Chapter 2 —
Morning came quietly to the valley.
A gentle mist drifted between wooden houses, and soft sunlight slowly spilled across the earth like flowing gold. The village awakened not with noise, but with peaceful rhythm — the sound of doors opening, footsteps along stone paths, and distant laughter carried by the breeze.
Life here moved slowly.
Calmly.
Safely beneath the silent guardians.
At the northern edge of the village stood a modest wooden house, older than most others. Its roof had weathered countless seasons, and its walls carried the faint scent of herbs and aged wood.
Inside lived an old grandmother.
And the child she had raised for many years.
The boy woke early, as he always did.
He stepped outside into the cool morning air, his dark hair still slightly messy from sleep, clear eyes reflecting the soft light of dawn. The world felt quiet at this hour — peaceful in a way that made one's heart feel light.
Around his neck rested a small locket, simple in appearance yet strangely warm against his skin.
He had worn it for as long as he could remember.
No one knew where it came from.
Not even him.
"Already awake again?"
A gentle voice called from behind.
The old grandmother emerged from the house, her silver hair tied neatly, her eyes filled with warmth that years had not faded. Though her body appeared fragile, her movements were steady, and her presence carried a quiet strength.
The boy smiled.
"Grandmother, I wanted to help prepare the herbs."
Her expression softened further.
"You always say that," she chuckled. "But a child should not worry so much."
Still, she allowed him to help.
The two worked side by side in comfortable silence — sorting herbs, preparing medicine, and tending small daily tasks. Their movements were simple, yet filled with a warmth that needed no words.
To the villagers, they were family.
To the boy, she was his entire world.
As the sun rose higher, the village came fully alive.
The boy moved through the narrow paths with familiarity, greeting every passerby with a bright smile. He helped an old man carry water from the well, assisted children who had fallen during play, and carefully returned a wounded bird to its nest.
Wherever he went, people welcomed him warmly.
Not out of obligation.
But because they genuinely cared.
Some patted his head affectionately. Others offered him food or kind words. To them, he was not a stranger who had appeared from nowhere long ago.
He was simply their child.
Yet sometimes, when the boy passed through the village, subtle gazes followed him.
Not fearful.
Not hostile.
But watchful.
As if the elders saw something in him that he himself did not understand.
By afternoon, the boy walked toward the outer edge of the village.
There, the eight towering statues stood in eternal silence.
He often came here alone.
The ground near the boundary was always strangely calm. Even the wind seemed hesitant to cross beyond the invisible line that marked the statues' protection.
The boy stopped just within the boundary and looked outward.
Beyond the protective reach lay endless forest, stretching toward distant mountains swallowed by mist. The world outside felt vast and unknown — both beautiful and unsettling.
His fingers gently touched the locket at his chest.
For a moment, its surface felt slightly warm.
The boy did not understand why, yet whenever he stood near the boundary, the strange warmth always appeared.
He simply watched the distant horizon, eyes filled not with fear… but quiet curiosity.
"Do not stay here too long."
A calm voice sounded behind him.
The boy turned to see an elderly man approaching slowly with a wooden cane. His back was slightly bent, yet his eyes were sharp — carrying a depth that seemed to have witnessed countless years.
The boy nodded respectfully.
"Yes, Elder."
The old man followed the boy's gaze toward the forest beyond the boundary. For a brief moment, an unreadable expression crossed his face — something between caution and remembrance.
"The world outside is vast," the elder said quietly, "but not all vastness brings peace."
The boy listened silently.
He wanted to ask questions.
Many questions.
But the words never left his lips.
As evening approached, a familiar change settled over the village.
People returned home. Doors closed. Lamps were lit. The warm noise of daily life slowly faded into careful silence.
The boy stood with his grandmother outside their home, watching the distant statues.
One by one, ancient symbols carved upon their stone bodies began to glow.
Soft golden light spread across the land.
The protective boundary formed once more.
Night descended.
Within the village, warmth and safety remained.
Beyond the light, the forest disappeared into endless darkness.
And for a brief moment — so brief that even the boy was unsure if he truly saw it — something seemed to stir at the edge of the boundary.
A shadow.
Watching him.
The locket at his chest suddenly grew warm.
The boy lowered his gaze, confusion flickering in his eyes.
Far away, beyond the reach of the silent guardians, the darkness shifted like a living thing.
As if responding to his presence.
As if recognizing him.
The night continued quietly.
But unseen threads of fate had already begun to move.