The snow grew thicker as Shin moved farther from the village.
At first, he simply walked.
He didn't think about a destination. He didn't think about tomorrow. He walked because standing still felt worse. Each step followed the last — heavy, uneven. The bow struck his back with every movement, the sword pulled his waist downward. Everything about him felt too large for a body that was too small.
He didn't know where to go.
That hurt more than the cold.
Inside him, the child spun without direction. Short thoughts, repeated again and again, almost identical: What now? Where do I go? Where do I stay? There were no answers. No memory of anyone ever explaining what to do in a situation like this.
The older part offered no comfort. It didn't say things would be fine. It only pushed.
Staying here is death.
Maybe not today. But soon.
He needed shelter. Something closed. Hidden. Not a village — that much he already knew. Villages didn't take in lone children during wartime. At best, they sent them away. At worst, they handed them over.
That was when he stopped.
He leaned his shoulder against a thick tree, breathing hard. He looked up at the white, formless sky. For a moment, it felt as if he were searching for something there — as if the sky might hold answers.
It didn't.
The memory came quietly.
His mother speaking casually while doing chores, mentioning that long ago there had been an abandoned temple to the west. An old place. Forgotten. Once filled with offerings, feasts, visitors.
Now, no one went there.
Shin closed his eyes.
The distance was unclear. Two days of walking, maybe. Twenty kilometers. She had never been precise.
But it was something.
He drew a deep breath.
It was worth trying.
He lifted his gaze, trying to recall what his father had taught him. The sun wasn't visible, but its direction could still be felt. He watched the land, the wind, the slope of the ground.
He chose a direction.
West.
And walked.
The journey was worse than he expected.
Snow hid holes in the ground. Branches struck his face. The earth shifted between mud and ice. Sounds came from the forest — movement, animals he couldn't see.
Fear crept in slowly, piling up.
His legs began to ache early. His body couldn't keep up with his will. The bow grew heavier with every passing hour. The sword felt like a mistake he didn't have the courage to abandon.
When the sky finally darkened, Shin understood he had to stop.
Walking at night would be asking to die.
He searched for somewhere less exposed. Found a large tree, its roots forming a narrow space beneath it. It wasn't safe. But it was what he had.
His hands shook as he gathered branches and stones.
His father had shown him once.
Not as a lesson. Just by doing it.
It took time. He failed. Tried again.
When the fire finally caught — small and weak — Shin felt a slight release in his chest.
He sat with his back against the trunk, pulling his knees in. The warmth was minimal, but it helped.
He ate some of the dried meat. Saved the rest. The food was tough, tasteless. It went down anyway.
After that, there was nothing left to do.
The fire crackled softly. Shadows shifted.
That was when everything collapsed onto him.
The village. The bodies. His father lying there, the bow too far away to help.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
The child still inside him couldn't bear it.
The crying came hard and uncontrolled. He tried to hold it back, tried to stay quiet — failed. He cried until his chest hurt. Cried until his body was more exhausted than it already was.
He wanted to call his parents.
He wanted to hear any response at all.
None came.
Exhaustion won.
Shin slept leaning against the tree, the bow beside him and the oversized sword tied at his waist. He set no traps. Didn't think about animals.
It was reckless.
If his father were alive, he would have scolded him.
But that night, by luck or by the world's indifference, nothing came.
Shin would wake the next day.
And for now, that was enough.