The sky no longer wept. The heavy grey clouds had passed with the night storm, leaving behind a fractured sun that peeked through the veil of mountain mist. The wind still howled, thin and sharp, weaving through jagged peaks like a whisper that refused to die. Snow hadn't fallen yet, but the air bit cold enough to gnaw at bone.
Jiyul stepped out from the cave.
Rainwater had cleansed the dried blood from his robe. His black cloak, once stiff with crimson, now hung lightly on his frame, the fabric cold and damp. He didn't mind. The storm had scrubbed away the mess of last night, but not the truth of where he was.
He turned to the rising sun. The warmth meant little, but he closed his eyes for a moment. Not in prayer. In pause.
"...That spirit," he muttered.
He recalled the voice that had visited his dreams—or perhaps his mind. It was hard to tell now, with the static of the Ember and his own pain clouding everything. Its words were vague, broken like whispers left behind by dying gods. But one thing had been clear:
"Follow the ruin. Beneath ash, truth bleeds."
Jiyul opened his eyes. The wind tugged at his robe, urging him forward.
So he walked.
The Death Spring Mountains were not silent; they breathed. Groaning trees, dripping cliffsides, distant animal calls that sounded like screams. But there was no human noise. No laughter. No footsteps. Just the scrape of his boots on the dead stone.
Hours passed. Maybe more. Jiyul didn't care to count. Time was useless when rage was your only compass.
Then, at last, he saw it.
Down the slope, nestled between crooked pine trees and blackened earth, lay a village.
It was old, dead, and abandoned. Charred rooftops collapsed inward, broken fences rotted in the mud, and homes were half-swallowed by overgrowth. No voices. No smoke rising from chimneys. No movement.
Just stillness.
Jiyul descended. His sword rattled faintly against his hip with each step.
As he entered the village, the smell hit him first. Burned flesh. Decay. Wet ash. It clung to the crumbling walls, to the dirt, to the white bones poking through the soil.
There were corpses. Too many.
He didn't flinch. He moved between the remains like one walks through a market—measured, careful, cold.
This hadn't been a battle. This was slaughter.
Some skeletons had their jaws pried open, likely having their tongues ripped out. Others had limbs twisted until the bone shattered. And some... some were just burned. Alive.
Jiyul looked down at a small corpse huddled near a wall. A child, barely nine years old. The bones were curled tight, as if the boy was still begging to be spared.
"...Who did this?" he muttered.
His fingers pulsed. The Ember in his veins twitched, reacting to the lingering agony in the air.
He knelt. He laid his hand upon the child's skull.
And let the Ember awaken.
The Memory
Flames.
Screams that tore the throat.
Metal dragging on stone.
A blurred man stood in the middle of the village square, throwing his head back in laughter. His face was a haze of smoke and shadow, but his presence was terrifying. He wore robes as black as night, with sigils glowing faintly across the seams.
In one hand, he held a spear. In the other, he held a boy by the neck.
The same boy.
"Cry louder," the man snarled, his voice distorted. "Your god isn't listening."
He shoved the spear through the boy's shoulder.
The child screamed.
Villagers watched—held back by chains, their mouths sewn shut with iron wire. One by one, the man torched them. His spear danced with fire, and his words carved curses into the air.
And in the shadows... figures watched.
Not gods. But beings that stood tall, masked and clothed in silk. Their eyes glowed faintly, observing the carnage like judges at a performance.
"You promised us devotion," one spoke, voice like grinding stones.
"I gave you pain," the blurred man replied. "Isn't that the same?"
The boy's scream echoed one last time—
Reality
Jiyul gasped, thrown back into his own body. Steam rose from his hand, the Ember pulsing madly against his ribs.
"...What the hell... was that?"
He stood up, his breathing ragged. He looked around the silent ruins again. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword, not out of fear, but fury.
This wasn't war. This was pleasure. Someone had killed these people not for power, not for conquest, but for fun. Or worse—for a ritual.
Jiyul's eyes narrowed.
"I am not done."
He moved again. House to house. Bone to bone. He searched.
He found another corpse near the center of the village. This one was older, dressed in the tattered remains of a ceremonial robe. A village elder.
Jiyul touched the skull.
The Ember activated again.
Another Memory
The elder screamed as he was forced to watch a child's head crushed under a heavy boot.
The same blurred man—face still unknown—grinned wide.
"You people are weak. And weakness is a disease."
The elder cried as the flames took him.
Reality
Jiyul pulled his hand back. His knuckles cracked as he made a fist.
"This wasn't just slaughter," he whispered to the empty air. "It was a sacrifice."
He paced now, his eyes scanning the ruins desperately. He wasn't looking for justice. He was looking for the truth.
Someone here had to have seen more. A will strong enough to hold a clear memory.