It is 12:21 a.m., September 2, 1300. The onsen water steams faintly beneath the pale moonlight, curling in ghostly wisps that carry the faint mineral tang of sulfur and the woody fragrance of cedar planks soaked for decades. My skin prickles against the heat, but I cannot relax—not while we have only just escaped being surrounded hours before. And yet, beside me, Aldo leans back against the stones, eyes half-lidded, his massive frame melting into the warmth like some war god on holiday. Across from him, Joon-soo dips his arms into the water with exaggerated calm, his lashes heavy with condensation, lips curled slightly as if he is in a luxury bathhouse rather than a hiding spot.
[How do they do it? How can they act like this? We're fugitives, targets, hunted like game, and they sit here as if this steam can wash away consequences. Maybe this is their way of coping—pretending nothing can touch them. Or maybe… maybe I'm the only one who feels the weight of every shadow.]
I turn, my voice low and deliberate: "Aldo, why did we run?"
He opens one eye lazily, then the other, and answers with a shrug that ripples his shoulders: "Fleshmorph instincts. I felt someone at my back. At that hour? Only robbers. So, I run."
There is no shame in his tone, no defensiveness. Just cold, functional reasoning, as if he is describing the weather. He confesses, almost carelessly, that he has not even looked back. He doesn't know who they are. He doesn't need to. His ability has told him enough.
[So that's it. He runs because his body tells him to, not because his mind weighs the odds. And yet… he's alive because of that instinct. Maybe we all are. My mind demands answers; his body demands survival. Who is wiser here?]
I let it go, turning to Joon-soo instead. His head tilts slightly, and when I ask him the same, his eyes sharpen, no longer lazy, no longer drifting. He draws in a quiet breath before answering: "Two of the three are from Joseon Haebang Jeonseon. My first group. Before… before I left."
The water ripples at his words, though no one has moved. A tension seems to coil invisibly between us, rising with the steam.
I ask, careful: "And the others? Their names?"
Joon-soo's lips curve, not into a smile but into a grimace. "The Japanese… I don't know his name. Not yet."
I nod slightly, swallowing the unease. "And the Koreans?"
That is when he says it. A name shaped like iron itself.
"Chang Chul-moo. They call him 'The Iron Blade.'" His tongue wraps the Korean syllables—무쇠칼, Museoikal—with that particular rhythm, foreign yet deliberate.
Aldo and I share a blank glance, confusion knotting our brows. He clicks his tongue at our ignorance, irritation flashing. "What, Aldo doesn't speak, but Zihao—don't you know many languages?"
"I do," I reply evenly, "but not all. Not the poetry. Not the literary turns."
He pouts—actually pouts—like a child told his favorite game is canceled. "Museoikal is just a fancier way to say Iron Blade."
The name hangs heavy in the steam. I press further: "What else do you know about him?"
But before Joon-soo can answer, the air itself shifts.
It is as if the moonlight hardens, becoming steel. And then he appears.
Chang Chul-moo.
The description Aldo rattles off in a deadpan, mechanical tone barely keeps pace with what my eyes devour. He points toward the blade, his voice droning like some battlefield data-log: "the Hwando sword with its seventy-two centimeters of silent menace, carved veins to lighten weight, dull silver gleam that promises nothing but purpose. Every part of it—hilt wrapped in leather, guard with cloud-scale motifs, sheath etched with Tai Chi"— each detail speaks not of ornament but of utility. Aldo's eyes flicker briefly to me and Joon-soo as if to say, There. I've described it. Remember it. Think of how to counter it.
But Aldo's voice is only background noise. My own eyes are trapped by the figure that emerges from the courtyard shadows.
He is tall—one meter eighty-one, shoulders broad, his silver-gray durumagi sweeping with his stride like a sheath loosed to reveal the weapon inside. The border etched with sunken triangles gleams faintly under the moon, and at his waist, the sword lies quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that promises only the violence of its awakening.
His body is disciplined, taut with efficiency. His face might be carved by a sculptor's chisel: square jaw, clean angles, skin pale and tight as marble. But it is his eyes that lock me still—large, silver, round, unblinking, as if they peel back my skin and bones to measure what lies beneath. My breath catches.
[So this is the man Joon-soo once follows. My heart tells me to respect him, my instincts tell me to fear him, and my pride whispers to stand my ground. But pride does not stop steel. Not this steel.]
Even his hair carries a kind of judgment: an undercut, sharp, precise, but split into halves of black and white, yin and yang cleaved into flesh. It should look absurd, yet it only heightens the contradiction he embodies: elegance sharpened into authority, beauty bent into dominance. His very presence seems to compress the night air, narrowing the space until every breath feels stolen.
Joon-soo freezes, eyes wide, shock painted across his features. His lips part, a soundless recognition, a trembling that betrays both reverence and fear. The steam of the onsen wraps around his face, but it cannot soften the stark reality of his expression: he sees his senior, and that memory returns with a vengeance.
I part my lips, my tongue ready to form my usual weapon: What do you want? It is a question, but it is also my shield, my ritual, my way to break the unbearable silence that hangs like a blade over our throats.
But Aldo speaks first.
He leans forward slightly, his finger pointing downward with the precision of a judge declaring sentence. His eyes are flat, emotionless, as he says in the most absurdly detached tone:
"He's wearing rubber sandals from southwestern Mikhland. With that outfit. Ruins the whole look."
The words drop like pebbles into a lake of silence.
And in that instant, everything—Joon-soo's awe, my dread, even the oppressiveness of Chul-moo's aura—cracks. Not shatters, not dissipates, but cracks. A ridiculous absurdity exposed at the very heart of this embodiment of steel.
My mind blanks. Joon-soo blinks rapidly, lips twitching as though unsure whether to stifle laughter or choke on disbelief. And Chul-moo himself—this cold iron figure—hesitates. His jaw tightens, but his silence speaks volumes.
The steam swirls thicker. Moonlight dims against the clouds. And in that awkward pause, none of us can move forward. The scene remains suspended—between reverence and absurdity, between terror and comedy.
[Is this what survival looks like? A threadbare joke standing between us and death? If so, then we walk a razor's edge sharper than any blade.]
The night air hangs heavy with steam and moonlight, a strange veil through which the silence between us stretches taut. Chang Chul-moo does not advance immediately, though his hand rests lightly on the sheath of his sword, a gesture neither overtly threatening nor casual. His silver gaze scans the three of us as though weighing each of our breaths, and then, without raising his tone, he asks where the two Latinos we have arrested are.
The words strike me with their simplicity, yet the weight behind them is clear. "Valentín and Jorge." Their names drop like cold stones into the steaming air.
Before I can respond, Joon-soo speaks, swift and unhesitating: "They were released. Not worth locking up."
The ease of his lie startles me. He does not stammer, does not avert his eyes. His lashes flutter once, but his gaze holds steady on Chang. [He lies as though truth bends naturally for him. I know the two men are not free. And yet he makes the falsehood breathe as if alive.]
Chang does not press. His expression betrays nothing, and for a moment I almost believe Joon-soo's words plant themselves like facts in his mind.
Aldo shifts, the water rippling as he drags his large frame forward. His face remains stone, expressionless, yet his questions come with calculated weight. He leans toward Joon-soo, his voice low: "Joseon Haebang Jeonseon—your group. Any Latinos there?"
Joon-soo's reply is curt, with a faint scoff in his tone. "Only Koreans. At most some Korean-Chinese or Japanese."
Aldo turns his face, his eyes narrowing slightly at Chang. "If your group is all Korean, then what do the two Latinos have to do with you?"
For the first time, Chang's gaze shifts directly onto Aldo, silver irises flashing like polished blades under the moonlight. He answers without hesitation, calm and precise: "I am in the same Pan-Group with them. The Coalition sends me."
The word "Pan-group" and "Coalition" settle in the air like ash. Aldo tilts his head, curiosity flickering briefly in his otherwise flat face. "Pan-Group?"
Chang's lips curve the faintest degree, not into a smile but into a line of patience. "Understand it as a group of groups." His voice carries no need to embellish, only clarity, and before Aldo can force the word into endless questions, he continues. "Revealing this is meant to open cooperation. Joseon Haebang Jeonseon and two hundred fifty-five other former slave organizations form the United Earthling Coalition—UEC. Officially established half a century ago."
I feel my breath catch in my chest. The steam no longer feels warm but suffocating. [UEC… so there exists a structure behind the fragments of rebellion, not only scattered uprisings but something more. And if this is true, then every encounter we stumble into is a thread in a far greater web.]
Aldo mutters under his breath to Joon-soo, his voice carrying a sardonic edge: "Sounds like the UN… if the UN were made of ex-slaves that failed to beat Mikhland for fifty years."
Joon-soo's lips twitch, but neither of them dares speak louder. I cannot laugh. My pulse quickens, my chest tight, not with fear but with the realization of how easily this pursuit becomes a conversation, how survival clings to the thin thread of words.
Chang raises his voice then—not shouting, but his tone carries an authority that rings clear, as though to remind us that silence is his to grant, not ours. "No one has done this for more than a century since the enslavement summoning practices begin. None hold so long against Mikhland." His eyes sharpen as he goes on, "Ten years ago, the UEC and its allies rise in large-scale rebellion. I am summoned one year after it ends."
His words strike like drumbeats, slow and resonant. "We lose. The UEC nearly disintegrates. Other Pan-Groups rise, fighting both us and Mikhland. Even now, both sides stagger to recover. But understand this: in the past hundred years, Mikhland is forced to bend. They cannot monitor all of us anymore. Not every breath, not every hour. Their grip loosens."
The silence that follows is not oppressive but heavy with awe. I realize that my hands, which rest on the onsen's edge, now clench against the damp stone. [We sit like children at a hearth, waiting for an elder to weave history into flame. Is this what he intends? To turn us from prey into listeners?]
I clear my throat, feeling the time ripe for the question that presses upon me. My voice softens, respectful, though my heart still hammers. "Chang Chul-moo." I speak his full name deliberately, a gesture of deference. "You must know—the reason we arrest the two Latinos is because they also seize a member of our group, Hai."
He inclines his head, no surprise flickering across his marble-like features. "I know. That is why I ask. Why would the Insularis provoke a Rogue Squad?"
The word hangs unfamiliar in Aldo's eyes, and I see his lips part, ready to twist the term into pedantic query. Chang forestalls him, his gaze cutting toward Aldo with quiet warning. "Rogue Squad is what we call groups not part of the UEC. They are threats, either neutral, allied, or slaves of Mikhland. It does not matter—outside the Coalition, they destabilize the balance."
Joon-soo pouts then, his brows drawn with defiance. "This group? Ten people at most. What threat could they pose to your UEC?"
Chang's eyes remain unblinking. "I do not know. The files on The Strays are new. Uncertain."
Aldo's voice, calm and utterly practical, slices into the silence: "Then hear this. The Strays are in conflict with the Sapphic Cult. Does that Cult belong to your UEC?"
It is then that something in Chang's expression shifts. The silver calm of his eyes flickers, as though a stone disturbs the water. He repeats slowly, "The followers who wear purple and pink shirts?"
Aldo nods once.
Chang's lips press together, then part. "They are extremists. They hate patriarchy, they hate men. Their creed is discrimination clothed as liberation. To join UEC, groups must forswear all gender discrimination. Yet…" He pauses, a faint bitterness sliding into his tone, "One-fifth of the Alliance Leadership Board (ALB) lies in their bed. Through that, the Sapphic Cult has influence. It is possible they manipulate orders—use Insularis to clash with you."
The words leave the air taut once more. I feel the tremor beneath it, the way revelation and danger converge in a single point. My heart beats louder, though I try to keep my breathing steady. [So politics stretches even here, even in the shadows where steel and blood rule. Alliances are flesh, easily bent. And we—are we pawns on their board, or knives meant to break the pieces?]
I speak again, my voice quieter but sharper, cutting through the fog. "So now you know why you cross paths with us. Now you see the reason for this encounter. What will you do?"
Chang's gaze settles on me at last, steady and unwavering, as though he peers past the mask of words into the marrow of intent. His reply is firm, each syllable deliberate. "I need answers to a few more questions before I decide."
The steam rises thick from the onsen, blurring the edges of the night and softening the shapes of the pines that circle us. My breath hangs in the moist air as I sit half-submerged, watching the silver sheen of moonlight break itself upon the ripples of the water. Chang's presence feels as unyielding as the stones beneath us—face impassive, shoulders straight, eyes dark pools that reflect nothing of the warmth around us. He listens patiently until now, but at last, his voice, calm yet cutting, cleaves the silence.
"Why did your group come into conflict with the Sapphic Cult in the first place?" he asks, tone devoid of judgment, as if dissecting facts on a surgeon's table. His gaze rests firmly on Aldo, awaiting an answer.
Aldo rises from the water with measured calm, droplets sliding from his arms and chest, his pale skin glistening under the moon. He reaches for the folded garments laid upon a nearby rock, slipping into them with a steady rhythm, his movements unhurried but sharp with intent. He begins to pace before Chang, hands clasped lightly behind his back, like a lecturer preparing to outline a grim lesson. His voice, low and even, carries through the mist: "It begins with a confrontation involving Zihao, Quang Minh, and Ky. They investigate a village rumored to practice black magic. Upon arrival, they discover the entire population dead—save one old woman. She reveals herself as a follower of the Sapphic Cult. They kill her. That act… lights the fuse."
The memory still claws at me. [Her wrinkled face, the stench of death still clinging to the empty huts. We think it mercy to put an end to whatever curse spares her. Yet is it mercy, or folly?]
Chang's expression does not shift, but his head inclines slightly, a small acknowledgment of the answer. "Coincidence?" he asks, voice steady.
"Yes," I say, almost reflexively, my voice sharper than intended. [It is coincidence. We stumble into their world by accident.]
Aldo, however, cuts in smoothly, contradicting me without hostility. "Not entirely. Ky and Quang Minh are under my orders. Their task is to watch the Samel Swamp periphery, manage the survival space around it. That village is a target because of potential threats."
Chang absorbs the contradiction with a faint narrowing of his eyes. His voice lowers a tone, almost as though testing the firmness of stone. "And when you clash with them… what follows?"
The image strikes hard. My mouth dries, yet I answer, my words steady as they leave me. "More than a month ago. They retaliate by attacking our village. We lose too many. Survivors flee west with us. Later, we strike back—Aldo leads the raid on their camp, another strike follows. Since then, the air between us thickens with unfinished blood."
The crackle of night insects fills the pause. Chang's gaze flickers toward Joon-soo, the light playing across his expressionless silver eyes. "And the villagers now?"
Joon-soo exhales, long and weary, before replying. His words hold an unexpected softness. "We arrange their papers. Give them jobs, homes. Some still struggle with the language, with the weight of loss. But they endure."
For the first time, the mask on Chang's face trembles. His lips part slightly, and a brief shadow of surprise crosses him. "I do not expect…" He trails, realizing, perhaps, that sentiment betrays discipline. His posture stiffens, and he corrects himself: "Bias is difficult to dispel. The Halo Effect leads us to believe Rogue Squads are… always worse."
I catch the flicker of discomfort in his voice. [So even he—hardened soldier, mouth of the Coalition—finds it difficult to reconcile kindness with his concept of us. Perhaps, in his world, we are monsters. And in ours, perhaps he is no different.]
His next words cut directly, no space left for sentiment. "The Strays—the name. Why such a name?"
I turn to Joon-soo, for this question is his burden. He tilts his head, lips quirking with the familiar playfulness he often wears when spinning tales. "When Veritas and Helene are attacked, the leader—Zheng Li—mocks us, calls us 'The Strays.' I am in a hurry, need a name. It sticks."
Chang blinks once. Perhaps he expects an epic tale of rebellion or tragedy. Instead, only ridicule. His face reveals nothing, but his silence is louder than mockery.
His voice returns, quieter now, heavy with a different weight. "What is it that your group seeks? What values do you hold?"
Aldo's reply is immediate, firm, without hesitation. "We are planning to settle that tonight. Then you appear."
Chang's eyebrow lifts. "So no plan yet?"
"No," Aldo says flatly.
The air thickens as Chang draws in a long breath and releases it, his sigh misting in the cold. Then, sharper: "Tell me plainly. Revolutionaries seeking to destroy Mikhland? Traitors who side with them? Or survivalists?"
The word hangs heavy. None of us hesitate. "Survivalists," we say together.
Chang's gaze lingers. "And yet… survivalists with abundant wealth. Landless nobles in the Committee."
The sting in his words is not accusation but curiosity. Still, my stomach knots. [So he knows. He has tracked us beyond these forests, beyond our masks. He knows the threads we weave with wealth.]
His next question comes like a blade drawn lightly across skin. "How do you sustain yourselves? What income drives your survival?"
Aldo's voice is clinical: "Enzymes. Expanded into organic chemicals."
Joon-soo, irreverent as always, lets a half-smile tug his lips. "Cakes."
Their eyes meet briefly, two currents of thought crossing, sparks of irony in the storm.
My turn. "Agricultural products. From my plantation." My words feel small in the vastness of the night, yet truth anchors them.
Chang's nod is slight. He presses on. "If I or my people do not intervene, how will you resolve your conflict with Insularis?"
I straighten, my voice resolute. "We will negotiate."
"And if negotiations fail? If they do not release your comrade?"
The heat of the onsen seems to evaporate, leaving my skin chilled. My answer, however, comes sharp, unwavering. "Then we will act. A rescue by force."
A silence falls, broken only by the faint drip of water from Aldo's damp hair onto the stone.
Chang's lips curve into something almost like a smile, though bitterness underpins it. "Insularis is part of the UEC. To strike them is to strike us. You understand this."
[He is warning us. Or mocking us. Perhaps both.]
His eyes scan each of us, lingering briefly, then shift toward the distance, as though listening to something far away. Finally, he says, "I have asked enough." His voice softens, but the weight remains. Without another word, he stands and turns, footsteps quiet on the wet stones, disappearing into the silver night.
We sit in silence. Joon-soo's eyes follow him, wide with unreadable thought. I feel the water's warmth retreat from my skin, leaving only the gnaw of unease in my chest. Aldo, with his usual pragmatism, breaks the silence, his tone almost domestic. "Enough bathing. More than half an hour. Dress, warm yourselves, or you will fall ill."
I glance at him, lips twitching despite myself. Joon-soo mutters with a faint smile, "You sound like my mother."
The steam hangs heavy still, but my thoughts wander beyond it, into the tangled web of alliances and betrayals, of Cults, Coalitions, and nameless futures. [We call ourselves The Strays. Perhaps the name is no insult, but prophecy...]