It had only been a few days since I arrived, and I already felt swallowed by the silence of this place.
No one told me what to do.
No one told me anything.
Tired of walking in circles, I decided to follow a path that led down behind the main pavilions — a narrow stone trail, half-hidden, covered in dry leaves and moss.
The mist there was thicker, and the air smelled like old paper.
I followed on impulse.
That's when I saw it: a small structure sunk into the earth, almost like a cave covered in roots and twisted bamboo.
It had a low wooden door and no windows.
The only sign that something was there was the sound — a faint sigh, like pages being slowly turned.
I pushed the door open.
The smell hit me first: dust, dry ink, aged tea.
Low shelves filled the hall.
Stacks of scrolls, hand-bound notebooks, seals hanging from cords.
Nothing was labeled.
Nothing was organized.
And yet… it felt like everything was exactly where it should be.
At the back of the room, an old man slept against a scroll, snoring softly.
He had a brush in one hand and a cup of cold tea in the other.
I didn't wake him.
I sat on the floor. Picked up a random book.
And began to read.
Three months passed like that.
I read all day.
Read by lantern light, read with my back aching, read without knowing if any of it had value.
The texts were disconnected — notes on bird flight patterns, fog cycles in deep valleys, treatises on "presences that do not reveal themselves."
No manuals. No martial techniques.
But there was something there.
A hidden logic.
A way of seeing the world that slipped past common words.
The old man never woke.
Or so I thought.
Until one morning, when the mist felt thicker than usual, he opened one eye.
— So the crow's still here — he said, voice hoarse.
I jumped, knocking over two scrolls.
— I… thought you were dead.
He yawned, stretching like someone waking from a decades-long sleep.
— Not dead. I was watching you.
— While sleeping?
— Sleep is a deep way of listening. And you... made noise.
I said nothing.
He rose slowly, as if his bones argued with every movement, and picked up a brush.
— I read what you read. I read how you read. You're ready.
— Ready for what?
He didn't answer.
Instead, he calmly wrote something on a sheet of rice paper and pasted it to the wall, like a calligraphy master.
> "Before you can see the intentions of others, discover those you hide from yourself."
— Li Yoon, former Recorder of the Mist — he said, giving a casual bow. — I will be your guide. If you wish.
— Why? — I asked, suspicious.
He gave a faint smile, as if he knew something I didn't.
— Because your mind... still doesn't know what it can kill.