The day broke dull and cold. Morning light spilled across the world, but it brought no warmth—as if the sky itself knew: blood would be shed today. A heavy stillness hung in the air, thick over the earth, the forests, and the roads, over the torn remnants of the camp that now served only as a reminder of helplessness before the art of killing. But this was only the beginning.
Yeon Woo walked along an abandoned trail. His steps were light, nearly silent. He left no footprints. His eyes, cold and calm, caught every breath of wind, every flicker of shadow. He knew they would come for him. The Hydra Clan didn't forgive slights, especially not such humiliating ones. They would wash their shame away with blood. And they hadn't sent mere pursuers.
They had sent hunters.
Yeon Woo stopped, listening. The wind rustled the branches. Somewhere far off, a crow cawed and was cut off mid-sound. Silence settled like a heavy shroud. He could feel them. They were here.
The first three. Slipping through the shadows, almost invisible—like beasts born to hunt. Their movements were soundless, but to Yeon Woo they rang like hammers on an anvil. His lips twitched into the faintest smile.
"They're here."
He slid off the path, heart steady, body responding without thought. In this dance, he was a master. In this dance, he was death.
The first hunter appeared to his right, his sword gleaming faintly. Yeon Woo dodged as if he had foreseen the strike, and his dagger sliced through the air, tearing a ragged wound across the enemy's throat. Not a sound escaped. The body crumpled.
The second and third were smarter. They attacked together—one with a long spear, the other with a pair of curved daggers. Perfect coordination. They pressed him, allowing no breath between strikes. But Yeon Woo was no prey.
He let them get close, let their blows graze him, almost connecting—and when the spearman lunged, Yeon Woo stepped inside his guard. The blade slid past harmlessly, and Yeon Woo's dagger plunged under his ribs, slicing through arteries. The spearman shuddered, staggered, then took a second strike to the neck.
The dagger-wielder backed off, recognizing an opponent of a different caliber. Yeon Woo didn't chase him. He knew that fear worked more reliably than steel.
It was all only the beginning.
When the second group emerged from the trees, Yeon Woo was ready. They were greater in number, stronger, more experienced. Among them stood a man Yeon Woo recognized immediately—by his stance, by the way he held his sword. A master of the clan. A veteran. One who had earned the right to wear the red cord on his shoulder—the mark of a warrior who had slain no fewer than a hundred enemies.
Their eyes met.
The wind swept Yeon Woo's hair back, revealing his pale face. The master smiled—a grim, cold smile—and stepped forward, signaling the others to hold back.
"You're the little bastard I've been forced to wade through this filth for?" His voice was rough, the rasp of a man who had looked death in the eye too many times.
Yeon Woo gave no reply.
Words were empty.
Their blades would speak instead.
The master struck first. His style was ancient and heavy—like slabs of stone crashing down. Each blow carried destruction. But Yeon Woo was light. He slipped between the strikes, deflecting them with the edge of his dagger, retreating, drawing his opponent in.
One moment—and he countered.
Their blades met with a sharp ring. Sparks rained to the ground. The master was skilled—fast despite his age, clever in his feints. But Yeon Woo was better.
He felt the weaknesses—the thin cracks in the man's stance, the slight tremor in his arms after a powerful swing. Yeon Woo built his victory step by step, weaving a net around his prey.
The master realized it too late.
As he lifted his sword for a decisive strike, Yeon Woo stepped aside and drove his dagger under the raised arm, biting deep into the flank.
A scream of pain pierced the air.
But Yeon Woo didn't stop.
He circled the master, landing short, swift strikes—to joints, to arteries, to the throat. And when the body finally dropped to its knees, Yeon Woo stood before it, cold and merciless.
The master rasped, trying to speak, but blood filled his throat.
Yeon Woo leaned in, locking eyes with the dying man.
"You were wrong. I'm the hunter."
He drove the dagger into the master's heart, and the body went limp.
Silence returned.
The remaining warriors dared not move. They had seen how easily their best had fallen. Fear was their jailer now.
Yeon Woo slowly raised his head, scanning the forest. He knew others would come—stronger, more ruthless. Perhaps even those the clan kept hidden for the deadliest wars.
And he waited for them.
His heart was calm.
Because he was no longer the prey.
He was the storm.
And the storm had just begun.