247.
Park Seong-jin's Consciousness It was darkness.
He could not tell whether his eyes were closed or open.
There was no above or below, and the boundary of the body was blurred.
Only the sensation of breathing remained.
Only the memory that he had been breathing remained.
—It stopped.
For a very brief instant, breath vanished.
In that moment, Park Seong-jin knew.
This was the place where breath is severed—
a fissure so thin that soul and flesh do not yet part,
yet thin enough to let go of one another.
He was alive.
And being alive was not yet a settled fact.
Heaven halted.
Wind halted.
Sound halted.
Thought itself halted.
It was the same sensation as the day he cut down Gi-cheol,
only lower, and deeper—
like the surface of bottomless water sealing shut overhead.
Then—
—softly.
Something seeped in.
It was neither form nor force.
It was breath.
Extremely faint, yet carrying unmistakable intent.
Park Seong-jin tried to move, but there was no body.
Only consciousness clung to that place.
The breath traced along the region of the chest.
It was not seeking the heart.
It was searching to confirm existence.
It has come…
He did not speak, yet the thought rang.
That breath was cold.
Not killing intent.
Not the will to destroy, but the will to possess.
—Found.
At that instant, a voice touched him.
It came from very far away—
not heard by the ear, but scraping the surface of awareness.
"…Still holding together, are you."
It was a man's voice, low and dry, riding on shallow breath.
Whether the head of the Royal Guard, or the Empress's will using him as a conduit, did not matter here.
In this fissure, names held no weight.
The breath pressed deeper.
"To tread the fissure of heaven twice—
for a human, that is excessive."
Park Seong-jin's consciousness quivered,
the reflex of one still alive.
—tap.
At that moment, something caught.
The breath stopped.
"…Strange."
The cold awareness probed deeper inside him.
It reached the seam between soul and flesh—
a place like an unstitched wound.
This was the trace of the door Seolgyeongseong had opened.
"Who opened this door?"
Park Seong-jin did not answer.
Answering was impossible.
Yet from within him, something pushed outward.
Not breath, but will.
My place is here.
It was neither speech nor declaration.
It was the force of return—
an instinct pulling toward the side of the living.
At that, the breath withdrew.
"…Not yet, then."
There was no anger in the voice.
No impatience.
Only measured waiting.
"You have reopened the fissure of breath.
Next time will be easier."
The cold breath receded slowly.
"Remain alive, Nangjang."
The final words brushed the edge of awareness.
"So that I may find you again."
—click.
Heaven moved once more.
Sound returned.
Weight returned.
Breath was driven back into the lungs.
"Kh—!"
Park Seong-jin's body lurched violently.
He was in a room.
There was the scent of medicine, candlelight,
and Seolgyeongseong's low breathing.
Song I-sul's voice overlapped it.
"He's back—he's come back!"
Park Seong-jin gasped for air.
His chest burned as if being consumed by fire.
He was alive.
His eyes opened.
The darkness lodged deep within his pupils slowly settled.
Seolgyeongseong looked into those eyes and spoke in a low voice.
"…We were a step late.
Someone has already passed through."
Song I-sul's face hardened.
"Who was it."
Seolgyeongseong did not answer.
He moved a candle closer.
"The Reaper.
Next time, we must not allow this door to open again."
The lamplight in the room trembled, ever so slightly.
And no one there knew it—
that the Empress's shadow had just reached into the heart of Goryeo and withdrawn.
It had been a form of distant assassination,
worked through the shamans of the steppe.