In the process of trying to get my powers back, I found myself constantly arguing with the echoes of my mother's advice in my head. She had warned me—told me again and again—that power was never meant to be forced, that it was something that would return naturally when my spirit was ready. But I didn't want patience. I didn't want waiting.
Deep within me, there was a stronger urge, one I could not silence.
I wanted to know who was real and who was fake.
I wanted to see Raven for what he truly was—without lies, without manipulation, without fear blinding my judgment.
And so, against advice, against instinct, I chose the harder path.
Jan and I packed our bags quietly for the three-week journey. There was no excitement in our movements, only resolve. Each fold of clothing felt like a silent promise to ourselves that we would see this through, no matter how difficult it became.
Jan surprised me when she volunteered to come along and stay with me throughout the training. I hadn't even asked her—she simply said it like it was already decided.
"I'm not letting you do this alone," she said, zipping her bag shut.
I didn't argue. I accepted, grateful for her presence more than I could put into words.
The journey itself was exhausting. The roads were rough, uneven, winding through places that felt forgotten by time. Hours passed, then more hours, until the modern world slowly peeled away. Tall buildings disappeared, replaced by thick trees, broken paths, and stretches of land that felt ancient—heavy with silence and memory.
By the time we arrived, the sun was already tilting toward the horizon.
Outside the window, I saw ancient halls built with weathered wood and stone, standing stubbornly against time. They looked sacred, untouched, like places that had witnessed countless secrets.
Jan leaned closer to the window, clutching the address tightly in her hand. "This should be it," she murmured.
The cab slowed and finally stopped in front of a tiny hut. It looked almost fragile—small, quiet, unassuming—yet something about it felt deeply rooted,
We stepped out of the cab, dragged our bags down, and stood there for a moment, taking everything in.
Jan knocked.
After a short pause, the door opened.
A man stepped out. He wasn't old, but he wasn't young either—his age was impossible to place. His sharp eyes studied us with unsettling calm as he tied his turban more firmly around his head.
Without speaking much, he brought out two small wooden seats and gestured for us to sit outside. Then he led us into another smaller hut behind the first.
Inside, the space was narrow and bare. There was only one bed in the room.
I dropped my bag and took a deep breath.
"It's really going to be three weeks," I thought to myself, scanning the tight space. The realization settled heavily in my chest.
The man stepped back outside and called my name.
I followed him out. Jan stayed behind, watching silently.
He told me to stand still. I obeyed.
He pulled out something—thin and circular—and slowly moved it around me, tracing an invisible boundary. His lips moved as he muttered words I couldn't understand. The air felt different, heavier, as if something unseen was being disturbed.
When he finished, he motioned for me to sit.
"You don't have to be scared," he said calmly. "In this kind of training, there are always interruptions—from creatures, from forces that sense awakening power."
He looked straight at me. "I have cleared your traces. No one will interfere."
His words should have comforted me, but instead, they sent a chill down my spine.
"We would start now," he continued, "but if you are not ready, we can—"
"I am ready," I said immediately, standing up.
There was no hesitation in my voice. The man nodded, as if he had expected that answer.
He led us to an empty field not far from the huts. The land was wide and open, silent except for the sound of wind brushing against tall grass. On the far side of the field stood another hut—isolated, lonely, standing alone in the middlezk.
The man stepped closer, his eyes locking onto mine.
"On the first day—which is today—we begin with the erasing of the human self."
I frowned. "What does that mean?" I asked.
He pointed toward the isolated hut.
"That will be your room for this week."
I followed his gaze, my heart sinking.
"So… I'm to sleep there alone?" I asked quietly.
"You don't need to fear," he replied. "This place is protected."
He led me closer to the hut and told Jan to wait behind.
Inside, the hut felt colder. The walls were thick, the air still.
"This is an old hanok underground shrine," he explained. "This is where you will be isolated for some time."
Fear crept across my face before I could hide it.
"And what's the reason for this?" I asked.
"This is the process of getting your powers back," he answered simply.
Before I could ask more, he continued, "Inside here, mirrors are not allowed. And do not say your real name to anything you see."
My breath caught.
"I'm scared," I admitted, my voice low.
He didn't respond to that.
"No mirrors. No clocks. No human contact," he said firmly. "And you are forbidden from saying your real name."
I swallowed hard. "So… what would I be doing here?"
"Nothing," he replied. "Just isolation."
Someone would bring food, he said.
"See you in five days," he added, turning to leave.
"Wait," I called out.
He paused.
"So I'm not allowed to come outside too?" I asked.
He didn't answer. He simply turned and closed the door behind him.
The silence that followed was overwhelming.
I looked around the hut carefully. Everything seemed ordinary at first glance. There was a simple bed. On one side, a small bowl filled with something red—ink, maybe, though I wasn't sure. I looked away immediately, my chest tightening.
Slowly, I sat on the bed.
Alone.
Deep down inside me, fear mixed with determination. Whatever this was—whatever waited for me here—I could feel it.
This was the beginning of something great.
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my heart beating steadily as the silence closed in around me.