As the evening sun leans westward, I sit with Joon-soo amidst a forest of pines, herbs scattered at our feet. After a long while, Joon-soo suddenly jolts as if waking from a dream, his eyes flashing bright, exclaiming, "Eureka!" Then he points directly at a tilted herb growing under the shadow of an old tree.
He says, "That's it! The herb with red stamens and twisted leaves like a duck's foot!"
I put away my pen and smile faintly. "Your identification skills remain unmatched."
Then, as if casually, I ask, "Where are Aldo and Veritas now?"
Joon-soo waves his hand and scoffs, "They've been dragged into doing charity work. Isn't it because of that giant cicada that ruined the harvest in 180 villages? Aldo dealt with it, so now the people keep coming to the door, demanding famine relief, pest control, agricultural reform…"
He grumbles under his breath, as if blaming fate, "And that cicada—when it called its brood, I thought it was about to nest or attack somewhere. But no, it just flew straight toward the queen like some nature documentary… and on the way, it devoured every plant with cellulose."
We laugh a bit, then pack up for now and begin walking out of the woods, heading back toward the shelter. But after just three steps, the atmosphere shifts—everything darkens, like a transition scene in a film.
Joon-soo suddenly throws out an arm across my chest, pushing me down behind the underbrush, and he himself melts into the thicket. I frown, thinking: What nonsense is he pulling now?
Then a thought flickers. I press my ear to the cool grass—vibrations ripple through the ground. A steady rhythm reaches me, clear only to those trained to listen—hoofbeats.
I chuckle softly and reply, "Your instincts are sharp."
Joon-soo flicks his hair and whispers, "Just reflex. Back when I did assassination work, the moment anything felt off, you had to act."
I glance up at the slivers of twilight filtering through the leaves. "You did assassinations? That was before we met?"
He nods, voice tinged with memory, "Back then I was part of the Joseon Haebang Jeonseon—all Koreans, former slaves. I got kicked out later because my thinking was deemed too reformist, not revolutionary enough."
I look toward the direction of the hoofbeats, my eyes sharpening. "Then you're in the right group now. We're survivalists."
Joon-soo blinks, surprised. "Wait, but when I joined, Aldo said he was the leader of a reformist group?"
I let out a small laugh. "Well… he planned to be. Not anymore." Then, my voice softens. "Truth is, we don't have a leader. I think Aldo recruited you because… you didn't belong anywhere else."
Joon-soo mutters, "Guess I should rename myself Joon-scammed…"
I give his shoulder a light pat. "I'm trying to restructure the group. We're planning a reformation meeting on September 1st. Can't keep functioning like some Volvox corporation of green flagellates forever."
The mood lifts slightly, but Joon-soo suddenly interjects, "Volvox—is that a subsidiary of Volvo?"
I shake my head and sigh softly, "Green flagellates are a type of protist, either unicellular or simple multicellular organisms. A Volvox colony is a spherical organization of many such cells grouped together."
Joon-soo nods thoughtfully. "You really know your bacteria."
I answer briskly, lips curling: "Green flagellates are animals....Uh...I mean eukaryotic microorganisms. Specifically, protozoa."
At that moment, the hoofbeats grow louder—cresting the hill from the south appears a full battalion of 180 female clerics from the Sapphic Cult. Their armor is etched with ancient motifs, worn over robes in hues of violet, pink, or rose. They carry matchlock guns, round shields, spears, and gleaming swords. Their eyes, cold and sharp, lock onto us.
Joon-soo squints and hisses, "We got spotted because of you!"
I reply calmly, "Focus on the fight."
Before we can speak another word, he leaps up, lights a flame, and hurls it across the dry grass. A wall of fire flares up between us and the clerics—a dazzling barrier of light.
Joon-soo grins smugly. "They'll probably retreat now, like in the movies…"
But that battalion isn't some scarecrow army. A chorus of incantations echoes—Purifying Waters. From the sky, a pillar of water crashes down, extinguishing the blaze entirely.
We don't waste another word. Both of us break into a sprint, leaping over roots, darting through the forest canopy like apes—our bodies light, our minds braced but unshaken. As I run, a thought gnaws at me: They were supposed to attack from the north… The intelligence team clearly got captured. Could they have known and changed tactics?
I glance over at Joon-soo, who now swings from branch to branch like a flying squirrel. I bark into the wind, "We have to reach the city before they do. We have to warn Umdah."
We slip through the treetops, the dense canopy above us like a natural fortress offering cover. But the enemy—the battalion from the Sapphic Heretic Sect—are not the kind to be fooled so easily. They don't advance with the clamor of ordinary soldiers; they move like phantoms—disciplined, swift, and armed with arcane firearms. The hiss of bullets slicing through the air, the mutter of enchantments like restless spirits whispering in our ears.
Two cold, ruthless bullets pierce into Joon-soo's thigh. His grunt is dry and sharp with pain, knees buckling mid-climb. I drop to his side without hesitation. My left arm pulls him upright, while my right hand grabs a vial of clearwater essence and cleanses the wound. Then I dig into the leather pouch on my belt, retrieve a bundle of bloodleaf herbs, crush them, and press the pulp into the wound. His blood mingles with the herbs and sinks into the skin, the flow easing almost at once.
I help him up onto a higher branch, but those bastards won't give us peace. Fire shots, ice rounds, thunder bolts, venom darts—they rise into the air like falling stars in reverse. In the distance, I see them casting spells to amplify their firepower. One of them chants an ancient invocation—a blend of Islamic incantation and Sanskrit mantra. Strange. Archaic. Beautiful—but deadly.
A few have begun climbing, scaling the tree trunks with eerie speed.
Joon-soo staggers, pulls a communication orb from the pouch at his chest, clicks it into the mana groove, and calls out for support in Old Sŏn-Han dialect. His voice cuts through the swirling magical winds like a distress cry from the underworld.
I look at him—then at the soldiers in purple cloaks, circling below like vultures preparing to tear flesh. In that moment, my mind sheds any pretense of caution. I think: We're dead anyway. Then... let's gamble everything.
From inside my coat, I pull a shard of metal—a remnant of a mechanical claw I scavenged from an abandoned outpost. I channel spiritual energy into my palm, whispering a verse from the Heavenly Gang, Earthly Fiend Art (天罡地煞法). Then, like in a dream—or perhaps a trance—I hurl the shard downward with force.
A soft whistle slices the air as the metal arcs, severing the stalk of a Hundred-Year Spirit Herb—the rare grass we spotted earlier. As it falls, the ground beneath the enemy stirs… as if exhaling.
From the earth rises a massive figure of green and brown—not human, not beast. A giant tree spirit—an Ancient Ent, what the ancients called wangliang (魍魎), or Ents in the old texts of Earth.
Its face is weathered with centuries of fury. Its eyes, like roots scorched by fire, burn with vengeance.
It lets out a roar—not in any tongue we know—but the entire forest seems to echo its rage.
And then—like a crane soaring into a flock of crows—it slams its limb, a great wooden arm, down upon the enemy's center line—shattering their formation like a kite with its strings cut.
Yes… ever since the Ent emerged, I can no longer make out anything clearly below—only flickering shadows, echoing roars, and the iron stench of blood seeping into the night mist.This is no ordinary battle.This is an ancient wrath—a fury descending from an age of deities, and we are but ants scattering beneath its storm.
My hands grip the tree branch tighter. My body is soaked in damp mist and waves of heat rising from a scorched wall of earth. The scent of burning soil, of resin going up in flames—everything blends together with the screams and howls into one chaotic mass.
The Ent roars, its tree-limb arms crashing down upon the Sapphic battalion like divine pillars.I hear bones snap. Horses shriek in terror before falling silent, flung into the shadows.
One of the cult's crazed clerics screams the name "Netheris", and she and her comrades begin chanting a strange, twisted litany—its warped syllables repeat in a rhythm that turns the blood cold:"Netheris… open the gate… burn the trunk… burn the blood-roots… Netheris…"The incantation seems to peel apart the very air.
A vortex forms—not only pulling wind, but pushing the heat higher and higher.I can feel it—my skin begins to dry out, tightens, then cracks with fine fissures.
But the Ent is no mindless creature.It drives its roots deeper into the earth, raising a great wall of soil to block the hellfire.
And yet—I see it: the vapor rising, the pressure building. One after another, soft popping sounds—"pop-pop"—signal the slow, inevitable collapse. The heat is too intense. Both tree and soil are suffocating in heavy breaths.
The Ent begins to emit mist—an instinctive defense. But all it does is thicken the air into a sweltering, choking shroud… like the dying breath of a primeval forest.
Joon-soo groans faintly, still pressing hard against the wound in his thigh.He turns to me—half bitter, half joking, as always:
"Unless you're Hercules… or maybe a damn superhero… or just plain mad like those lunatics—no one in their right mind would dare pick a fight with an Ent."
Then he tightens the improvised vine rope around his torso and glances at me:
"We need to get down. Unless you want to get steamed like mushrooms in a train-cooker."
I don't reply. I just nod slightly, then look down one last time.
My eyes catch the earthen wall trembling—tiny fragments glowing, vaporizing into miniature bursts.Each soft explosion punches into my chest like compressed fists of pressure.I reach for the vine. My hands tremble—not out of fear, but because something deep within tells me… everything is about to change.
Then I begin the descent.The rope scorches against my palm.The heat rising from below blurs my senses. I can no longer tell whether I'm slipping through vapor… or falling through a nightmare thick with blood and burning dust.
The heat from the fire devours everything around me—like an ancient wrath reawakened.The ground beneath the canopy begins to dry and crack, its surface fracturing like the weathered skin of a dying being. Each fissure maps out the collapse of a world imploding from within.
Then a slab of stone wall—once thought solid, our last defense—collapses in a thunderous roar, taking with it clouds of ash and blinding dust.Black smoke rises—thick, choking, silent yet treacherous—forming a dark canopy over the already shadowed forest, as if the sky itself is being smothered by some vengeful deity.
Joon-soo and I are still aloft, more than ten meters above the ground.The canopy beneath our feet is already singed. Wind stirs the light ash upward—into our eyes, into our mouths, into our lungs… and into every fleeing thought.I'm still calculating a path of retreat—when Joon-soo doesn't hesitate.
He turns to me. There's something in his eyes—between recklessness and resolve.And then he pulls me down with him.
I have no time to resist. My entire body is swept into that decision.We plunge.
Branches scrape our limbs raw, slicing through air with the sound of tearing silk.I curl inward, arms around my neck, bracing like a bird spiraling into its final fall.Wind screams past.
Then—thud.
Pain blooms from my legs up to my spine. My teeth clench, body frozen, only guttural groans escaping my throat—and Joon-soo's—as if we've both fallen from some shattered heaven straight into hell.
Between broken breaths, I mutter:
"Would've hurt less if we climbed down like normal people..."
He snorts, wearing the smug face of someone who just won a game of death:
"Go slow and you'll be sucking in CO and CO₂—few more minutes and we'd be meeting our ancestors."
I scowl, still wiping ash off my face:
"It floats upward though, doesn't it? What's the rush?"
"It floats, genius, but it falls too. The trees won't stop it. The leaves are already burning. Who cares how thick it is—run."
We bicker like two students sneaking out of class—but our feet are already flying.
Heat lashes at the back of my neck. Toxic winds twist through the smoke, and my heart tightens like a fist is closing around it.
I look up.The moon—our last remaining light—has vanished.Only a pitch-black veil remains, thick and heavy, like the palm of Death itself pressing down on the forest.
Then, like a curse's final breath, the enemy mages begin to falter.Mana drained.Mouths agape.Hands limp at their sides.
The Ent—ancient guardian of the woods—lets out a thunderous roar.With a moss-covered arm, it slams into the last stone wall.The sound of shattering is seismic—like the earth itself is crying out.The Sapphic cultists don't even have time to scream.They're buried in stone, in smoke, in flame—and in the weight of their own foolishness.
I think… it's over.
But it's not.
I realize: that wall collapsed outward—but when it shattered, the compressed pressure could launch the toxic gases and ash right toward us.A wave of death, any second now.
In that instant—my mind goes blank.No plans. No calculations.Only instinct.
I shout:
"Run!"
Joon-soo doesn't wait for a second order.
We bolt—two panicked beasts in a burning world.
Behind us, I hear a thunder not of rubble, but of something else moving.
I glance back.From the bushes, shapes emerge—small, countless:
Squirrels.Hedgehogs.Deer.Stags.Even unfamiliar creatures I can't name.
All of them running.All of them terrified.
A silent exodus of the forest itself.
Joon-soo looks back, gives a breathless chuckle:
"Didn't expect the beasts to agree with us..."
I don't respond.
Because something is rising in my chest.A quiet, sinking dread.
When the first crack resounds, it doesn't sound like stone or metal breaking—it sounds like the strangled breath of the earth itself, screaming from deep beneath the surface.
A forty-meter-high earthen wall—an immense, manmade cliff, partially fire-glowing red at Zone "A"—begins to shudder.Tiny fractures appear, vein-like, across its scorched and hardened skin, faintly illuminated from within by seething heat.Steam, smoke, and black ash, compressed for ages, now hiss out in pulses—like the final breaths of a dying beast.
Then comes a boom—not loud, not fast, but deep, heavy, and terrifying—echoing from the heart of the earthen mass.It collapses.
The entire wall comes crashing down with an unstoppable gravitational force.But this isn't just a landslide—it's a thermal avalanche: splitting rock, blistering ash, black smoke, and jets of superheated steam descend like the wrath of thunder.The interior—once heated to nearly two thousand degrees—now bursts outward in a violent steam detonation.
Air screams, torn apart by the evaporating pressure,launching a column of gray-white smoke and embers skyward—before unleashing a flood of black ash, like ink, that spills across the earth.
The first wave that strikes is glowing red—not ordinary dust, but ultra-fine ash laced with hot gas and toxic fumes.It coils like a flaming serpent, sweeping across the ground, incinerating all things brittle and dry.Trees within ten meters ignite instantly.
The air turns to a frying pan—Steam rises, scorching the skin,reeking of burning roots and soil turned to charcoal.Ash blots out the sky. Dust veils the eyes.Light becomes dull and murky—as if trapped inside an eclipse.
No one nearby has a chance to run.A shockwave follows—not strong enough to obliterate,but more than enough to hurl bodies,or sear flesh within seconds of exposure.
Half-burned tree roots—still smoldering—crawl out from the soil like black tendrils, glowing at their tips.
When the mass of earth hits the ground, it echoes—a deep, resonant rumble that lingers like a burial drum.Chunks of earth, glowing red like embers, crash and shatter, throwing up clouds of hot ash, then lie still, smoking on the scorched land.
The air grows thick. Dry. Suffocating.
The smell of scorched dirt, burning ash, and decomposing matter mixes into a single, lethal vapor—invisible, but one breath brings nausea and dizziness.
And in that moment, the entire battlefield feels torn in halfby a nameless monster—not one that roars, or claws, or bares fangs—but a beast made of earth, fire, smoke,and the compressed fury of nature gone mad.
The moment my body touches the water, it feels like ten thousand needles piercing my skin.This murky pond, shrouded in duckweed and shadow, its chill sharp enough to flay flesh—yet it is the only mercy left amid the fury of Heaven and Earth.
I force myself to sink deeper.The earth and scalding ash above still rain down;some fragments strike the water's surface and hiss into smoke—like droplets of molten stone falling into hot oil.
The hiss and the scent of scorched earth seep through my nose—dulled by the water, but still potent enough to make my head reel.The heat from the surface above presses down like a suffocating blanket,even breathing becomes a struggle.
I glance to the side—Joon-soo is there.His hair, soaked and clinging, his face streaked with mud—yet his eyes remain open, alert, strangely lucid.He nods—a small gesture, but it means: I'm still alive.
In that instant, I grasp the resolve of this madman—one who would throw himself against fire and ash,as long as no one is left behind.
I myself—though I've read thousands of pages on the eruption of Mount Vesuvius,on the poisonous clouds that spewed from Krakatoa—only now do I truly understand:
What we call "大自然"—Great Nature—is not theory.It is power in its purest form.And no reasoning, no resistance, has a place before it.
A charred root falls from the scorched earth above, grazing past me like a hungry flame.My vision flickers. I grit my teeth, gripping the small glass talisman hung from a cord of brass—a protective charm, and a sensing tool of magic.It shivers faintly—then emits a pale glow.
I whisper:Ash of the Five Phases... Metal and Water subdue Fire and Earth.
A thin barrier spreads from my palm across the surface of the water—like a film of misted ice.It cannot block the heat,but it neutralizes some of the poisonous vapors sinking down.
I don't know how long it will hold—perhaps a single khắc, perhaps three breaths—but that's enough to take one more breath.
Joon-soo looks at me and lets out a soft laugh—not loud, just a small crease at the edge of his mouth.
I, however, can't even manage that.The flow of khí within me is rattled by the thermal shock.My 心脈 —heart meridian—feels as if it's being burned from within.
The balance of yin and yang is breaking down.For a moment, my soul seems ready to leave my body.
But I remain conscious.
Because if I retreat now—no one will ever know how deep or vast this disaster truly runs.
The thin membrane of magic, clear as glass, shivers with every movement of the water.I sit curled within the tight space,back pressed against the wall of the sphere,feeling each heartbeat throb through my throat—not from fear,but from exhaustion creeping into every fiber of my being.
We have stayed like this, beneath this cold, crystalline pond—for two hours.
No one says it aloud,but we all know—the world above may still be Hell.
Outside the sphere, a few squirrels, hedgehogs, monkeys, small deer, flying squirrels…all of them now silent.They no longer flee like before,but instead submerge themselves in the frigid water alongside us,clinging to the air bubble like creatures waiting for the disaster to pass.It seems they understand—for once, safety lies in staying close to humans.
Joon-soo's scroll has formed a high-grade air sphere:it repels water completely,maintains a steady level of oxygen,and remains transparent enough to see through.But that doesn't make it comfortable.
I turn my wrist slightly—my fingertips have already pruned as if boiled,my skin pale and swollen.The air, though breathable, is growing heavier.It feels as though my lungs must compete with Joon-soo—and with the animals huddled beside us—for every shallow layer of thinning air.
The space is tight,but his voice is never small.
"…if you combine cinnamon bark with wild honey from northeastern deer,"he drones, voice steady like a lullaby—only it lulls not to sleep, but to madness—"then I think you could create a scent so alluring that even a hamadryas baboon would stop and sniff."
I glance over.He is, somehow, explaining this to… a squirrel.It sits still, eyes wide, head tilted,tail tapping gently against the air bubble as if seriously contemplating the idea of gluten-free cinnamon almond pastries.
I swallow a sigh, turn away, and press my lips tight.
Absurd.
Death has brushed past our necks like a passing wind—and this man still talks about cuisine like we're in his kitchen.
But then it dawns on me—perhaps that's exactly why he survives.
That bizarre instinct—like some invisible armor against madness.
Five minutes pass.Then ten.Then thirty.An hour.Two.
I begin to wonder if the world above has stopped turning.No spellfire.No clash of steel.Not even the scent of new ash drifting down into the water.
But I dare not speak.Even a moment of carelessness, and it could all collapse again—just like that towering wall of earth.
At last—it is the first to break the silence.
A hamadryas baboon, with a beard as silver as an old man's,suddenly pokes its head above the water—eyes narrowing, scanning the surface.
Both Joon-soo and I instinctively lift our heads.
The monkey glances around for a moment, then ducks back underwater, letting out a steady "kek-kek" sound—almost like it's giving a report.
Joon-soo leans over and whispers, "Is it saying the danger's over?"
I shake my head. "It's a monkey, not telepathic."
"Yeah, but it lives here. Probably knows the signs…" he shrugs, arms outstretched. "I'd rather trust a monkey than trust thin air."
We break the surface together—with the rest of the creatures.
The bubble bursts the moment my head rises above the water. It shatters silently—no sound, no flash—just a sudden shift: cool air, crisp wind, water soaking into my collar, and a shiver crawling down my spine.
The world above... is completely different.
The sky is overcast, heavy with lead-colored clouds. A soft rain begins to fall—not enough to drench us at once, but steady enough to hear the rhythm of droplets. A rain that washes away ash.
The ent has returned to its dormant form—a towering ancient tree, its roots buried deep in the ground like stakes. The trunk, charred black, no longer moves. Its broad canopy stretches across a portion of the forest, silent and still.
The massive mound—where the earthen wall collapsed and the final clash took place—lies still. No more flames, no more steam rising. Pale gray ash covers the ground like a fresh coat of paint. Rain slowly rinses it away, carving dark streaks into the soil—almost like the forest is drinking its own blood and ruin in order to survive.
I curl up beneath a hollow in a tree, not from fear—but from the cold. Joon-soo takes off his outer layer, lays it down, and starts a fire with whatever dry branches he can find.
The flames flicker weakly, like a child's shallow breath. But I don't complain. At least, it's still alive.
"…I still feel kind of bad," Joon-soo says, warming his hands by the fire. "I just figured out a recipe for banana cinnamon wafers."
I glance at him, lips tight.
"And I didn't even get to test it," he adds, murmuring as he looks at me. "We nearly died... because of one cinnamon tree…"
I don't answer. I just stare into the fire, watching tiny flecks of ash swirl upward, twist, and disappear. Even under its glow, the ground is still marred with blackened scars.
Close to midnight, we finally return to Tarif—the great Islamic trade city of northern West Mikhland. Its soaring archways rise through the mist like the upturned roots of a colossal desert tree. Warm yellow lights glow through glass lanterns, casting patterns onto glazed tiles. We see the silhouettes of the night sentries standing at the gate—silent.
I look up. Rain still falls—quietly. No one says a word. Only the sound of footsteps on wet earth, and the tolling of the night bell from the highest minaret, counting each second of our return.
An entire day—what should have been a quiet afternoon gathering herbs—has become a chapter written in blood and ash.
And I know: tomorrow, it will still rain.
But the blood on my hands…won't be washed away so easily.
By the time we return, the sun has long vanished behind the western ridge, leaving only pale remnants of light clinging faintly to the spine of the mountains.The arcane gas-lamps along the city walls are already lit, casting a soft azure glow, wrapping the world in a dreamlike veil—half mist, half illusion.
A young watchman, spear in hand and eyes alight with recognition, steps forth as I pass beneath the gate."Master Zihao!" he exclaims. "What has befallen you? Are you injured?"
I glance over to where Joon-soo is being carried by two other guards—his face pale as parchment, his legs swathed in blood-soaked bandages. I exhale quietly, brushing the ash-streaked sleeve of my once-white robe, and reply with composed clarity:
"We encountered a patrol of the Sapphic Cult upon the western rim of the Forest of Ten Thousand Vigilances. They bore firearms, wielded sorcery, and pursued us with the tenacity of vipers.But then… a strange occurrence transpired. I—unwittingly—cut a single strand of ling grass… and in doing so, awakened an ancient ent.It rose in wrath and laid waste to their formation, then vanished into the woods as though swallowed by its own fury.The forest healed itself—utterly, as if it had never been breached."
The guard falters, his grip loosening upon his spear, lips parted in disbelief."An ent…? A living tree? From the First Era?"
I nod solemnly, let the silence settle, then speak again:"Record this in the logbook. Dispatch a missive—urgent—to the honorable Umdah.This may be but the beginning. They draw our eyes northward… yet the true shadow gathers in the west."
He nods repeatedly and bolts toward the inner gate.
I turn, casting my gaze toward Joon-soo—now laid upon an ebony bench in the corner of the guardhouse. No one touches him. No one speaks.Instead, a young woman—perhaps a field medic—gently lays a woolen blanket over him, then seats herself beside him, eyes filled with quiet worry.
I watch them, and a nameless weariness stirs within me—not of body, but of mind. Like a machine pushed beyond its limits.
I walk the streets.
Though the hour is late, the city lives as though it were high noon. Merchants and buyers swarm the alleys; the scent of five-spice mingles with the cries of hawkers, the jingle of mule-drawn carts, and the distant sound of stringed instruments echoing from shadowed courtyards.The magical lanterns hanging from awnings paint the drifting mist in glimmers of crystal light.
"This world is a tempest of chaos," I murmur. "Between lantern light and fresh blood, I am still compelled to write reports."
The city hall lies near the central square—a structure of white stone, its roof tiled in violet, in the distinct architectural manner of the Intercontinental League.I submit the field report, sign, seal it, then seat myself at a desk. With a steady hand, I begin to compose a letter to Aldo, in violet ink:
"I trust you have delivered the rations to the farming zones devastated by the giant cicadas and you shall complete the duty as soon as possible.They are starving—and I am exhausted. Revolution can wait; ignore those proletariats...for now.I urge you to reconsider the group structure—the current alliance is unsustainable.It is time we ceased being mere wanderers.I propose the foundation of a humanitarian division—survivalist, at first. Reformist, if possible, in time.But first… we rest."
I fold the letter, seal it with wax, and hand it to a courier spirit.
The work concluded, I rise and exhale, eyes drifting toward a familiar memory: the onsen—the city's sacred hot spring.
It is a relic of a bygone generation—constructed half a century ago by former Japanese slaves, intended as a sanctuary for both body and spirit.So cherished by the locals, they preserved its original name: Kiiroi Hana—Yellow Flower.Though formally transliterated as Himawari—Sunflower—it still bears old Japanese signboards: black script on white cloth, with hanging curtains dividing the sections.
I enter. Red for women, blue for men, and a large grey curtain marks the mixed bath—designed with quiet dignity, aged yet pristine.
I pay the fee, entrust my soiled clothes to the attendant for cleaning, and lower myself into the mineral-rich water.
Steam rises like a ghostly cloud, enfolding my limbs. The ache in my shoulders, knees, and spine slowly dissolves.All grows indistinct, save for the soft drip of water from the wooden rafters, and the distant, contented sighs of other bathers.
I gaze upward. The ceiling beams have darkened with time.
"What, in the end, is this the beginning of?" I wonder aloud.
And in that moment, I am no longer a diplomat, nor a guide, nor a fourteen-year-old child bearing the burden of a form beyond his years.I am simply—one who has survived an ambush… trying not to let the mind fracture where the body held fast...