The morning sun spilled through the cracks in the wooden walls of Ji-hyeon's small home. Birds chirped faintly in the distance, but everything felt strangely… still.
Ji-hyeon sat silently at the edge of his bed, eyes fixed on the faint hourglass-shaped mark on his palm.
It no longer burned, nor did it glow—but it pulsed, faintly, like a second heartbeat.
His mother called him from the kitchen,
> "Ji-hyeon, breakfast is ready!"
He responded, "Yes, Mother," but his voice sounded different to his own ears—more grounded, deeper, as if something ancient stirred within it.
When he joined his family at the table, his younger siblings laughed and chattered as usual, but his father paused, eyes narrowing slightly.
> "You've grown quiet," he said.
Ji-hyeon offered a smile. "Just tired, Father. I had a strange dream."
But even as he said the words, he felt a presence within him—a memory that wasn't quite a memory, a feeling of watching the world from above… like a king staring down from a throne of flame and bone.
That day, when he stepped outside to chop wood, the axe felt lighter than before. The tree split faster. His movements were smoother, more precise—almost unnatural for a boy his age.
Villagers passing by took notice.
> "That Ji-hyeon boy… always had a sharp head. But now—he moves like he's been training in the capital," whispered one old man.
Back in the shadows of the forest nearby, a strange woman watched him from behind the trees. Her eyes glowed faintly blue, and a crystal embedded in her forehead shimmered as she whispered:
> "The seal has begun to crack."