The boy's breath had stabilized—but his qi still moved like a fractured river.
Sun-Ho sat cross-legged by Yeon's side as the camp began to stir around them. Birds called faintly in the distance, and dew steamed off the pine leaves. Yet the world felt suspended—quiet in the way moments before a blade draw often were.
Yeon blinked awake.
He didn't speak. Just stared at the fabric of Sun-Ho's robe, where his small hand still rested.
"You're stubborn," Sun-Ho said.
Yeon swallowed, then croaked, "You said I wasn't useless."
"You aren't."
The boy's lip trembled—but only for a heartbeat. "Then make me strong."
Sun-Ho studied his face. Behind the tiredness, beyond the cracked meridians and raw channels, was potential—but also pain. The pain of someone who had never been chosen.
Sun-Ho exhaled. "I will train you. But not to make you strong."
Yeon looked confused.
"I'll train you so that you'll never be afraid of yourself again."
The boy didn't cry. But he closed his eyes, and his fists slowly relaxed.
---
By midday, the others had returned to their routines—Ji-Mun arguing with squirrels near the supply bag, Ma-Rok practicing tree-breaking exercises, and Yul-Rin threading barbed needles through straw dolls with eerie precision.
Sun-Ho led Yeon to a quiet clearing.
No theatrics. No dramatic declarations. Just soil, wind, and the breath of the mountains.
"You don't need stances yet," he said. "You need to feel what's broken inside you—and then guide it, not smother it."
He touched Yeon's chest lightly. "Here. Let your breath sit lower. Not in your throat."
Yeon struggled. His body flinched from his own energy.
"Again," Sun-Ho said calmly. "No shame. Just try."
And again. And again.
Until Yeon's qi didn't lash.
Until it flowed.
For the first time, the boy felt warm from within—not from anger, not from fear.
Just heat that belonged to him.
---
That evening, Ji-Mun returned from his "herbal scouting"—his term for wandering off for snacks and unsolicited eavesdropping.
He slapped a scroll onto the table.
"News from a river merchant out of Jisan Gorge. Weird ruins showing up three valleys north—tombs carved into the cliff wall. The kind that weren't there last season."
Sun-Ho turned to him. "Tombs?"
Ji-Mun nodded. "They don't just sit there. Apparently, anyone who lingers too long starts… forgetting things. Names. Places. Even their own reasons for entering."
"Memory erosion?" So-Ri asked, setting down her fan.
"Or theft," Ji-Mun replied. "Some say it feeds on memories. But it's definitely not natural."
Sun-Ho sat back slowly. "That's the second anomaly this month."
Yul-Rin, still sharpening her needle-points, muttered, "First the sealed valley wakes, now this."
Ji-Mun leaned in. "If it's eating memories, it's not a natural phenomenon. It's curated."
So-Ri raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"
"Meaning someone—or something—is gathering memories deliberately. Maybe related to the Seven Veins."
Sun-Ho's eyes narrowed. "Keep tracking it. And nobody goes near it until I say."
---
The conversation quieted.
So-Ri rose. "I'll be back before sundown."
Sun-Ho gave her a glance, but she was already moving.
---
The ruined temple she found was cradled between moss-laden cliffs, half-devoured by time. It wasn't marked on any map. The locals called it "The Weeping Shrine."
She stepped through its hollow archway with a blade tucked behind her back.
It was quiet—eerily so.
But as she approached the altar, her gaze froze.
Etched into the stone behind the fallen idol was a sigil—a flower crest, cracked in half. Faint, incomplete. But unmistakable in shape.
A plum blossom.
Her pulse quickened.
She brushed away the grime with her sleeve.
It wasn't just any blossom.
It was Na-Eun's crest.
Only… changed.
Warped at the edges. Corrupted. As if someone had tried to remake her symbol, or twist it.
So-Ri stepped back.
> "Why is her symbol here?"
---
Meanwhile, Sun-Ho observed Yeon from a short distance as the boy practiced quiet breathing under Yul-Rin's bored supervision.
The boy's posture was improving.
More than that—he wasn't afraid anymore. Of his power. Of his own failure.
Ji-Mun came to sit beside Sun-Ho with an exaggerated sigh.
"He's a strange kid."
"He is," Sun-Ho agreed.
"But brave."
"That too."
Ji-Mun turned his head. "You don't train just anyone. Why him?"
Sun-Ho didn't answer at first.
Then, "Because he reminds me of someone I didn't save."
Ji-Mun tilted his head. "Your past self again?"
"No. Just… someone who fell because they didn't know they could stand."
He stood.
"He won't fall."
---
That night, around the fire, Sun-Ho placed a single wooden blade beside Yeon.
Not a sword.
Just a training tool. Light, unsharpened. Balanced.
Yeon looked up at him.
"For me?"
"You'll train with it," Sun-Ho said, "until it moves as naturally as your breath."
Yeon held the wooden blade with both hands, reverent.
"I'll protect you someday," he said quietly.
Sun-Ho chuckled. "You'll protect what matters. That's enough."
And the fire burned just a little brighter between them.
---
End of Chapter 119 – The Child and the Blade
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