𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐄 ✓

03: DESOLATE FLATTERY

"Whenever something terrible occurs, the mind replays the event a hundred times, trying to figure out what went wrong and what could have been done better."

Torture was repeatedly perpetrated. Hell was not just a fiery, brimstone-filled hole nor a torture chamber. Hell was waking up alone, the sheets wet with anguish and blood, knowing that the love one had dreamt of would never return to them.

Whenever a soul was granted a blank canvas, a canvas, a block of stone or wood, or a voiceless mellifluous instrument to toil with, and absolutely nothing remained as the end result, they would then peer inside themselves. In search of slick, raw, deformed objects that paddle like fish made of cloud vapour and fill them with a live clamour, they haul, tug, squeeze, and search. They latch onto something.

And as it emanated, it developed a shape and took on a physical form.

With each stroke of their brush, each note from their voiceless instrument, they poured their soul onto the canvas, etching their emotions into existence. The raw pain that dwelled within them transformed into a masterpiece, a poignant reflection of their inner turmoil and unspoken words. It danced on the edge of their creations, whispering tales of agony and love intertwined.

They had brought it all together. They had created something lovely and orderly out of frivolity.

That was divine, and so was the pain.

That same pain had become a completely romanticising element for the heartbroken Jaishian. Kwan stood still, his eyes witnessing a great tandem of agony. Another wave of sob strangled his throat, its claws clawing at his adam's trying to make its way up through the brink of his lips, to be free and fly away, to unload his heart from the hell of a burden; but he had a face to keep, a demeanour to maintain.

A Jaishian should always feel loved and be happy for each ounce of it being celebrated. He was made to carouse that feeling of love, to canonise and glorify that humongous sentiment.

Under a luminous moon, he wandered through the veil of melancholy that cloaked his heart. The echoes of a love lost reverberated within him, each memory a bittersweet symphony that only he could hear. Kwan, a silent witness to his torment, could do nothing but stand by, his soul heavy with the weight of his sorrow.

The tears that fell from his eyes were not tears of sorrow, but tears of acceptance. They glistened like diamonds in the fading light, a testament to the resilience of the human heart. And as Kwan walked away from the square, his burden lighter than before, he carried with him a newfound wisdom: that pain, when embraced with an open heart, could be the most beautiful of all emotions.

"While all of this is fascinating, the kiss that will make the girl forget about her envy is the kiss she most desires," Jin asserted. "That's all there is to it."

"Why are you doing this?" Kwan's voice wavered slightly, betraying the turmoil boiling within him.

Jin's expression was inscrutable, a mask of enigmatic calm. "Disgust does not automatically reduce desire. The power lies in the kiss she most desires, the kiss that will make her forget about her envy. My words bind my magic, and you hold the key to her liberation."

Sung Hee eventually perked up, and her colossal green eyes fell on him. He approached her and placed his hand on her shoulder, causing her to spin around to face him. He could feel the strain in his own body as he tried to hold back, not to pull.