Be the Sacrifice – Chapter 1

Author: Nikss

The bells rang out clamorously.

Following that came the thunderous beat of drums and janggu, along with the frantic stomping of a baksu mudang—a shaman—dressed in vibrant five-colored hanbok, leaping and whirling in ecstatic frenzy.

The entire village had turned out to watch the gut ritual.

Sangun Village, nestled in the mountains near the capital.

In wartime, it stood as a vital guardian of the capital, its ridges linked by chains of beacon fires and defensive walls stretching from peak to peak, connecting to neighboring settlements.

The lords of Sangun Village belonged to one of the great meritorious families that helped found the nation—the Hong clan, bearing the character for “crimson.”

Though pushed aside in the capital’s power struggles, their lineage had produced generals for generations, so they settled in this strategic mountain village close to the capital.

Protected and prospered by the Mountain Lord ‘Sangun’ for so long, and being the unavoidable gateway to the capital, the village was always bustling with travelers and merchants.

It carried one ancient, unbreakable tradition, every year, without fail, offerings must be presented to the Mountain Lord for one hundred full days, or prosperity would abandon the village.

“Sangun? Demanding offerings like that… doesn’t that make him more of a demon than a god?”

Hong Yeomrang—the second son of the Hong family, freshly returned to the village after his studies in the capital—stood at the very front, lips curling into a mocking half-smile as he spoke.

“Shh…”

His elder brother, Hong Innam, hushed him with a soft hiss of reprimand.

In truth, there had once been a time when the offerings were neglected. The Mountain Lord’s wrath manifested as a ferocious tiger that appeared, cutting off all merchants and travelers headed to the village.

Even when hunting parties were organized to slay it, not a trace could be found—yet whenever outsiders drew near, the beast threatened them relentlessly.

In the end, every villager who made their living from guests and passersby pleaded desperately that the offerings must be resumed.

The shaman’s five-directional flags snapped wildly in the air.

A baksu mudang, face painted heavily like a woman’s, pulled out the crimson flag and— for a fleeting instant—his gaze locked with Hong Yeomrang’s.

The face seemed somehow familiar.

A spark of recognition flickered in those painted eyes, sharp and knowing, as though the shaman had glimpsed something deeper beneath Yeomrang’s casual smirk—something unspoken, something that made the air between them suddenly feel thicker, charged with an invisible current.

Yeomrang’s pulse quickened, unbidden, the mocking curve of his mouth faltering for half a heartbeat as that brief, piercing look brushed against him like a secret touch in the midst of the roaring ritual.

The moment their eyes met, the baksu mudang jerked his gaze away as if fleeing in panic, spinning his pupils wildly to escape the contact.

Hong Yeomrang watched him with a quiet, knowing thought.

He had grown up in this village before leaving for the capital, so yes—it was almost certainly a familiar face.

“Still clinging to these superstitions?”

Every soul in the village was required to attend the gut; no one knew who might be chosen as the offering. It was only natural.

Curiosity lit every face in the crowd.

“It’s called an offering, but really, it’s just paying respects. Everyone accepts it as normal and believes in it—so as long as you live here, you follow.”

“The old man’s temper has mellowed quite a bit.”

A few steps away stood Hong Taeyoung—their father—hands clasped behind his back, watching the ritual with an air of supreme indifference that bordered on insolence.

Hong Innam caught the sight of the thick blue vein throbbing at his father’s temple; clearly, the remark had landed.

An offering in name only: the person selected would enter a cave deep in the mountains and offer devotions to the Mountain Lord for a full one hundred days.

In return, no famines, no floods, no disasters would touch the village.

Year after year, abundance flowed.

And remarkably, the chosen one was always from a poor household—yet when they descended the mountain bearing wild ginseng, rare jewels, or other treasures, their family rose to sudden wealth and honor.

No matter how skeptics pressed—“Where does the ginseng come from? Where the jewels?”—the answer was always the same,

“All by the grace of Lord Sangun.”

In time, the villagers had no choice but to believe.

And then there were the Mountain Lord’s messengers, said to dwell upon the peaks. These figures—spotted now and then beneath sacred Dang tree groves or at the mountain’s base—never aged.

Ten years, twenty years passed, and they remained unchanged.

They harmed no one, so people gradually came to believe the messengers were eyes and ears, reporting every detail of village life back to their master.

Hong Yeomrang stood with arms folded, face etched with boredom and faint disdain as he stared at the swirling gut.

Hong Innam stole a sidelong glance at his younger brother.

From the moment he was born, this one had been different—sharper, colder, untouchable in ways the rest of them never quite grasped.

Yet now, in the thick of the drums and bells and incense smoke, something else stirred beneath Yeomrang’s usual mask.

His gaze kept drifting—almost against his will—back to the painted face of the shaman.

The baksu mudang moved with fluid, almost hypnotic grace amid the chaos of flags and chants, heavy makeup accentuating sharp cheekbones and full lips, the crimson robe clinging and swirling like spilled blood against the vibrant hanbok layers.

Each leap, each twirl sent the five-colored ribbons fluttering, but every so often those kohled eyes flicked toward Yeomrang again—brief, burning, then hastily averted.

Each stolen glance felt like a spark dragged across dry tinder.

Yeomrang’s breath hitched, subtle but undeniable.

The mocking curve of his mouth softened, lips parting just enough to betray the sudden heat pooling low in his chest. He told himself it was recognition, nothing more—just the jolt of seeing someone from childhood grown into… this.

But the air between them thickened with every heartbeat, heavy with unspoken things, old secrets buried under years apart, a pull that had no name yet refused to be ignored.

The ritual’s frenzy roared around them, yet in that narrow space of locked-and-fled gazes, the world narrowed to the electric tension of two people who should have been strangers, yet felt anything but.

And Yeomrang—cynical, untamed Yeomrang—found, for the first time in years, that his carefully guarded indifference was cracking, splintering under the weight of a single, forbidden look.

Ordinary people don’t receive names like that.

But from the moment of his conception dream, Hong Yeomrang’s fate had been anything but ordinary.

In the dream that heralded his birth, a blazing dragon plummeted from the heavens straight into the heart of the capital—into the ninefold palace where the king resided.

The diviners declared it: this child was destined to have his name inscribed in the royal register.

Hong Taeyoung—Hong General—had long since distanced himself from the royal court through his own poor handling of affairs.

Yet upon hearing his second son’s fortune, joy overwhelmed him. He threw a grand feast, the likes of which the village had rarely seen.

To say a man would have his name entered in the royal ledger meant one thing above all: marriage to a princess.

In Hong Taeyoung’s mind, this son would be the key to restoring the family’s glory, guiding them back to the dazzling center of power.

The Hong clan bore the character for “crimson“, and so he named his boy Yeomrang—Flame Wave—praying his future would burn bright and glorious, a roaring fire no one could extinguish.

The king’s royal son-in-law. The buma.

By the principle of primogeniture among royal consorts, if the crown prince were to die, the princess would ascend the throne next.

A woman becoming ruler was rare, but not unheard of in the kingdom’s long history.

And the current crown prince had been frail from birth; whispers had followed him since infancy that he would never live past his twentieth year.

Should Hong Yeomrang wed the princess, the son she bore him would one day sit upon the dragon throne. With all of this burning in his thoughts, Hong Taeyoung—Hong General—could scarcely contain how dearly he cherished his second son.

Perhaps that was why.

Hong Yeomrang grew up wild and untamed. Whatever displeased him, he struck—even at his elder brother with fists, even at his father with defiance.

Born with the sturdy frame of a warrior, he forced his father’s whip to fall silent by the time he was five. He showed no interest in the weak; his temper flared only when something violated his own fierce sense of justice.

And once crossed, he never forgot.

He repaid slights twofold, threefold—tenfold if necessary—with a relentless, burning persistence that bordered on obsession.

No matter how far the Hong family had fallen from grace in the capital’s eyes, no one dared lay a finger on Hong Yeomrang—the son of a founding meritorious clan.

Not in the royal city. Not anywhere.

Yet here, amid the pounding drums and swirling incense of the gut, something else entirely held him captive. His gaze kept returning—unwillingly, inevitably—to the shaman.

The baksu mudang moved like liquid flame through the ritual chaos, crimson robes whipping around lithe limbs, face painted in bold strokes of white and red that accentuated every sharp angle, every curve of lip and eye.

Kohl-rimmed eyes flashed beneath the headdress, catching the torchlight like embers in the dark.

Each time those eyes found Yeomrang again—fleeting, electric, then torn away as if scorched—the air between them seemed to thicken, grow heavier, alive with a current neither could name.

Yeomrang’s arms remained crossed, posture deliberately casual, but his pulse hammered traitorously beneath his skin.

The boredom he wore like armor cracked further with every stolen glance. Heat crept up his neck, unbidden and unwelcome, pooling low in his belly. He told himself it was mere curiosity—recognition of a childhood face transformed—but the lie tasted thin.

Because when the shaman’s gaze brushed his once more—longer this time, lingering just enough to sear—he felt it, a pull, deep and dangerous, like the first spark before a wildfire consumes everything.

In that suspended heartbeat, the roaring ritual faded.

The village, the offerings, the ancient promises—all of it receded until there was only the space between them, taut and trembling with unspoken hunger.

Hong Yeomrang, the untouchable second son destined for royalty, felt—for the first time—the terrifying thrill of wanting something he could not command, could not conquer, could only burn for.

Such was the man who now returned to his hometown—having, unbidden and unasked, passed the military examinations with flying colors.

He strode back bearing the fine horse and gleaming sword bestowed by the king himself, his face etched with utter geographic desolation and profound boredom.

“My own flesh and blood… and yet I must pin the family’s fate on this one…”

The sheer dread of entrusting the Hong clan’s future to such a son made Hong General squeeze his eyes shut in silent agony.

In truth, the boy had grown beyond his father’s control long ago.

During his years of study in the capital, Hong Taeyoung had handed him over to a trusted friend’s household—because once Yeomrang began mastering letters and gripping a sword in earnest, he spoke blunt truths without hesitation.

If his father so much as accepted a lavish gift from anyone, the boy marched straight to the magistrate’s office and reported Hong General for taking bribes.

The third time the local magistrate’s face twisted in open discomfort, Hong Taeyoung—humiliated before the entire village—swore he would rather be branded a corrupt official than endure another public scandal.

So he sent the boy to the capital, entrusting him to an old comrade who ran an impeccably upright military academy.

From time to time, letters arrived praising the lad’s innate strength and iron will.

In this village, there wasn’t a single grown man who hadn’t tasted Yeomrang’s fists in childhood, so Hong General merely shrugged it off as expected.

But when he saw that tall, insolent face again—now forged by mountain winds and solitary battles with tigers—the general, and even the elder brother Hong Innam beside him, could only shut their eyes tight.

Over six cheok in height, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, the pale azure jeogori bestowed upon the top graduate strained at every slight movement, seams threatening to split and tear apart across the hard planes of his chest and arms.

His face was the very image of his mother, lost too early.

In childhood, the village boys had tormented him mercilessly—calling him “pretty like a girl”—only to be beaten half to death for it.

Even now, the beauty remained, delicate yet sharpened into something unmistakably masculine.

“Handsome in a manly way,” they said these days.

Thick, dark brows framed long, upturned eyes with deep double lids; depending on his mood, they could appear almost bewitchingly, seductive in a way that felt dangerous, otherworldly.

When boredom made him blink slowly, those long lashes trembled like the soft brush of silk against skin, drawing the eye inexorably, holding it captive in their quiet depth.

And across the ritual ground, the shaman felt it too.

The baksu mudang—Hee-sa beneath the paint and silk—had frozen mid-twirl when their gazes clashed again.

The five-colored flags still snapped in the wind, drums thundered on, but for her the world narrowed to the sight of him, taller than memory, broader, fiercer, yet wearing the same untamed spark in those long, shadowed eyes. Her painted lips parted on a silent breath.

Heat flooded her cheeks beneath the white lead and rouge. She should look away—must look away—yet her body refused, drawn like iron to lodestone.

Yeomrang felt the pull mirror his own. His arms, still crossed in feigned indifference, tightened until knuckles whitened.

The bored mask slipped further; something raw and unguarded flickered across his features—hunger, recognition, a spark of something deeper that made his heart slam against his ribs.

In the swirling chaos of bells and chants, their eyes met once more—longer, bolder, unblinking.

The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken years, buried childhood glances, and a new, perilous heat that neither had anticipated.

Every drumbeat echoed in their pulses; every swirl of incense seemed to coil around them, binding them closer in the midst of the crowd.

Hee-sa’s fingers clenched around the crimson flag, trembling not from the dance but from the sudden, aching certainty, this man, this untouchable flame returned from the capital, was looking at her—not as a shaman, not as a memory—but as a woman.

And Yeomrang, destined for princesses and thrones, felt the first real crack in his iron control, a fierce, forbidden want that burned hotter than any royal decree, pulling him toward her like fate itself had lit the fuse.

Hong Innam unconsciously took another half-step away from his younger brother, keenly aware of the full head of height Yeomrang now had over him.

Yeomrang finally tore his gaze from the ritual ground and tilted his head, fixing those long, shadowed eyes on his brother.

“What are you staring at?”

“N-nothing.”

Damn it. He’d stammered.

Hong Innam jerked his eyes forward again, face burning.

It wasn’t just his gaze that had been caught; every marriageable woman in the village had come out tonight under the pretense of watching the gut, but their real prey stood right here, bathed in torchlight and indifference.

They devoured him with their eyes, yet none dared approach.

Hong Yeomrang’s lips—unpainted, yet glossy and unfairly full—curled into their usual half-snarl, warning the world to keep its distance.

“This year’s offering…!”

Bored out of his mind and only dragged here because staying home was worse, Yeomrang lifted his gaze lazily to the shaman who had finally opened his mouth.

The baksu mudang drew the crimson flag from the five directional banners.

With a sharp whistle of silk, he swept it in a wide arc from right to left.

Beneath the ancient sacred tree—said to be a thousand years old—strips of dyed cloth fluttered in violent agreement.

“This… this year’s offering is…!”

The red flag sliced through the air, sweeping over the crowd, then halted.

It pointed straight at the Hong family.

Hong General instinctively stepped aside.

The flag did not follow him.

It remained fixed—unwavering, merciless—on the man standing directly in front of him.

On Hong Yeomrang.

A low, thrilled sound slipped from Yeomrang’s throat, half laugh, half growl.

“Oh…”

The shaman’s painted face drained of every drop of color.

The crimson flag in his hand shook pitifully, as though weeping.

And then, in the space of a single heartbeat, the finger pointing at Yeomrang snapped backward with a sickening crack.

The baksu mudang—Hee-sa—staggered, a choked cry tearing from his throat as he clutched his broken finger.

Pain flashed white-hot across his features, but beneath it, something far more terrifying: raw, naked panic.

Because the Mountain Lord had spoken.

And He had chosen Hong Yeomrang.

Yeomrang’s lips parted slowly, the mocking curve melting into something darker, hungrier. His gaze locked on Hee-sa across the firelit space, unblinking, predatory.

The air between them turned molten.

Every torch seemed to flare brighter, every drumbeat to pound inside their ribs.

The crowd’s gasps and murmurs faded into a distant roar, until there was nothing left but the two of them—bound by an invisible thread pulled cruelly, deliciously tight by the gods themselves.

Hee-sa’s chest rose and fell in shallow, frantic breaths, kohl-rimmed eyes wide with dread and something else—something that looked dangerously like longing.

Tears threatened at the corners, smudging the rouge, yet he could not look away.

Yeomrang took one slow step forward.

Then another.

The crimson flag trembled violently in Hee-sa’s grip, as if trying to flee the choice it had just made.

But it was too late.

Fate had named its price.

And Hong Yeomrang—beautiful, untouchable, destined for thrones and princesses—was now claimed by the mountain.

By the ritual.

By the trembling, painted creature who had just broken his own finger rather than point at anyone else.

Yeomrang smiled, slow and devastating, the expression cutting straight through Hee-sa’s heart like a heated blade.

“Come on then, shaman,”

He murmured, voice low enough that only the gods and Hee-sa could hear.