black blossom risses

Rain whispered across the rooftops of Hwaeom Hall like a ghost unwilling to leave. Every drop painted time slower, heavier, as though the sky mourned something it hadn't yet lost.

Inside the great council chamber, firelight danced across lacquered wood and silk banners—the symbol of Koryo reborn: a cherry blossom wrapped in flame.

Choy Sang Woo stood before the High Table in silence, his black robe motionless. His armor lay elsewhere. He didn't need steel to command a room.

"You went to Kaesung alone," General Han Seojin said, pacing like a caged bear. His voice grated like stone being sharpened. "Not even a blade at your side. That's madness."

"I don't need a blade for a man already broken," Choy answered. His tone was soft, but it carried like thunder through the room.

Lady Yun raised a hand, ever the diplomat. "And yet, Ethan still breathes. Rumors say he hasn't spoken since. What happened in that cell?"

Choy's gaze was distant. "Truth happened."

Han scoffed. "You think truth kills rebellion? This isn't some duel where honor wins the day. The Black Orchid stirs in the south."

A murmur ran through the council.

"They're just dust," Minister Chae muttered. "Remnants of a fallen order clinging to old grievances."

Choy's eyes shifted, cold and razor-sharp. "Dust can still choke you if you breathe too deep."

The room fell still.

He turned from them, walking toward the mural behind the table—a painted depiction of the Red Valley, where flame had once consumed friend and foe alike. His hand brushed the edge of the art.

The silence pulled him back again.

Flashback I: The Siege of Namsan Keep

Smoke. Screams. Steel.

The firelight of that night painted everything red.

Choy's boots thundered down the slope toward the burning village beyond the walls of Namsan Keep. The general's voice echoed in his ears even as he disobeyed it.

Do not engage. The civilians are not strategic assets.

But strategy didn't matter when you could hear a child choking on smoke.

He leapt the barricade, his cloak aflame by the time he reached the town square. A knight in obsidian armor raised his glaive—an execution, mid-swing. Choy moved before thought could catch up. His blade flashed silver, then red.

When the fire died, twenty-seven civilians were saved. He had led ten soldiers. Five returned.

You'll be court-martialed, someone whispered through the camp.

But the mothers wept into his hands and thanked him like a god.

Back in Hwaeom, the court demoted him—reassigned him to the frost-bound borderlands.

But the people began to whisper his name with reverence.

Present

"Peace is bleeding," Choy said quietly, turning from the mural. "And we argue about protocols while the next fire is already lit."

Han growled. "Then what do you propose?"

"I go south," Choy said. "Alone."

Lady Yun's eyes widened. "Again? You think they'll fall for the same storm twice?"

"They won't need to," Choy answered. "This time, I want them to see me coming."

Later, in the catacombs beneath Hwaeom...

The torch hissed as he moved through the hidden halls—deep below the citadel, where only the Warden of Secrets kept watch.

Ancient doors opened with a groan.

The Armory of Dust smelled of rust and vengeance.

Relics of a darker time lined the walls. Broken blades. Cursed banners. Locked scrolls.

And there—at the far end, suspended in silence—hung the Blade of Judgment.

He hadn't touched it in ten years.

Forged from the weapons of the fallen at the Battle of Red Valley. Its hilt bore no decoration. Just a single word etched in flame script:

"Memory."

He reached for it. His fingers grazed the worn leather. Cold rushed into his lungs like grief.

Flashback II: The Death of Master Hanzo

The dojo had smelled of ink and sweat. Rain beat on the rooftop like a war drum.

Hanzo lay dying on the mat, blood spilling from a wound no healer could mend. The old man's eyes were dim, but his voice had lost none of its iron.

"You've mastered the sword, Sang Woo... but mastery of silence? Of what comes after the blade?"

Choy clenched his fists. "I'm not ready."

Hanzo had smiled, even as his life slipped away.

"No one ever is."

His last words echoed through Choy's soul even now:

To survive the sword is easy. Surviving what it makes you—that's the real battle.

Choy sheathed the Blade of Judgment slowly, reverently. The air stilled. The torch dimmed.

And somewhere beyond the walls of Hwaeom, something ancient stirred.

Meanwhile: Southern Ridges, Beyond the Borderlands

They gathered under banners sewn from torn royal silks—now black, marked by the sigil of a blooming orchid.

The man who led them wore a porcelain mask cracked across the left side. His voice was calm. Measured. Seductive.

"You've all lost something," he said. "A brother. A home. A future stolen by the peace they call justice."

He lifted a black blade.