The world shimmered before it opened.
A soft rip in the fabric of space—like silk torn underwater—split the air, and from it, two figures descended slowly, as if gravity here had forgotten its weight. Dan Oh’s feet did not touch earth, but instead the cool embrace of a gentle, gliding current that flowed midair. It carried her downward, coiling around her like a silken stream, luminous and sentient.
Kyung landed beside her with a half-step stumble, arms flailing slightly as he tried to steady himself on the rippling, moonlit surface. His sneakers squelched against the oddly soft terrain—neither solid ground nor water—more like stepping on chilled breath.
He blinked up at the oversized moon, then looked around slowly, jaw slack. “What the hell... is this place?”
They had arrived.
Spread endlessly before them was an island suspended in eternal twilight. The moon loomed vast and impossibly close in the heavens above—twenty, maybe thirty times larger than anything Dan Oh remembered from Earth or even Hwon. Its pale light kissed the landscape below, casting it in a sheen of silver and soft cerulean.
The shoreline sang. There was no sand, only moon-glass, crystalline and blue-white, ringing like wind chimes with every kiss of the glowing tide. The sea was a mirrored dream, reflecting not just the sky, but ancient memories of another time, rippling and reforming.
Above the coastline, floating lakes drifted lazily in the air—shallow, suspended pools rimmed with flowering vines that bloomed with liquid petals. In them, koi the size of a small dog swam through both water and sky, their scales catching the moonlight and fracturing it into rainbows.
Then came the Selari.
Serpentine and elegant, they emerged from the coastal mists—long, translucent water-spirits shaped like eels with tails that unfurled like ribbons. Their eyes were pearl-white, and they glided through both air and sea in loops around the newcomers. They made no sound, only left behind trails of glowing mist that pulsed softly with emotion—curiosity, recognition, welcome.
Dan Oh’s breath caught. One of them passed near her, and her skin tingled as though it whispered something through her very blood. It turned its head slightly, as if bowing, then drifted away in a swirl of silver vapor.
Further inland, flowers floated above ponds, their tendrils trailing light. They resembled jellyfish, but bloomed like blossoms—Tide Blossoms, Kyung whispered beside her, astonished. The floating blooms gently pulsed, releasing motes of bioluminescence that flickered like tiny stars, wrapping around them in slow spirals. When Dan Oh reached out, one hovered near her hand, glowing brighter for a heartbeat, then drifted onward.
Overhead, a sudden song rose—not from flutes or harps, but from the throats of Moonlarks, birds of translucent glass-like feathers. They soared in synchronized spirals, each beat of their wings releasing a soft chime. Their formation shifted as they rose, becoming a constellation in motion— etched in water and stars.
She and Kyung stood silently as the Moonlarks circled them once, then scattered like fragments of a dream.
The wind here carried no dust, no salt—only cool moisture and the memory of something ancient. Somewhere deeper in the island, a distant waterfall sang in reverse, rising skyward in a stream of starlit mist. And beneath it all, the rhythm of the island pulsed—like a slow heartbeat. Breathing. Alive.
Dan Oh closed her eyes.
She had never felt so far from home.
And yet… never more rooted to the world beneath her.
Dan Oh’s breath caught. The shimmering landscape, with its glacial glow and liquid air, slowly aligned with memories buried deep in her blood.
“…This isn’t Hwon,” she murmured, narrowing her eyes at the colossal moon looming above. It felt as if the moon could drop and kiss the sea any second. “We’ve landed in Yeon Kingdom.”
Kyung turned to her, his expression a knot of amusement, confusion, and dawning panic. “Yeon what now?”
Dan Oh didn’t answer right away. Her eyes scanned the glowing shoreline, the way the breeze carried the scent of salt and magic. “It’s on the opposite pole from Hwon. Thousands of kilometers away,” she muttered.
Kyung blinked at her, incredulous. “So what, are we going to Hwon by… car? Train? Plane? I don’t see a bus stop around here.” His voice pitched between sarcasm and disbelief. “There’s not even a damn road.”
Dan Oh exhaled, eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight. “No. But we could fly there. Hopefully.”
Kyung laughed—a short, almost mad sound. “Oh please tell me there aren’t any crazier things waiting beyond this floating jelly-grass beach.”
Dan Oh gave him a sideways glance and said simply, “Nah. This is just the beginning.”
___________________________________________________________________
Dan Oh's steps slowed as she reached the edge of the moonlit shore. The crystalline sands of Yeon Kingdom whispered beneath her boots—soft and cold like powdered pearl. The sea ahead was nearly still, the moon reflected on its surface with eerie perfection, so large and close it warped the sky like a god watching from above.
Kyung caught up, rubbing his arms against the chill. “So… this is Yeon. Feels like we just walked into a lucid dream.” He paused. “Or a luxury water-themed cult.”
Dan Oh didn’t respond. Her eyes scanned the horizon.
She knew this place. Not from stories or fragmented visions—but from lived memory. Years ago, when she’d stumbled into this world the first time, it was here—here—that she had stood alongside Woon, Siera, Gwi, Key, and Ryu. The group had been different then, fractured yet full of promise. And in this very sea, a guardian had risen.
She took a slow breath, pressing her palm to the ground. The moonlight shimmered across her fingers, and she whispered the name—soft, uncertain, but clear.
“Sorynth.”
The name lingered in the air like frost on breath.
“Flame-born of Ice… Guardian of the Lunar Deep…” she continued, the words old and precise, spoken only once before in her life. “Come, if you still remember me.”
Silence.
The sea remained unmoved.
Kyung arched an eyebrow. “Sooo… Is that a code for ‘summon sea dragon’ or a poetic way to talk to yourself?”
Dan Oh didn’t answer. She was staring now, face unreadable, a subtle tension tightening her jaw. Her voice softened. “Maybe he’s not here anymore…”
Kyung noticed it then—her disappointment. It wasn’t just that the dragon didn’t appear. It was that part of her had hoped… needed… to know something from that time still remained.
But then—
Two red lights shimmered far off in the dark water.
Kyung straightened. “What… is that?”
The twin lights hovered, grew brighter. Then the sea itself shifted—not in chaos, but in reverence. A deep vibration pulsed through the shore, the sand, the air. Something massive was approaching.
From the depths emerged a serpentine figure, sleek and monumental. Scales like frozen glass refracted moonlight in every shade of blue and silver. Its long body coiled with fluid grace as steam curled from between its jaws. The glowing red eyes, once distant, now burned like twin embers set in a face carved from starlit glacier.
Then it spoke.
“Your Majesty.” The dragon’s voice was a soft quake, ancient and reverent. “You have returned.”
Dan Oh inhaled shakily. “You still remember me.”
“I do,” the dragon rumbled. “Few forget the girl who dared defy fate alongside a banished prince, a shadowed queen, and a wolf-blooded king.”
It turned its colossal head toward Kyung. nostrils flaring ever so slightly. “
“And the boy… He carries a strange echo. The king of the fairy forest…” Sorynth’s voice dipped lower. “Though different. Curious”
Kyung recoiled. “Wait, me? Who—King of what forest? I grew up in a two-bedroom flat with a dying ficus. Not a leaf king!!”
Dan Oh stepped forward. Her voice was steady now.
“I need your help.”
Sorynth blinked once, slowly. “Then let the sea rise, and may the moon bear witness once more. Where do you seek to go, child of frost and fire?”
Dan Oh met the dragon’s eyes.
“To Hwon. Before everything falls apart.”
_______________________________________________________________________
The wildfire raged like a cursed sun spilling across the earth, devouring everything it touched. The air crackled with heat and desperation as Woon, cloaked in fire, and Siera, cloaked in sheer will, stood together against the inferno.
Flames leapt like hungry spirits, fed by chaos.
They fought back in tandem, their powers weaving together—a dance of resistance. Eros, arms outstretched, called the winds to bend the flame’s hunger. But the heat was unnatural, seeded by the remnants of Lycaon’s madness.
Siera’s limbs trembled beneath the strain. Her vision blurred. Still, she stood.
“Sister—enough!” Woon shouted, his voice nearly lost in the roar. “You’ll burn with it. Let me—”
She shook her head, her crown of ash and sweat barely staying atop. “No. I made a promise... I will not fall while my people burn.”
Woon clenched his jaw, recognizing the same iron in her he carried within. So they fought—together.
Across the ravaged field, soldiers and werewolves toiled as one under Gwi’s command, hauling water, shifting debris, creating firebreaks. Blood and ash smudged their faces, but unity burned brighter than fear.
Across the ravaged field, soldiers and werewolves toiled as one under Gwi’s command, hauling water, shifting debris, creating firebreaks. Blood and ash smudged their faces, but unity burned brighter than fear.
From the edge of the forest, Lycaon watched the aftermath unfold—uninjured, but cloaked in shadow. His pale eyes scanned the battlefield, analyzing the resilience of the Hwon queen and the strength of those who dared to resist him. At his side, Lethea shifted impatiently, her sharp eyes narrowing at the sight of Lyn among the defenders
gazed toward the blazing horizon with guilt-laced eyes.
Then—
A primal roar—ancient and bone-chilling—rolled through the palace like thunder cracking over a frozen sea.
Time did not slow. It stopped.
Cries paused mid-breath. Even the fire blazing across the curtains seemed to falter, embers suspended in the air like falling stars frozen midflight.
And then they saw it.
A pair of vast wing unfurled above the sky—glinting like a blade forged in moonlight. Crystalline. Majestic. The silhouette of an enormous creature descended in a sweeping arc, its wings beating storms into the ballroom’s flames.
The Ice Dragon.
“What is that?!” one soldier gasped.
The creature soared above the trees, vast wings slicing the air with soundless power.
Gasps rippled through the clearing.
“It’s flying—no, it’s gliding,” someone whispered.
But Woon’s eyes locked onto something more impossible than the beast itself.
There—on its back. Two figures.
Silhouettes at first. Then clearer with each beat of the creature’s wings.
A man. A woman. Cloaked in wind and moonlight.
“Someone’s riding it!” a voice shouted, panicked. Disbelieving.
Woon’s heart lurched into his throat.
No—it couldn't be.
But the image sharpened, the familiarity struck him like lightning. Her posture. Her wild hair tousled by the air. The determined set of her jaw.
His breath caught.
A glimmer of memory. Of laughter. Of a girl beneath the peach trees. Of ink-stained fingers and furious writing. Of teary smiles and dreams of freedom.
He staggered a step forward.
“Eun Dan Oh?!”
The name fell from his lips like a prayer—or a curse.
The dragon soared, spiraling down in majestic arcs. Upon its back stood Dan Oh, eyes bright with fierce purpose. Beside her—Kyung, clutching the dragon’s ridged spine with awe and disbelief stretched across his face.
She raised one hand to the sky, fingers gliding as though across an unseen loom.
Clouds churned above, gray and blue twisting together.
Then—
A single drop.
Cool. Clean.
It struck Woon’s cheek like a whispered promise.
He froze. Eyes wide. All around him, the scorched earth crackled and hissed, the fires ravenous, devouring everything in their path. The air reeked of smoke, of ash, of the final moments before despair consumed all.
Another drop.
And then—dozens. Hundreds.
Thousands.
The heavens opened.
A downpour erupted, sudden and furious—like the sky itself had been holding its breath until now. Rain fell in sheets, heavy as judgment, fierce as redemption. Thick droplets crashed onto flame and flesh, smothering the cursed blaze with a loud, defiant hiss. Steam burst upward in furious clouds as water and fire collided in a chaotic ballet of life and destruction.
The battlefield gasped.
Ash turned to mud. Embers sputtered and died.
And still, the rain kept falling—cleansing, weeping, blessing.
Woon stumbled back, chest heaving. His fingers clenched around his side where a cut burned hot—but the pain was distant, buried beneath the sudden wash of sound and sensation.
Around him, others were rising, blinking through smoke and steam. The wounded lifted their heads. The dying found breath. The fire’s roar was silenced—not by magic, not by might—but by something older. Something purer.
Hope.
Then came the cheers.
It began with a few. A voice cracked with exhaustion and triumph. Then more joined in—soldiers and werewolves. A trembling chorus rising like thunder through the storm.
They weren’t cheering for victory.
They were cheering for survival.
For the chance to keep fighting.
For rain.
And somewhere above it all—
That beast of crystal and storm still hovered, wings spread like a guardian of old legends. Its cry rang out once more, echoing into the clouds as if proclaiming, Not yet. Not today.
And on its back, Dan Oh—soaked, windblown, and blazing with something unspoken—raised her hand toward Woon.
His heart ached.
Because through the smoke, through the water, through time itself—she had found her way back.
Even if everything else still burned.
“She is with KYUNG!!”
Ryu’s laughter rang through the chaos. “My new best blade-dancer!”
The dragon circled, wings casting cool wind over scorched earth, ensuring every inch of land was touched by the blessing of water. Fire hissed, then died.
When at last the flame surrendered, the dragon descended, slow and regal, landing near where Woon and Siera stood. Its breath frosted the earth where it exhaled.
Dan Oh slid off with practiced ease. Kyung followed less gracefully, landing on his feet with a grunt.
“How—how are you here?” Woon asked, rushing forward, fire still flickering across his fingertips.
Dan Oh met his eyes, equal parts fierce and fond. “You really thought I’d stay away when everything’s burning?”
Behind them, Eros offered a small, knowing smile. “Nice entrance. Again.”
Their reunion was short-lived.
Siera’s knees buckled.
The rain blurred her vision, though it wasn’t only water blinding her. The toll had come—her strength was gone. The fire she had fought, the queen’s will she had upheld—it all vanished in an instant. The world spun: heat, voices, firelight in retreat. Through the kaleidoscope of senses, only one figure remained clear.
Gwi.
He was shouting her name, drenched in steam and rain, crimson streaking down his temple. He ran toward her with the desperation of a man who had already lost her once.
But before the ground could take her—
“Siera!”
Eros lunged. His arms caught her before she hit the ground, sliding into the mud with her weight in his grasp. His breath hitched—shallow, trembling—as he pulled her against his chest, one hand searching for a pulse, the other cradling her head as if it might shatter.
Across the broken field, Gwi froze mid-step. The air ripped from his lungs. Then—he surged forward. He didn't scream. Didn’t call her name. He just ran.
Fast. Wild.
His boots tore through ash and puddles, cape soaked and dragging, face locked in a terror-stricken snarl. Rain lashed against him. Nothing mattered except the figure slumped in another man’s arms.
He fell to his knees as he reached them. Eros let go—instinctively, reluctantly—and Gwi took her without hesitation.
He scooped her into his arms, close to his chest, arms trembling beneath her weight—not from exhaustion, but fear.
Real, primal fear.
His eyes locked on her pale face. The way her head slumped against his shoulder. The slackness of her limbs.
Her skin was cold.
Her eyes shut.
Her lips—silent.
“Siera—no. Look at me. Look at me!” Gwi’s voice cracked, his composure collapsing, terror unraveling his every word. “Please—.”
She didn’t answer.
His breath hitched—a sharp, invisible sound—and for a moment, his knees nearly gave way too.
But he held her tighter. Lifted her.
And ran.
Not like a king. Not like a warrior. But like a man with everything to lose.
The crowd reacted in waves. Woon took two staggering steps forward, eyes wide, body frozen, his throat working soundlessly. His whole frame tilted, as if pulled by gravity toward her—but his legs wouldn’t obey.
Ryu bolted next, splashing through mud, pushing aside bodies, following the path Gwi carved like a shadow at his heels.
Catelyn fell to one knee, pressing a fist against her lips, shaking. Then she stood and ran—fast, hair soaked, eyes burning, boots slipping on the wet ground as she veered after them.
Dan Oh, standing behind Woon, clasped a hand to her chest. Her face twisted—not in tears, but in horror too sharp to reach them yet. She clung to Woon’s arm, grounding herself as he stood frozen, fists clenched. And the moment strength returned to his limbs, he surged forward—Dan Oh at his heels—racing through the rain and ruin, desperate to reach Siera before it was too late.
Even the soldiers nearby shifted—some staggered forward, unsure whether to follow, others turned toward the distant infirmary, shouting for help no one could hear.
Above it all, the rain fell harder, hammering the fire into embers. The downpour hissed against armor and stone, washing away ash—but not the fear.
Even in retreat, even in silence, Lycaon’s head turned.
He watched them. Watched her limp in the arms of the wolf king who once served her.
He tilted his head slightly, curiously. Coldly.
Then he vanished into the storm, followed by Lyn and the other werewolves.
And still—Gwi ran. Past the battlefield. Past the fallen. Through smoke and chaos, never once looking back.
Her form in his arms.
Eyes closed.
Rain trailing like tears from his jaw as if the sky itself had begun to weep for her.