The monk wore the stars on his skull and the moon in his eyes.
He arrived on an afternoon when the sky was too blue to be natural. One of those days when the light seemed to have a particular quality, as if the world had decided to show itself at its best for no apparent reason. The villagers were working in the fields. Children played near the well. Dogs slept in the shade of the houses.
And then he appeared.
Not like an apparition. Not with mystical fanfare or cosmic omens. Just... there. As if he had always been part of the landscape and people had just noticed him.
A man. Tall. Thin. Dressed in a gray monk's robe that had seen too many roads and not enough washings. A walking staff in his right hand—wood polished by years of use, with notches that probably told stories no one would ever ask about. Barefoot. Feet that had walked more miles than most villagers traveled in their entire lives.
But what drew attention—what forced the gaze and held it captive—was his skull.
Shaved. Smooth. And tattooed.
Symbols. Complex. Intertwined. They ran across the entire surface of his skull like a celestial map carved into flesh. Stars. Constellations. Characters I didn't recognize but that carried the weight of something ancient. Sacred. Or cursed. Hard to say.
The villagers stopped working. Conversations died. The dogs woke up, sniffed the air, and decided this stranger wasn't worth their energy.
Wandering monks weren't rare. Not really. The Empire produced them regularly—men and women who had abandoned their ordinary lives to follow the Way of the Guardians. But those usually stopped in the big cities. In recognized temples. Not in lost villages in the middle of the mountains and mountain air, where the only thing worth stealing was maybe a bag of grain and the suspicious hospitality of peasants too poor to be generous.
The monk walked forward. Slowly. His staff clacked on the frozen ground with a regular rhythm. Clack. Clack. Clack. Like a metronome marking the passage of time.
He stopped in front of Park Mina—the woman who had decided three years earlier that her son was afraid of me. She was holding a basket of wet laundry. Stared at him with an expression between curiosity and suspicion.
"Good day, good mother." His voice was... unexpected. Soft. Almost melodic. The kind of voice you didn't associate with someone who looked like he had survived three famines and a war. "I seek hospitality for the night. A place in a barn. A little water. I ask for no food, though I wouldn't refuse if offered."
Park Mina blinked. "Uh... you should talk to the village chief. Lee Dongmin. His house is over there."
The monk followed her pointed finger. Nodded. "Thank you for your guidance."
He continued on his way. And as he walked, his eyes swept the village. The houses. The faces. The children watched him from the dark corners between buildings.
And then... they settled on me.
I was standing near our cottage. Eunbi was inside, preparing something that smelled of ginger and soy sauce. I had been watching an ant carrying a grain of rice three times its size. A fascinating activity for a three-year-old who was supposed to have the attention span of a goldfish.
But now, the insect no longer existed. There were only those eyes.
Gray. Not the dull gray of stones or ash. No. Something brighter. Like the moon seen through thick fog. Or like molten silver frozen at the exact moment it began to solidify.
They fixed on me. Not the way you look at a child. Not with that amused condescension adults reserved for kids. But like... like you observe something you've been searching for—children you've been searching for for a long time.
Time did something strange. Stretched. Compressed. I don't know how many seconds passed. Maybe two. Maybe ten. But during that moment, the world shrank to that gaze. To that silent connection between a wandering monk and a child who wasn't really one.
Then he smiled. A sad smile. Knowing. As if he had just confirmed something he had hoped not to find.
He looked away. Continued toward Lee Dongmin's house. And I stayed there, standing, with that strange sensation in my chest. Not fear. Not exactly. Something more complex. More instinctive.
Recognition.
He knew. Somehow, that goddamn monk knew.
. . .
Lee Dongmin must have decided that refusing hospitality to a monk carried too many cosmic risks. Or maybe he hoped for divine blessings for his crops. Or maybe he was just less of an asshole than average and understood that a man capable of walking barefoot in the mountains in the middle of spring probably wasn't someone you wanted to offend.
Whatever the case, the monk got his place for the night. And—oh surprise—he was directed to our family for the evening meal.
"The Chois have room," Lee had said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And Choi Eunbi is an excellent cook. You'll be well treated."
Translation: "I don't want this weird stranger in my house, so I'm pawning him off on my neighbors."
Mansoo had accepted with the kind of forced grace of someone who knew exactly what was happening but couldn't say anything without seeming inhospitable. "Of course. We would be honored."
And now, the monk was sitting in our small house. At our small table. Looking at our small family with those eyes that probably saw far too much.
Eunbi had brought out what she could. Rice. Pickled vegetables. A fish broth that smelled better than it tasted. Some kimchi her sister had made that was spicy enough to make you cry. It wasn't much. But it was what we had.
The monk ate slowly. Deliberately. Like someone who had learned to draw gratitude from every bite. Between sips, he talked.
"You have a beautiful village," he said. His voice carried that melodic quality I had noticed earlier. "Isolated. Peaceful. The mountains protect. The earth spirits are strong here."
"We love our home," Eunbi replied politely. She probably didn't believe in earth spirits. But you didn't contradict a monk. Even a strange one.
"You must." The monk smiled. "Deep roots make strong trees."
Mansoo said nothing. He ate. Watched. His hands were relaxed, searching for relaxed, but I knew those signs now. The tension in his shoulders. The way his eyes kept returning to the monk's walking staff leaning against the wall. Assessing. Calculating.
"Do you travel alone?" asked Eunbi to fill the silence.
"Always." The monk took a sip of water. "Solitude is the best teacher. It forces you to listen to the things that other people's noise covers."
"Where do you come from?"
"Everywhere." He laughed softly. "And nowhere. Wandering monks have no home. Only the road."
"And where are you going?"
"Where the Guardians guide me."
Evasive. Polite. But fundamentally useless. The kind of answers someone gave when they didn't really want to answer but couldn't refuse either.
The monk set down his chopsticks. Looked Eunbi straight in the eyes. "You know the Four Guardians, of course?"
"Of course." She nodded. "Cheongryong. Baekho. Jujak. Hyeonmu."
"The Four Directions. The Four Elements. The Four Seasons." The monk traced a symbol in the air with his finger. "But do you know why they are called Guardians?"
Eunbi hesitated. "Because they... protect?"
"Because they wait." The monk corrected her gently. "They guard something. Not us. We are merely passengers. Temporary guests in a world that existed before us and will exist after. No. They guard... balance."
He turned to me. His lunar eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that should have made me look away. But I couldn't. Something held me captive.
"Everything has its place. Every being has its role. When something leaves its place... balance wavers. And when balance wavers..."
He didn't need to finish. The silence said enough.
"Your son listens with great attention," he observed. "Most children his age would have fallen asleep or started playing."
Eunbi laughed. Nervously. "Hyeon is... attentive. Always. Sometimes too much."
"Attention is a virtue." The monk smiled at me. "Isn't it, little one?"
I didn't respond. Because any answer would have been a trap. So I did what I had learned to do. I lowered my eyes. Played the shy child.
But not fast enough. He had seen. Again. That recognition in his gaze.
The meal continued. The monk talked about the temples he had visited. The cities he had crossed. The stories he had heard on the road. Eunbi listened politely. Mansoo ate in silence. And I pretended not to understand why every word from this man seemed to carry a double meaning.
When the meal was over, Eunbi began to clear. Mansoo got up to help her. And in the brief domestic chaos that followed, the monk leaned toward me.
"Stay," he murmured. Soft enough that only I could hear. "When they're busy. I have something for you."
Then he straightened up. Smiled at Eunbi. "Thank you for that generous meal. May the Guardians bless your home."
. . .
Night had fallen. Eunbi had gone to bed. Mansoo had gone out—probably to check something in the fields or maybe just to escape the oppressive presence of the monk in our small house.
I stood near the door. Pretending to look at the stars. But in reality, I was waiting.
The monk appeared. Silent. His bare feet made no sound on the frozen ground. He stopped beside me. Looked at the sky with me.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" he said. "The stars. Unchanging. Eternal. They were here before us. They'll be here after."
"Why did you want to talk to me?" My voice came out colder than I had intended.
The monk laughed. Softly. "Straight to the point. I like that." He crouched down. Put him at ease; he puts himself at my level. "You remember, don't you?"
My heart did something unpleasant in my chest. "Remember what?"
"The life before. The Breath. Her."
The world tilted.
Not physically. But something tore in my head. An invisible membrane that separated the present from the past. The known from the unknown. And through that tear...
A face.
Eyes. Amber. Like liquid honey shining in the sun. But this time, not just the eyes. More. A complete face. Oval. High cheekbones. Lips sketching a smile. No. Not a smile. Something between a smile and sadness. Like someone who knew that every moment of happiness carried the seeds of its own destruction within it.
Hair. Black. Long. Tied in an elaborate braid with silver pins that caught the light.
A robe. Red and gold. Embroidered with dragons. The kind of garment that only nobility—no, royalty—wore.
And a voice. Not words. Just... the memory of a voice. Soft. Firm. Carrying that mix of strength and vulnerability I associated with...
Serin.
Her name exploded in my head like a thunderclap. Not whispered. Shouted. By every neuron that remembered even if I didn't.
And with the name, a sensation. A certainty. Absolutely. OvHe put it absolutely. overwhelming.
She was waiting for me. Somewhere. In the South. In Yongsong. The Dragon City.
The ground rose toward me. No. I fell toward it. My knees buckled. The world spun.
Hands. Firm. Warm. Caught me before my face met the frozen earth.
"Breathe." The monk's voice. Closer now. "You've returned. That's normal. The fragments are painful when they surface."
I was gasping. My lungs refused to fill properly. Air came in gasps. Burning. As if I had forgotten how to breathe.
"What..." My voice was only a ragged whisper. "What did you do to me?"
"Nothing." The monk sat me back down gently. Kept him. Absolutely. He kept hands on my shoulders to steady me. "I just... pushed. The memories are there. Always. Buried. Fragmented. But they exist. Sometimes, all it takes is someone to open the door."
He looked at me. And in his lunar eyes, I saw something that looked like compassion. Or maybe pity.
"Her name is Serin, isn't it? The woman with amber eyes."
I didn't respond. I couldn't. My throat was tight. My hands were trembling.
"You came back for her," he continued. Not a question. A statement. "You don't know why. You don't remember the context. But you know she's waiting for you. That you owe her something. Or that she owes you something. Or maybe you both owe each other something that neither of you truly understands."
"Who are you?" I managed to articulate. "How do you know..."
"I am Haeun." He smiled. Sad. Ancient. "A monk who sees things others don't see. Who hears things others don't hear. And who, sometimes, meets people who shouldn't exist."
"I'm not your enemy," he added quickly. As if sensing I was about to flee. Or scream. Or both. "I'm not here to expose you. I'm not here to judge you. I'm just... a guide. An observer. Someone who makes sure certain things happen as they should."
"Why?" My voice broke. "Why me? Why this?"
"Because you're important." Simple. Direct. Terrifying. "Not now. Not yet. But you will be. In a few years. When you're strong enough. Fast enough. Enough... everything."
He searched in his robe. Took something out. Held it between two fingers.
A seed. Black. Small. No bigger than my thumbnail. But something about its shiny surface suggested it was denser than it looked. As if it carried the weight of something much greater than itself.
"Plant this," said Haeun. "Somewhere no one will see it. Water it. Talk to it if you want. And wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For it to bloom." He pressed the seed into my palm. Closed my fingers over it. "When it does, you'll be ready. For the South. For Yongsong. For... her."
"How long?"
"Years. Maybe ten. Maybe less. It depends on you. On your cultivation. On your growth." He straightened up. "But Hyeon? Don't leave before then. You, he He kept Do you hear me? The South is calling you. I know. You feel it. But if you leave too early..."
He didn't need to finish. The threat was implicit.
"Others will come," he said. More softly now. Almost a whisper. "Not right away. Not this year. Maybe not next year. But they will come. People who will sense what you are. What you represent. Some will want to help. Others... will want to use you. Or destroy you."
"Who?" I asked. Even though I knew he wouldn't answer.
"Those who hunt anomalies. Those who serve balance. Those who defy it." His smile widened. Sad. Resigned. "The world is bigger than this village. More complex than you imagine. And you... you are a stone thrown into a pond. The ripples will spread. Whether you want them to or not."
He turned to leave. Stopped. Looked at. Do you? He looked at me over his shoulder.
"One last piece of advice. Keep your secrets. Even from those who love you. Especially from those who love you. Because secrets you share become weapons you offer."
"Are you leaving?" Stupid question. Obvious.
"At sunrise. I have other places to visit. Other anomalies to observe." He laughed. "The Guardians don't give me much free time."
"Will you come back?"
"Perhaps. If you need it. If the Guardians deem it necessary." He raised a hand. A gesture that looked like a blessing. Or a farewell. "Take care of yourself, Kang Hyeon. Or should I say... Choi Hyeon?"
He knew. Even my real name. The name I bore in a life I couldn't remember.
"How..."
But he was already gone. Vanished into the darkness with the same sudden silence with which he had appeared. As if night itself had swallowed him.
I stayed there. Standing. My hand clenched around the seed. My heart was beating too fast. My mind, sweetheart, was wrestling with fragmented images of a face I now knew with painful clarity.
Serin. The woman with amber eyes. The princess—because she had to be a princess; mind you, she was a princess; those clothes didn't lie—was waiting for me somewhere in the South.
Why? I didn't know. But the certainty was there. Absolutely. Absolutely. carved into my soul like an oath written in blood.
I had to find her.
Even if it took years. Even if it killed me. Even if she didn't remember me.
I had to find her.
. . .
That night, I didn't sleep. I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, the seed clutched in my fist.
It weighed almost nothing. A few grams. Nothing at all.
But the weight of his words—"others will come"—crushed me for weeks.