The East Peninsula has undergone significant changes in the last few decades. The proud Daongboyou Kingdom was gone, and even the great Han Dynasty—once thought unshakable—had been forced to retreat before the rise of a new and unexpected power.
That power was Goguryeo.
What had once been a scattering of tribes—mounted warriors, rice farrs, wandering migrants—was now a formidable kingdom. A people forged from many ethnicities, bound together by resilience, ambition, and the promise of prosperity. Over its capital city rose flags emblazoned with the symbol of the black three-legged crow, the divine totem of their rule.
On this day, those flags rippled like waves of fire in the wind above a palace courtyard packed with tens of thousands. Drums thundered, flutes sang, and the pounding of feet echoed as dancers in brilliant colors whirled around. The air itself seed to hum with excitent, the celebration of a new crown prince.
Inside the grand hall, smoke from burning incense curled toward the rafters. The shrine priestess, her white garnts embroidered with silver threads, raised her hands to lead the ceremony. Her voice rang out with chants as she blessed the boy who knelt before her—barely ten years old, but already the center of his nation’s hopes. The festival was one of pure joy, a promise of prosperity and future glory for Goguryeo.
Above them, unseen, a lone figure descended from the sky.
Ery moved with the quiet grace, lowering himself until he touched the earth outside the palace gates. He had co alone.
With his current realm, he could bend perception itself; a re thought cloaked him, allowing him to walk through the throngs unnoticed.
He walked slowly, deliberately, through the celebration. His gaze swept past the banners and the dancers, past the priests and the nobles, fixed instead upon the throne where a middle-aged man in black and gold robes sat with regal dignity.
The king of Goguryeo.
The man’s face struck him with familiarity. Strong features, intelligent eyes, the air of command. He bore an uncanny resemblance to his dear friend, yet Ery’s heart did not stir in recognition. This man was not the one he sought.
His chest tightened.
Where are you?
With a flicker of unease, Ery extended his divine sense, sweeping the city, then the lands beyond. His perception stretched hundreds of miles in an instant. Yet the search left him cold. No magus. Not even a single Sky Realm or Saint Realm cultivator. The absence itself was unsettling.
"Is he not here?" Ery whispered to himself.
And then—
"It’s been a while... my old friend... You have finally returned."
The voice ca from behind. Warm. Familiar. Different, yet the sa. Ery’s heart skipped. He turned sharply, and his breath caught.
There he stood.
Chumo.
But not the man Ery rembered. Not the warrior who had once fought at his side. The figure before him was an old man—at least sixty, perhaps older. His hair had turned silver, his back slightly bent. His hands bore the tremor of age. And yet... the eyes. The eyes still shone with warmth and the gentle strength that Ery rembered.
"Chumo..." Ery’s voice cracked. He could scarcely believe it. "How...?"
But Chumo only smiled, cutting him off gently.
"Not here. Let’s not disturb the ceremony. Co."
Ery followed, silent, his heart caught between dread and hope. They passed through corridors where guards bowed low, showing reverence to the old man he followed. And it was then Ery realized Chumo was a mortal. No aura. No trace of cultivation. It was why Ery had not sensed him.
They entered a quiet indoor garden over a pond, its surface broken only by drifting lotus leaves. A gazebo of carved wood waited at the center, and there they sat.
Several attendants entered quietly, bowing low as they arranged a tray of porcelain cups on the low table between them. The fragrance of roasted leaves soon drifted through the gazebo as hot tea was poured.
Only when the servants withdrew did Chumo speak.
He admitted that his body had never recovered from the Kronos duel. The desperate overuse of blood essence had cut away decades of life, and the final blow had shattered what remained of his magus core. For twenty years, he had lived here, not as a warrior or a cultivator, but as a mortal.
Ery took a deep breath and said, "Let check on you."
He gently grasped Chumo’s wrist, letting his spirit energy flow in, probing for what remained of his old power. The search confird what he feared—there was no trace of a magus core left, only the quiet pulse of a mortal’s body. The emptiness struck Ery like a blow, but he refused to yield to despair.
"We’ll find a way to reform your magus core once again..." Ery insisted, his voice firm.
Chumo’s lips curved into a faint smile. "I have tried multiple treatnts... " and added "even if it’s possible.. How long would such treatnt take...?"
"I have a way to prolong your life. I can make it happen." Ery’s conviction was fortified by the hundreds of rare materials within his domain. He was confident.
But Chumo shook his head. "I am grateful, my friend... but I must refuse."
"Why...?" Ery asked in disbelief.
It was at this mont that a voice called out from nearby. "Halabeoji..."
The sound was clear and youthful. A young boy, dressed in ceremonial robes, approached with steady steps. His face shone with pride and warmth as he embraced Chumo. It took Ery a mont to realize who he was—the crown prince, and more importantly, Chumo’s grandson. Their bond was obvious, the ease and affection between them speaking of years of closeness.
Monts later, a procession arrived. At its head was the queen herself, her bearing regal yet softened by maternal concern as she called for the boy. She then turned her gaze toward Ery and Chumo, lowering her head in a respectful bow, followed by her attendants.
When the queen and her retinue finally departed, the chamber fell into a softer silence. Chumo lingered by the window and spoke in a calm, steady tone.
"It is my greatest regret that I was unable to spend more ti with my late wife... but I am grateful I have been given the chance to witness as my son and his family."
He lifted the teacup, took a slow sip, then let his gaze settle on Ery with quiet conviction.
"I have no desire to be a magus anymore. All I wish is to spend the rest of my days with the family I have left and to grow old together with them."
Hearing this, Ery’s chest tightened. mories pressed heavily upon him—how Chumo had struggled against the Nightwalker disease, how he had endured the consuming weight of blood magic. Those battles had nearly broken him. Yet now, stripped of his magus core and blood essence, he was freed of both curses. For the last twenty years, Chumo had been able to live in peace.
"I have said my goodbyes to the others, and I am glad I get the chance to do the sa with you."
The words cut deep into Ery’s heart. The mory of their brotherhood rose up in vivid fragnts—the five of them standing together against impossible odds, laughing in the face of danger, bleeding and surviving as one. It was painfully hard to let go.
Chumo’s eyes caught the heaviness in Ery’s expression, the way his gaze sank to the floor. A faint, knowing smile curved his lips.
"Don’t make that look... It’s not as if I’ll be gone tomorrow. I still have at least ten, maybe twenty good years ahead of . That is more than many could ever hope for."
The reassurance was gentle, but Ery felt the bittersweet truth beneath it. They sat together in quiet companionship, slowly consuming their tea while sharing fragnts of the past—their youthful adventures, their battles, their victories, and the scars that remained. The room filled with the soft hum of nostalgia until, at last, the night arrived.
Chumo set down his empty cup. His voice was low, but resolute. "This is it."
Ery looked up, his heart heavy with unspoken words.
"I hope you can accept my selfish wish," Chumo said. His gaze softened, though it remained firm. "There is no need to co and visit anymore."
Ery’s lips parted in protest, but the words caught in his throat.
Before he could gather them, Chumo rose, he reached into his sleeve and drew out a small, dark wooden box. The wood glead faintly under the lantern light, smooth from years of care. Its weight carried history, the sort that words could not fully explain. Chumo placed it carefully into Ery’s hands.
"Let this be our parting gift."
He then turned around and walked away,
"Goodbye, my friend..."
Ery remained seated as he watched the old figure disappear beyond his sight. His throat tightened, and at last he whispered,
"Goodbye... Chumo."
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