In the distance, a large tiled-roof house came into view, its roof as broad as a whale’s back.

He moved his feet slowly. A pair of rubber shoes sat atop the long stone foundation. Yoon Taehee looked down at them without expression, then stepped onto the wooden porch in his boots, without taking them off.

Without the slightest hesitation, he flung open the sliding door covered in traditional paper. As the door screeched open, the director, who had been painting orchids on paper with a brush, slowly lifted her head.

A brief silence followed.

Despite his unannounced intrusion, the director did not look surprised at all. If anything, she almost seemed to have been waiting for Yoon Taehee to arrive. Yoon Taehee stood there, facing her.

“My, you look quite a sight.”

Sitting before a small writing desk, the director took her time looking Yoon Taehee over from head to toe. He was holding a bloodstained sword and wearing a red traditional overcoat over his suit.

“I ran into a little trouble on the way here,” Yoon Taehee muttered, tilting his head as he looked around the room. “You live in a beautiful place.”

The director smiled faintly, as if in agreement.

“Come in.”

The director, who greeted him so calmly, was an elderly woman dressed in simple traditional clothes. He knew she was the one who had taken the mask because her face was the spitting image of the one he had once glimpsed through blood.

The director had white hair cut into a bob and wore a full, voluminous skirt. At first glance, she looked like an ordinary old woman, but her eyes were like lakes of unfathomable depth. It was difficult to guess her age. She gave off a strange impression, as though she could be terribly strict and yet unimaginably generous at the same time.

The enemy of my life and the friend of my parents is right here before my eyes.

He had thought that, once he faced the director, he would be unable to hide his hostility and hatred, that his emotions would surge out of control. Yet Yoon Taehee remained surprisingly composed, even to himself. A whirlwind of emotions passed through his mind. The feeling was almost closer to a sigh of relief: I’ve finally met you. Strangely, all the tension drained from him.

“May I sit? It’s hard for me to keep standing.”

Though his words asked for permission, Yoon Taehee dropped down onto the floor before he even heard an answer. The pain had eased a little after he drank the medicinal water from the Purification Unit, but its effects must have worn off, because even standing still was becoming difficult. The pain had begun crawling back some time ago.

“Did you stab Juryeon?” the director asked bluntly, looking at the blood splattered across Yoon Taehee’s cheek.

“.......”

When he gave no answer, the director murmured to herself.

“This is why they say you should never take in a black-haired beast...”

She had expected Seok Juryeon would not be able to stop Yoon Taehee. Whether she could not stop him or would not stop him was unknown, but the result was exactly as the director had guessed. The fact that Seok Juryeon had turned her back on her did not wound her, but it was not pleasant either. For some reason, her mouth tasted bitter.

“Juryeon has grown old, too.”

Fiddling with the brush in her hand, the director looked out the open window into the distance.

“Juryeon... has grown old as well...”

Yoon Taehee asked with indifferent eyes, “Was it a test?”

The director merely smiled without a word.

It had not been a test.

A test was something conducted at the border between trust and distrust. But the director had never trusted Seok Juryeon in the first place. It was true that she had taken special care of her, but that was all. She had no intention of feeling betrayed, nor of blaming Seok Juryeon for ingratitude.

“Even a beast recognizes the one who took it in. Humans are not like that. They are always watching for an opening, and when they give in to emotion, they sway like reeds. That is the flaw of human beings.”

“You didn’t expect much from her, then.”

Yoon Taehee nodded as if he understood.

“You talk as though you know everything about humans.”

Without giving much of a response, the director shrugged and began putting away her brush and paper.

“So, what do you intend to do now?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really have any particular idea of what to do. I don’t even know what I should do.”

That was the truth.

Yoon Taehee had no plan now. He had let go of Cho, and he had let go of Han. At some point, the pieces had begun moving on their own, breaking every rule.

“Then why did you come all this way?”

Why?

Yoon Taehee asked himself.

At first, it had been for revenge. He wanted to avenge his burned childhood, and he wanted to take revenge on the one who had killed Yoon Wonjoong and the water ghost. But now, he could no longer tell what was what. Was it because he wanted to retrieve the wooden tag, his original goal, or because he wanted to die for that boy? Perhaps Sisi had led him here. But even if Sisi was what made it possible to open the door, Yoon Taehee was the one who had walked through it.

“Originally, I planned to kill you and take back the Bangsangsi mask and the wooden tag.”

“And now?”

The cause and effect of what this revenge was meant to serve had become tangled like a hopeless knot of thread. There was only one answer. He had to cut away the tangled past. A spool of thread already ruined had to be severed without lingering regret.

“Now, I just want to end everything.”

“You are a strong child.”

Yoon Taehee laughed soundlessly.

That was wrong.

I am here because I am such a fragile human being. I am standing in this place now because I am a human who cannot forget the past and cannot escape it.

Instead of answering, Yoon Taehee slowly caught his breath and removed the mask he had been wearing. Just then, a black cat with golden eyes stepped lightly out from behind a folding screen. Yoon Taehee’s gaze shifted toward the cat. The cat sat still and stared at Yoon Taehee, neither approaching nor hiding.

“Then what do you want from me?”

“I’d like to play a game of Korean chess.”

Yoon Taehee, who had been holding the cat’s gaze, spoke.

“Korean chess?”

“Yes.”

Perhaps it was an unexpected proposal, because the director tilted her head.

“Korean chess... If you win, what shall I give you?”

“Give me my wooden tag.”

“If you lose, what will you offer?”

“I’ll give you my life.”

At the answer, given without hesitation, the smile faded from the director’s face. The director was the one in the superior position. She was the one who held the Bangsangsi mask and Yoon Taehee’s wooden tag. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

“You came all this way just to wager your life on a single game of Korean chess?”

“Yes.”

The director’s brow furrowed slightly.

She could not understand his intention in simply offering up his own head. Yoon Taehee looked utterly sincere. This could be seen as nothing more than Yoon Taehee’s final struggle in a desperate situation.

“The recklessness of youth is a fine thing.”

The match between the two of them began.

Tack, tack.

Only the rhythmic sound echoed through the quiet night. It was the sound made each time a chess piece was lifted and placed back on the board. As he played Korean chess against the director, a memory suddenly surfaced.

It was his first meeting with Master Yeohye, who had been playing Korean chess alone.

Yoon Taehee had asked, I’m the one playing Han, and I’m the one playing Cho. I know what I’m thinking when I move the pieces on the other side too, so what’s the point of playing Korean chess alone like this?

To Yoon Taehee’s question, Master Yeohye had replied:

Things you couldn’t see when you held Cho become visible when you hold Han. Sometimes I think I ought to let one side win, but then I feel sorry for the losing side and deliberately move a piece the long way around. Going back and forth between this side and that, it’s so much fun you wouldn’t notice an ax handle rotting.

If this side wins, I win; if that side wins, I win. Conversely, if this side loses, I lose; if that side loses, I lose. Either way, the result is the same, and yet, strangely enough, in the end, the heart leans toward one side.

In the end, the human heart is bound to lean somewhere...

Things newly seen when playing as Han, which could not be seen when playing as Cho. He had said that the scenery changed depending on where one stood, and that the heart changed from moment to moment. That was why it was fun, Master Yeohye had said.

Now, he felt he understood what those words meant.

A heart that leaned somewhere, a heart that was wounded each time a piece was lost—such things did not suit a god.

Before long, the match was rushing toward its end.

The director moved a piece with a smile and said, “There. Check.”

Yoon Taehee, looking down at the board, tilted his head slightly.

“It’s check on [N O V E L I G H T] this side too.”

Realizing a beat too late that both sides were in check, the director’s expression soured slightly.

“My...”

The move she had just made was a losing move. The director had held the superior position the entire time, but one mistake had given Yoon Taehee an opening. It was the situation called facing generals: if Yoon Taehee moved his general, he could take the director’s general. Korean chess was won by the side that protected its general to the end. However, if Yoon Taehee used his general to capture the director’s, both sides would lose their generals at the same time, resulting in a draw.

No matter how one looked at it, a draw was better than defeat.

Moreover, Yoon Taehee had staked his life on this match. If he sacrificed his general and took the other, the match would end in a draw. Just as the director clicked her tongue, realizing it had become a draw—

Yoon Taehee picked up his general, but instead of placing it back down, he closed his fist around it. Then he pulled his hand away from the board.

It was not a draw.

It was Yoon Taehee’s resignation.

The director paused and looked up.

“I lost.”

Choosing defeat over a draw, Yoon Taehee tucked the general he held into the inner pocket of his suit. Then, still seated cross-legged, he straightened his back and spoke to the director.

“You may take my life.”