“There once was a mighty demon king,” came a voice—low and smooth, like silk draped over a blade—spoken just beneath your window.

The moon hung unnaturally still, caught in silver stasis, casting pale light over the silhouette sitting at the edge of the rooftop. His long fingers danced across the strings of a bipa, the aged wood worn to his touch, the sound rich and soft as breath. The instrument sang with him—like it knew the story too well.

“Stop me…” he said with a faint curl of amusement in his voice, “…if you’ve heard this one before.” He plucked another chord—gentle, slow, haunting. The notes shimmered through the night like ghost lights.

“He was in total control,” Jinu murmured, the poetry sliding from his lips as if remembered from a dream. “He feasted on souls—the world trembled when he roared.”

The music fell into a lull, his words carrying more weight than melody. He stared ahead, golden eyes catching the moonlight like old embers. This wasn’t a tale to scare children. It was a memory. A confession.

“But…” Another strum—low and mournful. “…then some hunters sang some songs.”

He tilted his head, almost smiling, but not quite. “Now all he does is starve. Can't get at the souls, and his flame grows cold.”

A final note plucked—soft, string trembling. “Just a whisper...in the dark.”

He let the silence stretch between notes, sitting on the roof of a nearby home, one leg dangling off the edge as his demon eyes glowed a faint yellow. And though he smiled faintly, a shadow crossed his face—regret, perhaps, or something deeper. He never said the demon king’s name. Because he didn’t have to. Not when it still echoed in his own chest like a curse.