-in-law's disapproving gaze.
His siblings were another matter. Once merely petty and greedy, they soon became bloated with power, occupying high offices and devouring the fruits of Hachu's rise. Those who had stood beside Hachu in war were quietly dismissed, while family filled the ranks around him.
And so his rise plateaued. Whispers said Lord Beomyeon had distanced himself. Hachu feared not disgrace, but abandonment. The dread of losing his patron gnawed at him more than any battlefield wound.
Ilmori, trapped in that orbit, could only laugh bitterly—especially now, occupying Hachu's very body, mocking his former master from within.
Then came the war.
Two years ago, Seraburl forces launched a surprise siege on Daemaru Fortress. For a month, the garrison was surrounded, and rumors of its impending fall spread like fire.
Ilmori saw an opportunity. While Hachu, now hesitant and soft, refused to act, Ilmori assembled his remaining veterans and made a decision.
He captured a Seraburl scout and interrogated him. Reinforcements were en route. If they could cut them off—there, at the narrow gorge of Yucheon—they might just turn the tide.
Ilmori launched a preemptive strike. His men lay in wait at the gorge. They fought for two nights and three blood-soaked days, driving back the enemy and severing their lifeline. Victory should have belonged to them.
But when they returned, bruised and battered, Hachu had them all arrested.
"Treason," he said. "You acted without orders. You've spilled too much blood."
Ilmori met his accusation with bitter laughter, then revealed what he had uncovered: the commander defending Daemaru was General Guansi, secretly loved by Princess Aikjin—a worthless man, but the perfect lever to shift the mountain that was Princess Aikjin.
The very one who had eclipsed Lord Beomyeon in court.
If we could be credited with saving her paramour, we might gain her favor. And perhaps, through her, preserve our standing.
Hachu said nothing, but Ilmori saw it—the glint of ambition behind cowardice.
He made his offer. If Hachu absolved them, Ilmori would lead a second strike—this time, into the very heart of the siege.
Hachu agreed. "Succeed," he said, "and the charge of insubordination will be forgotten."
So they fought again. Ilmori and his men stormed the camp, beheaded the Seraburl commander, and limped away victorious.
Ilmori lost an arm.
The others suffered wounds they would carry forever.
Still, they were alive. And their names would live on… or so they believed.
But days later, the rumors came.
Hachu had been named governor of Paromi County.
He was hailed as the hero of Daemaru, praised by Princess Aikjin herself.
The names of Ilmori and his comrades were nowhere to be found.
Wounded and discarded, Ilmori and his men drank together in silence, nursing wounds both seen and unseen.
They had given everything—and in return, they had been erased.
And so it was that Ilmori, his body broken but spirit unbowed, climbed aboard the creaking ox-cart bound for Paromi. His remaining comrades—those who could still walk or speak—rode with him, their wounds swaddled in rough linen, their hearts flickering with a fragile hope.
Hachu welcomed them at the gates like an old friend. With arms wide and a voice full of cheer, he called for a feast. Roasted pork, warmed rice wine, sweet rice cakes—none were spared. His laughter rang loudest in the hall, and his words flowed like oil: "You should have come sooner. I've been waiting for the right time to call you all back."
Ilmori, for the briefest of moments, believed him. Even the most scarred among them allowed a smile to break through.
But at dawn, the doors burst open.
Chains clattered. Leather boots stomped. Cries rang out.
They were dragged from their mats and thrown into the cold earth beneath the keep. The charge: treason. Espionage. Secret collaboration with Seraburl during the Daemaru campaign.
The interrogations began.
They resisted. For days, they held fast. But when the torturers brought in their families—wives, sons, daughters—their resolve faltered. One by one, they broke.
Hachu himself appeared, smiling with the same affable warmth he wore at the feast.
"Confess," he said, "and I'll spare one. One soul of your choosing. The rest will die—but one may live."
It was a choice more cruel than death.
And so they chose.
One by one.
And one by one, Hachu slaughtered the very ones they had chosen to save—before their eyes.
Then, with no further need for games, he executed them all.
Ilmori remembered the moment he died.
Not the blade, not the pain—but the hatred. A flame so pure it seared his soul into permanence.
And then, somehow, he awoke.
He was not alone.
His comrades—those who had fallen with him—stood beside him. Spirits now, and bound by fury.
They lingered not in some distant realm, but in the very shadows of Hachu's home. His keep. His chambers. His sleep.
Night after night, they whispered into his dreams. They scratched at the edges of his sanity. They drowned him in the screams of the dead.
Until at last, he broke.
And when Hachu collapsed in fever and fear—when his spirit flickered like a candle guttering in its final breath—Ilmori reached through the veil.
And took him.