The courtyard of the ruined hanok was an island of ink in a sea of grey stone. Ji-yeol's lantern flickered, its indigo light struggling against the heavy, oppressive darkness that seemed to swallow the very concept of distance.
A sharp, metallic clink echoed from the eaves of the tiled roof.
"You're standing in a puddle of Regret, Scribe. It's going to stain your boots," a voice rasped. It was dry and precise, like the sound of a quill scratching on high-quality parchment.
Ji-yeol looked up. Perched on a rotting wooden beam was a crow, its feathers so black they looked blue under the lantern's glow. It wore a miniature, soot-stained top hat tilted at a rakish angle, and a tiny glass monocle was wedged firmly over its left eye.
"A messenger,"
Ji-yeol muttered, his breath hitching. He could smell the bird—it smelled like wax seals and old, dusty archives.
"Did Naoki send you to watch me fail?"
The crow tilted its head, the monocle catching the indigo light.
"The Grand Curator doesn't send me to watch failures. He sends me to 'curate' the transitions. And right now, your transition from 'living' to 'portrait' is accelerating."
The bird hopped down, landing on the edge of Ji-yeol's open suitcase. It peered inside at the phials of memories.
"Nostalgia? A bit cliché, don't you think? You'll need more than sentimental dust where you're going."
"Where am I going?" Ji-yeol asked, his hand tightening on the suitcase handle. He felt the cold, porcelain weight of his left leg vibrating.
"To the center of the board," the crow replied, its beak clicking. "Naoki has made his first move. He hasn't just braided the threads; he's started to knot them. The 'Smudge' you saw in the alley was just a discard. The real piece is already in Gyeongju, waiting for you at the old burial mounds."
The crow reached into its wing with its beak and pulled out a small, blood-red thread. It wasn't attached to anything. It was a loop, perfectly knotted.
"A warning, free of charge," the crow rasped, dropping the thread onto Ji-yeol's palm.
"Every secret you sniff out is a brushstroke on your future canvas. The man in your pocket—the one with the gun? He isn't a version of you that might exist. He's the version that must exist for the Gallery to survive."
The bird took flight, its wings beating silently against the damp air. "Don't let the ink dry, Ji-yeol. Once it's set, even the Scribe can't rewrite the frame."
Ji-yeol looked down at the knotted thread in his hand. It felt hot, pulsing with a rhythm that matched the ticking of his own fading heart. He looked toward the direction of the ancient burial mounds—the giant, grass-covered tombs of kings.
The game was no longer being played in the shadows. It was moving toward the graves of the ancestors.