As True as a Dream Chapter 146

“We can’t go too far—we’re meeting that old man in two days,” Hae-Joo murmured, packing hastily.

 

Yi-Ho tugged her shoulder toward the inner room.

 

“Grab what you need. We’re leaving.”

 

“Where to?”

 

“A place to hide. Ever heard the saying ‘A wealthy man’s ruin lasts three generations’?” His tone was lighter, trying to ease her tension.

 

Hae-Joo blinked. “Are you… bragging about being rich now?”

 

“Yes.” He smirked, lounging against the doorframe.

 

She rolled her eyes, stuffing a few clothes, money, and the pocket watch he’d given her into a bag. Meanwhile, Yi-Ho disguised himself—a tattered hat pulled low, soot smeared on his face, a faded coat over a brown vest, and worn rubber shoes.

 

Hae-Joo froze. ‘Right. He’s wanted.’

 

“Let’s go.” He stepped out first.

 

Pausing at the threshold, she glanced back.

 

“Regrets?” Yi-Ho asked, noticing her hesitation.

 

She shook her head, bitter.

 

Of course she regretted it. This house—her first home in Gyeongseong, bought with years of sweat and sacrifice. The unpaid deposit. The furnishings she couldn’t take.

 

A sigh escaped her. This place held her loneliest, hardest year.

 

But she’d chosen her path: siding with the independence movement against Saito and Man Insa. A life on the run awaited her—like her childhood, hunted by Japanese soldiers.

 

Then Yi-Ho’s rough, warm hand clasped hers.

 

She laughed softly. ‘Not alone anymore.’

 

They were wanderers now. No home, no roots. But that meant freedom—to walk their chosen road without looking back.

 

With him.

 

‘Goodbye, my safe haven.’

 

 

* * *

 

Two Days Later

 

Two slums in Gyeongseong had burned to ash.

 

The fires erupted at dawn, swallowing hundreds alive. By daybreak, only charred ruins remained.

 

The Government-General blamed the first on “resident negligence,” the second on “personal grudges.”

 

Like the “plague” cover-up, the people seethed but stayed silent—those who protested were dragged away.

 

 

* * *

 

A Dimly Lit Safehouse

 

Candlelight flickered over a tense gathering.

 

“What’s your decision?” A composed middle-aged woman addressed a silver-haired man at the head of the table—Kim Cheong-ho, the “Blue Fox” mentioned in Mi-Yeon’s letter.

 

“We want to believe Comrade Mi-Yeon’s report, but—”

 

“It’s too fantastical,” another cut in.

 

“Yet can we ignore it?” argued a third. “The ‘plague’? These fires? Witnesses saw a child flying through the flames!”

 

“Even if this monster exists, would Governor Saito—”

 

“Since when has Japan needed logic for slaughter?”

 

The room erupted.

 

Kim Cheong-ho tapped the table. “I believe Mi-Yeon.”

 

Silence.

 

His word was law here. As the group’s leader, he’d orchestrated multiple successful operations against the Japanese.

 

“And the Song Yue Pavilion owner’s proposal?” someone ventured.

 

The room stilled. Days ago, Saito had bombed the pavilion, calling it the “plague’s source.”

 

“He’s likely dead. No one survives that.”

 

“Then why this?” A wanted poster unfurled: Yi-Ho, masked and unmasked.

 

Gasps. Some had seen the masked director—but none imagined the face beneath.

 

‘Beautiful,’ someone thought, then flushed.

 

Kim Cheong-ho studied the poster, his aged hands trembling.

 

“They’ll return tomorrow. I’ll meet them myself.”

 

Murmurs of dissent faded under his glare.

 

“This gamble… might be worth taking.”

 

His gaze lingered on Yi-Ho’s face. ‘Unchanged in 38 years. Then 22 years ago. And now.’

 

A shiver ran down his spine.

 

“…22 years,” he whispered.

 

 

* * *

 

Outskirts of Gyeongseong

 

Yi-Ho and Hae-Joo reached a secluded house near Ban-ga Village—a property Hongo had bought under an alias. Well-maintained, with spare clothes and supplies.

 

After two days there, they slipped back into the city at dusk, arriving at the old man’s thatched hut.

 

But in the courtyard stood a different figure—a silver-haired man with a stern posture.

 

As he turned, Hae-Joo tensed.

 

Kim Cheong-ho’s lips curved faintly. ‘Found you at last.’