The golden dragon roared across the paper sky, and somewhere in a thatched hut, a child refused to cry.
The village of Seolhyang was celebrating the Day of the Dragon as it had for generations—with noise, fire, and a devotion bordering on collective hysteria. Drums thundered from dawn, pounding out a rhythm that even the deaf could feel vibrating in their bones. Red and gold banners snapped in the icy wind blowing down from the Hoeryeong Mountains, bearing the likeness of the Hwangryong—the golden dragon who had founded the Empire four hundred years earlier, whose descendants still ruled as "enlightened tyrants" from their palace of stone and gold.
Men danced through the narrow streets, their painted wooden masks depicting the Four Guardians: Cheongryong, the Azure Dragon. Baekho, the White Tiger. Jujak, the Vermilion Bird. Hyeonmu, the Turtle-Serpent. Children darted between their legs, laughing and shrieking, waving oiled-paper lanterns that cast flickering shadows across dark wooden façades. The smell of grilled meat mingled with cheap rice liquor and incense burning before improvised altars.
It was the kind of festival that let you forget you were poor. Where you pretended winters weren't so long, harvests hadn't been so thin, and ducal taxes hadn't risen again this year. People danced, drank, and shouted prayers to gods who never answered.
And meanwhile, in a small thatched hut on the edge of the village, Choi Eunbi screamed.
She screamed as if her voice might drive the pain away. As if the Guardians, in their divine indifference, might hear her over the drums and decide that yes—perhaps this woman deserved a little mercy. But the Guardians were busy elsewhere. Or didn't exist. Or didn't care.
The pain, at least, was real.
Choi Mansoo stood outside, hands clenched around the handle of his axe. He wasn't working. He wasn't moving. He stared at the closed door with the intensity of a man trying to bore through wood by sheer force of will. Inside, his wife was fighting something he could not fight for her, and it was driving him insane.
The midwife—a hunched old woman who smelled of medicinal herbs and smoke—had shut the door sharply two hours earlier.
"Out," she'd said. "You're only in the way."
So he waited.
And while he waited, the village kept dancing.
Another scream. Higher. More desperate. Mansoo took a step toward the door, stopped, and stepped back. His hands trembled. He had killed men once. Not many—but enough to know what it was like to watch someone die. He had survived things he never spoke about.
And yet here, in front of this ordinary wooden door, he felt as helpless as a child.
The scream cut off abruptly.
The silence that followed was worse than the howling.
Mansoo let go of the axe. It fell into the slushy snow with a dull thud. He didn't hear it. All he could hear was the buzzing in his ears, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
Then another sound. Faint. Wet.
And then…
Nothing.
No crying.
The first thing I perceived was the burning.
Not the burn of fire. Not the burn of white-hot metal. No—something worse. Something fundamental. The air itself burned my lungs, as if every molecule of oxygen were a microscopic blade shredding my alveoli from the inside.
I tried to scream.
I couldn't.
My body wasn't mine. It refused to obey. The muscles didn't respond. The nerves transmitted nothing but that unbearable sensation of cold and fire at once, as if someone had plunged me into a frozen lake and then thrown me into a blaze.
Sounds. Muffled. Distorted. Women's voices—high, anxious—speaking a language I understood without understanding. Words that made no sense.
Or made too much sense.
Then, amid the sensory chaos, an image.
A face.
Eyes. Amber. Like honey frozen in time, glowing with an inner light that had no place in this world of pain and darkness. A perfect face—no, not perfect. Too real to be perfect. Features marked by past smiles, shed tears, and restrained anger. A face I knew without ever having seen.
Serin.
The name exploded in my mind like a thunderclap. Not a memory. Not a thought. It was an absolute certainty, burned into the part of my brain that controlled my breathing and heartbeat.
Serin. Serin. Serin.
Who was she?
I didn't know.
Why did the name echo like a prayer, like a curse, like the last thing I would have said before—
Before what?
The image wavered. The amber eyes blurred. And in their place: nothing.
No—not nothing.
Something worse than nothing.
A conscious void. A hole in my memory where years, decades, and an entire life should have been. Only fragments remained. Sensations. The bite of cold steel. The smell of blood mixed with mud. The weight of armor that was no longer there. The metallic taste of defeat.
And that face.
That damn face with amber eyes, staring at me from somewhere I couldn't reach.
"He isn't crying."
A voice. Close. Real. Hoarse with worry and exhaustion—the voice of a woman who had screamed for hours and now whispered as if walking on shattered glass.
"He should be crying. Why isn't he crying?"
Other voices. Reassuring. Lying.
"Some babies are like that. It'll come. Give him a minute."
Baby.
The word took a moment to register.
Baby. I was… a baby?
No. Impossible. Absurd. I was—I was…
Who was I?
The void answered with its usual silence.
The pain did not. It intensified. The burning in my lungs became a furnace. My body—this tiny, weak, pathetic body—convulsed. My limbs flailed without coordination, like a puppet with half its strings cut.
And somewhere, in a corner of my mind that refused to give in to panic, a thought emerged with crystalline clarity.
I'm dead.
Not a theory. A fact.
I died—and somehow, I came back.
But why? And why like this? Why in the body of a newborn who couldn't even breathe properly? Why do I have this emptiness in my head and this total absence of personal memories, while my skills—reflexes, instincts, tactical knowledge—remain carved into my muscles like scars?
Hands. Warm. Gentle. They lifted me and handled me with a tenderness I probably didn't deserve. A voice—the same hoarse, exhausted one—murmured something I didn't understand.
No.
Something I would rather not understand.
Because if I did—if I accepted it—then I'd have to admit that this woman was…
"My baby. My son. Breathe. Please, breathe."
My… mother.
The word sounded wrong. Foreign. Like clothing tailored for someone else. I had had a mother once. In a life I couldn't remember. She had probably been—
The void struck again.
I knew nothing. I was a ghost dressed as a baby, an impostor occupying the body of a child who should have had the chance to live his life.
But the choice wasn't mine. I hadn't asked for this rebirth. I hadn't wanted it. And yet here I was—trapped in this new, useless flesh, accompanied only by the face of a woman I didn't know and a name that haunted me like an unfulfilled vow.
Serin.
Another spasm. Pain peaked. And somewhere in the chaos, my body found the rhythm. My lungs expanded. Air came in. It burned—but it came in.
I didn't cry.
Crying would have been a release. Crying would have meant acceptance. It would have meant I was what they thought I was—a baby, a blank slate, someone who deserved the tears of joy now streaming down the face of the exhausted woman holding me like the most precious thing she had ever known.
But I wasn't that baby.
Not really.
I was something else. Something is broken. Something that should never have come back.
So I kept my eyes open.
And I looked at her.
This woman with sweat-matted black hair, cheeks hollow with exhaustion, and eyes shining with tears and something dangerously close to love.
She smiled at me.
And in my stubborn silence, I swore that one day I would understand. Why I was here. Why that face with amber eyes haunted me. And above all, I would find a way to reconnect with her again.
Even if I didn't know who she was.
The midwife's hands resembled tanned leather, and her eyes bore the scars of too many deaths to sway easily. The midwife examined me with the clinical efficiency of someone who had performed this task hundreds of times. Checked my fingers. My toes. Counted. Nodded. Palpated my skull with surprising gentleness for someone who looked like she'd been carved from knotted wood.
"He's healthy," she said at last, her voice carrying the gravelly accent of the mountains. "But…"
There was always a but. Apparently universal. Even in this life, in this world, there was a "but" hanging in the air, like the sword of Damocles.
"But?" Eunbi repeated, her voice trembling. She still held me close, as if afraid I'd disappear if she loosened her grip.
The old woman frowned. Her wrinkles deepened, turning her face into a topographical map of worry. "He doesn't cry. And his eyes…"
"What about his eyes?"
"They follow. Already. Watch."
She leaned toward me. Moved slowly to one side. Then another.
And sure enough, my eyes followed her.
Not by reflex. Not by instinct.
By choice.
Because I wanted to see. To understand. To assess.
A mistake.
I realized it immediately in the silence that fell.
The midwife took a step back. Her expression shifted—somewhere between fascination and fear. "That's… unusual. Newborns don't do that."
"Is it serious?" Eunbi's voice rose, panic surfacing.
"No. No, it's not serious." The old woman recovered quickly, smoothing her clothes with a sharp gesture. "Some children are just… different. More awake. That's all."
A lie.
She didn't believe it herself. But she knew there was no point frightening a woman who had just given birth. So she lied—politely, professionally.
"May I let your husband in? He's been waiting for hours. The poor man must be beside himself."
He's been waiting for hours. The poor man must be beside himself."Eunbi nodded.Her fingers brushed my hair—the dark down covering my scalp. "Yes." Her fingers brushed my hair—the dark down covering my scalp. "Yes. Yes, of course."
The midwife stepped outside. I heard her muffled voice through the door. "You can come in. Your son is healthy."
Footsteps. Heavy. Hurried. The door flew open, slamming into the wall with barely controlled force.
Choi Mansoo entered like a man expecting a battlefield. His eyes swept the room—Eunbi, me, blood-stained sheets, bowls of hot water, used cloths. He was searching for danger. An enemy. Something to fight.
He found only an exhausted woman holding a silent baby.
His face crumpled. The tension drained from his shoulders. And for the first time since I'd opened my eyes in this world, I saw someone who looked like an ordinary human being.
Not an opponent.
Not a threat.
Just… a relieved man.
"Eunbi." He approached and knelt beside the futon. His hands rested on his wife's shoulders with a tenderness I wouldn't have believed possible from someone with scars like his. "Are you alright?"
"I'm alright." She smiled—tired, happy. "Look. It's our son."
Mansoo lowered his gaze to me.
And I looked back.
Mistake number two.
His eyes—dark brown, almost black in the dim oil-lamp light—widened slightly. Not much. Just enough for me to notice. He froze, like someone who had just seen something he hadn't expected. Something that didn't belong.
"Mansoo?" Eunbi's voice carried worry.
He blinked. Shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Sorry. It's just… he isn't crying."
"I know. The midwife says it's normal. Some babies are like that."
"Yes. Of course." Mansoo held out his arms. "May I…?"
Eunbi hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then she gently placed me in her husband's arms. Mansoo held me with the care of someone handling an unexploded bomb—awkwardly, as if afraid he might break me.
And as he held me, I kept staring.
Observing. Analyzing.
The calluses on his hands indicated that he was not just a farmer. There was something else. Weapon use. Sword, perhaps. Or spear. The scars along his bare forearms were fine and precise—the kind earned in combat, not in farm accidents. The way he held himself, even kneeling—balanced, ready. Like someone who had spent part of his life expecting something to leap at him.
This man was not a simple peasant.
"He has your eyes," Eunbi said softly.
"Mmh." Mansoo didn't sound convinced. "And your nose, I think."
"What shall we call him?"
A pause. Mansoo looked at me again, brow furrowing slightly. "Hyeon," he said at last. "Choi Hyeon."
"Hyeon." Eunbi tried the name. Smiled. "It suits him."
Hyeon. 玄. Mystery. Darkness. Something deep and unfathomable.
An appropriate name for someone who had no right to exist.
Mansoo gently returned me to Eunbi's arms. "He's perfect," he said, with a conviction he probably didn't feel. "You did well."
"We did well," she corrected.
He smiled—a sad smile. Like someone who knew the world was darker than he wanted to admit but still tried to find light in it. "Rest. I'll get some hot water."
He left. And in his wake, I felt something like relief.
Because he knew. Not consciously. Not yet. But some part of him had seen. Had understood that something was wrong—that this silent baby staring back with eyes too old was not what he should be.
Sooner or later, we would have a conversation.
But not today.
The midwife returned one last time before leaving. She brought clean cloths and a bowl of water to wash up. She worked in silence, efficient, her movements betraying decades of practice. Eunbi had fallen into a light sleep, exhausted beyond words.
I remained awake.
Because apparently, babies who don't cry don't sleep either.
"Here." The old woman handed something to Mansoo, who had just returned with a bucket of hot water. "He was clutching this in his fist. I couldn't get it away from him until he let go."
Mansoo took the object, turning it between his fingers. "A pendant?"
I couldn't see it from where I lay—my mobility limited to random spasms and blinking—but I felt something.
Warmth.
Not physical.
Something else. Something that resonated in my chest like a tuning fork struck in silence.
"It's strange," the midwife said. "A newborn can't grip something that tightly. And yet when I took it out… his fingers were white from how hard he was holding it."
Mansoo didn't answer. He stared at the pendant as if his gaze could melt metal. "Jade," he murmured at last. "Good quality. Where did it come from?"
"I don't know. He was born with it." She shrugged. "Maybe a good-luck charm left by a grandmother? Some families have traditions."
"We don't have traditions like that." Mansoo's voice was flat. Neutral. But something in it suggested he was thinking very hard about something he didn't want to say out loud.
"Then it's a mystery." She stood and gathered her things. "Keep it. It might bring the child luck. The gods know he'll need it."
"Why do you say that?"
She paused at the threshold. Looked back. Her eyes settled on me one last time. "Because this child is different. I saw it in his eyes. And different children… they draw attention. Not always the right kind."
She left without waiting for an answer. The door closed softly behind her, leaving silence and the lingering scent of incense and medicinal herbs.
Mansoo stood still for a long time. The pendant dangled from his fingers, suspended from a thin chain of tarnished bronze. He raised it toward the light. The jade shimmered—a pale green glow, almost liquid, pulsing in rhythm with something no one else could perceive.
Except me.
I felt it. That warmth. That resonance. As if the carved stone were connected to something deep within me, in a place my amputated memory couldn't reach.
Serin.
Her name exploded in my mind again. Not thought—felt. As if the pendant itself were screaming it at me.
Mansoo leaned closer. "Why do you look at me like that, little one?" he murmured. His voice carried worry and… something else. Recognition? Suspicion?
My eyes didn't leave him. I couldn't look away. It was all I could do—observe, analyze, and try to understand this world I'd been dropped into like an uninvited intruder.
"You have the eyes of someone who's seen too much," he said at last. "But that's impossible. You were just born."
He closed his hand around the pendant. "I'll keep it for you. Until you're old enough not to swallow it."
He slipped the chain into his pocket. And with it, the warmth faded. Not entirely—but enough to make me feel… hollow. As if something had just been taken from me that I hadn't even known I possessed.
Mansoo sat beside Eunbi. Rested a hand on her shoulder. Watched her sleeping face with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the scars lining his arms.
"What kind of life have I given you, little Hyeon?" he murmured. To himself. Or to me. Or to the indifferent gods presiding over this farce. "Born on a festival day in a forgotten village. Your only inheritance is a father running from his past and a mother who deserves better. And now this pendant…"
He took the jade out again, studying it as if he could read its history in the stone. "Where do you come from? What are you?"
He wasn't talking about the pendant anymore.
He was talking about me.
But I had no answers. Not yet. All I had were questions. Groundless certainties. Memories that weren't really memories. And a name.
One damned name that echoed in my head like a curse and a promise entwined.
Serin.
Outside, the village kept celebrating. The drums hadn't stopped. Lanterns still danced in the icy wind. Drunks sang discordant hymns to the glory of the Golden Dragon, who had founded this miserable empire—where men like Mansoo had to hide in mountain villages to escape things they no longer wanted to remember.
And I—Choi Hyeon, or whoever I truly was—stared at the dark thatched ceiling, wondering how long it would take to understand. How long before this pathetic body could stand, walk, speak—do anything other than breathe and shit and be a living burden on two people who had asked for none of this?
In the darkness of my new flesh, one certainty burned bright:
He had to find her.
Even if he didn't know who she was.
Even if the whole world had to burn for it.