Book 1: Chapter 28 - The Ill-made Knight [Part 3]
----------------------------------------
That evening, after dropping her off, he lingered at the estate under the guise of performing maintenance on the vehicle. He watched from a distance as she moved through the well-lit rooms, her silhouette passing by the grand windows.
He made his way to a side entrance, slipping smoothly inside. A faint smile played on his lips as he passed the housekeeping staff, their hushed, excited whispers trailing in his wake. He paid them no mind, letting the familiarity of the halls soothe his nerves. Each step brought him closer to her private study, the one place where answers might finally await him.
The study was immaculate, every item placed with precision. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on a leather-bound journal resting on a large desk made from fossilized wood and inlaid with mother of pearl. His hands trembled as he opened it, revealing pages filled with Mirae’s elegant handwriting.
He flipped through it… finding nothing strange… nothing of note. Then it hit him like a lightning bolt, she would never write her thoughts down in a physical journal.
Quickly, he made his way back home and in the solitude of his sanctuary, he prepared himself for the challenges ahead. He would delve into the unknown, face whatever forces had taken her, and restore the goddess to her rightful place. For his love was not a mere obsession—it was a devotion that transcended reason, a bond that even the supernatural could not break.
*****
Sang-woo’s suspicions only grew as the days slowly turned into agonizing weeks. Mirae’s responses, her actions, even her presence—everything about her felt slightly off. Like a puzzle where all the pieces fit but the picture was wrong. Yet, he was determined. A knight does not question his quest; he charges forward, metaphorical sword drawn, no matter the odds. He would save Mirae.
*****
The day it happened was like any other. Sang-woo had just opened the door for Mirae at a charity gala, her presence commanding the room as always. The cameras of the press hungered for her, lenses snapping like wolves' jaws, desperate to devour every fragment of her radiance. She wore a flowing gown of midnight silk, the fabric catching the light like dark water.
The charity gala was opulent, a temple to excess, and the city’s elite were its supplicants. Chandeliers dripped with light, laughter tinkled like glass, and the wine flowed as freely as the empty compliments. Mirae moved among them with practiced ease, a raven gliding through doves. She spoke in low, measured tones, her beauty a weapon as effective as any weapon had ever been.
This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.
Sang-woo’s sharp eyes caught a figure moving through the crowd—a man whose presence rippled against the gala’s smooth surface. His suit was unremarkable, his tie the wrong shade for the occasion, but it was his eyes that betrayed him. They burned with the smoldering embers of old pain and fresh rage.
The man’s focus was unyielding, his gaze fixed on Mirae like a predator stalking prey.
Sang-woo shifted closer, the instinct of a bodyguard and his military training overriding all else. He saw the man’s hand dip into his jacket and knew before he saw it what was there. The Daewoo K5 emerged—a pistol too familiar, the weapon of an officer. Sang-woo’s breath caught and saw it for what it was, the death promise.
“Your greed killed her!” the man roared, his voice raw as a wound. “She trusted your poison, and it took her! Yuna, my Yuna!”
Mirae turned, her head tilting just so, her expression calm, almost curious. Even as the barrel of the gun rose to meet her, she stood unmoving, porcelain and marble all at once.
Sang-woo did not think. Knights do not think when their duty calls—they act.
He moved between them, his steps swift, his body interposing itself as the man’s finger pulled the trigger.
The gun’s report tore through the gala’s fragile mask of civility.
Pain hit Sang-woo like a hammer, spreading outwards from his chest in a wave of fire and ice. His knees failed him, the world tilting as he sank to the ground. Mirae did not scream. She did not flinch. She simply watched, her eyes cold and calculating, her mask unbroken even as his life seeped out onto the polished floor.
Through the haze of agony and the growing dark, Sang-woo looked up at her one last time. In her gaze, he found no gratitude, no grief—only a distant acknowledgment, as though he were but another pawn removed from her board.
Darkness swept him under, cold and absolute.
*****
When Sang-woo opened his eyes, he was no longer at the gala. He found himself in a stark, white room where the walls stretched endlessly, glowing faintly as if lit from within. The air was silent, thick with an otherworldly stillness.
He sat up abruptly, his hand instinctively reaching for his chest. There was no blood, no wound—just a strange emptiness.
"Am I... dead?" he whispered into the void.
The room offered no answers, only oppressive quiet.
"Is this the afterlife?" he murmured, rising unsteadily to his feet.
He turned, and behind him stood a figure—a woman with flowing black hair and eyes as dark as the abyss. She resembled Mirae, but something about her was different. Mirae, for all her beauty, was not quite this... voluptuous. This woman radiated an aura of power, and her gaze pierced straight through him.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice trembling.
The woman smiled faintly, her features shifting and becoming fluid. Was that his mother? Her smile held all the warmth of deep winter.
"You may call me Iasis, the Mother," she answered in a tone both wistful and mocking. Tossing her head, she let out a long, drawn-out sigh, playing with a strand of ebony hair. She held his gaze and he felt the full force of her scrutiny. "I see… You fancy yourself a Knight in your heart of hearts, yet you know nothing of the real war to come."
Sang-woo's heart raced. "What do you mean? What is all of this? Where is Mirae? Is she safe?" he asked desperately.
The woman tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "Safe? No. But she is where she must be. And so are you. This is a place where a choice must be made."
Her words sent a chill coursing through him.