The night was dense and viscous, as if the earth itself refused to let go of those who dared tread its paths. Fog clung in heavy shreds between the trees, hiding roots and distorting sounds in deceiving ways. Every step echoed in the mind like a heartbeat in a foreign body. Yeon Woo moved swiftly, hardly minding the trail, relying on instinct to know where to step safely and where to freeze to avoid a trap or ambush. His breathing was steady, his wounds throbbed, but he allowed himself no weakness. He had no privilege, no patron. Only the blade at his waist, the will to live, and hatred—cold and eternal, like the night itself.
Wolves howled in the distance. His heart jumped, but Yeon Woo didn't falter. Wolves were nothing compared to what hunted him now. He knew: if he hesitated, if he sat to rest, if he allowed even a drop of pity for himself—death would find him. Quick, faceless, indifferent.
And yet, when the old bridge appeared before him, stretched over a deep ravine, he stopped. The planks were rotted, the ropes rusted. But that wasn't what made him freeze. There, at the center of the bridge, stood a figure—hunched, draped in dark robes, face hidden beneath a hood. A thin cane in hand, as if the weight of the earth itself was too much to bear.
A wanderer.
Yeon Woo tensed. Too many in this world pretended to be frail only to stab you in the back. And yet, he didn't try to go around. He stepped forward, eyes locked on the figure.
The stranger raised his head.
"You're late, boy," came a rasping voice, woven from smoke and sand.
Yeon Woo said nothing. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his knife.
"You have three paths," the old man continued, unmoving. "The first—turn back. The second—leap into the ravine. The third—hear me out."
Yeon Woo didn't believe in words. The world had taught him to trust only in action. He took a few more steps, the planks groaning dangerously beneath his feet.
"Speak quickly," he said. His voice was dry, like stone.
The old man chuckled.
"I need you alive, nothing more," he said. "And I can give you a chance. A chance to survive this night… and maybe rip your future from the jaws of those already sharpening their teeth for you."
Yeon Woo hesitated. Every instinct screamed of danger. And yet… there was power in the old man's words. Not the kind that strikes with a sword, but a different kind—heavy and slow, like poison that kills whole nations.
"What do you want in return?" Yeon Woo asked.
The old man tilted his head, as if pondering.
"For now—nothing. But when the time comes, you'll remember this conversation. And you'll give me what you owe."
Yeon Woo knew: it was the kind of deal best avoided. But he had no choice. He was being hunted. They wanted him dead. His body was at its limit. Ahead lay only hell.
He stepped onto the bridge.
The shadows stirred, swayed, merged. For a brief moment, everything shifted—reality, sound, even the air. The old man handed him a small bundle wrapped in dark cloth.
"Unwrap it when midnight comes," he said. "And don't try to cheat fate."
Yeon Woo took the bundle, feeling a chill crawl across his palms. The fabric was strange—like it had been woven from cobwebs and ash.
He wanted to ask another question, but the old man was gone. Gone like smoke vanishing in the wind.
The bridge was empty.
Yeon Woo stood alone, the heavy burden in his hands.
He didn't turn back. He didn't leap into the ravine.
He walked forward.
The path led him to the foot of an old hill. Down below, faint lights flickered. A camp. Several tents, campfires, guards with spears. He saw the banner: a silver hydra on a black background. The symbol of one of the most ruthless clans along the coast. Slavers, village-burners, merchants of blood. If they were here, it meant someone had placed a price on his head high enough to buy betrayal.
Yeon Woo crouched in the tall grass. He unwrapped the bundle.
Inside was only one item.
A small, dim stone, covered in cracks.
"A joke?" Yeon Woo thought bitterly. But the stone began to tremble in his hand. Faintly at first, then stronger. And then Yeon Woo saw them.
Threads.
Thin, invisible threads stretching from the stone toward those in the camp.
Every enemy, every target was now bound to him.
Yeon Woo smiled for the first time in a long while. Not with joy. Not in triumph.
The smile was cold—like the edge of a knife.
He stood up.
Tonight, blood would sing.
And when the first screams tore through the camp, when enemies began to fall one by one, struck by unseen forces, no one understood where death had come from. Only the ancient, mist-laden forest bore witness to the slaughter.
Yeon Woo walked forward, through fire and death, the cracked stone clenched in his palm.
His path was only beginning.