Ji Haneul walked with new weight in his step.
Not burden.
Balance.
His breath flowed quieter now. His heart steadied without thought. And when he moved, his footsteps left no echo, as though the world itself was choosing not to resist.
He had crossed the threshold of the Supreme Peak Realm. His Heavenly Martial Body felt it—his qi no longer just coursed; it listened.
But peace does not last long in the fractured lands.
It was the smell that warned him first.
Not of blood.
Of silence.
The kind of silence that hangs just before a scream.
—
He reached the town of Lanmen at dusk.
It was larger than the last few hamlets—stone walls half-built, inns with patched silk banners, a market plaza lit with orange lanterns swaying in the wind. Children played near the riverbank. Merchants closed up shop.
But something was off.
Too many windows were shuttered before nightfall. Too many gazes ducked away when he looked. Even the dogs didn't bark.
He stopped by a small tea stall. The vendor was an older woman with faded eyes and a voice like rusted copper.
"You're not local," she said, pouring him a cup before he asked.
"No," he replied.
She nodded. "That's better."
He didn't ask what she meant. He drank.
The tea was bitter but clean. And warm.
"Is something wrong with this town?" he asked finally.
The woman stirred her own cup slowly.
Then glanced around.
"Wrong?" she echoed. "No. Just quiet. We like it quiet."
A lie.
Before he could press further, a hand clapped him on the shoulder.
"New face. You don't look like a drunk or a bandit. You'll do."
Haneul turned. A merchant in red robes with a lantern charm hanging from his belt grinned at him, holding out a flask.
"I'm not buying," Haneul said.
"Not selling," the man replied. "You looked thirsty."
"…I just had tea."
"Then have something stronger."
He handed Haneul the flask. It smelled of plum and steel.
"You're persistent."
"Most people ignore me," the merchant said, smiling wider. "But you look like someone who listens."
Haneul held the flask, but didn't drink.
The man leaned closer.
"You've been to the Qingshi forest, haven't you?"
That made Haneul's hand tighten slightly.
"Why?"
"Because someone else did. And they didn't come back."
Haneul stayed silent.
The merchant's grin faded.
"You should leave this town by dawn," he said, voice low now. "There are people who come here, every few nights. Always different. Always asking about the cave."
"Who?"
The man shook his head.
"No names. No emblems. Just questions. Always at night. And those who speak with them? A few days later, they change. Or vanish."
"…Cult?"
The merchant didn't answer.
He took the flask back.
"They wear silk lanterns on their belts. Black thread. No flame."
Ji Haneul stood.
The vendor had already packed her tea.
The streets had emptied while they spoke.
Lanterns still swayed.
But the wind had stopped.
—
That night, Haneul did not rent a room. He stayed atop the inn's roof, sword across his lap, qi drawn low and thin.
And just after midnight…
They came.
Not with footsteps.
With whispers.
Three figures, robed and hooded, entered the courtyard. Their movement unnatural—too smooth. Their shadows stretched behind them in strange directions.
No emblem. No name.
But on each of their belts, a silk lantern hung.
Black-threaded.
Unlit.
Haneul watched.
He didn't descend.
Not yet.
One of them spoke to a young man near the well—someone Haneul had seen playing music earlier.
The boy nodded.
The figures left.
The boy stood in the dark for a long time.
Then walked off in the same direction, his body slack… his eyes distant.
Haneul remained still.
But his fingers gripped the hilt of his sword.
Something was beginning.
And if he was right…
It had already begun long ago.