The river whispered ancient things.
Each ripple glinted like polished silver beneath the morning sun, flowing gently between rocks and reedgrass. Ji Haneul stood barefoot at its edge, a bamboo practice sword in hand. He had no teacher. No senior brother. No master's shadow cast over his shoulder. Only a tattered scroll and the beating of his heart.
He moved slowly—each breath measured, each motion deliberate.
Step forward. Shift weight. Raise the blade.
The cut was simple: diagonal, shoulder to hip. The scroll called it a stretching form. An exercise. But something in his blood told him otherwise.
When he moved with intention, the wind moved with him. Not following. Not resisting. Just… in harmony. And the moment his foot found the right alignment and the angle of his blade curved just so, the world exhaled.
And so did he.
He paused and stared at the scroll unrolled on a flat stone nearby. The ink had faded in parts, smudged by time and clumsy fingers. It didn't speak in martial terms. No references to qi flow, no diagrams of meridian paths. Just gentle instructions on posture, breathing, and balance.
But beneath it, something stirred.
"This isn't just an exercise," he murmured to himself, adjusting his grip.
He stepped again.
The bamboo blade moved through the air—not faster, not sharper—but with less friction. Like the world was agreeing with his cut.
His breath caught.
For a brief moment, he could feel his body align—bone, breath, intent, and something deeper, humming quietly under his skin. Something that didn't feel learned… but remembered.
He sheathed the bamboo sword at his back and sat down on the river rock, knees drawn up. Water lapped gently against his toes.
He was only a boy.
But he had begun to glimpse something very old.
Something true.
—
By midday, he returned to the village.
The walk was short. Past the old orchard where boys played dice. Through the wooden gate carved with bird sigils. Between sloped rooftops dotted with clay shingles and drying herbs. No paved roads here. Just well-worn paths and quiet routines.
His home sat near the western slope—small, but warm. The windows faced the setting sun. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the scent of stew drifted through the air.
"I'm back," he called, pushing open the door.
Inside, his mother turned from the hearth, smiling. "Good timing. Wash your hands. The soup's almost ready."
He grinned and tossed his satchel into the corner. "I think I figured out what the scroll really is," he said, slipping off his shoes. "It's not just an exercise guide. It's like a secret technique—hidden inside normal movements."
"Oh?" she asked, ladling stew into two bowls.
"It's the way the air moves when you cut. And the balance. It's not normal. I felt something different today."
"You've been spending too much time alone by that river," she said, setting the bowls down. But there was no scolding in her voice. Only quiet affection.
"I'll prove it to you," he said, taking a deep breath of the broth. "One day."
She smiled and brushed a hand through his hair. "You don't need to prove anything. Just don't hurt yourself."
"I won't. I'm careful." He slurped up a mushroom and leaned back against the wall, eyes bright. "I think I'm going to write my own manual. I'll call it… 'River-Splitting Sword Form.' Or maybe 'Sky-Cutting Flow.'"
"You should finish your stew before naming sword techniques," she said, laughing.
—
That night, a storm rolled in.
But it brought no rain.
Only fire.
Haneul woke to screams.
The sky beyond his window was orange. Not the warm orange of sunset—but the choking kind, full of ash and terror. He stumbled to the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
The neighbor's house was already ablaze. Shadows moved through the streets—figures in dark robes, blades flashing red beneath the inferno.
He turned toward the kitchen, heart racing.
His mother was at the doorway, a heavy beam in her hands, trying to bar it.
"Run!" she shouted. "Haneul—go!"
"I—!"
She turned to him. Her eyes were wide. Not with fear.
With certainty.
"Haneul. Run."
The door exploded inward.
Flames leapt through the room.
She screamed—but not in pain. In command.
"RUN!"
And so he did.
He turned and fled, bare feet skidding across wooden planks. A moment later, heat roared behind him, and a deafening crash sent splinters through the air.
The last thing he saw as he turned the corner was her silhouette—standing against the fire, arms outstretched.
Then nothing.
Only smoke. Only light.
He didn't stop running.
Not when the gate cracked.
Not when the fields behind the village burned.
Not when tears blinded him or the night swallowed the stars.
He kept the scroll clutched to his chest.
His sword, still made of bamboo, swung wildly at the branches that clawed him as he fled into the trees.
Somewhere in the dark, something inside him began to tighten—not just fear, not just grief.
But a promise.
He didn't have a name for it.
Not yet.
But the sword that would one day split the sky had just taken its first breath.
And beneath a falling curtain of ash, Ji Haneul disappeared into the snow.