The next morning, Pavilion Master Hae Jin summoned us to the main hall. His calligraphy brush had already dried, and the scroll he held was sealed with pale blue wax.
"This is my reply to Mount Hwa," he said. "Carry it swiftly, and with care. Wind travels lightly, but messengers must travel surely."
We bowed deeply. "Yes, Pavilion Master."
But as he handed the scroll to me, his sharp eyes lingered. "Before you go, there is something you should know. Not all who hear of Mount Hwa's reawakening will be pleased. There are whispers already. Eyes upon you."
His words struck like frost on my spine. We left the pavilion soon after, the cold air stinging sharper than the day before.
Dan muttered, "Why does every old master always speak in riddles right before sending us off?"
So-Yeon answered flatly. "Because riddles are easier than truths."
I said nothing. My thoughts were not on riddles or whispers. They were on someone else entirely.
The road back to Mount Hwa twisted through frozen pine forests, the snow crunching beneath our boots. The silence between us grew heavy, and I found myself sinking into memory.
When I was young—before I ever wore the robes of a disciple—I had been nothing but a hungry boy too large for his own skin. The mountain winds nearly carried me away, until one man's hand pulled me back.
His name was Baek Do-Hyun. Not of Mount Hwa by blood, but the sect's most loyal protector by choice. He had no family but the sword, and no son until he found me.
Others whispered he was a wandering monster tamed only by Seong Jinhwan, our sect leader. But to me, he was simply Father. Adoptive in name, but in spirit—the only root I ever had.
He was the one who taught me to grip a sword not as a weapon, but as a piece of myself. He was the one who laughed when I failed, who struck me when I grew arrogant, and who told me in a voice as certain as thunder:
"Strength is nothing, Blossom, unless you can protect with it."
I had never once defeated him. Even in my wildest dreams, he towered over me like a mountain that could not be climbed. To me, he was the strongest under heaven.
And now, as snow gathered in my hair, I found myself wondering: would I ever rise to stand beside him?
The sound of steel tore me from my thoughts.
"Ambush!" So-Yeon barked.
Figures spilled from the trees—bandits, or mercenaries, their weapons crude but gleaming with hunger. Perhaps thirty, circling us like wolves.
Dan cursed. "Whispers, huh? Looks like someone didn't want us to return home."
I slid my greatsword from my back. "Then we carve our way through."
The clash was instant. Steel against steel. The weight of my blade tore through shields, scattering men like branches in a storm. Dan fought with wild, laughing ferocity, while So-Yeon's strikes were sharp and merciless.
But they kept coming. More feet crunched in the snow. Ten, twenty more. Enough to drown us in numbers.
And then—
The air itself cracked.
A presence descended like a mountain collapsing from the heavens. Every man around us froze mid-step, their weapons trembling in their hands.
From the ridge above, a man strode down through the snow. His sword was sheathed, but it didn't matter—the killing intent radiating from his frame was sharper than any drawn blade. His hair was streaked with silver, his shoulders broad as an ox, his gaze cold enough to freeze blood.
"Father…" The word left my lips before I could stop it.
Baek Do-Hyun didn't look at me. His eyes swept over the mercenaries like an executioner surveying corpses.
"Scatter." His voice was low, but it struck like thunder.
The bandits fled before their feet even knew to run. In moments, the forest was empty, save for the snow drifting softly between us.
Only then did his gaze fall upon me.
"You've grown, Blossom," he said, his deep voice carrying both pride and weight. "But the road ahead is longer still."
I bowed my head, heart pounding. "Father."
His presence alone reminded me why I had always called him the strongest under heaven.
And why, no matter how far I walked, the mountain of Baek Do-Hyun still towered over me.