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Chapter Text

The city of Seoul never slept. Neon lights clung to crumbling buildings like bruises, streets pulsing with life, music, and hidden magic. Beneath the hum of the city, the ruins whispered, ancient and dark, remnants of a world long sealed. Beneath it all, Barakas stirred.

He had been sealed for centuries. The Honmoon had trapped his power, buried every demon beneath the earth. His name was a legend whispered in fear, his hunger remembered in the tremor of dreams. And yet, something someone had drawn him upward, toward the mortal world, like a thread of fire he could not resist.

Her voice was it.

Lee Haneul stood on a small, half-empty stage in a cramped club. The microphone buzzed and cracked as her fingers ran along the strings of her guitar. She sang not for applause, not for fame, but because something inside demanded to be heard. Her voice was raw, untamed, and piercing. Somewhere between sorrow and defiance, it tore into the hearts of those who listened.

And somewhere, in the shadows outside, a figure watched.

Barakas.

In his mortal form, he appeared as a man in black, with eyes that glimmered gold in the dim light. He had seen kingdoms rise and fall, devoured the souls of the living, bent spirits to his will, but nothing had stirred him like this.

He felt it in his chest a warmth, alien and forbidden.

The song ended. Haneul’s fingers lingered on the strings, trembling. She glanced up, and for a brief second, their eyes met. She didn’t know who he was. She didn’t sense the centuries that dripped from him like shadowed rain. She only felt a strange weight behind those golden eyes, like history itself had leaned forward to watch her.

Barakas stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the room, but he did not speak. He did not know how. Not to mortals. Not to her.

When finally he did, his words were careful, deliberate:
“Your voice… it carries life and death in the same breath.”

Haneul laughed softly, a little bitter, a little defiant. “And yours sounds like someone who’s lost everything worth keeping.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, almost imperceptibly. A smile, faint, fleeting, one he hadn’t allowed himself in centuries.

He would return the next night. And the next. Always watching. Always silent.

For the first time in a thousand years, Barakas understood the meaning of hunger that was not his own. Not for power. Not for souls.

This hunger was for her.

And somewhere deep in the ruins, the first notes of a song older than the city whispered.

The Honemoon was awake, trembling at the edge of a voice it had never expected.

And a fragment of the Demon King, weakened and mortal, felt itself begin to stir.

Chapter Text

Seoul, the capital of South Korea, is a city steeped in history and music.
Centuries ago, music was revered, yet true talent was rare. Only those born into families of court musicians could perform for the emperor, while others roamed from village to village, earning their living through song and sound.

But legend whispers of a time when demons walked among humans. These spirits fed on souls, drawn to melodies rich with emotion and memory. Beneath the mortal world pulsed their realm, ruled by the enigmatic king, Gwi-Ma.

Few know that Gwi-Ma was once a man, a mortal blessed with an extraordinary gift for music and song. His life fell into despair after a devastating war. His name was forgotten, his body lost, and with it, his humanity.

When he returned, it was not as the man he had been, but as the demon king himself. Gwi-Ma struck bargains with mortals desperate to see their dreams fulfilled. Yet every wish exacted a price: a soul for a dream.

And so, the cycle endured.
For decades, perhaps centuries, the demons bound to his realm wandered in torment, haunted by echoes of the desires that damned them, their souls forever entangled in the music of their own undoing.

“That was the cycle of things,” said a woman with black hair and dark eyes as she continued her story. “Until a trio of mudang appeared.”

“These three used their spiritual gifts and sacred weapons to create a great shield that surrounded the world. It was called the Honmoon.

“Since then, the power of the Honmoon has been passed down through generations, not always by blood, but by spirit. As long as there are those willing to carry its burden and keep the shield strong, Gwi-Ma remains at bay.”

The woman’s voice softened as she looked at her son, the flicker of a candle dancing in her dark eyes. The story of the Honmoon, once a legend, now felt more like a warning.

She closed the old journal, an heirloom passed down through her family, and placed it gently on the table. Its worn cover still carried the scent of aged paper and incense. Turning toward her son, Hwan, she smiled faintly.

Outside, their small home stood quietly among the trees, far from the noise of the nearby town. The night air hummed softly with the sound of crickets, the forest alive with whispers.

She lifted Hwan into her arms, his head resting against her shoulder, already heavy with sleep. Sliding open the wooden door to his room, she laid him carefully on his mat and tucked the blanket around him.

With a final glance, she slid the door shut and made her way to the kitchen. The kettle waited by the hearth. As the water began to heat, she listened to the creaking of the house, the steady beat of her heart, and the faint echo of the story she had just told, of demons, music, and the shield that kept them at bay.

Soon, her husband would return from the village. She poured the hot water into a teapot and let the leaves bloom, their fragrance mingling with the cool breath of the forest night.

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled softly through the paper doors, painting pale gold over the wooden floor. The air carried the faint scent of rice fields and pine trees, and somewhere beyond the walls, a magpie called.

Inside the small home, laughter broke the stillness.

Hwan was on the floor, his tiny hands clutching a wooden top, spinning it again and again until it wobbled and fell. Each time it stopped, he let out a delighted squeal, as if the world itself had been made just for this small game.

Haneul watched from where she knelt by the hearth. Her hair was tied back loosely, a few strands escaping to frame her face. There was something about mornings like this, quiet, bright, safe, that felt almost unreal. Sometimes she wondered if peace like this was meant for her at all.

“Be careful, Hwan-ah,” she said gently, though her voice carried more affection than warning.

The boy turned to her, cheeks flushed, and smiled, a smile so wide and honest it made her chest ache.

He had his father’s warmth in that smile.
Not Minho’s.
The other one.

Her hand trembled just slightly as she stirred the pot, and she quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the steam rising from the boiling barley tea.

Outside, Minho’s voice called from the yard. He was stacking bundles of wood near the shed, his sleeves rolled up, sweat darkening the collar of his cotton shirt. When he stepped inside, he paused to brush the dirt from his hands and smiled at them, his family.

To anyone else, they were the picture of simplicity. A husband, a wife, a child.

Minho knelt beside Hwan and lifted him easily, the boy laughing as he was tossed gently into the air. “So strong already!” Minho said proudly. “Soon you’ll help your father cut wood, hmm?”

Hwan laughed again, his small arms reaching toward the ceiling. Haneul smiled faintly, her heart tightening with a quiet, hidden gratitude.

As the day went on, she washed clothes by the stream, cooked rice, and listened to Hwan hum to himself as he played in the yard. Sometimes he sang, small, tuneless things that drifted in the air. But once, she caught him humming something else.

A melody she didn’t know.

It was soft, almost sorrowful, far too intricate for a child his age. She froze, her hands wet and cold, listening as his voice carried through the quiet.

Then he stopped, looked up, and smiled at her again. “Umma, look! Butterfly!”

The moment passed. She laughed softly, shook her head, and went back to her washing. Children, she told herself, always picked up songs from somewhere.

That night, when the lamps were dim and the forest hummed beyond the walls, Haneul lay beside her sleeping son. The moonlight traced the curve of his cheek, and she reached out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead.

“He’s normal,” she whispered to the quiet. “He’s just a boy.”

But when the wind passed through the trees outside, it carried a faint sound, like distant humming, almost like the same tune Hwan had sung.

And somewhere deep in her heart, Haneul prayed that peace would last just a little longer.

Chapter Text

Hwan, now six, crouched in the garden, carefully balancing a small clay figurine atop a stack of stones. The sunlight fell through the trees, dappling his hair with gold, and the wind carried the scent of pine and distant rice fields. He hummed softly, a melody gentle and crooked, yet it tugged at something deep inside Haneul’s chest.

The tune was faint, almost imperceptible, yet it carried a weight she could not explain. She froze mid-step, threads slipping through her fingers, and a cold shiver ran down her spine.

The melody… she had heard it before.

Long ago, in the neon shadows of Seoul, in a city that pulsed with life and hidden music, she had sung the same tune. It was the song that had first drawn him, the golden-eyed man who had haunted her dreams ever since.

Barakas.

Her heart clenched. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying her son’s innocent humming into the quiet forest, and she felt it as clearly as a strike of lightning: that song could reach him. The very sound of Hwan’s voice, pure and untutored, might act as a beacon.

“Hwan-ah!” she called, her voice sharper than she intended, trembling as it sliced through the garden. “Come inside, now!”

The boy looked up, brows furrowed, his small hands clutching the figurine. “Why, Umma?”

Haneul knelt beside him, forcing a calm she did not feel. “The wind is strong today. Let’s play inside, okay?”

He hesitated for a moment, then obeyed, leaving the melody hanging faintly in the air. Haneul’s chest tightened as she watched him, guilt and fear twisting in her heart. He was just a child, innocent, unknowing, and yet the child carried a danger she could neither hide nor control.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, letting the memory wash over her.

---

Seoul. Years ago.

The stage was small and dim, yet her voice had stretched beyond the walls, carrying sorrow, defiance, and something unnamable. She had not sung for applause, not for recognition, only because her voice demanded it.

And he had been there.

Barakas, in shadow and silence, dressed in a black sochangui and gat, the markings along his purple skin faintly visible, his dark brown eyes fixed on her as if the world itself had paused.

“Your voice…” he had said finally, low and deliberate. “It carries life and death in the same breath.”

She had laughed bitterly, her voice trembling. “And yours sounds like someone who’s lost everything worth keeping.”

Days became nights. They shared stolen moments of music, whispered conversations, and touches that lingered. She had come to care for him, even as a shadow of fear threaded through her heart.

Then, the truth had fallen upon her like ice. She had seen him, truly seen him, as he was: Gwi-Ma, the Demon King. The purple markings on his arms glowed faintly, twisting like rivers of shadow, and his eyes burned with molten gold in the middle of the black pool.

Fear had torn through her. The love she had nurtured became unbearable. She had lifted the spiritual weapon entrusted to her ancestors and struck him. The wound forced him to retreat, leaving her with nothing but memories and a child she barely understood.

Haneul opened her eyes and looked at Hwan again. He was humming the same tune, innocent and sweet, unaware of its history. The sunlight caught his hair, and for a brief moment, she swore his gold eyes flickered, the faintest echo of his father.

She swallowed hard. “He is not his father,” she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. Yet her chest ached with the truth she could not deny.

Haneul pulled Hwan close and knelt to meet his eyes. “Hwan-ah,” she said softly, voice steady but heavy, “you must never sing that song again.”

“Why not, Umma?” he asked, frowning.

She hesitated, then made up a story, careful to keep her fear hidden. “It… It’s a song that travels on the wind, and if you sing it, it can call dangerous things from far away. Creatures that might try to hurt you. Only grown-ups can sing it safely.”

Hwan nodded, trusting her completely, and fell silent. Haneul let her arms wrap around him, heart pounding, knowing she had bought them a little more time.

The wind moved through the trees outside, carrying the faintest echo of the melody, and Haneul felt it, a pull, like history itself had leaned forward to listen.

The past was not gone.

And the future, fragile and trembling, was quietly awakening.

Chapter Text

The wind whispered through the ruins at the edge of Seoul, rattling the loose tiles of abandoned rooftops and stirring the tattered remnants of banners long faded. Barakas stood alone, draped in his black sochangui, the gat shadowing his golden, cat-like eyes. The scar Haneul had left across his chest throbbed faintly in the cold night air, a reminder of betrayal, love, and loss that refused to fade.

He traced it with a gloved hand, jaw tight, memories sliding unbidden through his mind. Her voice. Her music. The way it had pulled him forward, closer than any mortal had ever dared. And then, the pain of her strike, sharp and searing, forced him back into the shadows. He had loved her, and she had hurt him. He had left, but the memory lingered like a wound that never healed.

He lifted his gaze to the city, neon lights flickering in the distance. Seoul was alive, vibrant, human life pulsing through every alley and street, yet he could not move freely among it. The Honmoon held strong. A barrier woven by the new generation of the trio, young, gifted, and bound to their sacred duty, restrained him.

Even in his mortal guise, he could only sense fragments of the mortal world. Only the rarest of his kind could slip through, gathering stray souls, but they returned empty-handed more often than not. His patience had thinned after centuries of waiting, yet he could not act.

And then… a sound.

A melody, faint and crooked, almost a whisper among the rustling leaves. It tugged at something buried deep in him, a familiarity he could not place. The resonance made his chest tighten, sending a shiver down his spine. For a heartbeat, he thought it impossible. No mortal should stir this inside me.

But the melody persisted. Each note was innocent, childish, yet impossible to ignore. It carried life, laughter, and some echo of the past, of her.

Barakas stepped closer, shadow stretching across the broken stone, and felt a strange, alien warmth in his chest. His scar ached, a reminder that she had once reached him even as she fought him. His fingers curled into fists.

“Who dares…” he muttered, voice low and rough, almost lost in the wind. “Who plays with fire in my world?”

The song drifted farther into the distance, and he realized with a jolt: the Honmoon would not let him reach it. No matter how strong he was, no matter how far his centuries of power stretched, he was bound.

A growl escaped him, deep and feral. His demons, cloaked in shadows behind him, hissed in frustration. They, too, had felt the song. They had wanted to cross freely, to harvest, to feed, yet the barrier held them back. Only he, their king, could sense the energy clearly.

And yet… he did not understand it fully. Not yet.

The melody carried a hint of innocence, a spark of something new. It reminded him of Haneul’s voice, the one that had once shattered his solitude, the one that had made him feel alive again. He could not tell if the pull in his chest was hunger, longing, or regret, perhaps all three.

He crouched by the edge of the ruins, eyes narrowing. The world had moved on without him, yet something had begun to stir in it. Something untainted. Something that might one day bypass the Honmoon’s barrier entirely.

He did not know it yet. He did not know her child existed. He did not know that one small, dark-brown (golden)-eyed boy hummed a fragment of her song, unknowingly echoing the very thing that had once called him to life.

Barakas’ shadow stretched long over the broken city streets, the wind tugging at his robes. The scar on his chest throbbed again, and he whispered to the night:

“Where are you, Haneul? Where have you hidden from me?”

The wind answered with silence.

And the new generation of the Honmoon remained vigilant, their melody of protection humming faintly through the world, keeping him at bay, just as they always had.

Yet even as he felt the restraint, a spark of curiosity, perhaps even hope, ignited. There was life in the mortal world that called to him still. And he would find it, even if the barrier held him back for now.