The Choi family's fall shook the court like thunder over still waters.
Dozens were taken into custody. Lands confiscated. Letters burned before they could be read.
But as Ji-hwan saw Seong-min navigate through the aftermath—so calm, so composed, so commanding—chill seeped under his ribs.
For this had been too simple.
One clan crumbles, and already a shadow occupies the vacant space.
The prophecy repeated itself in his head again—words once spoken in a dream, now etched into memory:
"Only when the blade knows mercy will the crown survive the storm."
But Ji-hwan was not mercy. He was fire. Regret. Obsession.
And the storm was far from finished.
That evening, Seong-min called him to the Moon Hall—his most intimate room. No advisors. No guards. Only them.
The king stood in front of a tapestry embroidered with dragons and stars, wine untouched beside him.
"They weren't acting on their own," Seong-min said softly. "Someone was feeding them visions."
Ji-hwan moved closer. "A prophet?"
Seong-min's eyes flashed to him. "Or a pretender."
He unrolled a scroll—a new one. Written in blood-red ink. The seal broken.
Ji-hwan read it once.
Twice.
Then froze.
It spoke of him. By name.
"The one reborn bears the king's death in his shadow. When the moon turns black, the sword shall fall."
His chest constricted. "This… it's about me."
Seong-min didn't deny it. Didn't turn away.
"I don't believe in fate," he said. "But if I did… I'd fight it to keep you here."
Ji-hwan's voice cracked. "Even if I'm the one destined to end you?"
Seong-min stepped forward, close enough to touch. "Then die with me at your side."
The storm, it seemed, had only just begun.