Beneath the silk village was a second Yejin.
It was older—colder. A network of subterranean tunnels carved in the bones of the earth. No records marked its existence. No maps hinted at its depth. But Ji Haneul found the entrance easily.
The girl's final words had not been prophecy.
They were a key.
Behind the dye house at the heart of the village, past a well sealed with melted wax, he traced the residue of the array burned into the silk. His qi pulsed against the wall—and the stone split clean down the center.
He stepped into shadow.
And walked downward.
For how long, he could not say.
Time folded strangely in that place. His breath misted even when no cold wind blew. The walls breathed when he didn't. And every turn whispered his name, just below hearing.
Finally, the passage widened.
A chamber opened.
Lit not by torches—but by faint, hovering lanterns filled with pale blue flame.
Dozens of figures stood in a circle.
Masks on.
Identical.
Motionless.
They wore no sect colors, bore no weapons. Yet their presence sent a chill into Haneul's marrow. Not from strength. But from… emptiness.
None of them had qi.
None.
He stepped forward, one hand near his sword.
The masked figures did not move.
At the far end of the chamber stood an altar. A single strand of black silk lay coiled on its surface. As Haneul approached, it twitched.
Then—
"Who walks without an echo?" a voice asked.
It came from everywhere. From inside the chamber walls. From inside Haneul's own skull.
He didn't flinch.
"I don't need echoes," he said. "I cut through them."
The silk on the altar lifted. Slowly. It slithered midair, winding itself into the shape of a hand. Then it clenched into a fist.
And the nearest masked figure moved.
Silently.
No stance. No drawn blade.
Just movement.
Too fast.
But Haneul was faster.
Steel cleared its sheath in a gleam of cold light.
The strike didn't aim for the mask.
It aimed for the space behind the figure's knee—where pressure met motion. Where stability was born.
The figure collapsed.
No cry.
Just impact.
Two more moved.
A breath passed.
And Haneul moved.
His footwork was soft. Veilsteps of the Drifting Moon. He sidestepped one, redirected the other's strike with a curve of his wrist, and drove the flat of his blade into a ribcage—non-lethal.
The mask cracked.
A human face beneath—barely conscious.
Still alive.
Still salvageable.
Then—
The silk on the altar screamed.
It wasn't a sound.
It was a fracture.
The lanterns shattered. The flames twisted into a single stream—and from them emerged a man in a tattered cloak, no mask, but his eyes…
His eyes held no whites.
Only lines.
Like veins of obsidian through glass.
"You are early," he said.
"You're late," Haneul replied. "The village is gone."
"No. It has been… recorded."
"You call this memory?"
"We call it preparation."
"For what?"
The man smiled. It was not an expression of joy.
"We've been shaping the world. You're only just noticing."
He stepped forward.
His presence was wrong. Not overwhelming. But misaligned.
Like gravity that pulled sideways.
Haneul didn't hesitate.
He struck.
The blade cut clean through.
But no blood came.
Only dust.
And a new echo.
The man's voice… behind him now.
"Strike deeper."
Haneul turned. His sword moved again—this time sharper. Faster.
The cloak tore.
And the man staggered.
Real.
The illusion was not perfect.
They were still testing him.
"I'm not your puzzle," Haneul said. "I'm the sword you forgot."
"Not forgotten," the man said. "Feared."
He raised one hand—and every mask in the chamber cracked in unison.
Then he vanished.
So did the others.
Only the altar remained.
And the black silk.
Haneul stood in the middle of the broken chamber.
Breathing slow.
He had seen the enemy now.
Spoken with one of their voices.
And they had seen him.
He left the chamber as the lantern flames died.
But not before tying a thread of black silk to his scabbard.
A reminder.
That echoes mean nothing.
When the sword speaks.