Chapter Text
The rain was falling again, the sky was covered by dark clouds. It wasn't even nine in the morning, but the sun was completely obscured, making it seem like night had fallen. Junhan was trying to fix all the leaks and cracks in his room. Thunder rumbled, making the house practically tremble. For months the rain hadn't let up, destroying crops, uprooting trees, and tearing off roofs. Kwak Jiseok—also known as Gaon—sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in his hands, watching the rain beat mercilessly against the windowpane.
The water trickled down the glass in crooked lines, distorting the world outside, as if everything was slowly falling apart—and perhaps it was. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the sun. The constant noise of the storm had become part of his routine, and when the wind howled louder and the walls creaked, Gaon mentally counted how much longer they could hold out with what was left in the pantry.
He heard the kitchen door creak open. Seungmin had been supposed to fix it, but he'd probably forgotten. Not that Gaon blamed him; much had been lost since it started raining.
"Are you still there?" Junhan asked, his voice weary.
"Yeah," Gaon replied, without turning his face. "It's not like I can go anywhere."
Junha approached the table, drying his hands on his trousers, and sat in the empty chair.
"Looks like the river overflowed its banks again," he said.
Gaon nodded slowly, sadly.
"Yeah, I saw."
More silence.
"The elders met earlier," Junhan said finally. "They think this rain is a sign that he's hungry."
Gaon finally turned to face him. Junhan was tall, at least taller than Gaon, but with his hunched shoulders, he seemed shorter than he actually was. He tried to meet his gaze, but the dark-haired man looked away as if afraid he would see something he wouldn't like.
"Why did you come to warn me?"
Junhan didn't answer at first, only took a deep breath, gathering courage to continue.
"Because I think they're going to choose me."
Gaon jumped from his chair, flying towards his friend. Anyone else would have been startled, but Junhan remained calm, as usual. He was a man of few words and expressions. Gaon still remembered how long it had taken him to feel comfortable with him and even with Seungmin.
"You can't be sure of that!" he exclaimed, almost desperately.
"The monster only takes the one no one will miss," he repeated the village saying, the one everyone learned as children, which the elders recited every time someone disappeared—or rather, was taken by force, handed over on a platter to the monster that lived on the mountain. The wind continued to pound against the glass, now with enough force to make the window tremble. The rain seemed heavier, more violent, the thunder louder as if reacting to Gaon's emotions.
“You know as well as I do how it works,” Junhan whispered, staring at his own hands. “If the storm doesn’t stop…”
“Someone will climb the mountain,” Gaon finished. Junhan looked outside, and Gaon could have believed that none of this affected him if it weren’t for his completely bitten nails, almost raw. He sat back down, staring at his now iced teacup.
“Funny,” he murmured after a long silence, his head bowed. “When I was a child, I believed that the god protected this land.”
“There’s no protection without payment.”
Silence returned to the kitchen, heavy and dense, impossible to ignore. Outside, thunder ripped through the sky, and Gaon was certain that this storm was the beginning of the end.
Junhan sighed and watched the window tremble in the wind. I didn't expect to see death so soon, but among all of them, the least liked, the least important, was him. He had no friends besides Gaon and Seungmin, who were already considered strange for living with him; as a child, they thought he was stupid. The elders held a vote, but it was nothing more than a big farce; they already knew who to choose and did it to appear democratic, "everything within the rules."
The “voting” began at four in the afternoon; Junhan, Gaon, and Seungmin were absent. The rain hadn't stopped, but the storm had given way to a fine, persistent drizzle. In the center of the village, under the makeshift awning, the oldest elder stood up. His bones seemed to creak along with the wooden stage. He plunged his wrinkled hand into the metal box and rummaged through the folded papers.
— Han HyeongJun. This boy will be our next sacrifice!
The population cheered.
Cheered.
Some clapped. Others raised their hands to the heavens as if they had achieved something. As if the death of a young man were a victory.
In the small house away from the center, Junhan sat on the edge of his bed, staring at an old picture frame. His mother smiled in the photograph. His brother was beside her. He wasn't the only one in that family considered forgettable, irrelevant, dispensable. His mother had been. His brother had been. Now not even his bones remained. Gaon and Seungmin were in the kitchen in silence, Gaon pacing back and forth, trying to think of something—anything. Seungmin remained seated, his arms crossed against his chest, his gaze dull, lost in an invisible point.
"Seungmin, you have to stop being pessimistic."
"What? I didn't say anything."
"Your face said it." Gaon ran a hand through his hair. "We can't let them take Junhan."
"Do you know anyone who escaped this fate?" Seungmin leaned forward, still with his arms crossed.
Gaon shook his head slowly.
"You already have your answer." He leaned back in his chair again and looked away.
The redhead sighed.
"We can… climb the mountain before him and get him there and go back home."
"What's wrong with you? Do you want to die?" "If we do this, I, you, and he die. And the god still has lunch, dinner, and dessert."
Gaon massaged his temples as if that helped his brain function better.
"There has to be something…"
The door was almost ripped off its hinges by a violent thud. It was the seekers; he didn't want to open the door, but he had no choice. He hesitated as much as he could, but they started shouting.
"You'd better open it willingly!" shouted a gruff voice from outside. "There's no point in refusing. If you don't open it, we'll tear it down."
Seungmin was the one who stood up and walked to the front door. Upon opening it, he found four enormous guards, standing like towers. They wore dark uniforms—black mixed with deep blue—with a red stripe across their chests. Thick military boots clattered against the wet floor. Their dark helmets were adorned with red and white details. The drizzle trickled down them as if avoiding touching them.
“What do you need?” Seungmin asked, feigning ignorance.
The first guard unfolded a paper with Junhan’s photo and placed it in front of Seungmin’s face.
“Just a minute, okay?” he closed the door and ran to Junhan’s room. “They’re here. Get out the window and run anywhere out of here.”
“Seungmin, there’s nowhere to go. They’d get me anyway, it’s okay. I’ll go, I’m fine.”
He stood up and hugged him tightly, as if wanting to memorize the outline of that body.
“Thank you, you were an amazing friend.”
Seungmin couldn’t do anything, his eyes were as full of tears as the river. Junhan walked past him to the kitchen where Gaon was sitting, his hands covering his face, his shoulders trembling. He approached and hugged him from behind. The caramel scent of the redhead’s hair lingered in his memory like something he knew he would never smell again.
“Thank you for everything you did for me, Ji.” Without you, I would be nothing.
He felt his words intensify Gaon's weeping; a few tears also trickled down his cheek, disappearing past his jawline. He walked to the front door and opened it, facing the guards and extending his wrists.
The guard bound Junhan's wrists with a heavy chain, locking it with a padlock. It was so tight he felt his wrists being cut. He walked through the wet streets alongside the four men, the drizzle wetting his hair, the puddles soaking his feet; he felt like an animal ready to be killed. At the end of the day, that's exactly what he was.
The guards took him to a simple-looking white house, with a door and a single window that apparently wouldn't open. There, they sat him in a very uncomfortable wooden chair and left, leaving him completely alone. And there he cried, he would have cried before, but he didn't want his friends to worry, to think he had accepted his fate, but the reality was that he was as devastated as they were.
After long minutes of silence filled only with his sobs and lamentations, the door opened and a young woman appeared. She wore a completely white dress that looked more like a tunic, and on her head she wore a red scarf that covered all her hair. She looked like one of the versions of the Virgin Mary. She carried a basket with numerous things: white cloths, red flowers, and candles.
In complete silence, she approached Junhan, placing the basket on the ground and gesturing for him to stand up, which he did. She took a key from the basket and opened the padlock, which fell with a dull thud onto the stone floor. The girl took off the shirt he was wearing and threw it aside, then bent down to pick up a slightly longer white shirt with red trim. She was about to pull his pants down, but he stopped her.
"I-I can dress myself."
She ignored him and unbuttoned his pants, changing them for another pair of white ones, just like the shirt. It was extremely uncomfortable being dressed like a doll. The girl pulled out another piece of cloth, this one now red, placing it over Junhan's shoulders and completing the look with a long golden necklace with a wolf at the end. The necklace went almost to his navel; the only word that defined his state besides sadness was discomfort.
Finally, when the basket was almost empty, she placed a white blindfold over his eyes. He could still see her, but not enough; he seemed to have become partially blind, unable to see anything beyond thirty centimeters in front of his face. He felt something being placed on his head: a crown of red flowers intertwined with small sprigs of wheat and holly.
In her hands, she placed a candle tied to her palms with a white thread and a bell at the end. Inside her pants pocket, she put a vial of something Junhan couldn't identify. When everything was finished, she put the chains back on and locked it with the padlock.
The girl took his arm and guided him to the door, leading him to where the elders were waiting along with the villagers. This time, Gaon and Seungmin were there, but Junhan obviously didn't see them.
The candle in Junhan's hand was lit, as were the others in the hands of the villagers. It was perhaps six o'clock in the afternoon, and everything was densely dark.
"Oh, great god of the seasons, I ask you to stop this persistent rain. In return, I give you this young man, whose immaculate and pure flesh will cause your hunger to cease for a long time. With this candle, boy, you will follow your path to the top of the mountain without deviating. If you deviate, you will be killed. Go."
The elder touched his shoulder, signaling him to go forward.
Junha obeyed, walking up the mountain guided only by the light of the candle, the bell in his hands tinkling softly. The village watched the sacrifice walk towards the darkness. Seungmin and Gaon wept as never before; they wanted to stop him, they wanted to run to Junhan and take him away, but they couldn't. All that remained now was to cry.
The young man walked slowly. It was difficult to climb a mountain when you couldn't see even five feet ahead. The blindfold made the world a milky blur, and he had to rely solely on the faint light of the flickering candle before him.
The wind howled in his ears, the cold penetrated his skin and seemed to reach his bones, making them ache like never before. The bell held in his hands tinkled shrilly with each step, revealing his position to the darkness.
For a moment, he considered simply sitting right there, in the middle of the path, and waiting. Waiting for hunger to consume him. For hypothermia to lull him to sleep. Or for some wild animal to end it all at once. It would be easier.
By some miracle, even with the merciless wind, the candle remained lit.
After many hours—which seemed like years—Junhan finally managed to make out something ahead. Through the flickering light of the candle, the silhouette of a large and majestic castle rose before him. The construction mixed Gothic architecture with Greek elements: imposing columns, high arches, pointed towers that disappeared into the mist.
That was his end. He took a deep breath, aware that it might be his last, and stopped before the enormous door.
Nothing happened.
The silence was so absolute that he could hear his own heart pounding in his ears. Nervousness made his hearing fail for a few seconds, as if the world had been muffled.
The heavy wooden doors opened with a deep creak, revealing a long hall. At the far end, there was a throne—but Junhan couldn't see beyond the white and gray marble floor, whose shapes resembled heavy clouds about to burst.
"Hello," said a voice from the back of the hall.
Junhan remained silent.
Footsteps echoed across the marble, approaching. They didn't sound like ordinary shoes; there was something different about the sound, but he couldn't make out what. In front of him, the candle finally went out in the wind.
"Come in. You're shivering with cold."
Someone stopped before him and extended a hand. It was an ordinary hand. Human. Nothing monstrous. Nothing deformed. Still, Junhan hesitated as much as he could.
"Come. You don't need to be afraid," the voice insisted, now closer.
"Are you going to kill me?" he asked, his voice low but firm.
"No. Unless you're the one who decides to die."
Juhan frowned under the blindfold.
"What? Who are you?"
"Some call me Jooyeon."
"Jooyeon?"
"Come in quickly. I don't want you to freeze to death."
Jooyeon gently took his arm and guided him inside. Junhan heard the doors close behind him with a deep thud that echoed through the hall.
He wanted to rip off the blindfold, but he also didn't want to see. He didn't want to face whatever was there.
"Where's the monster?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"What monster, darling?"
"The… one that eats people." There was a brief pause before the answer.
"There is no monster. Only me. Just me, alone."
"And the god?"
"It's me."
Junhan instinctively took a step back. He felt Jooyeon's fingers release his arm.
"I came here to die."
"And who will kill you?" the voice sounded almost curious. "I won't kill you. Unless you choose to die."
The young man reached for the blindfold, determined to remove it.
But Jooyeon was faster. He grabbed his wrists and firmly, but aggressively, pulled his hands away from the cloth.
"Under no circumstances remove this blindfold. Understand?"
"Why?"
"Just listen to me."
Junha hesitated for a long second. Then nodded slightly.
The god removed the already extinguished candle and bell attached to Junhan's hands and, with careful movements, untied the chains.
The young man's wrists burned immediately. His skin was marked with purple and reddish welts, swollen from the brutality with which the metal had been tightened. Jooyeon observed the marks in silence for a moment—there was something tense in his breathing.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, his voice lower than before.
Junhan nodded.
"Come."
Jooyeon extended his hand again.
This time, Junhan didn't hesitate. His fingers touched Junhan's—they were warm, surprisingly warm—and he allowed himself to be guided.
As they walked through the hall, the sound of their footsteps echoed off the marble.
"Why do you always make it rain?" Junhan asked suddenly. "And why do people never come back?"
Jooyeon's fingers tightened slightly around Junhan's.
He didn't answer.
The silence that followed was heavier than any explanation. After a few seconds, Junhan also fell silent.
They walked a few more meters until Jooyeon stopped.
"Careful."
He guided Junhan to a chair. Unlike the rigid chair in the White House, this one was soft, padded, almost too comfortable. He helped him sit down and gently placed his hands on the table.
"In front of you is a plate of fruit. To the left, a glass of wine and a knife. To the right, a fork and a spoon. On the main course is a piece of meat with peas, carrots, and rice." His voice was calm, almost didactic. "Eat what you can."
Jooyeon then slightly lifted the blindfold.
Junhan's vision was only clear up to the height of the plate. He could see the food clearly, and when he was standing, he would only see the floor. Nothing beyond that. Nothing ahead. Nothing of Jooyeon, perhaps only his feet.
He heard Jooyeon pacing around the table. The footsteps echoed through the spacious hall until they stopped at the other end, on the opposite side. For a few seconds, only the soft clinking of cutlery could be heard.
"Answering your… question," Jooyeon began, his voice lower, less solemn than before, "people never return because they die on the way… or they succumb to curiosity."
Junhan slowed his fork's movement.
"Curiosity?" he repeated cautiously.
But there was no immediate answer. He resumed eating slowly. Each movement hesitant, as if he were examining the food's origin. He discreetly smelled the meat before taking a bite. He tasted a small piece first, waiting for some strange sign—bitterness, numbness, anything that would betray poison.
Nothing.
He didn't know if it was hunger or if there was something different about that place, but the food was overwhelmingly delicious. The meat was tender, succulent; the peas had an almost sweet freshness; the rice was perfectly cooked; The carrots were perfectly ripe, salted just right. Even the fruits seemed more alive, more vibrant in his eyes.
"And what about the rain?" he asked, still with a little food in his mouth, forgetting for a moment the formality before a god.
On the other side of the table, there was a small sigh.
"Rain is necessary," Jooyeon replied. "There's no harvest if there's no water to wet the soil."
Junhan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before picking up his goblet.
"But there's also no harvest... if there's no sun."
Silence again.
The hall seemed larger when it was quiet like this.
"You speak like someone who understands the seasons," said Jooyeon after a moment. "The people in the village only complain when the rain falls. They don't think about what grows because of it."
Junhan held his wine goblet, but didn't drink.
"They complain because they're afraid. The rain never stops. The river rises. The crops rot. The houses are destroyed, swallowed by the water." He tilted his head slightly toward the voice. "It seems to be punishing us, not caring for us."
Jooyeon's fingers lightly touched the surface of the table.
"Sometimes, excess is not a choice" he murmured.
Junhan frowned under the blindfold.
"So you don't control it?"
A longer pause this time.
"I control the rain" Jooyeon finally replied. "But I don't control what men do with the fear of it."
The young man remained silent, chewing slowly.
"And what about those who give in to curiosity?" he insisted, remembering the previous answer. "What happens to them?"
"They disappear like crushed wheat in the wind." He answers directly.
Junhan felt a shiver run down his spine. His fingers instinctively touched the white fabric over his eyes, pressing lightly, as if to test its limits. He continued eating in silence, but his mind was not quiet. Questions swirled like the mountain wind: what did Jooyeon mean by all this? Why was he being so gentle? Was he just feeding him like the witch from Hansel and Gretel, fattening him up before devouring him? And, above all… why couldn't he look directly at him?
The flower crown began to bother him. The wheat and holly branches prickled more than they should, pressing against his head like a constant reminder that he was still a sacrifice.
He wanted to take off that ritualistic clothing, he wanted to sleep, he wanted to rip off the blindfold, he wanted to disappear. As if sensing every micro-tension in his body, Jooyeon approached again. The steps were soft this time.
Without saying anything, he removed the flower crown from Junhan's head. The branches lightly brushed his hair as they were lifted. Then, his fingers slid to the necklace, undoing the clasp and carefully removing it. The weight lifted from the young man's chest, and he let out an involuntary sigh.
"Why are you being so kind to me?" Junhan asked, his voice more fragile than he would have liked.
There was a brief pause.
"Why do you think I would be rude?" Jooyeon retorted calmly.
Junhan frowned under the blindfold.
"The stories…"
A small breath of air, perhaps a discreet laugh.
"Humans don't know half of what happens up here." His voice was closer now. "They invent things to reassure… or to scare, dear."
The word echoed too softly, so Jooyeon touched his hair. It wasn't an invasive gesture. His fingers simply ran through the strands, brushing some away from Junhan's forehead in a slow caress.
"Come."
He extended his hand again. Junhan didn't hesitate, but he wasn't very confident about what was happening.
They walked again, but this time faster. The sound of their footsteps echoed less—as if they were leaving the great hall behind and entering a more intimate part of the castle.
The reflection of the light on the floor changed. It was no longer the vast, cold marble of the main hall; there was something warmer there, more welcoming. They stopped before something—probably a door.
"I'll go out so you can change, okay?" Jooyeon's voice was closer, but softer. "I'll be back as soon as you're asleep, alright?"
Junha nodded.
"Okay…" he murmured.
He heard the footsteps fading away. The door opened, then closed with a deep, but not abrupt, sound.
Silence.
Junhan reached for the blindfold, for a few seconds, just holding the fabric. Then he removed it completely, letting it fall to the floor. He blinked a few times, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light.
The room was vast—not just large, but monumental—with a ceiling so high that the ornate paintings seemed to tell stories to angels. Imposing columns rose to delicately sculpted arches, where internal balconies curved like elegant eyebrows above towering windows. He imagined how beautiful it would be during the day.
The central carpet, thick and soft, boasted golden arabesques that spread like luxurious veins beneath his feet. Another carpet, cream-colored, bordered the bed area, but even there crimson borders snaked along the edges.
Junhan approached the bed slowly, his steps timid on the polished marble that reflected the lit chandeliers. The frame was carved from light wood with meticulous gilded details, curves reminiscent of crowns and wings. Above it, an immense canopy draped in layers of white and wine-colored fabric—the curtains parted to reveal white sheets contrasting with thick, inviting red pillows. The fabric felt so soft he imagined his fingers sinking into it as into sunset-tinged clouds.
Above, a colossal crystal chandelier hung like a private constellation. The lights reflected off the ornate mirrors on the walls, doubling the brilliance, multiplying the gold and red until the entire room seemed to pulsate.
To the right, a carved marble fireplace burned gently. The fire danced, casting vivid shadows on gilded sculptures that decorated the wall panels. Small tables with curved legs held vases of white flowers—the only ones that dared to rival the red—and he noticed how the contrast made the main color seem even more intense.
He touched one of the columns, feeling its cold, solid texture.
The floor alternated between light and dark gray marble, reflecting everything like a highly polished mirror. He turned slowly, trying to absorb everything at once, feeling small within that grandeur.
He approached the wardrobe positioned in the right corner of the room. The wood was light, carved with the same golden details that adorned the rest of the room. Upon opening the doors, he was greeted by neatly arranged rows of clothes.
There were pieces of various types—light tunics, more structured cloaks, long shirts, fine fabrics that seemed too expensive to be real. Almost everything was white. Occasionally, red appeared, deep and striking, as if it were a color reserved for specific occasions.
Junhan ran his fingers over the fabrics, feeling the softness between his fingertips. He was searching for something that would make him feel less… exposed.
He finally found a nightgown: a white, full-length tunic, long to his ankles, with discreet red ruffles at the collar and sleeves. Over it, there was a lighter, white overgarment, embroidered with silver arabesques that shimmered softly in the chandelier light.
He sighed slightly irritably. Did the people in that place have something against trousers?
Wearing tunics like this made him uncomfortable. Vulnerable. As if any sudden movement could reveal too much. Still, it was all he had.
As he removed the ritual clothing and began to change, a question flashed through his mind like lightning:
“Are we sleep together?”
He paused for a second, holding the fabric in his hands. Was this part of the sacrificial agreement?
Jooyeon had said that the sacrifices died before they arrived there—or when the blindfold was removed. But what happened after that? If someone reached the castle… what happened?
Was the sacrifice sexual?
Was that why the stories changed when told to children? Was that why they talked about monsters that devoured flesh, instead of anything else?
Her stomach clenched.
He finished putting on his tunic, adjusting the fabric on his body, still restless.
Then he remembered something. He reached into the pocket of the trousers he had worn earlier and felt the small vial still there. He carefully removed it. Inside, there was a golden-yellow liquid that reflected the light like amber.
He brought it to his nose and the smell was of honey, nothing unusual. He frowned, confused. Why had the girl put that in his pocket?
Was it part of the ritual? Some kind of protection? Some final offering? Or something he should use… on himself?
The doubt made his skin crawl again.
He left the old clothes folded on the table in the center of the room and walked to the dressing table positioned in the left corner of the room. The ornate mirror reflected his image for a moment—white tunic, red details, slightly disheveled hair, purplish marks still visible on his wrists.
It seemed less like a sacrifice, more like an out-of-place piece in a setting perfectly suited to his own story.
He carefully placed the bottle on the dressing table, aligned alongside small glass vials and silver brushes. Then he adjusted the overcoat, smoothing the fabric over his body.
The room remained majestic and silent. Junhan still didn't know if he was there as a guest… or as something waiting to be consumed. And this uncertainty tormented him more than the idea of being killed by a monster. At least a monster would be simple. This, however, was too delicate a wait.
He lay down carefully on the bed, sinking into the soft mattress as if being swallowed by dense clouds. The fabric was warm, too comfortable for someone who, just hours before, had climbed a mountain to die.
He pulled the sheet up to his chest and turned to his side, his back to the door, pretending to sleep. It wasn't long before he heard the doorknob turn gently. The door opened and closed discreetly. Jooyeon had returned. Exactly as promised.
Junhan kept his breathing slow and regular. He tried to relax his shoulders, loosen the tension in his jaw. He expected him to say something. To come closer. To explain something. He expected him to do something.
But… nothing happened. No touch, no words, nothing. He heard soft footsteps in the room, the light sound of fabric rustling, the mattress sinking on the other side of the bed. And then, silence filled the room again. Jooyeon's breathing became steady. Deep. He simply… fell asleep.
Junhan remained motionless for several minutes, his heart still racing too fast for someone who was supposedly resting. Gradually, the rhythm of the breathing beside him stabilized completely.
He thought about peeking. Turning only his face, opening his eyes slowly and confirming if he was indeed human. If he had horns, fangs, wings. If he was beautiful or grotesque.
But he didn't want to tempt fate.
Who could guarantee that, the moment he looked—or worse, while he slept carelessly—that story about turning to dust wouldn't come true? What if the blindfold wasn't the only rule? What if there was something else he didn't yet understand?
He swallowed hard.
Curiosity burned beneath his skin, so insistent it almost hurt. He wanted to know what Jooyeon's face looked like. He wanted to know if it matched her voice. But instead, he chose fear over curiosity and kept his eyes closed.