Ch 12

The air in the courtyard held its breath, as if even the night feared to echo.

Under a moonless sky, Muyeon crouched barefoot on chipped stone, blindfolded and still. His breathing was shallow, measured. Every sound around him—a gust of wind, the scrape of a beetle across dirt—was a lesson.

"Again," Geomryu said.

A small stone whipped through the dark.

Muyeon's body twisted. The rock grazed past his ear.

"Too slow."

Another rock. This one he caught with a breath's width to spare.

No cheers. No praise. Just silence—and a third stone, harder, faster. It struck his shoulder.

He grunted, bit back pain. Returned to position.

"Again."

The training had shifted from brutality to precision. Now, Geomryu taught with shadows and silence. No commands. No warnings. Only movement and instinct.

Muyeon learned to hear footsteps on different textures—gravel from sand, bone from flesh. He began predicting Geomryu's movement by the scent of leather, the tightness of his breathing before a throw.

The pain faded. Replaced by stillness. Then clarity.

"You move like you were born crawling over blades," Geomryu muttered after their seventh round.

"I was," Muyeon said.

That night, he could feel the System hovering, watching.

[Training Duration: 41 hours]

[Instinct Pattern: 67% Synchronization]

[No skill awarded]

Reason: Awaiting alignment.

It was the second time Muyeon had seen those words.

Awaiting alignment.

He didn't understand what path the System wanted from him. But he could feel it waiting. Watching. Judging.

By morning, bruises bloomed across his back like ink stains. Ara noticed.

She pressed a damp rag against his arm, scowling without words. Her eyes said enough.

"You think I'm going to die?" Muyeon asked softly.

She hesitated. Then nodded.

Muyeon chuckled under his breath. "I already did. A long time ago."

She slapped his arm, hard. Then left the rag and walked off.

Later, she returned with a scrap of salted radish—her only offering of peace.

Dowon, watching the whole exchange from the shadows, sipped on his tea and said to no one in particular:

"She fears he will vanish. Not because he'll fail, but because he might succeed."

That day, a minor palace patrol came into the pit.

Two guards in polished red-iron armor stood at the gate, speaking in low tones with the shift supervisor.

Muyeon noticed their eyes flicking toward him repeatedly.

Later, he overheard whispers.

"Is that the one?"

"He's always limping. And never bleeds where we can see."

"The bastard's hiding something."

Dowon pulled Muyeon aside that night.

"They're starting to notice," he said.

"I don't care."

"You should." Dowon's eyes were sharper than usual. "The moment they see you as more than broken, they'll try to break you again. Permanently."

"I'm ready."

Dowon placed a hand on Muyeon's shoulder.

"Read this." He handed over a small leather-bound scroll. "The Treatises of Shi Kezan."

"A war journal?" Muyeon raised an eyebrow.

"A warning," Dowon said. "And a prophecy. Every tyrant in history was once a scholar. Before someone turned them into a sword."

Muyeon squinted at the old scholar. "You think I'm becoming a tyrant?"

"I think someone wants you to."

That night, training resumed. But the silence between blows grew longer.

Geomryu stopped mid-swing.

"You're too calm," he said.

"I'm not angry anymore."

"That's not always good."

He circled Muyeon. "Rage is a sword. You don't have to swing it—but you must hold it."

Muyeon nodded.

But his mind was elsewhere.

The System had said "awaiting alignment." Dowon had warned of a path shaped by others.

Muyeon didn't want to be shaped. He wanted to carve.

So when Geomryu struck without warning again—hard, fast—Muyeon didn't dodge.

He stepped into the blow, caught the wrist, and knocked the old warrior off-balance.

Geomryu landed on one knee. Stared at the boy.

"You'll need more than instinct to survive what's coming," he said.

Muyeon offered a hand. "Then teach me the blade that doesn't echo."

Geomryu grinned, blood on his lip. "So you have been listening."

High above, from a broken ventilation shaft, the steward watched.

He scribbled a line onto a scroll:

"Subject Muyeon demonstrates rapid adaptation. Physical improvement alarming. Will inform Her Highness."

He folded the paper, sealed it in wax, and slid it into his sleeve.

From behind him, a soft voice murmured:

"Careful. That boy might recognize your face soon."

It was Ryena, seated on a rusted ledge like a spirit among the iron beams.

She smiled beneath her veil.

"He doesn't just move without sound," she whispered. "He thinks without noise, too."

The steward said nothing.

She added:

"A blade like that doesn't ring on metal. It rings on history."

The two faded into the dark, leaving only wind and dust.

Down below, Muyeon stood in the labor field alone. Geomryu had left. Dowon had retired to his scriptures.

Muyeon breathed.

He moved.

No echo.

No shadow.

Only the faint sound of a future waking up.