As Goi stepped into the manor's inner quarters, the mercenaries fell back, retreating into the courtyard—not with fear, but as if following some unspoken cue. It was as though they were guiding him to the heart of something already foreseen.
He passed through an open door and entered a wide, sun-drenched courtyard. The tiles were polished and pale, lined with lacquered wood and flanked by curved eaves that cast shadows like poised wings. From the inner chamber emerged a man in silken robes, middle-aged yet elegant in the practiced way of power. Without a word, the man drew his long sword and motioned once.
The doors behind Goi slammed shut.
Eighteen mercenaries stepped forward in unison, forming a ring of steel.
Outside, Ansang had managed to climb the wall with the help of a servant. He peered over the edge just in time to see his father smirk.
"So," the governor sneered, "you're the one meddling in my affairs."
Goi tilted his head slightly, his tone laced with wry amusement.
"Tell me—why does a dead man need a living body to commit such cowardice?"
The governor's expression faltered. He squinted, suddenly cautious. Goi's simple gray robe offered no clues, but the soft golden glow from the bronze mirror at his chest sent an unmistakable ripple of dread down the man's spine.
"H-how do you know...?" the governor stammered, his composure cracking. "Kill him!"
The mercenaries moved instantly, closing the ring, blades drawn.
But Goi had already unsheathed the bronze gladius.
He moved like smoke—unhurried, deliberate, yet impossible to follow. The mirror on his chest pulsed as if breathing in tandem with his steps. When he struck, the air sang with golden wind. Two mercenaries fell before their blades had even crossed his path. Another reached for his bow—too late. Goi's gladius flickered, and the man collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Across the courtyard, the governor watched in horror.
"That sword," he whispered, "it banishes spirits…"
Goi chuckled, the sound almost kind.
"A curious thing to say—especially for a ghost borrowing someone else's lungs."
The mercenaries hesitated, their courage dissolving. Goi's blade swept again, not striking flesh, but cutting through whatever bound their souls to rage. One by one, they collapsed, gently as if sleep had claimed them.
The governor, gritting his teeth, charged.
He avoided Goi's blade, darting instead through the golden traces it left behind—but each time he crossed those paths, something left him. His strength. His focus. His breath.
By the time Goi's blade finally reached his forehead, he was already falling.
"Cleansed!"
The courtyard exploded in applause. Servants and villagers, once cowering in the shadows, now stepped forward.
Ansang clapped along, awestruck, until he heard Goi mutter to himself:
"That coward ran."
Goi's eyes swept the courtyard, narrowing at the far edge.
There—beneath the slope of the rear garden, a pine tree stood. Ancient. Still. Too still.
The bronze mirror flared, and gasps rippled through the crowd.
A brilliant beam of gold erupted from the mirror and pointed—not toward the fallen governor—but directly at the tree.
"There you are," Goi said softly. "Come out."
The earth trembled.
Roots cracked stone. Bark split open. The towering pine shuddered once—and transformed.
A towering creature rose, limbs gnarled into arms, its trunk now a grotesque torso. What had once been roots were now clawed feet. The creature reared back, howling.
With a roar, the pine demon attacked.
Branches lashed toward Goi in a whirling storm. He met them with steel—his blade slicing cleanly through the strikes, parrying without effort. But the beast was relentless. As Goi moved to advance, the ground itself betrayed him. Roots shot upward and coiled around his ankles, holding him fast.
The demon laughed—a sound like bark cracking in fire.
"Foolish child. You never learned the art of diversion."
But Goi only smiled faintly—and plunged his steel blade into the earth.
The demon blinked.
"Begging for mercy now?"
It raised its limbs to strike again.
But the bronze mirror ignited.
A pillar of light burst upward, radiant and searing. The demon reeled back, shielding its face with clawed arms.
Freed by the light, Goi drew his bronze gladius. The roots that had bound him crumbled into dust beneath its glow.
He advanced without pause, swinging once.
The demon faltered—its branches no match for the radiant gladius.
"What a pity," Goi said, his voice calm. "One more stroke, and you might have passed peacefully into the Other World you should belong to."
But the pine demon wasn't finished.
Its voice hissed with rage. "Do you even know how foul that governor truly was?"
"I don't care," Goi said. "I see only what you've become—a general of corpses."
Behind him, saplings began to rise. At first, just shoots.
Then limbs.
Then eyes.
Gasps rose from the crowd. "What's that?!" "Look behind him!"
Three smaller tree demons had grown, their figures wiry and vicious.
The pine demon sneered. "Their hatred burns brighter than yours! Finish him—then we'll wipe out Hachu's bloodline and complete our vengeance!"
The three lunged. But Goi was faster.
He turned, spun, and drove his blade into the earth once more.
A wave of energy exploded outward.
The sapling demons fell in pieces.
Before the pine demon could react, Goi drew his gladius again.
Golden light trailed from its edge, sweeping toward the heart of the beast.
"Cleansed!"
The word rang out—not loud, but absolute.
The pine demon gave a final, broken roar—and collapsed.
The creature let out a low, throaty groan—no longer a threat, but a hollow remnant of what it had been.
The mirror at Goi's chest dimmed to a quiet bronze, while the bells chimed softly.
He exhaled, steady and calm.
Then Goi stepped forward. Without haste, without word, he approached the toppled form.
He stood tall upon the creature's spine, his figure framed by sunshine and dust. The wind returned, brushing against his robe.