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Generation I
Minjung feels the ground shift from beneath her feet.
“What did you do, seobang?” The question escapes her in a whisper, even when she knows what the answer would be.
Chanwoo — is he even her Chanwoo? — looks away. The bright purple marks peek from under the collar of his robes. “I am sorry.”
She picks up her bow, her hand shaking.
This can not be true. It must be a nightmare.
It has to be.
“Why?” Her vision is blurry, her mouth dry.
The ideals she stood for? Shattered.
The cause she fought for? Destroyed.
By none other than her source of strength, the pillar she could lean on.
Her beloved husband.
“We were drifting apart,” Chanwoo looks at her. His right side is marred by those hellish marks, his eye glowing amber. “I wanted to be there, yeobo. I wanted to ease your burden.”
“By selling your soul to the demon king?” She scoffs. Her husband flinches, as if she had rubbed sandpaper against his ears.
“He… he promised to—”
“And you believed him?” She shouts out, her anguish making her tears fall. “You, who is wed to a mudang, believed the demon’s whispers?”
She wipes furiously at her face.
She will not cry.
Not for this idiot.
“Aein.”
His soft whisper clenches at her heart. But Minjung steels herself, shaking her head.
She cannot be selfish. She cannot give up, not now.
Not when they are so close to a solution for the demons.
The Honmoon needs her. Her shaman sisters need her. The world needs her.
She takes a deep breath, then breaks into a soft harmony. It’s the song Chanwoo had composed for her, the one that defines their love.
Blue light emanates from her hands. She draws her bowstring. The arrow materializes itself in her hands, drawn taut, aimed at its target.
Chanwoo looks at her. His slit-like pupils widen. His amber eyes shine.
“You remember our song. You remember us,” He breathes, a satisfied smile stretched across his lips.
“That’s all I had wanted, all I had wished for. It sets me free.”
The song ends. The bowstring twangs. The arrow hits its mark.
Generation II
His eyes flash yellow.
The glimpse lasts for a mere second, but Yeonwoo is sure her eyes did not deceive her.
Yoojin looks at her, all smiles.
“What’s the matter, jagiya?” He asks, shaking the water off his hands. He is done washing the dishes. “Still thinking about the enlistment?”
She shakes her head, a rueful smile on her face. Her husband is supposed to go to war the next day, a truth she has not been wanting to face for quite some time.
“Everything will be fine, my love,” Yoojin comforts her, patting her head. “I promise I’ll come back soon. I know I’ll be okay.”
Yeonwoo leans in to kiss his cheek. His confidence in the certainty of his safety scares her.
It is as if he has made a deal. One that cannot be broken.
“You’ve been busy songwriting the entire day,” Yoojin suddenly comments, whining. She giggles — it is his way of changing subjects and uplifting her mood.
“My love is so diligent, she does not pay attention to her soon-to-be-gone husband.”
“You did say you are coming back,” she shrugs, keeping her tone nonchalant. “Plus, this is the life of an artist.”
Strong arms wrap around her waist, pulling her close. Her hair is tucked to the side, and Yeonwoo feels the playful yet intimate kiss that flutters at the nape of her neck.
“Say, why don’t we call it an early night today, honey?”
She holds his arms. The fabric between her fingers is dripping wet.
Yoojin has always been hypersensitive about how his clothes feel on the skin. Why is it not bothering him now?
A kiss to the shell of her ear, a breathy “Jagiya?” — it has her heart pounding. But her mind is racing with hundreds of conflicting thoughts and thousands of defense plans.
Does he know her identity? Are her suspicions true? Has he become what she has sworn to eliminate?
All for the promise to return back safely to her?
Yeonwoo turns around in his embrace, leaning herself against the counter. She cups his face in her hands, caressing his cheeks.
“I missed you.” She throws her arms around his neck, eyelashes fluttering.
He leans in, lips upturned in a lopsided grin. “I missed you too.”
“I love you.” The words escape her in a hushed whisper, as if she is saying a prayer.
He pauses. She holds her breath.
His eyes grow soft, his grin morphing into a warm smile. He looks at her as if she is the best gift he has received from life.
“I love you too, Yeonwoo-yah,” he whispers, eyes fluttering, closing the distance.
Their lips meet in a frenzy, like travelers yearning for water in the desert. Yeonwoo lets her fingers run through Yoojin’s hair, her other hand gripping at his shirt. He leads the kiss, and she returns his affections in fervor.
They pull apart for air, warm breaths mingling. Not even a moment has passed before Yeonwoo pulls her husband into another kiss. This act of affection is more desperate, more bruising, as if it would be the last time they will ever be this close.
She knows it is the last time she will ever hold him so close.
A moment of weakness is all it takes for reality to peek through.
Addled by affection and lust, Yoojin had momentarily lost control. His eyes had flashed, and Yeonwoo’s worst fears had been confirmed.
He pulls away, only for a moment. Yeonwoo’s lips chase him, craving his warmth.
Yoojin rests his forehead against hers, a breathy laugh escaping him. He gently caresses her cheek, as if wiping something away.
“So I did not imagine the taste of salt,” he whispers, kissing her forehead. “I promise I’ll be back, yeobo. Fit and fine.”
She holds him close, breathes in his scent. A soft lullaby, a song of comfort, hums in her throat. She feels the laughter rumble through his chest.
“My love is awfully clingy today. Not that I’m complaining.”
Yeonwoo pulls back. She takes in her husband through a gaze that grows blurry by every second.
His grip on her tightens slightly. Whether in concern or in realization, she does not know.
“Jagiya,” her voice is no louder than a whisper. As she pulls back her hand, the spiritual knife manifests into her grip, and she plunges it into its target’s heart.
“Noa julge.”
Generation III
“How is your headache, Seojun-ah?”
The man groans, sitting up in his bed. Jiyeon runs her fingers through his hair, hoping to provide whatever little comfort she can.
“Too bright,” he manages to grit out, eyes hidden behind trembling hands.
Jiyeon kisses his cheek, then gets up to pull the blinds down. Seojun sighs as darkness fills the room, then flops back down on the bed.
She spares him a glance, then busies herself with setting the plates up for brunch. The meal is simple — steamed rice, seaweed soup and beef with a side of bellflower root and soybean sprouts. She helps her boyfriend out of bed, guiding him to the dining table.
He looks at the spread in front of him, a frown twisting on his lips. He twists and turns the promise ring in his fingers, sighing.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Jagiya,” She kisses his hair, before settling down beside him. “You need to eat.”
She gently places her hand on his, her fingers lightly tracing the faint purple marks that pulse on his skin. He flinches a bit, but her grip is firm. She hums a soft song — Seojun realises it is the love song he had written for her. A faint blue light emanates from her fingertips, coursing slowly through his being and fading the purple marks in its wake.
He feels his appetite return, slowly but surely.
Once brunch is done, they lay in their bed, together. Their hands are intertwined, the two silver bands gleaming in the stray light they catch.
Jiyeon has to go for her songwriting sessions soon, but she prefers to spend as much time as she can next to her partner.
They only have each other, after all.
“I’m such an idiot,” Seojun sighs, looking down at his hands. A strangled chuckle escapes him. “I let him get into my mind, I believed him—”
“Seojun-ah,” Jiyeon whispers, lightly brushing her thumb across his cheek. The man gasps — he had not realised he had been crying. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not!” He all but roars at her. She flinches back in instinct, and that seems to snap him back to himself.
“It’s not okay, Jiyeon-ah,” Seojun clutches at his hair, his voice broken, his tears freely flowing. “I should have been sensible. I-I should have known I could not see my parents again. But I gave in. I gave in and I have become nothing but a burden for you and—”
His words break off as he is wrapped into a tight embrace. The warmth of another body sears through his cold, cold skin.
“You’re never a burden, love.” Jiyeon whispers through her tears, kissing his hair. “Never. You let me know the truth, you have been fighting Gwi-ma so well."
She pulls back enough to look at him. Cupping his face, she kisses the little purple mark creeping on his temple. “We’ll fix this. Together.”
“I’m sorry, Jiyeon-ah.”
“I know, jagiya. I know.”
🎶🎶🎶
She drops down in the alley, her spear at ready.
The demon abandons his latest prey, growling viciously as it turns to face her.
Her eyes catch something silver, and she freezes. It — no, he — does too.
But only for a moment.
Next thing she knows, he is lunging at her, talons extended.
It’s instinct, she tells herself as she gets into an attack stance. It’s self defense, she lies to herself as she swings her spear.
It’s murder, her mind echoes as the divine metal pierces through flesh.
The weapon drops from her hands. She falls to her knees, catching him before he can hit the ground.
“Jal ga, nae sarang,” she whispers through choked sobs, stroking his hair. She only has enough time to kiss his hair before he dissipates into thin air.
“Sarangheyo.”
Generation IV
“Could you help me with this dance move, Areum seonbae?”
The idol chuckles. The day is already over, and everyone else has gone home. “I can’t tell if you genuinely require help or you’re just looking for excuses to dally, Minwoo-yah.”
Minwoo just smiles, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, seonbae.”
She pulls at his cheeks. He sticks out his tongue in response.
Given the dominance of girl groups in the pop music space, it has been a daring move for Areum’s company to debut a boy band. She has been made in charge of helping the trainees with their choreography, and that is how she had met Minwoo.
He is a skilled dancer, she knows. And yet he insists on getting all the ‘extra’ help he can from his seonbae.
All these extra rehearsals had brought them close. Occasional teases had slowly given way to memorable banters, admiration had morphed to affection, and compliments had turned to confessions. Their dating life might have been heavily monitored, yet, love had found its way and bloomed in the cracks between the contracts.
In these months, they have shared everything — dreams, fears, expectations, insecurities.
Areum fumbles a lot with rapping. Minwoo is insecure about his singing.
“I could not let my voice be a hurdle to my dreams,” he had confessed. “And hence, I made a deal with the demon.”
He had looked at her with a gaze that had been knowing and resolute.
He knows, she had thought. And still, he chooses to be honest.
And if you were to ask Areum about her opinions, well… she could understand. The industry is brutal like that unless you have connections — which Minwoo’s band members did — so was it really wrong of him to use a little leverage?
They had made a promise that day. Minwoo would not lose control and give in to his demonic side, and Areum would not raise her weapon against him.
And that is how they have been protecting their love, all this time.
Today, the extra practice session takes longer than usual. They have been trying to polish out a few acrobatic parts of the choreography, but all in vain. Minwoo cannot even seem to land a single backflip properly. He seems winded for some reason, which worries Areum.
“There’s no need to exhaust yourself, aegiya,” she chides him gently, passing him a bottle of water. “We can call it an early day today.”
He shakes his head, scratching at his turtleneck. Areum gently pries the fabric near his neck away from the skin, only to find the purple marks pulsing there brightly.
Minwoo suddenly snarls, pushing her away roughly.
She catches her balance in time, blinking a couple of times. What had just happened?
“Go away!”
Areum snaps her attention back to him, her hurt giving way to concern.
Minwoo is curled up on the floor with knees close to his chest, whimpering in pain. His breathing sounds labored, his hands marred with demon marks that pulse wildly across his skin. He is clutching at his ears, grip so tight Areum fears he will tear them off his head.
She rushes over to him, hands shaking, steps stumbling. His eyes are scrunched shut as he keeps muttering “No” over and over again, as if the single word is a mantra that keeps him from teetering over the edge.
She falls to her knees by his side, running her fingers through his hair as she hums whatever song comes to her mind, simply hoping to provide him whatever shred of relief she can.
It seems to work a little, for the man stops shivering as his body relaxes just a bit. He squints open his eyes, and Areum finds herself gazing into a familiarly unfamiliar amber gaze.
“Min…woo?”
“A-Areum,” his voice is but a breathy whisper. He lifts a shaky hand to rest at her cheek, wiping away the small tear she did not realise had escaped.
They stay like that for a moment, before Minwoo flinches and curls back into himself. His hand slaps back at his ear, its grip now deathly white.
Areum reaches out to grab his hand again. However, before she can resume her singing, the air is knocked out of her lungs by a powerful punch.
She wheezes as she stumbles backward, her fans manifesting in her hands on instinct. She looks up just in time to find Minwoo rushing up to her, hands curled into claws swiping at her. She ducks and sidesteps immediately, landing a kick on his rear to send him flying away.
He regains his footing quickly, turning around. They lock eyes. Areum starts her staccato singing as she tries to read his body language. She keeps her stance defensive, grip tightening on her spiritual weapons in case things go south.
Minwoo seems to lunge at her, but remains frozen in place. It is as if his body is on autopilot, while his consciousness is trying to regain control.
“Seon…bae.”
The voice is contorted, barely decipherable. Areum fumbles her singing for a moment, before she starts again with renewed vigor.
She can get this under control. She can channel the power of the Honmoon through him and rid him of the evil within. They can go back to how it always has been.
“I, can’t—”
“Shut up!” She flicks a fan open. Spiritual energy bursts forth in waves, and Minwoo stumbles, clutching at his heart. “It’s your demon talking. I can fix this!”
“No!” His voice is raw, pained. She can barely hear her Minwoo in there, but he is there, she knows. “This, me…”
She shakes her head, closes her eyes, and resumes her singing. She just needs to sing it at a higher note, so he can hear her better and they can—
Her eyes fly open, and her voice stutters in her throat. Cold fingers wrap themselves around her neck, trying and struggling to apply pressure and choke her sound out.
She finds herself staring into a pair of honey-amber eyes, a silent plea in their gaze.
She shakes her head lightly. I can’t do this.
You have to, he urges, his hand barely restraining the other at her throat.
“Set, m-me… free.” His voice is hoarse and tired. A stray tear falls from his eyes. “Please.”
Areum bites at her bottom lip. Keeping her gaze fixed with Minwoo’s, she dissipates her fans. She rests a hand on his waist and the other on his shoulder, taking a step back. His fingers stay curled around her throat as he follows in step, muscle memory kicking in.
It’s a dance move they have practiced countless times before. It is one of their favorite moves, after all.
They can have one final dance together, right?
Areum leans into a dip, and Minwoo follows. Her hand on his waist moves to cradle the back of his head. She pulls him in slowly, and he lets her guide him, his eyes fluttering shut.
As their lips ghost inches away, Areum brings her other hand up. Channelizing her energy, she closes the distance right as she brings her hand down, the blade of her fan slicing through its target.
The kiss had tasted of blood. Whether it was his or hers, she will never know.
Generation V
“She has your nose.”
“She definitely has your eyes though. And your face too, probably.”
Miyeong hums, lightly kissing her baby’s head. The infant coos and giggles, her hands reaching out to try and grab her mother’s hair.
“Isn’t she just beautiful?” She wonders out loud, a smile playing on her lips. There was a time when she could not even spare a thought about having a kid; there was only so much time one could afford between working as a top K-pop idol while hunting demons on the side. But now that she held her child in her arms, there was nothing else in the world that mattered anymore.
A soft kiss lands on her cheek as arms wrap around her waist. Miyeong sighs, leaning back into the familiar embrace of her husband.
“She is her mother’s photocopy, of course she is beautiful,” Ryuhan settles his chin atop her head, chuckling. “Man, my genes didn’t even try.”
“Don’t be like that!” Miyeong elbows him lightly. “I’m pretty sure her hair’s all purple because of you.”
“And she carries those marks because of me too,” her husband sighs, his voice low. He traces the barely-visible purple marks on his baby’s skin, his fingers lightly shaking.
“Ryuhan-ah…”
“I’m sorry.” Miyeong feels him bury his face into her hair, breathing in her scent. His voice is muffled now. “I just… I know this was inevitable, but still, how will our baby girl survive in this world, Miyeong-ah? Not everyone is going to be as understanding as you, especially not Ce—”
“Celine does not need to know about what does not concern her,” Miyeong replies sharply. She hugs the child close to her chest. “I was a Sunlight Sister once, but I am a mother now. My baby is a blessing, and not a mistake. I would have loved to share this joy with my closest friend, but as long as she sees the world in black and white—”
She is cut off as the baby in her arms starts whimpering, as if sensing her parents’ tension. The couple immediately get back to tending to her — Miyeong gently bouncing the infant in her arms, while Ryuhan leans in and makes all sorts of weird faces. It takes some time, but her cries eventually subside, replaced by baby blabber.
Ryuhan carefully takes the infant in his arms. She gazes at him with her big brown eyes. He lightly traces the faint demon marks on her face, before reaching to boop her nose. She crosses her eyes to follow his finger, and bursts into a bubble of giggles, kicking her hands and feet in delight.
“Rumi.”
The name escapes him in a whisper. The baby pauses and lightly tilts her head; Ryuhan is almost certain that he sees the little cogs of her brain working. Then, as if the world suddenly makes a lot more sense to her, Rumi blabbers happily, crinkling eyes glowing amber as her marks sparkle with purple.
“Rumi. Flowing beauty. She likes her name,” Miyeong whispers, coming up to Ryuhan’s side and cooing at her daughter. “I love how it's the first character of our names. She is part you and part me, after all.”
“Our Rumi,” Ryuhan softly whispers, pulling Miyeong into his side and kissing her head. “Our little bundle of joy.”
They stay like that for a few moments in the comforting silence, until Ryuhan speaks again.
“I'll give myself up to protect both of you.”
“They’ll have to face me before they come for any of you.”
Ryuhan tries to protest, knowing his wife is not bluffing. Miyeong does not give him the chance as she grips her husband's arm, pulling him into a kiss.
A demon and a hunter, falling in love with each other, starting a family together — it is perhaps the greatest violation ever possible. They know this.
And they also know how cruel the world can be. For no matter how beautifully poetic their love is, society will make sure to eradicate all taboos. Hatred and jealousy will cut through ties of companionship and find their way, eliminating all things worthy in the name of duty, leaving behind only shattered survivors bathed in bloodshed of their loved ones.
They know this, and they will face that trial when it comes. But for now, all that matters is this fragile, tranquil peace they have built for themselves, and for their baby girl.
Generation VI
“Mom, Dad, it’s Rumi. I am here.”
The girl lights a few incense sticks, setting them in the burner. Arranging the flowers and offerings by the two graves — one newer than the other — she sits down on the dewy grass, arms crossed over her legs. She gazes at the two headstones, a soft smile playing on her lips.
The older one, a bit overgrown with moss, reads Ryu Miyeong. Beside it, the newer one is erected in the same stone, though it stands nameless.
“I miss you both,” Rumi whispers to the wind, her eyes misty. “I really do.”
She brushes her hands over the headstones. She wishes she could talk to her mother, and get to know her as the person she was apart from being a Sunlight Sister. She wants to know what her father looked like, which features of his did she inherit and what his name was.
She yearns to know whether her parents saw her as something other than a mistake.
Rumi flicks her hand, her sword materializing in her grip. The weapon feels heavier than usual. She wonders if it is the last remnant of Jinu’s soul or her own guilt that adds to its weight. She runs a finger along its edge, metal pulsing blue under her touch as her mind wanders.
Celine had told her once about how a weapon is the mirror to its wielder’s inner soul. Rumi’s mother had fought with a rope-dart, a charismatic weapon with a rebellious touch. Celine’s own pyeon-gon had relied on her tactical use of brute strength and timing. Mira’s gok-do strikes with her trademark decisiveness, while Zoey’s shin-kal blades reflect her emotional and hyperactive psyche. Rumi’s own sa-in-geom is a representation of her leadership tendencies, and the precariously balanced duality of her half-human half-demon self.
A sharp pain snags her finger, jerking the woman out of her thoughts. Rumi sucks at her wound as she glares at the blade, which pulses bright against the streak of red.
“Stop laughing at me,” she mutters angrily. She does not worry about how crazy she sounds right now — it's just her, the gravestones, and the great dangsan tree here after all.
“Mom. Dad.”
Turning to her parents, Rumi holds out the sword, a small smile playing on her lips.
“I’d like you to meet someone.”
She recounts her adventures of the past few days — the release of their most popular song, her losing her voice right before the award show, the rivalry she and the girls had with the Saja Boys. She talks about how Huntrix had almost disbanded, the honmoon had almost disintegrated and Gwi-ma had almost succeeded in taking over humanity. Thankfully, the girls had gotten back together in the end and defeated the demon king, building a new rainbow Honmoon.
“The one who made it possible for me to stand back against Gwi-ma was Jinu, Mom,” Rumi confides softly. “He showed me the true reality of things. I used to think that anything with patterns was meant to be exterminated, but with him, I saw the beauty between the lines.”
“Not all of them are bad, some are just trying to survive.” She gently pets her sword, feeling its comforting warmth thrum under her fingertips. Looking up, she smiles at the headstones. “Is that what you saw in Dad, too?”
There is no answer. The woman chuckles; it’s not like she had been expecting one anyway.
A soft wind blows. The branches of the great dangsan tree sway lightly, the ribbons hanging from them fluttering gently.
Their rustle hums a song that is as familiar to Rumi as her name. She had often sung it with Celine as a child, right here under the shade of this very tree. It was a reminder of what it meant to be a hunter — the shoes she had to fill, the self she had to hide, the enemies she had to slay without a question.
It was all a thing of the past now. Rumi hums the tune, the lyrics changed just a bit to sound more authentic to the hunters’ actual motto.
“We are hunters, voices strong,
Saving people with our song.
Fix the world and make it right,
When darkness finally meets the light.”
The last line had not come from her, but rather her sword.
Rumi looks down at her weapon, mouth agape. It thrums and pulses in her hand, the blood on its edge now absorbed in the blade. She feels the blade grow warmer and warmer, and quickly puts it to the ground before she can singe her hands.
The wind picks up pace, and Rumi has to plant her hands to the ground to keep herself from accidentally toppling over. A stream of energy bursts out from the sword, racing for the spiritual tree which stands upright amidst the strong gusts. The ribbons hanging from the branches sway wildly, almost as if in a dance of their own.
The energy gathers under the tree, coalescing and pulsing wild. The light grows brighter and brighter, and Rumi has to screw her eyes shut to avoid getting blinded.
Rumi does not know how much time has passed before the winds start calming down to a gentle breeze. The slashing of ribbons lulls to a light hum. Everything is turning back to normalcy, yet a strangeness lurks in the atmosphere.
The crunch of dry leaves reaches her ears. She opens her eyes, footsteps appearing in her line of sight and stopping in front of her. As the person bends down to pick her discarded weapon, Rumi takes her chance.
Her muscle memory from years of demon-fighting kicks in. She swipes her foot in an arc, catching the person by surprise. Snatching her sword, she lunges at the person, aiming for their neck. The momentum sends them both rolling down some distance. They finally come to a stop, sword stuck in a stalemate in between their bodies as they both push at it.
“Damn,” Her opponent wheezes, his breath ragged. “You’re still strong!”
The words pierce through her fighting haze, as if a bucket of ice-cold water has been dropped on her. Rumi’s grip falters. The sword is wrenched out of her grasp and thrown to the side.
She cannot bring herself to care, however. Not when the person in front of her is someone she believed she had lost forever. A friend, a confidant she believed she would never get to meet again.
“...Jinu?” His name escapes her in a trembling whisper as her heart hammers a bit too loud. She watches as he gets up, dusting off his pants. His movements are too natural for him to be a mirage or a hallucination. “Is that really you?”
Jinu smiles, shrugging. “In the flesh, yeah.”
“I, you... How?”
“I am not sure myself,” the man shrugs, looking around. “All I remember is being a fragment of consciousness, floating in the realm of death aimlessly. But then I heard you narrating our stories. I was drawn to your voice, and this bunch of ladies found me, and the next thing I knew — I was here.”
Rumi staggers up to her feet, her mind whirling. A moment ago she had been talking to her parents about her lost love, and now she is talking to him after he was somehow resurrected(?) from the dead. Her gaze falls on the sword in the distance, and suddenly, the pieces click.
“I think I just accidentally performed a Shaman ritual.”
“You what?” Jinu bursts out, half laughing. “Okay, wow. That was definitely not on my bucket list, but whatever sails your boat, I guess.”
“No, Jinu, I’m serious,” Rumi picks up her sword, staring at it intensely. “Tell me, did the women you meet say something to you?”
“Nothing. They just kept repeating something about not letting the past repeat itself.”
Before Rumi can respond, a third voice chimes in, “What past?”
The two turn their attention to the newcomers — Rumi’s bandmates. Zoey grins weirdly as she fiddles with the shin-kal blades in her hand, while Mira just looks unimpressed.
“What is he doing here?” She asks, materializing her gok-do. The next second, its blade is resting against Jinu’s throat.
“Yeah,” Zoey also chimes in, her voice slightly quivering. “Isn’t he supposed to be like, dead? Did his ghost come back to haunt us or something?”
“Wow,” Jinu chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. “With everything that happened, I was surely expecting a warmer welcome than this.”
“I somehow performed a Shaman ritual and resurrected him. He is safe,” Rumi places a hand on Zoey’s shoulder, while gently guiding Mira to put her weapon down. The two hesitate for a moment, before relenting. “Anyways, what are you guys doing here? I thought you were with Celine?”
Now it is Mira’s turn to be nervous. “Ah, well, about that, it was just some things we discussed with her about the award show—”
“We saw how hypocritical Celine was today, yammering on about love and acceptance while she just… Avoided you. I mean, she didn’t even look like she wanted to be near you during the photos!” Zoey butts in, anger flashing in her eyes. “Mira and I couldn’t stand it. This is not how you treat family!”
Rumi blinks, caught off guard. “Wait, you guys had an argument with Celine?”
“More like a chat,” Mira comments dryly as she pulls out a leather-bound notebook from her bag, extending it to Rumi. “But anyways, screw her. She had this on her. Apparently, this is her passing the mantle to us now. Her words.”
Zoey exhales, seeming to have calmed down. “This notebook… It contains entries from all the demon hunters, right from the beginning. Any experience they gathered — every hunt, every discovery, every mistake — they logged it in here, hoping to pass it down to the next generation. And every hunter logged their stories independently. Which means…”
There is no need to complete the sentence. Rumi understands the implication; the notebook contains her mother’s experiences of being a demon hunter. Possibly her life as a person apart from being a Sunlight Sister. And maybe, just maybe, a shred of detail about Rumi’s father, too.
The four of them squeeze up together (with Jinu mostly hovering over Rumi’s shoulders, scared of the other two girls), the book placed between them. They sift through the pages, some more delicate and worn-out than the others. As they read through the anecdotes, the links between generations start surfacing. Each new generation was scouted with careful deliberation, and they all evolved the rituals into something fitting their era more. They all talk about the delicate balance to be maintained between their public identity and demon-hunting job, as shamanism started to fade into oblivion with changing times.
What piques the group’s interest is how every generation has a hunter who falls in love with a demon, but it always ends in a tragedy.
“O dear successor of our glorious lineage,” Zoey reads, her eyes squinted in an attempt to decipher the tear-blotten writings of the demon hunter Areum. “And inheritor of this cruel destiny, I pray you don’t suffer the agony we all once have. If you do, choose love over hatred, and maybe your soul will rest easier than ours.”
“Don’t let the past repeat itself,” Jinu mutters under his breath. “In every generation, a hunter falls for a demon.”
“And in every generation,” Rumi reaches out for his hand, holding on to it tight. “It doesn’t end well.”
“Oh c’mon, Rumi’s mom and dad ended up pretty well compared to the others, alright? I mean, the proof of that is sitting right here with us. And anyways,” Mira pulls the book towards herself, ignoring Rumi’s incredulous look. She flips through the pages quickly, eyes scanning past words. “We still have to read what Rumi’s mother wrote.”
It doesn’t take them long to find Miyeong’s entry. The text is pretty short and simple.
Destiny is cruel, but our love is stronger. Ryuhan and Rumi are my family, the reason for my existence. I know my fellow Sisters disagree, but I have made my choice. And if I have to fight to the end of my life to defend my family, then so be it.
I have chosen love, and I hope Rumi does so too, when the choice presents itself to her.
“Your mom… I think I met her,” Jinu suddenly speaks up. He reaches out, wiping away the silent tears streaking down Rumi’s face. “She shone the brightest in the group. And I think that she is pretty proud of who you have become, Rumi.”
Rumi nods, nibbling at her lip as she strokes the page containing her mother’s words.
She takes her sword, and clumsily scrapes away at the unmarked tombstone. Once done, Rumi sits back, admiring her handiwork.
“Hi, Dad,” she whispers to the tombstone that now carries the name Ryuhan.
A soft wind blows, a few fallen leaves caressing her cheek as if leaving a ghost of kisses. The young woman chuckles lightly, a rush of exhilaration filling her veins.
“I have made the choice for myself, Mom, Dad. This is the family I choose.” She beams at the two gravestones, one arm wrapping around her friends. Her other hand reaches out for Jinu, her fingers interlocking with his as she gives him a soft smile.
“And this time, the demon and the hunter get to have their happily ever after.”
Jinu presses a soft kiss to Rumi’s hair as she leans against him, sighing contently. She looks up at him with adoration, and he smiles softly at her, making butterflies flutter in her stomach.
“So lovebirds,” Zoey’s cheerful voice cuts through the moment. “Serious question — since Jinu is now officially a part of the group, how are we going to sneak him inside a women’s bathhouse?”