The village of Yejin lay hidden at the bend of the southern river.
It was beautiful, in a way that made your breath slow without meaning to. Rows of mulberry trees framed the paths. Canals wove between houses of lavender-dyed timber, and silk threads still hung from lines strung between rooftops—dancing faintly in the breeze.
But there were no voices.
No footsteps.
No heat in the chimneys.
Only stillness.
Ji Haneul stood at the edge of the bridge leading in. A single faded shoe rested near the gate. Beside it, a broken bamboo flute.
He entered the village without drawing his blade.
Each house he passed told a story—leftovers of morning rice still in bowls, clothes mid-fold on woven mats, a child's writing scroll still pinned beside a window. This wasn't a massacre. This was something else.
Erasure.
The wind blew soft.
And the silk threads rustled.
Not with the wind.
With breath.
Haneul froze.
Something had just exhaled near him.
He turned—
—but nothing stood there.
Only a strand of deep blue silk fluttering across the canal, stretched between two homes. He walked toward it, slowly. Reached out.
His fingers brushed it.
A whisper scraped across his mind.
"Do you remember their names?"
He stepped back immediately, sword halfway drawn.
But the air was still again.
He closed his eyes. Focused.
The threads in the village… they weren't just decoration. They formed a net. A pattern. A seal.
An array.
He sheathed his sword.
And burned a strand with his qi.
The entire village shifted.
Not physically.
Spiritually.
Suddenly, the empty homes felt colder. The silence now had weight. And from behind the dye vats near the village center, movement stirred.
A figure stepped out.
Not robed.
Not armed.
A girl.
Young. Barefoot. Her face was pale, her expression calm.
"You're not supposed to be here," she said.
"I go where they hide," Haneul replied.
"They don't hide. They listen."
"…Then tell them I'm coming."
She tilted her head.
"You're already late."
Before he could speak again, her body convulsed.
Her eyes rolled white.
And she spoke—not in her own voice, but one that echoed unnaturally across the square:
"The veil grows thin. The sword draws near. Let him walk… he will split only echoes."
Then she collapsed.
Haneul caught her before she hit the ground.
But her breath was gone.
No wounds. No qi disturbance. Just… extinguished.
He laid her down gently.
And looked around.
The silk threads had begun to darken.
Turning black.
Burning from the edges inward, as if the village itself had heard her words—and was trying to forget them.
Haneul stood in the center of it all.
And understood something chilling.
This was not a warning.
It was an invitation.