Saō Hyun did not know how much time had passed since he opened his eyes. He did not even know whether time still existed at all.
The night was fixed—motionless, unchanged—as though it had decided to remain exactly as it was until he ended first.
He tried to breathe deeply, but his chest refused to cooperate. Every breath left him broken, short, as if it were escaping his body rather than entering it.
He shifted slightly, and his broken foot screamed inside him.
It was not a sound, but a clean, sharp pain that forced his mouth open without letting anything out. His body curled in on itself instinctively, then stopped. He remained still—not because he chose to, but because his body told him clearly: one more step and you will fall.
He sat.
Not the way people sit, but in a half-fall, bracing himself with his uninjured hand. The other trembled. He looked at it. It was slightly swollen, its color unfamiliar—something he did not recognize. He extended a finger and touched the bite mark. His body shuddered, and he pulled his hand back quickly.
"You're still here…" he whispered, unsure who he was speaking to.
The night did not answer.
He raised his head slowly. The trees around him were black—taller than they should be, quieter than they should be. There were no insects, no water, not even wind. Everything seemed to have vanished, leaving only him: a small, broken child sitting in a place without a name.
He thought slowly, as if thoughts themselves were heavy in his head.
I'm alive.
He said it to himself, then stopped.
Is that a good thing?
He didn't know.
In the palace, he had been alive too.
Shon Ai had been alive.
Shon Mokum had been alive.
Then they weren't.
He swallowed, his throat burning. He tried not to think, but the images came on their own, as though they required no permission. Blood. A severed arm. Eyes open, unmoving. He clenched his hands tightly in his clothes.
"No…" he said in a small voice. "Not now."
He stayed silent for a moment, then added—as if explaining to the darkness, "If I think of them… I'll stop."
And because he did not want to stop, he tried to stand.
He placed his hand on the ground and pushed himself up. His foot screamed again. He almost cried, but something inside him prevented it—not courage, but exhaustion. He was too tired for crying to be worth the effort.
He stood slowly, dragging his foot behind him. Every step felt as if his bones were grinding together, as though something broken inside him was shifting where it did not belong. His teeth knocked together. His chest trembled.
Why don't I die?
The question slipped into his mind without permission.
Then another followed—faster, simpler:
And why do I want to die?
He stopped.
He stood swaying slightly, then said to himself, I don't want anything… I just don't want to go back.
He moved again.
The path was not a path. It was uneven ground—stones, roots, sudden drops and rises. More than once he nearly fell, and each time his heart leapt, not from fear of pain, but from fear that he might not be able to stand again.
If I fall one more time…
He did not finish the thought.
The night was long—not because time moved slowly, but because it gave him nothing to look at. No clear moon. No guiding stars. Only blackness. He felt the night watching him—not with eyes, but with presence. He felt he was not alone, even though he was completely alone.
He spoke to himself in a voice barely audible.
"Are you like me?"
He was asking the night.
"Are you lonely too?"
No answer came, but the question left him with a strange feeling. As if the night was not an enemy—just something that did not care. And something that does not care… does not strike you.
He kept walking.
After a time he could not measure, he felt something else: hunger. At first it was faint, a gentle pull in his stomach. Then it became clearer. He remembered food. He remembered the last time he had eaten—the table, the sounds. Then he remembered that table no longer existed.
He laughed softly, without sound.
"Even food… died."
He stumbled again and fell onto his uninjured knee. This time, he did not rise immediately. He remained kneeling, head lowered, panting. He felt dizzy, as though the world were tilting slightly.
"I'm small…" he said, as if offering an excuse to the world. "This shouldn't be this hard."
He did not know who he was speaking to—but he said it anyway.
He began to cry. Not loudly—just silent tears falling. It was the crying of a child tired of being strong, yet unable to understand how to be weak either.
"If Shon Ai were here…" he said, then stopped.
He did not finish.
He did not want to imagine her here—in this darkness, in this pain. He wiped his face with his sleeve and stood again, trembling.
His bitten hand began to hurt differently. Not just sharp pain, but something strange spreading through his arm, as if something were moving beneath his skin. He was afraid—then afraid of being afraid.
"Don't go…" he whispered. "Don't take me with you."
But the pain did not take him.
It stayed.
And with it, something else remained—a faint warmth in his chest that made his heart beat a little stronger.
He noticed.
He stopped and placed his hand over his chest.
"You're still working," he said to his heart.
Then he added, with a child's seriousness, "So I can't die yet."
He walked on.
The night continued.
The pain continued.
But he continued too.
He no longer thought of escape, or the future, or revenge. He did not even know those words. All he knew was this small, clear thought holding him from within:
If I stop… everything ends.
If I walk… maybe it won't.
And that was enough.
A small child, with a broken foot and a poisoned hand, walking through a darkness without a name—not because he was brave, but because he no longer knew how to be anything else.
And so the night walked with him—
neither stopping him,
nor sparing him.