About Two Years and Nine Months Later
In the weeks following his appointment, the newly instated Governor Ansang had left Paromi's main office to personally resolve a growing dispute. An issue over warehouse space had ignited tensions: thanks to an unprecedented harvest, the stores filled with tax grain had doubled in volume. Some ministers proposed building new granaries on land near a remote village, but Ansang hesitated. He had reviewed the proposal and found it troubling—not only was the land in question an ancestral burial site, but the suggested plan also involved seizing the land without full consent.
So he went himself.
There, among the villagers, he listened—truly listened. When a young man stepped forward and suggested instead regrading and expanding the road to the nearby port—where numerous old warehouses sat unused—Ansang called an impromptu council beneath the sunlit eaves and held discussions with his aides on the spot. It was during this deliberation that urgent news arrived.
A royal guest had come.
"The third princess of Baekje's Jin household is here, in Paromi."
Ansang's breath caught. He turned to the messenger and issued swift orders: "Continue the survey. Record the people's concerns. Prepare a report for my return." Then, without hesitation, he mounted his horse and rode back toward his office.
All his life, his maternal household had taught him: Honor the Jin clan of Baekje. For over 150 years, our Gayas and their line have been bound by sacred 'brotherhood' oath—treat them as your Gahn, each Gaya's ruler. And so, when he arrived at his office, breathless and dust-covered from the ride, he found her there: Gami Jin, seated with her family.
Ansang immediately fell to his knees in formal greeting, his forehead nearly to the floor. Gami rose at once and gently helped him up, guiding him to the guest seat she had just vacated and taking the position of honor he had offered.
Zeali, Sui, and Dui quickly settled themselves into seats around them.
Gami, her gaze steady, turned to the now-bearded young governor. "Tell me," she said softly. "Tell me about that day, please."
Ansang hesitated. He had buried the truth—but now, looking into her eyes, he knew the time had come. He opened his mouth, but paused, glancing around nervously. "I… It's not something I speak of easily. It's a shameful matter for my house."
Gami offered a small smile. "The man you met… was Goi, right? He is my husband."
Ansang's eyes widened. He shot to his feet in astonishment. Then, looking closely at her family, he began to see it—the shared features, the calm strength in their bearing, and something in Zeali's posture that mirrored Goi's.
The weight in his chest lifted.
And so he spoke. At first haltingly. But as the words tumbled out, his voice grew steadier. He described it all: the pursuit, the soldiers, Goi's sudden intervention, the pine demon's twisted fury.
At one point, rising from his chair, he re-enacted Goi stepping onto the pine demon's trunk, miming the motion with his own foot. "After pressing the creature down," he said with growing enthusiasm, "he drew forth the bronze bell. It began to ring across the courtyard. And then, we heard a voice—clear and sharp. It was Ilmori. My father's former retainer."
Ansang covered his face briefly with his hands. "He spoke of a battle with Seraburl… how he had won it… only to be cast aside. My father took the credit. And to silence him, and his men, and their families—he had them all executed."
He dropped his hands. "And that... is how my father became governor of Paromi."
The youngest, Dui, gave a small, solemn nod. "So the grudge had a reason," he said quietly.
Sui asked, "But how could all those vengeful spirits gather in one pine tree?"
Ansang shrugged lightly.
"Ilmori didn't know for certain. He said the tree's divine spirit had once been shattered. Something—or someone—had broken it. It was offered the chance to serve whoever caused it… but refused. The remnants of the tree's holy soul faded, and the hollow that remained was filled by Ilmori and the others."
Gami and her family exchanged a look—tense, knowing. But Ansang, unaware, continued.
"Goi told my father to repent. To beg forgiveness. But my father… he cursed Ilmori instead. Goi pressed the bronze sword to his forehead and cried out, 'Cleansed!' Golden light poured from the blade." He mimed the gesture, lifting an invisible gladius and pressing it forward.
Zeali leaned in. "Did it work?"
Ansang nodded furiously. "Yes. My father suddenly… changed. His face softened. He knelt. And he apologized. The spirits vanished."
He paused.
"And then, for a year, he withered. Silent. Ill. And finally… he died."
Zeali scoffed. "Shame can kill a man. Especially one who stole what wasn't his."
Gami nodded. "But in regaining his shame, he became human again. So it worked."
Sui tilted his head. "I'm not sure I follow, Sis-in-law."
Gami smiled, her voice warm with the quiet certainty of one who had lived through harder truths.
"When a man forgets shame, he ceases to be human, my dear Sui. And… had Hachu not confessed publicly, even Lord Beomyeon—his own father-in-law—could not have secured the governorship for his son, Ansang."
Dui, eyes narrowed, glanced at Sui—then at Gami. He didn't like that she praised his brother too much and so openly. So he blurted out, "Now I understand... how terrifying a grudge can be!"
Gami laughed gently, delighted by his enthusiasm.
"No need to exaggerate, Dui. Favor and grudge follow all who live. That's why we need good politics—to balance both."
Pleased by her approval, Dui nodded seriously.
"That's why Sir Pieng, your father, always told Goi to become a politician of people, not just a butcher of men."
Gami's smile faltered. For a breath, her eyes clouded—pain flashing beneath them.
She had always carried guilt for how harshly her father had judged Goi. She remembered the cold words spoken across ivory screens, and the way Goi had borne them in silence.
Sui, quick to notice, reached out and gave his brother a sharp smack on the back.
Startled, Gami burst into laughter, the moment of heaviness breaking like mist under morning sun. She waved her hand as if to say, It's fine. Sui bowed slightly, relieved.
Ansang said nothing. But in his quiet gaze, there was a glint of understanding—he had seen enough to know there were stories here meant only for family. And wisely, he chose not to ask.
The governor's office filled once more with the warm hum of laughter. A rare and precious harmony—after truth, after reckoning, after light.