Chorae's smirk faded slightly. Not out of fear—but curiosity.
"That wasn't spirit residue. Not ghost aura. It was… something else."
Her brows knit. A pause.
"Something in between. Tangled."
She tapped her chin.
"Strange. I've only ever felt that kind of presence from cursed objects or…"
The thought flickered and slipped away.
She blinked.
Then, almost too fast, her expression reset—smirk back in place, voice flippant.
"Still. Should be fun later tonight."
But her fingers lingered near her sleeve—close to her talismans. Just in case.
"Hmm, what was his name again? Oh wait. He didn't tell me."
She passed a row of silent storage jars and tilted her face up toward the light.
No clouds now.
The sky burned a gentle blue.
"But I'm sure we'll meet again, Mr. Nice Body."
And with that, Chorae disappeared into the warmth of the afternoon—her smirk bright as ever, her shadow trailing behind like a question.
---
---
Nightfall, hours later...
The air is thick with silence.
Chorae, dressed in loose servant-boy robes, ties her hair into a messy knot and tucks her trousers into straw sandals.
She creeped along the palace corridors, lit only by the faint flicker of oil lamps.
"There it is again."
The stench—foul, mossy, like something crawled out of a bog and brought its secrets with it.
She ducked behind a pillar, peeked around.
Lady Seorin's pavilion glowed dimly under the moonlight.
The smell intensified.
"Rot and river sludge. That's not just death—that's drowned."
She inches closer.
---
Inside the Pavilion,
Chorae slipped through the outer wall and kneels near a screen door. She peered inside.
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
Then—the air bent.
A shape forms in the center of the room. Draped in waterlogged robes, face pale and bloated, eyes leaking black tears.
The swamp spirit hovered over the concubine's sleeping form like a mother ready to strangle her child.
Chorae stepped forward, casually.
"Oi. Ghostie."
The spirit turned, hissing.
---
"Why are you tormenting the concubine?"
The ghost's voice rasped like weeds choking a well.
"She bears what I was promised."
" Wait, You can see me? Are you here to save her?" the ghost sneered.
Chorae grinned. "Nope. I just want to torture you."
The spirit recoiled slightly, confused.
"You don't have to tell me anything, by the way. I'm not that curious."
She started pulling out a handful of rusty pins.
---
Then slow, heavy footsteps.
A flicker of movement.
The palace guard from earlier appeared at the door.
But his eyes are wrong.
Too glassy. His mouth twitched like he's mimicking speech he hasn't practiced.
"Stay away from her," he said.
Chorae squinted.
"Her? You mean the ghost?"
A beat.
The spirit behind her grinned.
"He's mine. My faithful one."
Chorae's eyes sparkled.
"Fascinating… I've never seen a ghost and a human work together."
---
Then the guard moved—too fast, too jerky.
"Okay, never mind—experiment later!"
Chorae bolted out like lightning.
Down the halls. Past stunned maids and empty corridors. The possessed guard sprinted after her with inhuman speed. The ghost glided alongside him like a silk banner of rot.
"I KNEW this stench was suspicious!"
"STOP!" he shouted—voice doubling, like two people speaking through him.
Chorae ducks through a side door, threw salt over her shoulder, and muttered,
"Halmoni always said curiosity killed the cat. But she never said anything about the damn ghost chasing it!"
---
Chorae turned a corner, breathing hard.
The stone halls blurred past. She ducked under a low eave, feet skidding—then flung open a side door and dove through it.
She crashed into a desk, knocked over a brush holder, and landed flat on a stack of scrolls.
"Ugh—are these curses or tax complaints? They smell cursed either way."
She scrambled up, brushing ink dust from her robes, glancing wildly around.
It was a study. Quiet. Dim. The scent of sandalwood clung to the shelves like old memories. Everything was arranged with terrifying precision: scrolls labeled in perfect calligraphy, inkstones aligned like soldiers.
Too neat.
Too clean.
Too official.
Her gaze landed on the phoenix embroidery hanging beside the doorway.
"Oh no…"
She had broken into a royal official's quarters.
"This better not belong to someone important like—"
The doors slammed open.
The possessed guard burst in, eyes glowing faint white-blue, mouth hanging half open.
The ghost glided in behind him, her dripping robes whispering across the floor. "You dare run from me?"
Chorae backed up toward the desk. "That depends. Are you here to chat or to strangle me again?"
The guard lunged—
But another voice cut through the tension.
"What is the meaning of this?"
From the inner chamber, Yi Seungho in robes loose from late work, hair unbound at the collar.
Yi Seungho.
He took one look at the guard and his face darkened with recognition.
"Dongrim?"
Then he looked at her.
"Water Palace maid?"
His voice cracked—not with fear, but disbelief.
Before he could move—
Chorae grabbed a fistful of his robes and yanked him forward.
"Ohh, so that's his name," she muttered. "Dongrim. Great. We have to get the ghost out of him."
Seungho stumbled. "We?!" he snapped. "What do you mean we?!"
"You're in it now, Mr. Nice Body."
And then—contact.
She moved fast.
Chorae slapped talismans on Dongrim's chest one after another. "By ginseng root, dog blood, and Halmoni's spatula—unlatch yourself, leech!"
Between them, her hand brushed Seungho's—just for a breath. Just long enough to register how warm he was. How alive.
His hand caught her wrist—not in alarm. Not quite.
Just… startled. Like something deep in his instincts woke up and didn't know why.
Their eyes locked. A moment too long.
The spirit shrieked through the guard's mouth.
The moment broke.
Smoke curled from his throat. His hands clutched his own skull. Chorae chanted nonsense.
But the ghost didn't leave.
Not fully.
With a final gasp of cold wind, the spirit slipped back, dragging the guard's body with her—staggering, weakened, but not banished.
They vanished into the shadows of the corridor.
---
Silence returned.
Scrolls were scattered. A teacup lay shattered.
Chorae wiped her brow and dropped onto a stack of reports.
"Well, my job here is done."
Seungho blinked. "Your job—what—what just happened?!"
"Possession. A ghost with a grudge. Probably tied to water. You know, the usual."
"That is not usual."
He stepped forward, jaw tense.
"Who are you?"
He grabbed her wrist.
---
And all of a sudden the world dropped.
Silence crashed like thunder. The palace vanished.
She was somewhere else.
Somewhere colder.
Snow fell—not softly, but like ash. Slow, steady, whispering against her bare skin. Her feet pressed into frostbitten earth, and the cold climbed her legs like fingers made of ice.
Moonlight washed across a grove of black bamboo, their leaves coated in white. Everything shimmered with silence.
And in the clearing, a man knelt.
Blood spilled from his side, staining the snow like spilled ink. His silver robes clung to him, darkening at the edges. Beside him, a sword burned with blue spirit-fire, its heat doing nothing to melt the frost.
He looked up.
His eyes met hers.
His hand reached—not in desperation, but in peace. As if this was how it was always meant to end.
"So this is it," he whispered.
"I was always meant to end here… with you."
Her breath caught.
Her toes curled in the snow.
Their fingers moved closer—just a breath apart.
But they never touched.
The vision shattered.
---
Back in the room—
She gasped.
Yanked her hand back like it burned.
Not flippant now. No smirk. Just stunned silence.
"What... what the hell was that…"
Her voice cracked. She didn't meet his eyes. Not at first.
He stepped forward, the usual sharpness in his face now laced with something else—concern? Or suspicion?
"What's wrong?"
Chorae blinked, forcing her voice back to steady.
"No… what did I just see?"
He frowned, voice cooler now.
"Who. Are. You."
Chorae blinked. Her mouth opened… then closed.
"…I think I just saw how you die," she mumbled—too low for him to hear.
He stared at her, unreadable.
Chorae's gaze drifted—over his shoulder.
And then she saw it.
Not just felt it—saw it.
That same energy. The strange, tangled pressure she'd sensed before. Only now, it was stronger. Thicker. Breathing.
A cluster of spirits—thin, translucent things with hollow faces and twisting limbs—were latched onto his back, whispering into his ears. Their mouths moved without sound. Their fingers curled into the folds of his robes. One spirit gnawed quietly at the edge of his collar, another cradled the crown of his head like it owned him.
Feeding.
Draining.
Not aggressively—but constantly. Endlessly.
And yet he stood there as if he felt nothing.
Her heart stilled. Her stomach turned.
"A spirit magnet?" she thought, eyes wide.
"He doesn't even know..."