The battle was over, but the weight of it lingered.
The market was quiet now, emptied of laughter and song. Broken stalls lay abandoned, fruits squashed beneath boots, and bodies of the serpent-masked men were already being carried away by trembling locals. No one dared meet Hyunjae's eyes. No one dared whisper his name aloud.
By the time the city guards arrived, Hyunjae, Seoyeon, and Jiseok had already slipped into the maze of side streets, vanishing into Gyeongwol's tangled veins of alleyways.
They ended at a tea house hidden deep within the Fourth District, far from the reach of noble sect eyes. The sign above the door was faded, the wood splintered, but inside the air was warm with the fragrance of roasted barley and old cedar.
The proprietor, an elderly man with a crooked back, said nothing as the trio entered. His gaze lingered on Jiseok's blind eyes for a moment, then on the blood still drying on Hyunjae's blade, but he asked no questions. He simply led them to a quiet corner where the lantern light barely reached, poured tea, and left them alone.
For a while, none spoke.
Seoyeon sat rigid, her crimson ribbons neatly folded in her lap, though her fingers twitched restlessly against them. Her gaze flicked to Hyunjae more than once, each time shadowed with unspoken words.
Jiseok sat opposite them, his gray robes still damp from battle. His posture was calm, but his hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sheathed sword. Though blind, he seemed to see the silence between them more clearly than either could.
Finally, he broke it.
"You wield a cursed blade."
Hyunjae stiffened. His hand tightened around the teacup until the porcelain creaked. "It is my blade," he said. "Not my master's."
Jiseok's lips curled in a humorless smile. "That is what I once said of mine. Before it devoured my sect."
Seoyeon's eyes snapped to him. "Your sect—the Moonlight Sword Sect. I've heard whispers. They say it fell in a single night."
Jiseok lifted the cup to his lips, drinking slowly before answering. "Whispers are merciful. The truth is crueler. The Serpent Claw came not with soldiers, but with shadows. They poisoned our wells, turned our brothers against one another, and filled the hearts of disciples with voices not their own. By the time we realized, half the sect had already slaughtered the other half."
The lantern's flame shivered. Seoyeon's breath caught.
"And you?" Hyunjae asked quietly.
Jiseok lowered the cup. His cloudy eyes seemed to stare through the wall, far beyond the tea house. "I fought until the voices drowned me. When I woke, the Sect Master was dead, my brothers were ash, and my sight was gone. Yet my blade remained. Perhaps it was mercy. Or perhaps it was punishment."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Hyunjae looked down at his sword, lying across the table. The crimson veins that ran along the steel glimmered faintly in the lamplight, pulsing with an almost lifelike rhythm.
He remembered the way it had moved in the market. Too fast. Too hungry. He remembered the voice—soft, insistent, calling him Chosen.
Jiseok's words echoed in him like the toll of a temple bell. The blade is not your master. You are.
But was that true?
Seoyeon's voice broke the silence. Low, but sharp.
"Hyunjae."
He looked up. Her gaze was hard, though her voice trembled. "Back in the market, when your blade moved… it wasn't you, was it?"
His chest tightened. He searched for denial, for excuse—but none came.
Instead, he said only: "It saved us."
Seoyeon's hand clenched her ribbons. "And when it no longer serves us? When it decides to kill me instead? Or everyone in this city?"
Her words were knives, but her eyes betrayed the conflict within them. Fear, yes. But something else—concern. Pain.
Hyunjae had no answer. He lowered his gaze, the weight of her doubt pressing heavier than the whispers in his mind.
Jiseok stood suddenly, his hand on his scabbard. "You cannot outrun this. The Serpent Claw will come again, and they will come stronger. But if you mean to live, if you mean to walk your own path, you must master the voice within before it masters you."
He turned toward the door, his sightless eyes facing the night. "I know where their nest festers. Follow me, and you may find answers. Stay, and you will find only more graves."
With that, he stepped into the street, the faint sound of his staff tapping against stone.
Seoyeon looked at Hyunjae, her lips pressed tight, her eyes still filled with storm.
"Do you trust him?" she asked.
Hyunjae stared at the blade in his lap. Its crimson veins pulsed once, twice, in rhythm with his heartbeat.
He whispered, almost to himself.
"…I don't know if I trust anyone."
The tea between them had grown cold.