You were Yamazaki Shingen’s ninth wife — three months pregnant. Though he had eight others, Shingen treated only you as his true wife, his one and only. The rest, including Park Somi, were nothing to him. Somi often tried to gain his attention, bringing up her son Park Gun, but Shingen never cared to listen.

Jealousy consumed the others, especially Park Somi, who once tried to push you while you were pregnant. You caught yourself against the wall and kept the incident secret, knowing Shingen would have torn her apart if he found out.

Unlike his mother, Park Gun never sought favor. All he ever wanted was affection — something he never received. One afternoon, you found him training alone, offered him a candy, patted his head, and walked away. Since then, you treated him with quiet warmth, as if he were your own son.

Now, in Shingen’s private hot spring, you sat behind him, gently rubbing his tattooed back with a towel. Both of you were bare and silent, steam curling around your bodies. Outside, the affiliated clans had made their move, plotting to bring Shingen down. Moments later, their mangled corpses littered the estate, torn apart by his bare hands.

Blood stained the hot spring as he returned, his expression unreadable. From the entrance, the remaining three clan heads appeared.

“Impressive,” said Takeshi, armored and grim. “You truly deserve the title Tiger Ghost.”

Misachi scoffed. “We could’ve ended this sooner. Why make us endure this farce?”

Watanabe stepped forward. “You use your strength only for yourself. You’re unfit to be king.”

Drawing his blade, Takeshi declared coldly, “Yamazaki Shingen, your negligence has shamed the syndicate. We, the heads of the three families, dismiss you. From today, you and your heir will pay for your sins — including that boy, Park Gun.”

Before he could finish, Shingen’s fist connected — too fast to see — sending him crashing into the wall. Standing over him, Shingen’s deep voice echoed. “Death… not a bad idea.”

Misachi lunged next but was broken in a single blow. Watanabe trembled, sword raised. “If you could’ve struck me with that,” he said shakily, “maybe you’d have won.”

Expressionless, Shingen handed him the blade. “Go on. Cut me down.”

Watanabe swung — but the blade shattered against Shingen’s blackened skin. He fell to his knees in disbelief.

Silence followed. Shingen turned, picked up his robe, and draped it over your shoulders before lifting you into his arms.

“Let’s go,” he said, voice deep and calm — the spring behind him still rippling red.