“Prophet of the Apocalypse,” Hong Dalya.
Jio stared blankly down at her.
Contrary to the overwhelming story, Hong Dalya’s eyes were ordinary. Two pupils dark as ink. Just human eyes you’d commonly see on the street.
“You were looking for me?”
“…Yes.”
Groaning, Hong Dalya forced herself upright. Hong Haeya, who had been watching anxiously, started and hurried to support her.
“Dalya! Don’t get up!”
Right. Just stay still. If I tap you, you look like you’ll die on the spot, you.
Watching the twins’ tearful sisterly affection like a distant fire across the river—this wasn’t the time for that. Because what Hong Dalya did upon raising herself was…
“What? Why are you doing this?”
…to grip Jio’s hem tightly. Like someone drowning.
He’d heard she’d lain bedridden her whole life since birth. The pain was so severe she couldn’t sleep; only recently, thanks to Seongnyeongcho (Holy Spirit Herb), had she barely begun to sleep.
Then how does a sick kid have this much strength?
He couldn’t…