Instead of answering, he chuckled softly and shrugged his shoulders. His reflection shimmered strangely on the clear water beneath the cloud bridge, and abruptly, his laughter stopped.

            “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go home and rest,” he declared.

            “Wait, young master. Just a moment, please,” Beodeul implored before dashing to the market stall. She spent the last of her money on a decent lantern and paper to write a wish, despite having worked her bones off all June to afford even a small lantern. It was a far cry from the lavish coming-of-age lanterns of the wealthiest son in Muritmaegol.

            The lantern carried a blue flame, its spicy scent wafting from within the robust lotus shape.

            “Why bring such a thing?” the young master frowned, as if to chide her for her meddling when she offered it to him, reluctantly taking the lantern.

            “You should make a wish.”

            “I have no wishes.”

            “It may not be a sky lantern to send off, but you can float it on the river.”

            “I said no.”

            “Will you continue to wallow in misery?” Beodeul retorted, holding back the rest of her thoughts.

            The young master looked at her expressionlessly, then reluctantly walked toward the river, floating the lotus lantern. The flickering blue flame cast a deep shadow beneath his chin.

            He began to write something on the paper she had given him.

            “You say you have no wishes, yet you write so long. What did you wish for?” she asked slyly.

            The young master turned his head away, as if it was not her place to ask.

            Soon, the lantern carrying his wish drifted down the river, joining others released at the same time, not a lonely path for any.

            “Do you have any beans left from earlier?” Beodeul asked.

            “Yes.”

            Just then, a splendidly decorated cart passed by them, accepting offerings along its route. The wealthy would give money, while others, like them, would toss in the beans they had received at the festival’s entrance as an offering to the fish deity, a grateful gesture despite personal feelings.

            Beodeul resented the idea of offering even a bean to a deity known for consuming humans, but it was hard to ignore such a ritual when it was happening right before her eyes. Attempting to hide her reluctance, she prepared to throw the roasted beans into the fish’s mouth but was suddenly struck by a sharp sensation on the side of her head.

            “You hated that man-eating deity, yet now you make an offering and pray for peace?”

            His breath was fragrant at her ear. Turning, she saw the young master leaning on her shoulder, watching her actions with amusement.

            “Why?”

            “Don’t say such things out in the open; you’re asking for trouble,” he advised.

            “Why?”

            “People don’t know about human sacrifices or they pretend not to remember. They worship the Soru River deity because they believe in the legend that it listens to their wishes. They wouldn’t openly discuss such a vile and shameful tradition. They choose to forget and believe only what they want to.”

            The young master blinked his glossy eyes.

            “What does it matter if it’s a deity or a demon?”

            Beodeul regretted her words, realising he was not swayed by the Soru River legend like others and she had spoken out of turn. After all, he was the son of Master Ki, a fervent devotee of the river deity.

            “Right, what does it matter?” the young master suddenly laughed, bewilderingly.

            At that moment, a chilling presence rippled behind them. Turning, Beodeul saw a sinister gaze stretching towards the young master’s heels.

            Was it the demon, the one that had been expelled, seeking to consume the young master? Why was it lurking and watching instead of attacking? Was it waiting for the perfect moment for a more satisfying hunt?

            The piercing gaze on the back of her head felt unnervingly icy. As a wave of anxiety washed over her, she lightly grasped his wrist.

            “What is that?”

            The young master pointed with his index finger at a particularly large and ornate palanquin moving ahead of them in the procession.

            “It’s a baby bodhisattva. I never knew it was a real baby.”

            Inside the red-draped palanquin was a chubby five-year-old boy, pale-eyed despite his plumpness.

            “They say they summon spirits into the body of a mere five-year-old, like a satanic ritual. It’s truly cruel. The child cannot die, and his limbs are manipulated without his will… Poor thing.”

            Suddenly, the child began to wail, his limbs flailing wildly in a fit that shocked both the palanquin bearers and onlookers.

            “Oh, Bodhisattva, what’s wrong with you!” A shaman at the front rushed to console the child, but he showed no signs of stopping, his gaze fixed oddly on the young master, trembling like a bell.