Seoul's subway system had over 300 kilometers of track — and Ji-Hyuk had memorized every forgotten corner of it.
But Line 11 didn't exist on public maps.
Not anymore.
It was a ghost line — once used for military transport, now buried and sealed after a tunnel collapse over a decade ago.
Or so the world believed.
Ji-Hyuk stood before a rusted metal door beneath Gongdeok Station, where an unmapped stairwell vanished into dust. Glyphs lined the door's frame — not human, not Berafean.
Fold-tech.
Maeryn floated beside him, expression sharp.
"They're growing bolder," she said. "A structure this size under a city this big? They're not hiding anymore."
"They don't need to," Ji-Hyuk said. "They want us to wake up into their dream."
And then he pushed the door open.
The descent was steep.
The air was thick — not with dust, but intent. Like walking through liquid thought.
As they reached the final level, the darkness peeled back.
And revealed the Beacon.
It wasn't a machine.
It was a tree.
Pale white, like bone. Rooted in cracked concrete. Its limbs didn't sway — they shivered, reaching through stone and shadow alike.
All around it, dozens of people sat in silence, eyes open, unblinking, mouths murmuring nothing.
"Sleepers," Maeryn said. "But they're not unconscious. They're feeding it."
The tree pulsed faintly.
Each breath of the sleepers made the roots twitch.
Ji-Hyuk stepped forward carefully.
"This is their hive core," he muttered. "They're using it to lace the city's collective unconscious. Turning dreams into soil."
And then—
The tree opened its eyes.
It wasn't a creature.
It was an interface.
The voice that emerged came from everywhere — floor, walls, bones, roots.
"Hello, Ji-Hyuk. Welcome to the First Bloom."
Maeryn summoned a defensive field.
Ji-Hyuk drew his blade.
"You're not welcome here," he said.
"But you are," the voice replied. "More than anyone. You dream louder. Deeper. Wider. You are the center of resistance. So we offer you something rare."
A pulse.
A memory.
A projection shimmered before him — not Sora this time.
Not Berafe.
His mother.
Alive.
Cooking. Laughing. Wearing an apron covered in flour.
She looked at him.
Smiled.
"It's okay to rest now, son."
Ji-Hyuk didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
He raised his blade and sliced the illusion in half.
The Beacon screamed.
Roots lashed out like spears.
Maeryn threw a barrier — it shattered on impact.
Ji-Hyuk ducked under the next wave and slashed upward, severing three tendrils. But more grew in their place.
The tree wasn't defending.
It was learning.
It wasn't trying to kill them.
It was trying to adapt.
"Every strike teaches us. Every thought feeds us. Every regret you carry makes us stronger."
Ji-Hyuk gritted his teeth. "Then let me teach you what pain tastes like."
He planted both feet and summoned the Berafean Flame Glyph — one only warlocks could use.
A sigil of purification.
The Beacon reacted instantly — thrashing, screeching, roots curling inward.
The sleepers convulsed.
Maeryn stepped beside him. "You have seconds. Once the flame lands, their minds will fry."
Ji-Hyuk whispered a name — all their names — burned into his journal, into his heart.
Then he let the flame go.
The room ignited.
White light.
No heat.
Just cleansing.
The tree burned not like wood, but like falsehood.
The sleepers collapsed, breathing hard — freed from the loop.
And the Beacon crumbled, roots retracting into nothing.
The Fold screamed one last time—
"You cannot kill what dreams."
And then it fell silent.
Later, back aboveground, Ji-Hyuk stared out over the city skyline.
Maeryn sat beside him on the rooftop ledge.
"You okay?" she asked.
"No," he said. "But that's the point."
She tilted her head.
"The Fold thinks pain is a flaw. But it's the one thing it can't digest. Every scream, every loss… it builds a wall it can't cross."
Maeryn looked down.
"You think we're winning?"
Ji-Hyuk stared at his scarred hands.
Then toward the stars.
And whispered:
"Not yet.But I'm still awake.And as long as I am…They don't win."
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