The wind carried the scent of old smoke even now—months after the fire had died.
Haejin stood at the edge of what used to be Soryeon Village, hands clenched at his sides. The charred remains of homes jutted from the earth like blackened bones. Weeds had begun reclaiming the ruins, but the memories clung stubbornly to every broken beam and scorched stone.
He had returned.
Not because Yulsa had allowed it—but because he had stolen away under the cover of night.
He needed to see it for himself.
To prove that it was real.
That none of it had been a dream.
Behind him, the forest rustled with the hush of unseen movement. A fox darted between the trees, pausing only briefly to watch him before vanishing into the underbrush.
Haejin stepped forward.
His boots crunched over brittle wood and shattered roof tiles. He passed the remains of the granary, the shrine where his mother once prayed each morning, the training yard where his father had tried—and failed—to teach him the basics of martial arts.
He remembered the way his father's hands had trembled during those lessons. Not from weakness, but from shame.
I'm not strong enough, his father had said once, lowering his wooden staff. But maybe you can be.
Now, standing among the ruins, Haejin felt no triumph.
No sense of closure.
Only silence.
And something deeper.
Something colder.
Regret.
The Survivor
A dry cough broke the stillness.
Haejin spun, hand instinctively reaching for the dagger hidden beneath his robes.
From behind a collapsed wall emerged an old man, bent with age, face half-hidden by a tattered cloth wrapped around his head. His clothes were singed, one sleeve torn clean off, revealing burns mottled across his arm.
Haejin narrowed his eyes.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
The old man chuckled weakly.
"Neither should you."
Haejin studied him carefully. There was something familiar about the way the man moved—slow, deliberate, like someone who had learned to survive more than just fire.
"Who are you?" Haejin asked.
The man limped closer, leaning on a crooked staff made from a broken farming tool.
"I was the village tailor," he rasped. "Used to make your mother's aprons. Your father's sashes. Before the fire."
Haejin stiffened.
"You lived?"
The man nodded.
"Barely. I hid in the cellar beneath the grain storehouse. When they left, I crawled out. No one came back after that."
Haejin looked around again.
No one had rebuilt.
No one had mourned.
Soryeon had simply… disappeared.
Ghosts in the Ashes
They sat together near what remained of the village well, where the ground was less scorched. The old man lit a small fire using flint from his pouch and offered Haejin a cup of boiled water.
"You think revenge will bring you peace?" the man asked, wiping dust from a broken rice bin.
Haejin hesitated.
The man chuckled.
"Don't look so surprised," he continued. "I saw your village burn. I watched your mother fall. And I've seen a hundred boys like you chase ghosts."
Haejin's grip tightened on the cup.
"They killed everyone," he said quietly. "My mother. My father. The children. They didn't deserve that."
The tailor nodded solemnly.
"No one deserves that," he agreed. "But tell me this—how many of them do you think are still alive?"
Haejin frowned.
"What?"
"How many of the men who did this do you think are still breathing?" the tailor asked. "You weren't the first village they attacked. You won't be the last. If they're still out there, then yes, they deserve justice. But if they're gone… what are you chasing now?"
Haejin opened his mouth to answer.
Nothing came.
The tailor leaned closer.
"You remind me of my son," he said softly. "He was your age when they took him. I spent years hunting down every rumor, every name. I thought if I found them—if I made them suffer—I'd feel better."
He exhaled through his nose.
"I didn't."
Haejin swallowed hard.
"What happened?"
The tailor smiled sadly.
"I found one of them. Just one. He was old, sick, dying. He didn't recognize me. Didn't remember the village. He begged me for mercy."
The old man looked Haejin in the eye.
"I gave it to him."
Haejin stared at him.
"That doesn't make sense."
The tailor laughed bitterly.
"Doesn't it? I wanted blood. I got nothing but regret."
The Weight of Memory
Later that night, Haejin wandered alone through the ruins.
He found his childhood home—or what was left of it. Half the roof had collapsed inward, the beams twisted and blackened. Inside, the remnants of furniture lay in ruin.
He knelt beside a pile of ash and reached into the rubble.
His fingers closed around something solid.
A small wooden box.
Inside were a few trinkets—his mother's sewing needles, a faded ribbon she used to tie her hair, a carved wooden bird his father had made for him when he was young.
Tears pricked his eyes.
He hadn't cried since the night it happened.
Maybe he never would.
But something inside him shifted.
For the first time, he questioned whether strength could ever undo what had been done.
Whether power could bring back what was lost.
Or if all it could do was drag him deeper into darkness.