It felt as though the blood in his head had turned icy cold. Mu-ryeong sensed his vision darkening as he forced his frozen body to move. Then, with an urgency unlike anything he had experienced before, he began sprinting recklessly toward the rooftop.
“This should do.”
Could that have meant he was ready to give up everything? That by abandoning the case, he was also relinquishing himself?
He bounded up the stairs two or three steps at a time—as if he might topple over at any moment. Though his legs wavered intermittently, he gritted his teeth and regained his balance. In those brief moments of hesitation, he had to drive his legs so frantically that his breath nearly caught in his throat, fearing what might happen next.
However, the iron door leading to the rooftop was designed to remain locked without its key. It seemed to have been secured from the outside, for no matter how much he turned the doorknob, the door refused to budge. After a couple of determined attempts—clank, clank—Mu-ryeong stepped back and delivered a forceful kick to that very spot.
With a resounding thud, the doorknob clattered across the floor. This time, having kicked squarely at the center, Mu-ryeong burst out through the now wide-open door. Beneath the vast, open sky, he could still see Ki Hwan‑young, seated on the railing.
“Ki Hwan‑young!”
It was a moment so surreal that, if not for the strands of hair dancing in the wind, one might have believed time itself had stopped. A fiend—exuding an almost unbearably chilling negative aura—was clinging tightly around Ki Hwan‑young’s neck. The sight of his emaciated arms and the steadily dripping blood created a grotesque tableau.
How had he not realized it had come to this? What on earth could have befallen the one he’d assumed was perfectly fine? Or perhaps, the very moment he believed him to be “fine” had been Mu-ryeong’s first mistake.
A long-forgotten impression—one he’d once felt when looking at him—suddenly resurfaced. It was as if he had barged into a flawlessly staged play and become an unwelcome interloper, forcibly creating a fissure in a world that belonged solely to Ki Hwan‑young.
“You...”
Mu-ryeong exhaled softly as he took a step toward Ki Hwan‑young. Without so much as a blink, Ki Hwan‑young slowly turned to face him. Crack, crack. In that instant, the fiend’s claws—which had been scraping along his shoulder—snapped off with a sudden, brittle sound.
Silence hung between them as their eyes met. Whether it was the fiend’s gaze or Ki Hwan‑young’s, Mu-ryeong couldn’t tell. One thing, however, was certain: those pitch‑black eyes held an expression of indifferent calm, utterly devoid of emotion.
Without hesitation, Mu-ryeong pushed off the floor and charged toward him. Covering the short distance in a sprint, he seized Ki Hwan‑young’s arm—the very arm that had been dangling from the railing. Missing this moment would have meant losing a chance that might never come again. With overwhelming force, he pulled him close and wrapped him in an embrace.
Thud! His shoulder collided violently with the hard floor as a heavy weight pressed down on Mu-ryeong, nearly overwhelming him. With a groan of pain, he summoned his spiritual energy and reached out toward the fiend.
He had intended to obliterate it. If it had been threatening someone other than himself, Mu-ryeong would have had no reason to hesitate. Moreover, he planned to eradicate it completely—ensuring that nothing like this could ever happen again.
“...No.”
Yet, before his hand could even reach its target, a low voice stopped him in his tracks. Ki Hwan‑young—who had been gripping Mu-ryeong’s wrist and pinning it down—tightened his hold and spoke firmly:
“Don’t destroy it.”
That plea, laced with supplication, was enough to weaken Mu-ryeong’s resolve. His steely gaze faltered, and the spiritual energy he had painstakingly gathered began to dissipate.
In the blink of an eye, the fiend vanished into the shadow cast by the sagging railing. The fluctuating negative aura subsided just as swiftly as it had flared—much like what had occurred in the classroom the other day. Not once, but twice, it had slipped past him mere inches away.
Silence returned, broken only by the sound of ragged, labored breathing. The cold, drained body warmth still clung to Mu-ryeong’s wrist, and that faint, trembling breath erased any words that had been poised on his lips.
“...Ha.”
So, with his free hand, Mu-ryeong cautiously wrapped his arm around the broad back before him. Owing to the significant difference in their physiques, it was Mu-ryeong who ended up being embraced. As he tenderly patted that back, Ki Hwan‑young’s shoulder shuddered slightly.
“You're not hurt, are you?”
There was nothing more he could say after weighing his words so carefully. After all, if Ki Hwan‑young wasn’t injured, what did it matter?
“Then it’s fine.”
And with that, the conversation seemed to draw to a close. Ki Hwan‑young finally rose to his feet. Resting his hand beside Mu-ryeong’s face, he locked eyes with him at close range. Without even thinking of averting his gaze, Mu-ryeong let go of the hand that had been holding him, allowing it to fall limply to the floor.
“Sitting there like that is dangerous.”
After all the running, his breathing was still ragged. Yet it was a relief to see that Ki Hwan‑young was right there in front of him, safe and sound. Perhaps because he had been so tense without realizing it, the moment relief washed over him, and his strength suddenly drained away.
“Next time...”
“...”
“...Why are you looking at me like that?”
Ki Hwan‑young stared at Mu-ryeong for a long moment with an inscrutable gaze. With his back turned to the setting sun, shadows fell across his face. As the dazzling sunset forced him to squint, he finally asked in a low voice:
“Why did you come here?”
Silence.
He hadn’t been seeking thanks—and yet he never expected to be reproached. Mu-ryeong let out a wry laugh, squinting as if to say, “What do you mean?”
“I came because I was worried...”
Silence.
“Or what other reason could there be?”
Sometimes, moments like these occur. A single offhand remark can shatter a rigid expression in an instant—a fleeting moment in which deeply buried emotions are suddenly laid bare, as if their veils had been lifted.
“You weren’t about to fall, were you?”
At that subtle remark, Ki Hwan‑young lowered his eyes. His eyelashes fluttered sadly, a sight filled with profound melancholy. Judging by the fact that he didn’t deny it, it seemed he hadn’t entirely dismissed the possibility.
“I heard that the school meal the day after tomorrow is going to be really good.”
He couldn’t bring himself to say any more; remarking further felt like an overreach—as if he were meddling too much.
“You still haven’t even met our Seolgi.”
Mu-ryeong’s gaze locked onto Ki Hwan-young. His eyes, relaxed now that the tension had drained from him, seemed more languid than usual. Ki Hwan-young, who had been quietly observing the drooping corners of Mu-ryeong’s eyes, finally responded in his usual calm tone.
“I wasn’t trying to die.”
“...”
“I never had that thought.”
Only then did Mu-ryeong smile in relief. His round eyes curved into soft crescents, and dimples appeared on both cheeks. He closed his eyes briefly before opening them again, his voice warm as he offered a gentle praise.
“You made the right choice.”
“...”
For some reason, Ki Hwan-young suddenly rose to his feet. Without a word, he turned his back to Mu-ryeong and adjusted his disheveled clothes. Perhaps it was the sunlight tinging everything in a warm hue, but for a brief moment, the tips of his ears seemed to glow a deep shade of red.
Updat𝓮d from frёewebnoѵēl.com.
“Ki Hwan-young.”
Mu-ryeong straightened his posture and ran his fingers over the wrist Ki Hwan-young had gripped. The force had been so strong that a faint imprint of fingers remained. I hope that doesn’t bruise... he thought idly, before speaking in a lighthearted tone.
“Don’t avoid me tomorrow.”
“...”
He hadn’t really expected an answer. Even if Ki Hwan-young did try to avoid him, Mu-ryeong had no intention of letting that happen. But instead of replying, Ki Hwan-young asked a different question.
“...Aren’t you going to ask?”
“Ask what?”
“...Why I...”
He trailed off, clenching his fist. Mu-ryeong clearly saw the way his hand trembled.
“Why I told you not to destroy it.”
“Ah.”
Mu-ryeong clicked his tongue slightly. It wasn’t that he was at a loss for words—he was just thinking about the best way to answer. Did you really think I wouldn’t know? The thought crossed his mind.
“...I did a saju reading.”
The single statement, spoken in a youthful voice, was a confession in its own way. A quiet admission that he had deceived Ki Hwan-young all along—that he had, in fact, known everything.
“March 1st. Born during the Rat Hour.”
Mu-ryeong lifted his gaze to Ki Hwan-young’s face. The moment he mentioned March 1st, he saw the other’s lips press together tightly. Shielding his eyes from the sunlight with one hand, Mu-ryeong continued in a steady voice.
“They said it doesn’t exist.”
A nonexistent saju.
That day, Mu-ryeong had received a definitive answer from Mu-heun. The saju Ki Hwan-young had given—it was one that didn’t exist in this world. Though the person known as Ki Hwan-young stood before him, it was as if his entire existence was nothing but an illusion.
“Did you know? The year we were born—Year of the Metal Rat—had both a leap month and a leap day.”
It was a completely unrelated remark, yet Ki Hwan-young didn’t interrupt him. He simply remained silent, waiting for Mu-ryeong to continue.
“I was born in the leap month.”
“...”
“And someone else must have been born on the leap day.”
The year Mu-ryeong was born had been a leap year—an unusual time when the flow of spiritual energy was particularly strong. Rumors had circulated that children born during the leap month or on the leap day of that year would possess extraordinary abilities. And given that Mu-ryeong himself was born during the leap month, it was clear that those rumors weren’t just superstition.
“If it wasn’t March 1st, then what other date could it be?”
A single photograph in his house. The hesitation in Ki Hwan-young’s voice before he spoke of his birthdate. The undeniable presence of spiritual energy surrounding him. And the power that had protected him.
Then, that means...
Mu-ryeong had already started piecing it together. He had long sensed that Ki Hwan-young was hiding something. That the birthdate he had given might not have been his own.
And all those scattered hints pointed to a single, inevitable conclusion.
“February 29th.”
Second Lunar Month, Water Tiger Day. A day that comes only once every four years. A day so rare that even ghosts don’t know it exists. Just like the leap month Mu-ryeong was born in, it was a single, extraordinary day that could produce an individual with an unparalleled level of spiritual power.
“You were born on the leap day, weren’t you?”
Mu-ryeong asked, but Ki Hwan-young didn’t answer.
That heavy silence—the one that followed—was the final, unspoken confirmation.