Afternoon light slid quietly between the trees, warm and low. The sun had grown gentle, casting long shadows across the worn stones of the village path. Firion walked with slow steps, hands in his pockets, eyes drifting lazily from cloud to cloud. School had ended, his stomach was full, and he was heading toward the one place that never truly felt like it belonged here.
He passed the garden wall lined with moss. Beyond it, nestled between two crooked birches, stood Jhin's house.
It didn't look like it was built.It looked like it had been painted into the world.
The roof was steep, covered in black tiles that shimmered faintly like polished obsidian. The walls were dark wood, varnished to a soft gleam, etched here and there with graceful patterns that seemed to dance if you looked too long. The windows were narrow and rimmed with strange carvings—lines that curved, but not naturally, almost like a script from somewhere else.
Even the flowers in the garden bloomed with an unnatural elegance. Symmetrical. Subtle. Precise.
Firion stopped at the small gate. One of the wind chimes swayed, though there was no breeze.
He knocked twice.
No answer.
He knocked again, louder this time.
Still silence.
He grinned and pushed the door open.
"I'm coming in," he called. "If you're about to kill me for trespassing, at least give me a mask first."
The air inside was heavy and still.
Not stale—concentrated.
The front room opened into a high-ceilinged space filled with soft red light. Sheer curtains hung like veins across the windows, filtering everything into warm shadows. The scent of wax, old wood, and faint, sweet incense lingered in the air. Something else floated beneath it, faint but present, like iron or dust from a forgotten crypt.
To the left, a modest kitchen. Simple stone stove. One bowl on a shelf. A small kettle resting on an unmarked counter.
To the right, a sitting area with two carved chairs around a circular table. Books stacked in unsteady piles. One mask placed carefully at the center. Its face was blank, no mouth, no eyes, no features. Just a smooth oval.
And ahead, past the step down, the workshop.
Firion stepped inside quietly, automatically softening his steps.
He wasn't sure why. He always did, here.
The workshop was a world of its own.
Masks filled every shelf, every ledge, every alcove. Dozens of them, perhaps more. Some shaped like men, some like beasts, others like things he couldn't name. Some were laughing. Some wept. One appeared to be biting its own lips.
And in the center of it all, seated cross-legged on a thick woven mat, was Jhin.
He was still.
Not at rest. Focused.
He wore a black robe unlike anything Firion had ever seen, detailed with faint gold thread forming arcs and floral shapes. His sleeves flowed across the floor as he worked. His fingers were covered in black gloves so thin they looked painted on.
His long green hair hung loose behind him, tied only near the base of his neck. And over his eyes, as always, he wore a simple black cloth.
Firion leaned against the doorway and whistled softly.
"You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were some kind of spirit pretending to be human."
Jhin didn't look up.
"And if I didn't know better," he replied in that same calm voice, "I'd think you say such things to distract yourself from what you feel."
Firion stepped inside with a crooked smile.
"Well, that too."
He sat on the cushion nearest him, legs crossed, arms resting lazily across his knees.
"What are you working on today?"
Jhin placed the unfinished mask gently on a cloth.
Its features were faint. Not yet carved. But it had the suggestion of a mouth held halfway between a cry and a whisper.
"It's not sure what it wants to become."
Firion tilted his head.
"It looks like it's about to speak."
"Or stay silent forever."
That made Firion shiver a little.
He looked away, and that's when his eyes caught it.
High up on the far wall, where the shadow swallowed half the ceiling, hung a mask unlike any other in the room.
Red.
Not bright, not painted—deep red, like something pulled from beneath the ground.
Trimmed in black. The features were sharp. Violent. Curved horns extended from the temples, thin and cruel. The mouth was wide and grinning, filled with carefully carved teeth. The eyes were hollow, large, ringed in dark matte paint that bled out like ash.
It was beautiful in the way blood is beautiful when it shouldn't be.
Firion stood up, slowly.
His voice lowered.
"That one."
Jhin didn't move.
Firion kept his eyes on it.
"It's looking at me."
There was a long pause.
Then Jhin asked,
"What do you see in it?"
Firion swallowed.
"A monster. A demon. Something that doesn't belong here."
Jhin tilted his head slightly.
"Do you believe in demons, Firion?"
The question hit harder than expected.
"I… I don't know. They tell stories about them. In class, in prayers. The old folks say things sometimes. But I've never seen one."
"Have you seen fear?" Jhin asked. "Without a face?"
Firion blinked.
"Have you seen hatred," Jhin continued, "without a body to wear it?"
He rose with grace, the robe barely rustling. He walked toward the shelf beneath the red and black mask, and lifted a hand.
He didn't touch it.
He simply stood there, feeling the space.
"Masks don't just hide," he said quietly.
Firion's voice trembled.
"Then… what do they do?"
Jhin turned slightly toward him.
"They can imprison."
Firion took a step back.
"Imprison what?"
The room felt heavier now. Denser.
Jhin's voice was still calm. Always calm.
"Things that should not walk free in this world."
Firion's heart beat faster.
He barely whispered,
"Like what?"
Jhin smiled.
And the word fell, soft as a knife in water.
"Like demons."
***
The word had fallen like a pebble into deep, black water.
Demon.
It wasn't shouted. It wasn't dramatic. It simply existed now, in the room between them, and the air around it grew still. The silence didn't return to normal. It hung, heavier than before. Firion could almost feel it settle on his skin.
He tried to laugh. The sound didn't come.
"You really want me to believe that mask up there is holding a demon?"
Jhin didn't smile. He remained perfectly composed, as always, his blindfold hiding whatever expression might've been in his eyes.
"Stories about demons and heroes are for children. Neat endings. Clear victories. The real world doesn't care about those."
Firion squinted.
"I'm not a child."
"I know," Jhin said calmly. "That's why I'm telling you the truth."
He turned away, walking slowly between the shelves of hanging masks, fingertips gliding along the edges of wooden jaws and painted brows. Each step was measured. The room felt smaller.
"The world isn't divided between light and dark, good and evil. That's the dream they teach in books. What's real is… messier. Older. And sometimes, forgotten for a reason."
Jhin stopped in front of a mask with no mouth.
"Some things were sealed away, not out of triumph, but fear. Because we weren't ready to destroy them. Because maybe we still aren't."
Firion swallowed hard.
"What things?"
"Remnants of old times. Names that haven't been spoken in centuries. Hatred that learned to sleep. Nightmares that remember us, even if we've forgotten them."
Jhin turned slowly, his presence heavier now.
"And they're waking."
Firion stepped back.
"You're scaring me."
"I'm not trying to scare you," Jhin replied gently. "I'm giving you a choice."
Firion's voice was barely a whisper.
"A choice for what?"
"To see. To understand. To take one step beyond the surface everyone else walks on."
He approached, calm and graceful as always.
"I've known you for some time now. You're impulsive. Too curious for your own good. But honest. That matters more than you think. And more importantly… I trust you."
Firion blinked.
"You trust me?"
"I do," Jhin nodded. "So I'll offer you something very few people will ever experience. But you must promise me it stays between us."
Firion hesitated, then gave a single, serious nod.
"I promise."
"Not a word to anyone. No friends, no teachers, not even your sister."
"Not one word."
Jhin walked over to one of the walls and lifted a mask. Not from a locked chest or secret shelf — just one that had been hanging there the entire time, unnoticed.
It was unlike the others.
Black. Deep and matte, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. Two sharp fox ears curved elegantly from the top. The eye holes were ringed with fine red markings, curved like brush strokes, forming patterns that looked almost like writing.
He held it out to Firion.
"Put this on."
Firion stared at it.
"A fox?"
"Names change with regions. Spirits, echoes, fragments. It's what's behind the name that matters."
He took it in both hands.
The mask was colder than it should have been. Its weight sat in his palms like stone. The wood was carved so precisely that the shape almost felt alive. He raised it slowly and placed it against his face.
It attached with no ties.
No pressure. No effort.
It simply stayed there.
Nothing happened.
"I don't feel anything."
"That's expected."
Jhin stepped forward, raised his hand, and touched a single finger to the center of the mask's forehead.
A golden light sparked to life. Thin and sharp, like a line drawn by a burning thread. The shape it formed was a symbol — or maybe a letter — that Firion had never seen before. The air around him shifted.
He couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
And then, the world changed.