"We are hunters, voices strong."
Jinu froze mid-air. His body, once fluid and commanding, now hung suspended like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His eyes locked onto the far end of the arena, where the crowd had noticed her, not by force, but by instinct.
Rumi stood alone.
"Slaying demons with our song."
Her silhouette was uneven, her breath visible in the cold air, her body trembling with exhaustion. The demon marks across her skin glowed hot pink, pulsing like veins of fire. Her left eye shimmered unnaturally, slowly shifting into the bright yellow of demon eyes. She looked haggard—half-formed, half-fallen—but she stood.
"Fix the world and make it right."
The hypnotized crowd didn’t react but simply moved aside. As if even in their trance, they recognized her presence.
Rumi raised her voice. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t pleading.
"When darkness finally meets the light."
She finishes each word deliberately, each syllable laced with a darker strength than she had ever carried. Her voice echoed through the arena, low and resonant, like a bell tolling at the edge of war. It wasn’t the voice of a savior. It was the voice of someone who had already died once and chose to speak anyway.
Gwi-Ma laughed. A snarl of mockery.
His fiery form surged brighter, towering behind the Saja Boys like a living apocalypse. His voice was jagged, cruel, vibrating through the bones of every soul present.
“You come here looking like that?” he hissed, his grin stretching across the sky. “You think you can fix the world? You can’t even fix yourself.”
Rumi didn’t flinch. Her voice dropped, quiet and defeated. “I can’t.”
Gwi-Ma's flames roared louder, his tone getting more vicious. “And now everyone finally sees you for what you really are.”
Rumi’s eyes didn’t blink. She replied in monotone. “They do.”
The words hung in the air like ash. The Saja Boys didn’t speak but merely observed, even the demons holding Yena paused, their claws twitching with uncertainty.
Gwi-Ma sneered, words like a blade as he states the obvious, fueling the fire. “And the Honmoon is gone.”
“It is.” Rumi’s lips parted, her voice barely audible.
She closed her eyes. Just for a moment. The arena held its breath. Then, her voice returned, clearer and steadier than ever before.
“So, we can make a new one.”
Her eyes opened again. The yellow was gone. Her brown eyes stared forward, unflinching, and the darker tone in her voice dissolved, replaced by something more resolute. Something human. And for the first time since she arrived, the power in the arena shifted—not violently, but subtly. Like a tide beginning to turn.
Rumi stepped forward onto the raised platform, her boots striking the metal with quiet conviction. Each step was deliberate, weighted not with grandeur but with truth. Her body trembled, but her resolve did not. The patterns on her skin began to shift—no longer the purplish pink of shame, but a slow, iridescent bloom of color. It was like watching bruises heal in reverse, light reclaiming space where darkness had settled.
Nothing but the truth now112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB1VvLfhv0U
Nothing but the proof of what I am112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxTTPm2wrVi
The worst of what I came from, patterns I'm ashamed of112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4H9jXhn8q4
Things that even I don't understand
The first note was fragile, almost hesitant, but it carried. It reached the edges of the arena like a ripple across still water. Her voice wasn’t polished—it was raw, cracked in places, but it held something deeper than technique. It held her. Every lyric spilled out like confession, like apology, like a wound finally allowed to breathe.
The crowd remained stilled, still unaware of what was happening.
The Saja Boys hovered above, suspended in mid-air like the reapers they are. Their yellow eyes do not hide anything at this point. Abby’s eyes narrowed, calculating. Mystery tilted his head, listening, observing. Romance remained motionless, his gaze shifting between Yena and Rumi, clearly disliking the exchange. And Jinu was uncertain how to react, frozen in between disbelief and dread, as if watching a memory he thought he’d buried rise from the grave.
Rumi kept walking. Her voice grew stronger with each step, harmonizing with the silence, piercing through the fog of illusion. She didn’t look back. Not anymore. Her words weren’t for the demons. They weren’t for Jinu. They were for the ones who mattered to her most.
I tried to fix it, I tried to fight it112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7qIHQ1gwSq
My head was twisted, my heart divided112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡO1WEngwPJ7
My lies all collided112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1w9RV1cZRy
I don't know why I didn't trust you to be on my side
From the left wing of the arena, Zoey blinked. Her soul stirred.
The illusion over her eyes began to fade, and she turned her head slowly toward the source of the voice. Her lips parted, her breath caught, and something inside her began to glow. Her fingers twitched, her posture softened, and the trance began to crack.
From the right wing, Mira shifted.
Her rigid stance faltered, her shoulders trembling. Her soul brightened, warmed by the honesty behind the voice. She turned her gaze toward Rumi, eyes wide, heart aching. She remembered. Not just the mission. Not just the fight. She remembered why they had started.
And in the center, Yena. Torn between truth and shame, her body limp, her spirit fractured, but the voice reached her. It wrapped around her like a thread, pulling her back from the edge. Her soul brightened, flickering to life. Her gaze finally lifted, and she saw Rumi.
Across the platform, walking toward pandemonium with resolve. Singing with her heart out. Her voice was no longer just melody—it was memory. It was the sound of honesty, of mistakes being made, of finally opening up. It was the sound of someone who is broken and chosen to speak anyway.
All three girls had been awakened—not by power, not by magic, but by the voice of their friend. Their sister. The one who needed them the most. The one who had carried her brokenness into the fire and chose to bring them along.
I broke into a million pieces, and I can't go back112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAniozttixc
But now I'm seeing all the beauty in the broken glass112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrZUfC0tUs3
The scars are part of me, darkness and harmony112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdZdYP5x7gu
My voice without the lies, this is what it sounds like
Rumi kept singing. Her voice, once fragile, now bloomed with strength—each note a thread of memory, each lyric a wound laid bare. She continuously walked forward on the raised platform, her steps slow but unwavering, the iridescent glow of her demon marks shifting with every breath. The colors danced across her skin like living light, no longer a curse, but a declaration.
She wasn’t hiding anymore.
From the far-left wing of the arena, Zoey moved.
Her trance had shattered, and what remained was clarity. She descended from her section with quiet urgency, her boots tapping against the metal as she stepped onto the left-hand platform. Her gaze never wavered. She didn’t look at the crowd. She didn’t acknowledge the flames. Her eyes were locked on Rumi, Mira, and Yena—her sisters.
Why did I cover up the colors stuck inside my head?
Her voice, so often sharp and rhythmic in rap, now unfolded into something soft and soothing. It was like water over stone—gentle, persistent, healing. Her verse was simple, but it held weight. It was a call. Her words floated across the arena, weaving into Rumi’s melody like a second heartbeat.
From the opposite wing, Mira stirred.
She stepped down from her platform, her movements slow, deliberate. Her eyes didn’t wander. She didn’t flinch at the demons or the fire or the chaos. Her gaze was fixed on the girls at the other ends of the arena. Her voice joined Zoey’s, deep and resonant, filled with emotion that trembled at the edges.
I should've let the jagged edges meet the light instead
It was beautiful. Not because it was perfect, but because it was real. Her verse carried the weight of all the things she wanted to protect, all the pain of each of the girls was her pain as well. It was a voice that had held too much for too long, now finally allowed to speak.
Yena, though still held by the two demons, her heart surged, her breath returned, and her limbs began to move. She struggled. Her feet scraped against the ground, her arms twisted against their grip. She wasn’t fighting for survival anymore. She was fighting to reach them. Her sisters. For their presence as her anchor.
Show me what's underneath, I'll find your harmony.
Her voice burst forth like light through stained glass—angelic, desperate, radiant. It cut through the air, through the fire, through the torture of fake affection. Her verse didn’t just ask for help. It reached out, trembling with emotion, a thread woven from pain and love.
The four girls sang from opposite ends, across platforms as they harmonized. A verse from nowhere.
The song we couldn't write, this is what it sounds like
Their voices met in the center of the arena, weaving together like strands of light. The melody was fragile, but it held. It shimmered. It was friendship at its purest form. It was the sound of broken girls choosing each other. For a moment, the arena felt less like a battlefield and more like a promise.
The harmony of the girls’ voices—fragile, defiant, radiant—was beginning to fracture the illusion. The crowd was stirring. The trance was thinning. And the power he fed on, the shame he cultivated, was slipping through his hold on them.
Gwi-Ma’s patience snapped. His roar tore through the arena like a rupture in the sky. “Stop this song!”
The flames behind him surged, casting the entire stage in a hellish glow. His voice was fury incarnate, vibrating through the bones of every soul present. The circular platform cracked open, and from its depths, a horde of blank-faced demons erupted—faceless, voiceless, soulless. They moved like shadows, synchronized and silent, their eyes void of thought, their bodies shaped for destruction.
He sent them like arrows. Each horde aimed at the girls individually.
But the Huntrix didn’t flinch. They didn’t pause. They greeted the onslaught with confidence, strength, and resolve.
Rumi’s voice remained steady, her melody unwavering as she summoned her Saingneom. The four-tiger evil slayer sword shimmered with iridescent light, matching the glow of her marks. She strikes with precision, the air around her vibrating with energy, and charged forward to meet the demons head-on. Her movements were fluid, each swing a verse, each clash a declaration.
Mira’s voice deepened, her verse trembling with power as she summoned her Woldo. The crescent moon glaive pulsed with energy as she spun it around and slashed with the blade end. A shockwave bursts outward when it is hit by its blunt end, but instantly kills the first wave of demons with the sharp end. She greets the horde, her voice rising with every strike, her body moving like a moonlit warrior.
Zoey’s voice remained calm, her melody soft but unyielding. She summoned her Sinkal, the six spirit blades gripped around her hands as their tassels swayed with her movement. She maneuvers through the shadows, slicing through the faceless demons with grace and precision. Her eyes never left her sisters. Her voice never faltered.
We're shattering the silence, we're rising, defiant112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8qvv0hhbcA
Shouting in the quiet, "You're not alone"
Yena. Still held by two demons, she didn’t need to panic but adjusted to the situation. Using their grip as leverage, she leapt into a short backflip, twisting their arms mid-air. Her body moved like water, her spirit like air. As she landed, she manifested her spirit magic. Pure, radiant light had pulverized them with a burst of lifeforce energy.
They shrieked in pain, then turned to smoke. The Saja Boys, hovering a few distances behind her, watched in stunned silence. Their expressions shifted—surprise, alarm, something close to fear.
We listened to the demons, we let them get between us112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvYROuTCasP
But none of us are out here on our own
Yena didn’t look at them but kept moving forward. Straight toward the oncoming horde. Her steps were slow, deliberate, her voice still singing. She summoned her Buchae. The divine fan unfolded in her hand like a bloom of light. It cast a glow across the dim arena, illuminating the shadows with warmth and justice. The demons charged, and she welcomed them with divine retribution.
So, we were cowards, so we were liars112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKVhZQcWasl
So, we're not heroes, we're still survivors
But through it all, the girls kept on singing. Their harmony didn’t falter. Even as weapons clashed and demons screamed, the melody remained.
The dreamers, the fighters, no lying, I'm tired.
The arena pulsed with light. Not from the stage nor from the flames, but from the people.
One by one, the fans began to awaken. Their eyes, once glazed and vacant, blinked open with clarity. Their bodies, once rigid and entranced, softened with breath. And their souls—those long-silenced echoes—began to glow. It started as a flicker, a faint shimmer in the chest, then bloomed outward in waves of soft blue light.
They weren’t just watching anymore. They were remembering. The song, still rising from the girls’ lips, threaded through the crowd like a sacred wind. It wasn’t a performance but a reclamation. And the people, once trapped in illusion, now stood in quiet awe, resonating with every note.
The last of the demon hordes fell. Smoke curled into the air, dissolving into nothing. The battlefield quieted as the four girls gravitated toward each other. Their steps were slow, deliberate, drawn by something deeper than instinct. They ascended the circular platform, weapons lowered, voices still singing.
But dive in the fire, and I'll be right here by your side.
Then they embraced. A group hug. No words were exchanged. They had already said everything. Their souls, once fractured, now aligned. The glow around them intensified, not from power, but from unity. And then—something powerful stirred. A pulse.
A new Honmoon. Bluish iridescent bright strings burst from their souls, weaving outward in peace and harmony. The threads stretched across the arena, then beyond—toward the edge of the world. They shimmered like constellations, echoing through the hearts of the crowd, through the silence that had once held them captive.
The Honmoon wasn’t forged from just duty. It was born from truth. From pain. From choice. And from its creation, radiant light burst from the girls. Their attire shimmered into something new, something true.
Rumi, Mira, and Zoey's white stage outfits dissolved into a flowing yellow and white Hanbok, the fabric soft and luminous. White Jeogori, yellow Dongjeong, gold ribbon Goreum, white Chimas. Golden Binyeo adorned their neatly updo hairstyles and wore colorful tasseled accessories with tints of gold wrapped around their waists, catching the light like sunbeams.
As for Yena, her worn blue dress dissolved into a majestic yellow and white Hanfu, the fabric cascading around her like water; a yellow Yi garment, a white Zhiju robe, pale yellow Shanku, and a white Dai waist sash embellished with gold Pei adornments. Gold accessories adorned her straightened long hair. (click on the highlighted words)
The girls turned toward Gwi-Ma and the Saja Boys, their eyes no longer wide with fear but sharpened with resolve. Their song continued—no longer a plea, but a declaration. Each note was a blade. Each harmony is a shield.
They advanced. Rumi led the charge, her sword summoned from thin air in a burst of iridescent light. The blade gleamed with divine energy, its edge humming with purpose. Her steps were steady, her gaze locked on the main stage where Gwi-Ma loomed like a storm waiting to break.
Beside her, Yena moved like wind—her divine fan snapping open with a sharp crack that echoed across the arena. She shifted between corners, her movements fluid and unpredictable, her strikes precise. Her eyes scanned the battlefield, always watching Rumi’s flanks, always ready to intercept.
Behind them, Mira twirled her moon glaive with practiced grace, the crescent blade slicing through the air in wide arcs. Her posture was grounded, her strikes deliberate, her voice deep and unwavering. She held the rear, keeping the demons at bay with rhythmic precision.
Zoey moved like a whisper, her spirit daggers glowing faintly in her palms. She threw them with deadly accuracy, each blade finding its mark. Her voice remained calm, threading through the chaos like silk.
Demons surged from every direction. They came in waves—clawed, twisted, blank-faced. But the girls didn’t falter. Rumi’s sword cut through the first wave with surgical precision, her body moving like a flame. Yena danced beside her, her fan sweeping in wide arcs, each strike a burst of divine retribution.
Mira spun her glaive, sending shockwaves through the ground, knocking demons off their feet. Her voice rose with each strike, a battle hymn that resonated with the Honmoon’s pulse. Zoey darted between shadows, her daggers flying like darts, her movements sharp and fluid.
Then the Saja Boys moved. All except Jinu.
They floated forward with speed and fury, their expressions twisted with rage. Baby surged faster, his body crackling with dark anger. He lunged at Rumi, his claws outstretched—but she didn’t hesitate. She pivoted, her sword slicing upward, but he dodged it. Though he didn't anticipate it, Rumi acted fast as she kicked him to the side. He crashed into the platform, stunned.
Abby leapt from the shadows, cornering Mira with a snarl. His claws slashed, but Mira met him with her glaive; the two locked in a brutal clash. Mira didn’t falter; however, her feet dug into the ground, her arms steady, her voice rising in defiance against his sexiness.
Zoey moved to assist her, but Mystery blocked her path. He stepped in with eerie calm, his stance unpredictable. His presence was suffocating, his aura thick with uncertainty. Zoey backed away slowly, adjusting her own stance, her daggers ready. She didn’t speak. She didn’t blink. She waited.
Yena anticipated the strike before she even saw it. Romance appeared beside her, his claw slicing through the air. She turned just in time, her fan snapping open to catch the blow. The impact sent a shockwave through her arm, but she held firm. Their eyes met—hers burning with resolve, his gleaming with dark obedience. He snarled, but she didn’t flinch.
The battlefield erupted. Demons screamed. Weapons clashed. Light collided with shadow.
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