The road to Gyeongwol was lined with withered trees and rice fields left fallow after the autumn harvest. A thin mist clung to the land, curling around the roots and branches as though unwilling to let go. For two days, Choi Hyunjae and Han Seoyeon had traveled in silence, the weight of the Shadowed Lotus ruins still heavy on their shoulders.
By the time the city's walls loomed before them, dawn had begun to creep over the horizon, staining the sky a muted red. The gates, towering wooden structures plated with iron, were already crowded with merchants, guards, and beggars. The banners of noble clans hung stiffly in the wind, though their bright colors did little to mask the tension in the air.
Hyunjae drew his cloak tighter. "Too quiet for a city waking at dawn," he muttered.
Seoyeon's eyes, sharp beneath her crimson hood, scanned the crowd. "No—it's not quiet. It's restrained. Everyone is listening."
Indeed, there was a peculiar hush beneath the bustle: vendors speaking in clipped tones, guards glancing over their shoulders, travelers keeping their weapons close at hand. Rumors had moved faster than they had. Whispers of sect disciples vanishing, of assassins prowling the outskirts, of something unnatural stirring in the mountains.
The South Gate captain, a broad-shouldered man with deep lines etched into his face, halted them. His gaze lingered on their weapons before flicking to Seoyeon's crimson sash, a clear sign of her affiliation with the Crimson Crane Sect.
"State your purpose," he demanded.
"Crimson Crane business," Seoyeon replied curtly. "Our sect maintains a pavilion within the Inner District. If you doubt me, send a messenger."
The captain studied her for a long moment. Then, with a grunt, he waved them through. "Enter if you must. But be warned—this city wears too many masks. Not all of them will smile upon you."
They passed beneath the gate into the city proper.
Gyeongwol was vast, layered like a coiled serpent. Its outer districts were crowded with stalls, taverns, and commoners' homes, pressed tightly together as though the city walls themselves threatened to crush them. The further inward one traveled, the more the streets widened, the houses grew taller, and the guards more numerous. At its heart stood the Noble Spire, a tower of jade and ivory that rose above even the highest rooftops—a symbol of the ruling clans' dominion.
But even here, prosperity had a sour aftertaste. Hyunjae noticed it in the shuttered windows, the beggars whispering of "shadow sickness," the soldiers who carried talismans beneath their armor. The city was alive, yes—but it was an animal wounded, limping, hiding its weakness behind ritual and routine.
"This place…" Hyunjae murmured. "It feels like a battlefield before the clash begins."
Seoyeon's lips tightened. "Gyeongwol has always been a battlefield. The clans smile at each other by day, then send assassins by night. But now, something worse than politics is stirring."
They made their way to the Crimson Crane Pavilion in the Third District. It was a modest compound of red-tiled roofs and whitewashed walls, marked by banners bearing the Crane insignia. Hyunjae expected the usual signs of activity—disciples training in the courtyard, the ringing of blades, the soft sound of ribbons cutting air.
Instead, silence.
The gates hung ajar. No lanterns lit the halls. A cold wind drifted from within, carrying with it a coppery tang.
Seoyeon froze. "Something's wrong."
Hyunjae drew his blade, its crimson veins dull in the morning light. They entered cautiously, feet crunching against gravel. The courtyard was deserted, training dummies slashed apart as though by frenzied hands. A trail of dark stains led toward the main hall.
When they pushed the doors open, the stench of death hit them.
Inside, disciples of the Crimson Crane lay strewn across the floor, their crimson ribbons torn, their bodies rigid in grotesque positions. Their eyes were wide, pupils blackened as though drowned in shadow. Some clutched their throats, others bore wounds too clean to have been dealt by ordinary steel.
On the far wall, painted in blood, were three words:
CHOSEN OF SHADOW.
Seoyeon's breath caught. Her hand trembled on her ribbon spool, though her eyes blazed with fury. "They dared…"
Hyunjae studied the corpses. The wounds were precise—arteries severed, tendons cut. But what chilled him most was not the skill. It was the emptiness. These were not simple killings; the bodies seemed drained, hollowed, as though something vital had been consumed.
"They weren't just slaughtered," he said grimly. "They were harvested."
Seoyeon clenched her fists until her knuckles whitened. "The Serpent Claw wants me to see this. They want to draw me out."
"No," Hyunjae said, eyes narrowing at the blood-written words. "They want me."
The silence of the pavilion pressed in, heavy as stone. Hyunjae could feel the faint stirrings of that same whisper from the ruins, tugging at the edges of his mind. Chosen of Shadow. The words were not just a message. They were a mark.
Seoyeon's hand touched his shoulder. "Hyunjae… what exactly did you unleash in those ruins?"
Hyunjae didn't answer. Because the truth was, he didn't know.