At the zenith of day, when the sun stood high above Mt. Suksu and its light spilled straight down like molten gold through the summer haze, Goi made his ascent along the sunlit ridge. The path, smoothed by generations of hunters and the whispering wind, wound gently through a forest dappled in shifting light. Pines stretched skyward in quiet grace, their long needles trembling in the breeze. Cicadas droned in waves—less a sound than a presence, ancient and hypnotic, like the mountain's own breath.
Below lay Huaham Garrison, a secluded yet vital outpost along the southwestern frontier of Golpo Gaya. Though it stood far from the bustling courts of power, it was no forgotten bastion. Governed by the sheriff and surrounded by the rugged embrace of Suksu's peaks, the garrison watched over the land like a silent sentinel. Its forests teemed with deer, wild boar, and mountain fowl—game prized not only for sustenance but for tribute. Traders journeyed up the stream that cut through the gorge, a waterway that snaked northward before bending east and eventually meeting the sea. Thanks to this riverine path, Huaham remained a thread in the broader weave of the capital—remote, but never severed.
Mt. Suksu itself was sacred to many. It had never been a place of conquest, but of communion—between man and nature, hunter and spirit. Its slopes bore the marks of generations who had lived by its rhythms: catching game by season, burning incense at shrines half-hidden in moss, whispering blessings to trees before the first arrow was loosed. Even now, its ridges basked in sunlight, as if untouched by trouble.
And yet—as Goi passed beneath the noonday canopy, bright and tranquil—he felt something else stir. A presence, faint but discordant. As though a single note in a perfect chord had soured. He paused, listening. Nothing cast shadows. The forest, golden and bright, should have been singing. But there was silence… at its center.
Meanwhile, high on the ridgeline, a flash of fur sliced through sunlight.
Munone ran—not with the grace of a guardian beast, but with the rage of a beast shackled by invisible chains.
I, Munone of Suksu… once revered as the mountain's chosen… Now what am I? A hound? Sent to fetch?
He came to an abrupt halt, claws tearing furrows into the earth. Behind him, the others gathered—his former kin, now twisted shadows of their past selves, fangs bared and eyes glinting with an unnatural hunger. Demonic. Tamed. Corrupted.
He did not wish to speak.
But his mouth moved against his will, voice cold and distant—no longer his own.
"Go. Find him."
Howls erupted like arrows loosed from a taut bow. The wolves surged forward, crashing through the ferns and vines. Their bodies glinted in the sun—but their shadows did not follow.
Munone remained still. His flanks heaved. His chest burned. Rage tangled with shame in his belly like thorns in a snare.
Just yesterday...
He had been a candidate to inherit the mantle of Suksu's next great spirit. For two hundred years, he had roamed its ridges—protecting the forests, and keeping balance.
But then, they arrived.
It began with a scent. Salt and blood. Brine and copper. His scouts claimed it came from cargo drifting upriver. But he had felt it—wrong, in a way that couldn't be named.
So he sent two of his most loyal to investigate.
They never returned.
When he followed their trail, he found them groveling—like pups—beside a pale-skinned human woman.
Not a spirit. Not a ghost. No! A living wraith!
She bled hatred into the air with every breath. Her gaze was hollow, yet her will seized like iron shackles around the spirit.
He barked at his subordinates, growled, roared—snapped them out of it.
Then the stranger stepped forward.
Another human? No. Something cloaked in human form. Something older. Rotten with power—magic not born of the land, but of deep water and drowned vows.
It raised its hand.
"Serve me," it said.
Munone had answered with fury. He howled, a sound that had once sent tremors down the spines of armies. A voice sanctified by the peaks.
But before the echo faded—
He saw the living wraith's hand move. Just a flick of her fingers.
That was all it took.
And all at once, his body turned against him. His mind clouded. Thought buckled under invisible chains. His spirit, proud and ancient, found itself sinking—drowning—without a drop of water in sight.
He tried to resist. But her voice slipped in like smoke: "Pledge yourself. To your lord."
And he did.
Munone, born beneath the oldest pine of Suksu, bent his knee to the stranger cloaked in a living wraith's curse.
There had been no battle. No honor. Only a whisper... and obedience.
And now—He hated it.
He hated her.
He hated himself.
A mountain spirit turned mutt. A guardian forced to heel at a wraith's finger.
Far below, his wolves howled.
They had found prey.
Munone leapt, his body tearing down the sun-drenched path like a streak of storm.
But though the sun poured over his fur, no warmth reached his heart.
One day, he growled to himself, I will break this leash. I will find her. And I will tear her apart—even if I perish in the doing.