The streets of the Seoul-Riverside District never truly slept. Even now, two hours past sunset, the neon signs flickered against the hazy outline of the Gate suspended over the old river. Its glassy sphere pulsed with faintly blue light, a heartbeat in the sky, tethered by steel pylons and ancient runes that hummed faintly in resonance with the city below. Hunters walked the streets beneath it, their boots echoing on cracked asphalt, occasionally glancing up at the faint distortion in the air as if the sphere might consume them whole for their negligence.
Rheon Jin sat at the edge of a noodle stall tucked beneath a weathered awning. Steam from his bowl curled upward, mingling with the acrid scent of exhaust and incense. The stall itself had survived decades of city renovations — its walls covered with peeling posters advertising Hunter equipment and Murim sect teachings alike. The owner, an old man with hair the color of aged rice paper, stirred his broth absentmindedly, eyes following Rheon but never meeting his gaze directly.
"You keep staring at that Gate, boy," the old man said in a low voice, thick with the gravel of many years. "You'll start seeing things that aren't meant to be seen."
Rheon lifted a chopstick lazily, twirling noodles around it. "I already see things," he said, more to himself than to the man. "And nobody's going to promote me for it."
The old man snorted, a dry puff of air that smelled faintly of miso and smoke. "Hunters and their systems. You think you can own time itself with your ranks and badges. Laws are written in ink and fear. Time doesn't care."
Rheon tilted his head slightly, the corner of his lips twitching. "It doesn't care, yet people die trying to control it."
"That's the paradox, isn't it?" The man's eyes crinkled briefly before returning to his ladle. "Some boys born without rivers of Qi are never meant to stir the current."
The words, though cryptic, lodged themselves in Rheon's mind. He chewed quietly, tasting the broth — salty, rich, grounding. Around him, the district pulsed with life. Drones buzzed between neon signs, carrying deliveries in metal boxes stamped with glyphs that radiated faint Qi signatures. Monks in gray robes carried buckets of water from the river, chanting sutras under their breath, their voices weaving with the hum of electricity and engine noise into a strange harmony.
"Rheon!"
The shout cut through the street like a whip. Hana Myul, jogging toward him with a small envelope clutched tightly in her hand, skidded slightly on the slick pavement. Her oversized leather jacket flapped behind her, and her short hair stuck to her forehead in the humid evening.
"You've been ignoring your shifts again!" she exclaimed, breathless, though not in panic. "If the Guild finds out, they'll dock your credit again!"
Rheon didn't move immediately. He allowed himself a faint, tired smile. "I didn't skip. I was waiting for noodles."
Hana rolled her eyes, but she didn't protest further. Instead, she shoved the envelope into his hand. "Then explain this," she said. "It arrived for you. No return address, no digital tag. Just… this."
Rheon turned it over. The seal was pressed in wax, embossed with the character 道, a sigil he hadn't seen in decades. He frowned. Its edges were brittle, the color faded. When he turned the envelope over again, his pulse skipped. The handwriting — careful, deliberate brush strokes — was his own, and the date at the top read: Year 9 Before the Collapse.
"That's impossible," Hana whispered. "That's… over a hundred years ago."
Rheon's fingers tightened around the envelope. Around them, the crowd moved obliviously. A group of Hunters passed, checking their scanners, laughing at a poorly timed joke from one of the trainees. Monks drifted past with measured steps, heads bowed, the air around them faintly humming. None of them noticed the envelope that shouldn't exist, carrying a message that might not have been written yet.
"You didn't open it?" Hana asked, half in fear, half in disbelief.
"I…" Rheon paused, feeling the weight of the paper, the energy clinging faintly to it. "I'm not sure I should."
"Then don't," Hana said quickly, though her eyes remained fixed on the envelope. "I value my life too much to be a witness to whatever happens next."
Rheon slid the letter into his pocket, the seal pressing slightly against his thigh. They walked in silence through the crowded streets toward the Guild Quarter. Neon light reflected off puddles from the recent rain, flickering with the distorted shimmer from the Gates above. The city smelled of metal, broth, incense, and ozone — a blend of past and future, ancient and modern, that seemed to resonate with Rheon's own fractured Qi.
"You ever wonder," Hana said after a while, voice almost casual, "why the Gates never just… collapse? One small error, and this entire city could vanish."
Rheon shook his head. "They were never meant to stay stable. That's the point."
Hana frowned, looking at him askance. "You make it sound like some parable."
"Maybe it is," he murmured, eyes drawn upward toward the faint shimmer of the sphere. "Everything we see is just the aftermath of someone else's mistake."
The Guild Quarter rose ahead, a mix of glass-and-steel towers perched atop older, crumbling foundations. Neon signs flickered in garish colors beside carved wooden talismans hammered into walls like warnings, their glow pulsing faintly with residual Qi. The hum of holographic projectors competed with the chants of Murim monks, who patrolled the lower streets, muttering sutras in sync with the vibrations from passing hover-trucks.
Rheon and Hana reached the outer gate, where the scanners hummed in unison. Rheon's ID chip flickered red.
"Still inactive," the guard muttered, glancing at him with mild irritation. "Planning to stay unranked forever?"
Rheon shrugged. "It's quieter down here."
Hana snorted. "Quieter doesn't pay rent, genius."
They passed inside, weaving between trainees sparring on holographic mats. The soft kiap! of strikes collided with the mechanical whir of energy-infused weapons being calibrated by technicians. At the center, Master Hwan, a tall, gaunt figure in a worn gi, barked instructions at a pair of students attempting a Qi alignment exercise.
"Footwork! Flow, not force! Control your channel or you'll end up like last week's lesson!" His voice carried, sharp enough to pierce through the chatter and whirring drones.
Rheon lingered near the doorway, leaning against a worn wooden pillar. The familiar smell of incense and oil made his chest tighten, half nostalgia, half irritation. Master Hwan's gaze fell on him.
"Jin! Watching instead of training, I see," the master barked, walking toward him. The floorboards creaked beneath his steps. "What's this? Still trying to avoid your own Qi deficiency?"
Rheon bowed slightly. "Just observing, Master."
Hwan's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the old intensity softened to something more measured. "Some men are born with rivers; some with stones. That doesn't mean you can't build a dam somewhere else."
Rheon smiled faintly, polite. "Thank you, Master."
"Don't thank me. Prove me wrong," Hwan replied, walking back to the students, his voice fading but leaving a presence behind like a shadow in the sunlight.
Hana nudged Rheon. "See? Even he knows you're a hopeless case."
"I'm not hopeless," Rheon muttered, though he didn't argue further.
After checking in, Hana led him toward a small atrium near the Guild's library, a hidden enclave where temporal research was quietly tolerated — for a price. Rows of old scrolls, digital archives, and dust-covered manuals lay stacked haphazardly alongside energy monitors. Here, the air smelled of old paper and static, an odd calm compared to the chaos outside.
Rheon finally pulled the envelope from his pocket, fingers brushing the brittle wax. The sigil shimmered faintly, as if acknowledging his touch. He hesitated, the weight of centuries pressing on him.
"You going to open it?" Hana asked. Her voice was quiet now, more curious than warning.
He shook his head. "Not yet. I want to understand… what this even is before I touch it."
"Which is exactly what everyone who dies trying to break the law tells themselves," Hana said, leaning against a stack of scrolls. "The Temporal Regulation Act isn't just a guideline. It's… well, it's why people like me don't vanish every day."
Rheon's eyes narrowed. "Do you think someone sent this intentionally?"
"Could be," Hana replied, shrugging. "Could be the universe correcting itself. Or maybe just someone insane enough to gamble across centuries."
He nodded slowly. Outside, through the atrium's glass ceiling, the faint pulse of the Heavenly Gate illuminated dust motes floating lazily in the air. Something about its rhythm made his chest tighten.
Later that afternoon, he wandered into the lower streets, where Murim sect influence was strongest. Alleyways narrowed, walls engraved with ancient calligraphy, faint traces of protective talismans, and old Qi circuits. Children chased each other while monks adjusted prayer flags, humming sutras that resonated with the Gate above. The smell of roasted chestnuts mixed with oil and ozone; the streets vibrated faintly with the hum of residual temporal energy.
Rheon paused by a small shrine tucked into a corner. The bronze bells above the door jingled faintly in the wind. A monk inside poured water into a stone basin, the ripples glowing faintly as if reacting to his presence.
"You feel it too, don't you?" a soft voice said behind him.
He turned to see a young apprentice, her hair tied back tightly, Qi tattoos faintly glowing along her arms. "Feel what?" he asked cautiously.
"The Gate," she said. "The hum in the air. The people who are… out of place. They know you can feel it too."
Rheon frowned. "I'm just walking."
She smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. "Walking is enough."
Her words lingered as he continued down the street. Somewhere in the distance, a group of Hunters argued over monster cores. Another cluster of monks debated the ethics of using temporal techniques to heal injuries. All of it blended together — a world teetering between old rules and new chaos, stitched together by Gates that threatened to unravel everything.
As night fell, Rheon returned to his apartment above the dojang. The city lights shimmered on the river below, a mixture of neon and candle glow, the hum of the Heavenly Gate constant and faintly oppressive. He placed the envelope on his desk, staring at it.
The wax seal pulsed slightly, as though in time with the Gate. He could feel a faint echo in his broken Qi channels — a resonance that wasn't his own. Hesitant, he broke the seal.
Inside, a single piece of parchment. The ink was faded but legible:
To the disciple who bears no Qi,When the Flow begins to reverse, seek the temple that breathes between seconds.I have walked your path already. And failed it.— From yourself, before you were born.
Rheon's breath caught. Outside, the city moved on, oblivious — laughter, footsteps, drone whirs — the hum of life continuing in its indifferent rhythm.
He pressed the letter to his chest. "What does this even mean?" he whispered.
No answer came. But the Gate pulsed brighter, a heartbeat in the sky. Somewhere deep inside the resonance of his broken Qi, he felt the first echo stir — faint, almost imperceptible.
And for the first time, Rheon Jin understood that the quiet he had sought in life had just ended.
The night deepened, and the hum of the Heavenly Gate thrummed against the walls of Rheon's apartment like a low pulse, almost a warning. He placed the parchment on the desk, eyes tracing the elegant brushstrokes again. "From myself… before I was born?" he murmured, voice barely audible over the distant traffic and drone whirs.
Hana leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "You're going to open it eventually," she said softly. "We both know you will."
"I don't even know what I'm opening," he replied. "Or if it's… safe."
"Nothing in this city is 'safe,'" she said, the corners of her mouth twitching in a dry smile. "You've got people disappearing, Gates destabilizing, temporal laws ignored for profit. And yet, here you are, worrying about safety like it matters."
Rheon exhaled, pushing back from the desk. "I've always been… careful."
"Careful doesn't stop echoes from finding you," Hana muttered.
The apartment was quiet except for the pulse above. Outside, the city's glow reflected in the river below, neon reds and blues painting broken shards of glass and water. The streets were emptying as the late-night traders closed their stalls, though some lingered, whispering to themselves or counting strange artifacts they'd recovered from closed Gates.
Rheon slowly picked up the parchment. The moment his fingers brushed the ink, he felt it — a faint tug deep in his chest. His broken Qi channels trembled like dormant cords suddenly plucked. The sensation was subtle at first, a vibration in the core of his being, as though someone else was breathing in his lungs.
"What… is happening?" he whispered.
Hana stepped closer. "That's resonance," she said, almost under her breath. "Something inside that letter is… connected to you. To your Qi. Maybe even your existence."
Rheon froze. "Connected… how?"
She shrugged. "I don't know yet. But it's not normal. And nothing in this city is normal anymore."
The room grew colder. Outside, the faint shimmer of the Gate flickered against the skyline, pulses lengthening and compressing like the heartbeat of a slumbering giant. Rheon's eyes followed the movement until he noticed something he had never seen before: a distortion near the far corner of his apartment, where a faint blur shimmered in the air, almost like a reflection that shouldn't exist.
He approached cautiously. As he did, the air thickened, vibrating with low, imperceptible frequencies that seemed to press against his chest. The parchment began to glow faintly, the ink pulsing as if alive. The tug in his Qi grew stronger, like a whisper he couldn't hear but felt with every cell of his body.
"Step back," Hana warned, voice tense. "Whatever that is… it isn't just a letter."
Rheon's hands shook slightly as he reached toward the shimmer. He hesitated, and in that moment, a faint voice echoed in his mind — neither his own nor Hana's:
…Follow. Learn. Survive.
The whisper faded, leaving only the vibration in his chest. His first instinct was to pull back, to hide from the sensation. But curiosity, stronger than caution, pushed him forward. He touched the shimmer.
The world shifted.
The apartment stretched and folded, the walls elongating as colors bled into one another. A strange wind surged through the room, carrying scents he didn't recognize — scorched earth, iron, burning incense. The hum of the Gate above transformed into a harmonic resonance, vibrating not only through the air but through his very bones.
Hana grabbed his arm, steadying him. "Hold on!"
And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
He blinked. The apartment was the same — yet different. The river outside seemed darker, the neon signs slightly distorted, as though reflecting a city that had grown apart from the one he remembered. There was a faint haze in the air, acrid yet sweet, carrying the residue of some fire that had burned decades ago.
Rheon's chest heaved. His broken Qi channels thrummed with an intensity he had never felt. The parchment in his hand was no longer flat; it seemed to ripple, showing faint images beneath the ink — glimpses of cities crumbled under red skies, towers warped by unknown forces, and streets filled with people who didn't belong to his time.
"Parallel… worlds," he whispered, voice trembling. "I… I think this letter… it's showing me them."
Hana's eyes widened. "You mean… the universes the Gate connects to? The ones the Temporal Regulation Act bans?"
Rheon nodded slowly. "Yes. And… somehow, it's pulling me in. I felt it. Felt them calling."
Outside, the distant pulse of the Heavenly Gate grew louder, syncing with the tremors in his chest. Somewhere, deep within the shimmer of the city, shadows moved that did not belong to anyone living — echoes of lives from worlds that might never exist again.
For the first time, Rheon felt the weight of centuries pressing down on him. He realized, fully, that the letter was more than a warning — it was an invitation. And the first step across the Gate, into worlds fractured by choices and disasters, could not be undone.
He looked at Hana. "I… have to go."
She said nothing for a long moment. Then, softly, almost reluctantly: "Then I'll follow. But don't do this alone."
Rheon nodded. He unfolded the parchment one last time, tracing the characters slowly.
When the Flow begins to reverse, seek the temple that breathes between seconds.
He took a deep breath, the resonance thrumming through him like a heartbeat out of sync with the world. He stepped forward.
The air shimmered, stretched, and tore.
The apartment vanished.
When his feet touched the ground again, he wasn't in Seoul anymore. The sky above was dark red, streaked with ash and violet clouds. The streets were cracked, and the buildings were twisted, their walls scarred by some ancient catastrophe. In the distance, fires burned, though no one moved near them. Shadows of people flickered at the edges of his vision — echoes, or perhaps memories, of lives long dead.
Rheon realized, slowly and with a shiver, that he had stepped into a world shaped by consequences different from his own — a post-apocalyptic reflection of what might have been, or could be. The air tasted metallic and heavy, vibrating faintly with a hum that resonated through his chest, merging with the pulse of the letter.
He swallowed hard. Somewhere, deep inside, the first echo of himself stirred — a martial soul from a world long gone, reaching out to him.
And Rheon Jin understood, in that quiet, suffocating moment, that nothing would ever be the same again.
The Gate above pulsed once, faint and distant, as if watching him. Somewhere, far away in another version of the world, his own voice whispered:
"Learn. Survive. Become the bridge."
Rheon Jin inhaled, and stepped forward into the ruins.