The young man strode confidently toward the gate of Hyeon Temple, carrying in his gaze something rarely seen beneath this world's sky. In his eyes the heavens and the stars seemed to meet, a deep, pellucid hue, like a cloudless winter firmament. His skin bore a delicate, almost translucent pallor, and his hair spilled softly over his shoulders, silver shot with white glints, as though touched by the snow of the first solstice.
He had heard rumors of this place, of the master who could hear spirits, speak with them, sometimes even see them. Such things were whispered between two sips of tea, as though mere words might upset the world's balance. Strangely, Rin had never encountered a trace of this master until recently: no echo, no footprint in the temples he had visited. And now, suddenly, Hyeon's name surfaced everywhere he turned.
That, and especially the hush around it, intrigued him far more than any rumor.
When the gate swung open, the temple revealed itself quiet and meticulous, laid out with almost ritual care, its architecture echoing the ancient Chinese style. Columns of deep red, cherry-hued carvings, lanterns kept immaculate, as if no one dared tamper with the building's memory.
Rin stepped in without hesitation; the air carried the faint scent of incense and fresh tea.
The main door of the inner hall slid aside, soundless. Beyond it stood the master.
He seemed about fifty, radiating a silent, unyielding presence. Snow-white hair was tied in a simple tail, yet most striking was the black bandana covering his eyes, knotted with surgical precision, as though meant to bar not only light but the world's gaze.
Rin studied him for a moment, thoughts rolling quietly behind an unreadable face:
"A new fashion among masters? Or just an eccentric stuck in his own historical drama?"
Irony and curiosity curled at the corner of his mouth, but he said nothing.
— Young man, what is your name? the master asked, breaking meditation. His voice was calm yet penetrating, like a forgotten bell in the mist.
— Rin, the youth replied, steady and clear, yet with the cool distance of someone who carries many untold truths.
The master inclined his head slightly, as though probing him with eyes no bandage could truly hide.
— It does not suit you, he murmured. You plucked that name from the road, not from blood or dream. It is not one bestowed by the heavens.
Rin, with the faintest weariness:
— A name does not define you.
Master Hyeon remained motionless; the air thickened, as though someone among the cherry pillars held the world's breath.
— Perhaps not, yet sometimes… a name carries more than a face.
— It can become a seal, a burden, or a story that will not die even after every bone is dust.
— The name of a legend's hero raises temples, births rituals. Such a name can save lives by its mere utterance.
Rin's gaze betrayed nothing. Yet in those star-filled irises a shadow flickered, silent and cold as an echo from the deep, where past and present overlapped for but a heartbeat.
A side door slid open; hurried steps shattered the hush.
— Master! I've finished sweeping the eastern court, but—ah—
The newcomer froze. His ink-black hair, tied in a loose knot, framed intense, watchful eyes. Strange talismans, shards of old ceramic strung on red thread, hung from his left arm.
— Sorry… I didn't know we had a new colleague, he said with a quick bow. I'm Seiryun.
His gaze lingered on Rin. Silence stretched, taut and electric, until an almost invisible shiver traced Seiryun's spine, like a memory that was not his.
— Master… the dream came again. The symbol on the Dragon Hall's ancient stone—the Divine Dragon's mark…
His words cracked across the stillness like thunder over a lake. Rin's fingers tightened imperceptibly, a reflex of battle, or fear.
Seiryun lowered his voice:
— You said they're only legends. But the dream felt too real. The stone was warm; the symbol pulsed, and I heard a voice…
A pause.
— It said he isn't dead.
The master rose, slow yet ritual-graceful, bare feet soundless on the floor.
— Every legend holds a drop of truth, he said gravely. And some have not ended—only witty rawn from mortal sight.
Silence followed, a sigh of wind through the temple.
Later, Master Hyeon dismissed the candidates for the night. Only Rin lacked lodging; the old man opened a disused door in the eastern wall and offered a tiny room beneath the eaves. A straw mat served as a bed; on a wooden tray lay pearly mountain fruits.
Rin bit one; expecting sweetness, he met a sharp sourness. He spat the pulp, smiling bitterly, then lay down. He needed no sleep, yet humans cherished the ritual of rest, and tomorrow brought the third test. The master would choose only two disciples. Rin already knew which two: destiny's weave shone clear as moonlit water.
Night clung to the roofs; milky light bathed the courtyard. Hyeon planted his zelkova staff in the central stone. Around it unfurled a mandala older than the slab itself: eight concentric circles of pine-ash and ground jade, linked by narrow channels like nerves of light. Between them sacred symbols,dragon teeth, wind runes, the endless knot, glimmered beneath blue lantern flames.
Few candidates remained. They knelt. The Test of Spirit awaited: souls bared, impossible to deceive.
Hyeon lifted his staff; though his voice stayed low, the air shuddered:
— This is the first threshold of the Inner Circle. What you know matters not. Here, only the unspoken truth of your heart will speak.
The staff touched the center; a tremor, like a deep breath, rippled outward.
— Spirits will come. I do not summon them; they arrive when your blood remembers them. Fight or lie, and you are cast out. Only two will survive the three trials.
Seiryun clutched his talisman necklace. Rin stood like stone.
When the master uttered verses in the old tongue, clouds did not stir, yet the sky darkened, and wind nipped the pillars. In the next heartbeat the world snapped into silence.
Rin was pulled through a thick, frigid medium—not with flesh, but with all he was. He opened his eyes in a forest of violet crystal; the ground rippled like living fabric. Four colossal presences rose around him, beings of light and indescribable scales:
Koryu—a clear wave, a crest of foam.
Enryu—a white-blue torrent of flame.
Furyu—fragile, diaphanous, a breeze made flesh.
Doriyu—a living column of rock, voice like a mountain.
— Who has called us? Water boomed, wave-voice crashing on an unseen shore.
— I have, Rin answered. I did not know you would answer; a mortal opened the door.
Doriyu bowed its stony brow:
— You… are… You. And yet you have been silent for millennia.
— Had I shown myself, the world would have been hunted, Rin whispered. Those loyal to my star-brother still breathe. They already possess men, already kill. If I move not now, chaos returns.
Furyu vibrated like a harp-string:
— We thought you lost. Hope withered within us.
Koryu unfurled like wings:
— But you live; therefore the battle is not done.
Enryu surged:
— Can you bear the curse of your name again?
Rin closed his star-filled eyes.
— It is no longer about me.
A deep light kindled in the dragon spirits, not judgment, but an exhale of a sea reborn. In that hush a white spiral seal appeared on every brow, a vow renewed without words. The crystal forest dissolved to dust, space turning inside out.
Rin opened his eyes inside the ritual circle; sacred smoke hung in the air. His face held the stillness of an ancient star. Seiryun stared, an instant ago he had seen a vast white dragon, galaxies blazing in its eyes. Only the memory remained.
Master Hyeon, still in lotus, felt the vibration; suspicion bloomed in his chest. He removed the black bandana, revealing jade-clear eyes, he was never blind, only shielding himself from the spirit world's glare.
His gaze locked on Rin. In those green depths flickered a question he dared not voice:
What are you, child, and whom have you brought?
Yet his lips stayed closed. Only the staff tapped the stone:
— The ritual is ended. Go and rest. Tomorrow a new world begins, for all of us.