The merchants arrived with spring, but the news they carried was as cold as the winter they left behind.
One year. A whole year spent masking what I was. Moving like a child when people were watching. Deliberately tripping. Missing strikes that my body naturally wanted to land. Being normal.
It was exhausting.
But necessary. Because Mansoo was right. People were noticing. Not enough to ask direct questions. But enough to whisper. To exchange glances. To wonder why Choi Mansoo's eldest son was so. . . different.
So I played the role. The quiet kid. Strange but harmless. The one who helped his mother. Who watched over his little brother. Who didn't cause problems.
And in the evenings, in the barn, I became what I truly was again.
Six years old now. Old enough that my proportions were starting to vaguely resemble those of a functional human rather than a clumsy gremlin. Strong enough to hold the First Breath for nearly a minute—fifty-two seconds exactly during my best attempt.
Fifty-two seconds. It was ridiculous. Pathetic. But for my age? It was already too much.
The Water Form had become natural. My movements flowed now without me having to think. Pivot. Flow. Dodge. Counter-attack. A deadly dance slowed to training speed.
Mansoo had introduced me to combinations. Rock becoming Water. Water freezing into Rock. Transitioning from one form to another without breaking. Without pausing. Because in a real fight, nobody gives you time to change your stance.
And then there was the forge.
. . .
Park Daeho had accepted me as an apprentice—well, "apprentice" was a generous word. More like a kid who hung around the forge, helped with the thankless tasks, and watched with an intensity that probably made the old man uncomfortable.
The forge was a low, wide building. Stone walls. A red-tiled roof blackened by years of smoke. Inside, the heat was constant. Oppressive in summer. Welcome in winter. The smell of coal and hot metal permeated everything—the walls, the floor, the clothes, the skin.
Daeho was a man of few words. Sixtyish maybe. Bald except for a crown of gray hair that encircled his skull like a stubborn colony of lichen. Hands like paddles. Forearms knotted with muscles forged by decades of hammering metal.
He didn't smile much. Didn't talk about his life. Worked with the silent efficiency of someone who had perfected his craft to the point where every movement was precise. Economical. No waste.
I admired him. Not sentimentally. Not as one admires a hero. As one admires a craftsman. Someone who had taken a simple thing—striking hot metal—and elevated it to an art form.
"Pump the bellows," he ordered without looking up from the anvil.
I pumped the bellows. My arms burned from the effort. The coal reddened. The flames danced. The heat struck my face like a slap.
Daeho pulled a blade from the forge. Red. Almost white at the center. He set it on the anvil. Raised his hammer.
The sound. Clear. Metallic. Resonant. Each strike precise. Not too hard. Not too soft. The blade bent. Took shape. Became what it was meant to be.
Thirty strikes. He counted them in his head. Then plunged the blade back into the forge.
"Again."
I pumped. The cycle started over.
It was hypnotic. Repetitive. But never boring. Because every blade was different. Every metal responded differently. Every shape demanded its own rhythm. Its own number of strikes.
"You observe well," Daeho said after the third blade. A rare compliment. "Better than the other kids who come to play blacksmith."
"I'm not playing."
"No." He looked at me. His eyes—gray as steel—assessed. "No, you're not playing. You're learning."
"I want to understand."
"Understand what?"
"How you know. How many strikes. When it's ready. How the metal speaks to you."
Daeho set down his hammer. Wiped his hands on his blackened leather apron.
"Metal doesn't speak. Not in words. But it communicates. Through color. Through sound. Through resistance under the hammer." He tapped the anvil. "A good blacksmith listens. A great blacksmith understands."
"And you? Are you great?"
He laughed. Rarely. A rough sound like gravel in a bucket.
"I was. Maybe. Long ago. Now I'm just. . . here. Doing what I know how to do."
He returned to his work. But something in his voice carried a weight. An untold story. A life lived elsewhere before ending up here, in this lost village, forging plowshares and axes for farmers.
I didn't press. Because I recognized that tone. That polite but firm refusal to dig deeper.
I had secrets too. I too preferred that no one asked questions.
. . .
The merchants arrived on an afternoon when spring was finally beginning to chase away the stubborn cold. Three wagons. Pulled by tired oxen that plodded along with that bovine resignation suggesting they'd made this trip too many times to find any interest in it anymore.
The village came alive. Merchants were rare in Seolhyang. Too isolated. Too poor. Most caravans preferred the trade routes that passed through larger towns. More lucrative ones.
But these merchants weren't looking for profit. I saw it in their eyes. In the way they looked around. Not with the calculating eye of traders assessing potential wealth. With the nervous relief of people who had fled something.
They set up their wares in the square. Fabrics. Spices. Tools. Trinkets. The villagers gathered. Bargained. Bought what they could afford—which wasn't much.
I stayed at the forge. Watched from the door. Daeho had gone out. Was talking to one of the merchants. A middle-aged man with a graying beard and clothes that had seen better days.
Their voices carried. Not clearly enough for the words to be distinct. But enough for me to catch the tone. Grave. Tense.
"Can you hear something?" asked a voice behind me.
I startled. Turned around.
Kim Sumi. The blacksmith's daughter. Seven years old now. Hair tied in two messy pigtails. Cheeks red from running from her house. Eyes bright with that perpetual curiosity that defined her personality.
"You shouldn't be eavesdropping," I said.
"I'm not eavesdropping. I'm listening from outside. That's different." She slipped in beside me. Too close. Her shoulder touched mine. "So? What are they saying?"
"I don't know. They're talking too quietly."
"Liar. You hear everything. You have those weird ears that pick up even whispers."
She wasn't wrong. My senses sharpened by cultivation were both a blessing and a curse. I picked up conversations I wasn't supposed to hear. Details that others missed.
"They're talking about something that frightened them," I admitted. Because lying to Sumi was exhausting. She had that irritating talent for detecting lies.
"Frightened how?"
"Like someone who's seen something bad and ran."
Sumi frowned. "Bandits?"
"Maybe."
"Or the Sangma?"
"We're too far from the border."
"Then what?"
I didn't answer. Because I didn't know. But that tension in the air—that nervousness emanating from the merchants like the smell of cold sweat—it reminded me of something. An instinct. A bodily memory.
Danger. Close but not immediate. Like a storm on the horizon.
. . .
That evening, the merchants asked for hospitality. Were directed to the inn—a generous description for Lee Dongmin's house, which had three extra rooms he sometimes rented out.
The rumors started immediately. The village was small. Secrets never lasted long.
I caught them in fragments. Conversations exchanged at the well. Whispers in the narrow alleys between houses.
"They come from the North."
"From Heukam. Near Lake Myeonggyeong."
"They say strange things are happening."
"Nobles disappearing."
"Not all of them. Just. . . some."
"Those with the Breath."
That last phrase made my ears prick up. Those with the Breath. The cultivators. The martial artists.
I found Daeho in the forge. Alone. He wasn't working. Just standing there, watching the dying embers with an expression I'd never seen on him.
"What's happening?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was low. Measured.
"During the war—the third Sangma invasion, fifteen years ago—I saw things. Men who hunted other men. Not to kill them. To empty them."
"Empty?"
"Their Gi. Their cultivation. Their power." He touched his own chest. "There are techniques. Forbidden. Cursed. That allow you to steal another's Breath. To tear it out. To consume it."
My blood ran cold. "Why?"
"Why steal? Because it's easier than cultivating. Because a lifetime of discipline and training can be replaced by a few hours of torture and extraction." His hand clenched into a fist. "Circuit Hunters, they called them. Because they ripped out meridians like pulling up roots."
Circuit Hunters. The words resonated. Settled in my mind like a stone at the bottom of a lake.
"Have they returned?" I asked.
"Maybe. Or maybe it's others. The world is full of greedy men who want power without deserving it." He looked at me. "Your father trains you, doesn't he?"
I froze. "I. . ."
"Don't lie. I see how you move. How you carry yourself. It's not the posture of a child." He smiled. Sadly. "Mansoo has his reasons. I'm not judging. But Hyeon? Be careful. Power attracts attention. And attention. . ."
He didn't need to finish.
Attention brought the Hunters.
. . .
That night, Mansoo was waiting for me in the barn. Not for the usual training. He was standing. Tense. His eyes swept the door as if expecting someone to walk in.
"You heard," he said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"The Circuit Hunters. They're operating in the Duchy of Cheongsan. Not here yet. Not yet in our mountains. But they're getting closer."
"Why?"
"Because they're looking for something. Or someone. Nobles with powerful bloodlines. Talented cultivators. Those who carry the blood of the Family Arts." He looked me straight in the eyes. "You."
"I'm just a commoner."
"No." His voice was flat. Factual. "You're something else. You carry skills that shouldn't exist in your body. You progress too fast. You remember things no child should know. If the Hunters find you. . ."
"They'll want to tear out my Breath."
"Yes." He placed his hands on my shoulders. Heavy. Firm. "So we change our approach. No more slow progression. No more excessive caution. If danger comes—and it will come—you need to be ready. Truly ready."
"You want me to push harder."
"I want you to survive." He released my shoulders. Walked to the corner. Returned with two sticks. The same ones we used for training. But this time, his expression was different. Harder. More serious.
"The Rock Form taught you to hold firm. The Water Form taught you to dodge. Now we add the third. The Wind Form."
"The Wind?"
"Speed. Explosion. Strike before the enemy reacts. It's the attack. The aggressive form." He took his stance. His body tensed. "Watch."
He moved.
No. He exploded.
One instant, he was still. The next, he crossed the barn. His stick split the air. The sound cracked like a whip. He stopped two meters from me. Barely winded.
"That's the Wind. No visible preparation. No telegraphing. Just. . . action. From rest to attack in a fraction of a second."
He came back. Resumed his stance. "Now you. Try. Don't think. Let your body remember."
I took my stance. Breathed. Felt the Gi in my Danjeon. Drew it toward my legs. My arms.
And I pushed.
My body shot forward. Not as fast as Mansoo. Not as fluid. But faster than a six-year-old should be capable of producing.
My stick struck. Air. But if someone had been there. . .
"Again," said Mansoo.
I repeated. Ten times. Twenty. Thirty.
Each repetition improved the form. Sharpened the movement. My body remembered. Even if my head had forgotten, my muscles knew this dance.
On the fortieth repetition, Mansoo raised his hand. "Enough. Your body is trembling."
It was true. My legs threatened to give out. Fatigue hit like a wave. The repeated use of Gi was burning my circuits.
I sat down. Panting. Sweat ran despite the cold.
Mansoo sat beside me. Held out a water gourd. I drank. The water was cool. Welcome.
"You learn fast," he said. "Too fast. But we don't have the luxury of time."
"Do you think they'll come here? The Hunters?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. But I'm not going to wait to find out." He looked at me. "If something happens. If strangers come asking questions. If you sense the slightest danger. . . you run. You take your brother. Your mother if you can. And you run toward the mountains. Toward the Haeun temple if you remember the way. Understood?"
"And you?"
"I'll slow them down. As long as I can." His smile was bitter. "I didn't flee Cheongsan to watch my family get slaughtered by vultures."
Cheongsan. The Duchy. Where. . . what? His former life? His former crimes?
I didn't ask. Because we all had our secrets. And some secrets deserved to stay buried.
. . .
That night, lying in my futon, I listened to the sounds of the village. Dogs barking in the distance. Wind in the trees. Boards creaking under the weight of the cold.
And somewhere, in the darkness, an invisible threat. Hunters tracking those like me. Those who carried the Breath. Those worth emptying.
My hand rested on my chest. Felt the Gi circulating slowly through my meridians. This power I had so painstakingly rebuilt. Fragment by fragment. Breath by breath.
They could tear it out. Steal it. Leave me empty.
No. Not without a fight. Not without making them pay for every second.
I closed my eyes. Visualized the three forms. Rock. Water. Wind.
Hold. Dodge. Strike.
Defense. Adaptation. Attack.
These were the foundations. Soon, there would be the fourth form. Then the advanced techniques. Then. . .
Then I would be ready. For the Hunters. For the journey South. To find the one waiting for me somewhere in the Dragon City.
Serin. The amber eyes. The unfulfilled promise.
I would find her again.
But first, I had to survive.
. . .
"Ready for what?" asked Hyeon.
Mansoo's silence was more eloquent than any answer.