Before the world named him a star, he was a child with no name, humming forgotten songs to the moonlight. His lullabies carried across centuries, wrapped in sorrow and light, whispering truths even gods dared not speak. He was alone long before the world ever saw him smile.

The world called him an idol, a star carved from light, the golden voice of an entire generation. But Jinu was never human. Not really.

He was born four centuries ago, in the last golden age of the Han Moon Empire, when demons still walked the earth freely, hiding in royal courts and behind sacred masks. His mother, Seraphiel, was not from this world. She was an angel cast out for falling in love with a prince who wore two faces, one human, one demon.

That prince was Daejin, a charming noble who held sway over both the heavens and the hells with a silver tongue and a shadowed smile. He lied to Seraphiel, telling her he had abandoned his demon ways. And in her love, she believed him.

Their son was Jinu. Born under a blood moon eclipse, with a voice that echoed like heaven but eyes that glowed like fire. He was sacred and cursed all at once. When he was only a child, his father vanished, hunted by celestial blades. His mother wept as she hid Jinu in the mortal realm, binding his wings, sealing his fire, and whispering lullabies to him in a language now lost. Her hands trembled when she kissed his forehead. She knew the world would forget him. She prayed someone would love him before it remembered.

Centuries passed. Jinu was reborn again and again, trapped in human lives with no memory of who he was. But one day, his voice returned. Beautiful. Haunting. Unnatural.

It was the voice that brought him fame as a K-pop idol. Crowds worshiped him, not knowing they were bowing to something ancient. He stood on stages made of smoke and dreams, while pieces of the past stirred behind his eyes. And among the crowds, someone watched him not with adoration but with recognition.

Then came the voices.

They whispered in mirrors. Crawled from speakers. Reminded him he was the son of a traitor. They showed him fragments of wings, fire, blood. His hands trembled. His dreams cracked open. And during one concert, when the lights flared too bright and the cheers grew too loud, the demon inside him broke free.

He destroyed everything.

A massacre. Screams. Fire. A girl’s voice calling for her mother.

That was the first time Gumi appeared. An immortal witch of desire and corruption. She didn’t want to kill him. She wanted to own him. She trapped him in illusion. Sealed his memories. Fed on the sorrow he couldn’t name. To the world, he was healing. To her, he was hers.

And far away, in another life, someone’s heart stirred. Drawn to a voice they hadn’t yet heard.

Here where their story has began

Rumi was born in the ashes of a lie.

Her mother, Hyun-Ae, was a kind herbalist in a quiet mountain village that lived just beyond the veil of the human realm. She fell in love with a traveler who came only at night—charming, mysterious, and never aging. She didn’t know he was a demon. She didn’t know he had done this before. She thought love could tame the dark. That if her hands were gentle enough, if her heart was open enough, it would be enough to change him.

Her father, Rael, was a shadow demon exiled from his own clan. He couldn’t possess her, so he seduced her instead. He offered her tenderness like a lie wrapped in silk. He gave Hyun-Ae a child and vanished the night Rumi was born.

Rumi had her mother’s warmth and her father’s shadow. Her eyes changed color with her mood—amber when calm, violet when hurt, black when angry. Her blood reacted to holy ground. And when she cried, mirrors cracked. The villagers feared her. The monks whispered about omens and ancient sins. People left food by their doorsteps but never knocked. Children stared and ran.

Her mother tried to protect her. She wove charms into Rumi’s hair, whispered lullabies in forgotten tongues, and kissed her each night with hands that trembled. But the world was cruel, and monsters—both human and not—wanted Rumi dead.

When she was seven, the village was burned to the ground.

No one saw who did it. The sky had turned red. The trees bled ash. Screams rang like bells across the mountains. And all Rumi could remember was a voice—a voice so beautiful it made her cry, even as fire swallowed everything. The voice didn’t call her name. It mourned her. It felt ancient and tender, like it had waited lifetimes just to break for her.

She survived under rubble, clinging to her mother’s bloodstained rosary. She slept beside the bones of the only home she had ever known. Days later, Hunters found her. She didn’t speak. But in her sleep, she called out names no one understood.

The Hunters raised her as one of their own. Taught her how to track. How to strike. How to make her rage an arrow, not a storm. But no one knew her secret—that every demon she killed made her powers stronger. That every death awoke a little more of her bloodline. A little more of him.

She became the best of them. Cold. Precise. Beautiful like frost over a grave. And yet, a part of her still ached for the voice from the fire—the voice that knew her, wept for her, waited for her.

She didn’t know if it was a memory or a warning.

But when she closed her eyes at night, sometimes she could still hear it—whispering through the wind.

Calling her by a name she had not yet learned to answer. Until she wanted to learn more