The Third District of Gyeongwol had not slept in weeks.
By day, its markets swelled with color—vendors crying their wares, silk banners snapping in the wind, the sharp scent of roasted chestnuts mixing with incense smoke. By night, shadows stretched long, hiding knives beneath silken sleeves. The district sat at the crossroads of four noble sect territories, and tension lingered like smoke after a fire.
Hyunjae and Seoyeon moved cautiously through the throng. The massacre at the Crimson Crane Pavilion had shaken the district, though few spoke of it openly. The guards that usually patrolled the market corners now stood doubled in number, their hands never straying far from their sword hilts. Even the hawkers kept their voices low, as if any word might draw the wrong ear.
Hyunjae kept his cloak hood drawn, his hand near the hilt of his crimson-veined sword. He felt the eyes on him—too many, too watchful.
"Seoyeon," he murmured, "how much reach does the Serpent Claw have here?"
She scanned the rooftops, her fingers brushing the ribbons hidden in her sleeve. "Too much. They thrive in silence and fear. And this city is full of both."
They passed a stall selling talismans, each slip of paper scrawled with crude protective runes. The vendor, a wrinkled woman with sunken eyes, caught Hyunjae's gaze and whispered, "The shadow eats qi. Your blade hums too loudly. Quiet it, or they'll hear."
Before Hyunjae could reply, she looked away, muttering to another customer as if she had never spoken to him.
Hyunjae's jaw tightened. The whispers in the market echoed the words carved in blood at the Pavilion. Chosen of Shadow. The phrase seemed to hang in every breath of the city.
They reached the heart of the marketplace, where a small crowd had gathered around a storyteller. His voice carried above the hum of the street, reciting tales of the Heavenly Drunken Immortal who had once slain a thousand enemies with a broken wine jug. Children laughed, men jeered, women clapped. For a moment, the tension loosened.
Then Hyunjae saw him.
Sitting apart from the crowd was a man dressed in plain gray robes, his face gaunt, his black hair unkempt. His eyes were clouded, unfocused—blind. Yet in his hand, resting casually across his knees, was a sheathed sword. Not a beggar's blade, nor a rusty relic. This was the weapon of a disciple once trained in a noble sect, its lacquered scabbard worn by years of use.
The man did not look toward the storyteller. Instead, his head turned as Hyunjae and Seoyeon passed, as if he could feel the air shift around them.
"You walk heavy for one so young," the blind man said, his voice low and ragged. "As though the earth itself bends beneath your burden."
Hyunjae slowed. "And you see much for one without sight."
The man gave a humorless chuckle. "Sight blinds more than it reveals. The Serpent Claw learned that when they took my eyes."
Seoyeon's expression sharpened. "You've faced them?"
The blind man's cloudy eyes narrowed, focusing on nothing and everything at once. "Faced? No. Survived? Barely. My name is Yun Jiseok. Once of the Moonlight Sword Sect, before shadows claimed it."
Hyunjae's pulse quickened. He remembered stories of the Moonlight Sect—a sect said to blend swordsmanship with spiritual resonance, weaving moonlit qi into flowing, ethereal techniques. Rumors had said the sect was dissolved after betrayal and slaughter, but the truth had been lost in whispers.
Jiseok tapped the ground with his scabbard. "The shadow feeds on more than blood. It feeds on despair, on guilt. I smelled both on you before you even spoke."
Hyunjae bristled, but Seoyeon touched his arm lightly. "He may know more than we do. We can't ignore that."
Before Hyunjae could answer, a sudden ripple passed through the crowd.
At the edge of the marketplace, men in dark-green robes pushed forward. Their serpent-emblazoned belts marked them clearly—agents of the Serpent Claw. They moved with unsettling coordination, like limbs of the same body.
The storyteller fell silent. Merchants dropped their gazes. The laughter died.
One of the masked agents pointed directly at Hyunjae. "The Chosen walks among us. Lord Horyeong calls him. Surrender, and your death will be merciful."
A hush swept the square. Hyunjae's hand tightened around his blade. The whispers in his mind stirred again, a voice not his own breathing Yes. Yes. Chosen.
Before he could draw, Yun Jiseok's sword hissed from its scabbard.
Despite his blindness, his movements were precise—sharp as moonlight splitting shadow. The first agent staggered back, blood spraying from his severed mask. Gasps tore through the crowd.
"Blind fool," another agent spat, lunging forward.
But Jiseok moved like water flowing between rocks. His blade sang once, twice. Two bodies crumpled. His eyes never wavered, fixed somewhere far beyond sight, yet his blade struck truer than any who could see.
The market erupted into chaos.
Hyunjae's crimson-veined sword slid free with a low hum, ribbons of shadow writhing faintly along its edge. Seoyeon's crimson threads unfurled, snapping through the air like living whips.
The Serpent Claw agents did not falter. They attacked as one, their movements too synchronized, too unnatural. Their blades gleamed with faint green venom, and their strikes carried no hesitation, no fear of death.
As steel clashed, Hyunjae realized the truth: these were not merely men. Their qi was hollow, brittle, as though something vital had been drained. They were corpses wearing the shells of men, puppets tied to the will of Baek Horyeong.
The battle for the market had begun.