—Local Legend of General Ridge—
Jasper and I returned to our shared room.
We could have booked two single rooms—two grown men sharing a space was hardly ideal—but Jasper had insisted. He claimed it was for my protection. I knew better. He was afraid.
"Rhan," he asked from his bed, his voice low and heavy, "who do you think has better fortune—me, or Victor?"
"Fortune?" I replied. "Victor, without question. He carries a covenant that spans eight generations. But destiny... yours is better. At least you won't end up alone."
"So I'll never make billions in this lifetime," he muttered.
I never understood the obsession with extreme wealth. Wasn't happiness supposed to matter more?
Before I could respond, Jasper sighed again.
"But you're right... my destiny isn't so bad. Otherwise, I wouldn't have met someone like Bella."
His voice trailed off, weighed down by lingering emotion.
Bella had left a deep impression on him. A destiny that allowed someone to fall in love with a ghost was unusual, to say the least. I thought he might spiral into melancholy, but before long, the sound of steady snoring filled the room.
By seven in the evening, Jasper was still asleep.
The sun had dipped behind the hills, and twilight was settling in. I climbed alone onto the rampart of the film studio complex and looked out toward General Ridge.
Against the darkening sky, it formed a formidable silhouette—like a tiger crouched with its back to the city, silent, watchful.
General Ridge.
General Plain.
Why were these places named that way?
"Rhan, enjoying the view?"
Jasper approached from behind, looking faintly embarrassed.
I shook my head. "Just observing."
"What's there to observe?" he said. "The Waterside Garden Hotel is much better—panoramic night views, tour guides talking about life philosophies..." He sounded genuinely regretful.
I didn't respond. Instead, I lowered my voice.
"Let's eat first. Then we ask around."
We entered a small fast-food place run by a couple in their fifties. Their expressions were plain, unremarkable—locals, most likely.
"Passing through for work?" the woman asked as she handed us the menus.
Jasper shook his head. "We're here on business. At the film studio."
"The film studio?" Her eyes widened slightly. "The one near the cement plant?"
I nodded. "That's the one."
"But... isn't that place haunted?" she asked. "Why would you go there?"
"Haunted?" I echoed, feigning casual curiosity. "How do you know?"
"I was planning to sell local snacks there last week," she said, shaking her head. "But then I heard—ghosts. And someone died. After that, the place will probably shut down." Her voice carried a note of regret.
At that moment, her husband returned from outside, having just finished wiping down a car.
"I told them from the start," he said flatly. "Building the studio on General Plain was bound to offend the General."
I seized the opening immediately.
"Offend the General? Is there a general buried there?"
"Exactly," he replied. "General Ridge isn't really a mountain. It's a tomb. They say the general was so revered that the king ordered his grave built up into the shape of a ridge."
"Really?" Jasper asked, mouth full of pizza, eyes wide.
I remained unconvinced. A king might commission an elaborate tomb, but one the size of a hill? That sounded more like folklore. Still, a general being buried there was plausible.
"And how did the studio offend him?" I asked.
"They say the general died in battle," the man continued. "His body was supposed to be returned to the capital, but the escort was ambushed along the way. They had no choice but to bury him where he fell. Now they've built palace halls on that land... he probably mistakes it for the royal palace and returns. It's not really about offense—more that the living disturbed his rest."
The explanation was coherent, whether true or not.
"Which dynasty was he from?" I asked.
The man scratched the back of his head.
"Over two thousand years ago, from what I've heard."
Clearly, that was the limit of his knowledge.
As I prepared to ask another question, the woman interrupted, her tone sharp.
"Why are young people like you so curious about these things? The living should stay away from ghosts. Your generation is too bold."
"Just curiosity," I replied. "Trying to understand."
She shook her head, exasperated.
I paid the bill and left with Jasper.
"You're heading to the studio?" the man suddenly called after us.
I turned and nodded. "Just to take a look."
"It really is haunted," he insisted.
"It'll be fine," I said with a faint smile, turning away.
Before long, we were back inside the studio complex.
Night had fully fallen. The lights were on, but the silence felt heavy—almost hostile. Walking through the empty streets felt like moving through the set of a horror film after everyone had gone home.
After a brief exchange, I settled into my usual meditation.
Jasper knew better than to interrupt. He quietly took out his phone and waited.
---
—Anomaly at the Training Ground—
I lost track of time until a cold breeze brushed across my face.
I opened my eyes and checked my phone.
11:30 p.m.
Almost exactly the time Victor had mentioned.
I stood and prepared to leave. Jasper was still asleep.
Walking alone through the empty complex at this hour, it was impossible not to feel a subtle sense of unease.
I passed through the palace structure and made my way toward the training ground.
Then—
A sound.
I stopped.
"This is... not good."
I retreated at once into the building I had just passed.
Something was approaching from the opposite direction.
At first, it sounded like hoofbeats.
No—footsteps.
But they struck the stone with the weight and rhythm of iron-shod hooves.
"Rhan, what is that?"
The sudden voice behind me made my heart jolt. I turned.
Jasper was standing there.
"When did you get here?" I whispered sharply.
"Just now," he replied just as quietly. "I saw you and didn't dare say anything."
"Don't speak. Take this."
I pressed a prepared concealment talisman into his hand.
"If I hold this, they can't see me?"
"It hides you from spirits, not people. Be quiet."
I raised a finger to my lips. Jasper gave a soft, hurried nod and leaned forward, peering into the shadows.
The figure advanced slowly along the lamplit path, each step unnervingly precise.
It entered the training ground.
Only then did I see it clearly.
Ancient armor.
A long spear held upright.
A warrior from another era.
It climbed onto the drill platform and began striking the ground with its spear—once, twice—methodical, mechanical.
"What is it doing?" Jasper whispered.
I nudged him, signaling silence.
Then his breathing hitched.
"Something's coming out of the ground," he murmured, barely containing his shock.
Figures began to emerge.
One.
Two.
Five.
Ten.
Then more.
And more.
An unending procession.
My thoughts stalled. This defied any ordinary explanation.
From where we stood, their faces were indistinct. I could see only armored silhouettes gripping spears—some straight, others curved.
Within minutes, the training ground was filled, rank upon rank. At least a thousand figures stood assembled. At the front, mounted soldiers sat astride armored horses, their presence imposing, almost ceremonial.
The air grew heavy, saturated with an unnatural cold.
The commander on the platform raised his spear in a rigid, formal motion.
An order.
The formation broke instantly. Soldiers paired off, engaging in sparring drills. In moments, the open ground transformed into a battlefield—hoofbeats pounding, voices shouting, weapons colliding in rhythmic bursts.
"Rhan," Jasper whispered urgently, "what are they?"
"Spectral Legion."
"Spectral Legion?" His voice wavered. "Like underworld enforcers? The kind people say force the living to retreat when they march? Are they here to collect souls? Did something terrible happen here?"
"No." I shook my head, watching closely. "They are Spectral Legion—but not the ordinary kind."
"What does that mean?"
I studied their movements, unease deepening.
"Spectral Legion do not conduct drills in the realm of the living. Nor do they remain bound to a single location.
The domains of the living and the Afterworld are strictly ordered, separate.
To violate that boundary invites retribution from higher powers."
"Then why are they here?"
"I don't know. But look closely. From the commander down to the lowest rank—every movement is rigid. Mechanical. Artificial. This is not how spirits behave."
"Aren't the dead supposed to be stiff?" Jasper whispered. "Like zombies?"
These were not corpses.
They were spectral entities. They should have moved freely.
I took a slow, steadying breath.
"Stay here. Don't move. I'm going to get closer."
Just as I shifted my weight—
Every sound stopped.
I withdrew into the shadows.
The soldiers reassembled with startling speed, snapping back into a square formation, all facing the center of the training ground—as if awaiting inspection.
"Why did they sto—"
"Quiet."
I cut him off sharply. While they were drilling, they might not have noticed us. In this absolute silence, even a breath could give us away.
Before the thought fully formed, the nearest soldier turned its head.
Not naturally.
Mechanically.
Directly toward us.
Cold flooded my veins.
In the lamplight, I finally saw its face.
It was not human.
Nor was it the face of a spirit.
It was carved.
Wooden.
Eyeless.
Beneath the rigid brow, there was only hollow darkness.