Seungho walked in silence, his arms wrapped protectively around Jiwon’s lifeless body. His steps were slow, almost mechanical, as if his body was moving on its own while his mind remained trapped in the nightmare that had become his reality.

The once-grand palace was nothing but ruins behind him, the air still thick with the scent of blood and ash. But he didn’t look back. His only focus was carrying Jiwon—to lay him to rest somewhere he had once been safe, somewhere he had once laughed, studied, lived.

The library.

By the time he reached the familiar place, his legs nearly gave out beneath him. The ground was stained with soot and destruction, but he didn’t care. With what little strength remained in his cursed, immortal body, he dug into the earth. His fingers, once meant for holding books and writing wisdom, were now covered in dirt and blood as he made a resting place for the one he had sworn to protect.

The one he had loved.

When he finally laid Jiwon down, his fingers trembled as he brushed back strands of hair from his cold face. His lips parted as if to say something, but no words came. What was left to say? He had already broken every promise.

As the last of the soil covered Jiwon’s grave, Seungho knelt beside it. His vision blurred, his body weakened from exhaustion, from the weight of his curse, from the unbearable ache in his soul.

And then—darkness.

—

When Seungho next opened his eyes, he was somewhere unfamiliar. The scent of burnt wood and blood was gone, replaced by something cleaner, softer—herbs, cloth, and a faint trace of warm food. He was lying on a thin straw bed, dim candlelight flickering beside him.

Strangers surrounded him, murmuring in hushed tones. One of them, an elderly man, stepped forward.

"You’re awake," he said, voice gentle but cautious. "We found you near the ruins. You were the only one still breathing. The rest… were gone."

Seungho didn’t answer. He barely reacted. He just stared blankly at the ceiling, his mind caught between past and present.

"You’re lucky to be alive," another voice said.

Alive?

No, he wasn’t alive. He was cursed.

Days passed. Then weeks. The people of the village took care of him, offering food, shelter, and warmth. But Seungho remained silent. He didn’t speak, didn’t express gratitude or grief. He simply existed. Like a ghost wearing a human’s skin.

He barely ate. He barely moved.

And when the nights grew too quiet, when the village was asleep, he would slip away—back to the ruins of the library, where the earth had been disturbed. Where he had left Jiwon behind.

Each year, he returned.

Each year, he searched.

And each year, he found him—only to lose him again.

A cat with mismatched eyes that looked too familiar—hit by a carriage before Seungho could reach it.

An old man who spoke in a teasing tone, laughing at Seungho’s serious nature—who passed away in his sleep that same winter.

A young lady with a kind smile who had traced the spines of books in the new library the way Jiwon once had—who drowned in the river just days later.

A single tree that stood strong in the courtyard of what had once been their study hall—cut down to build a road.

Again. And again. And again.

Century after century.

It was as if fate was laughing at him, dangling Jiwon in front of him, only to rip him away each time.

And now…

It was the 21st century.

The world had changed around him, buildings rising into the sky, metal and glass replacing wood and stone. The library he once treasured had long since disappeared, transforming over the years into different places—homes, shops, a police station, and finally, a garden. A family park where children laughed, oblivious to the history beneath their feet.

And Seungho?

He remained the same. Ageless. Frozen in time.

He had long since stopped searching actively for Jiwon. What was the point? Every time he found him, he lost him. The cruel cycle never ended.

Instead, he focused on something else. A way to survive. A way to atone.

A hospital had taken him in by luck, where he used the knowledge from his past life to heal others. He studied modern medicine, blending it with the wisdom he had carried from centuries ago.

It was ironic, in a way. A cursed, bloodthirsty creature… healing humans.

But he never took from the living. He had promised himself—after what he had done to Jiwon—that he would never harm a human again.

Instead, he fed from the dead, from the blood that would have been discarded. It was enough to keep him going.

To keep him waiting.

Because no matter how much time passed, no matter how much pain he endured…

He was still waiting for Jiwon.