The sky burned.
It was not the warm amber glow of sunset that Kang Haejin had grown up watching from the rice paddies, nor the golden hue of lanterns flickering across the village square. It was fire—wild, hungry, and merciless. Flames devoured the wooden beams of his home, the granary, the shrine where his mother used to pray every morning. Smoke coiled into the heavens like ink spilled across parchment, blotting out the stars.
Haejin crouched behind an overturned cart, hands trembling around the rusted dagger he had stolen from his father's old trunk. He could hear the screams—the sharp cries of women, the guttural roars of men being cut down, the wails of children dragged into the dark.
His own breath came in shallow gasps, each one laced with soot and terror.
"Stay hidden," his mother had whispered before pushing him behind the rice bin. "Don't come out until I call for you."
That had been hours ago. Maybe days.
He didn't know how long he'd been there, curled beneath the wreckage of a world that no longer existed.
Then came the laughter.
Low and cruel, it slithered through the night air like a serpent. Haejin peeked through the cracks in the broken wood and saw them—five men in black cloaks, their faces smeared with ash and blood. One of them held a torch high, its flame dancing over the ruins of Soryeon Village.
"Nothing left but ghosts," one of them said, kicking aside a charred beam. "Boss said they refused the tribute. Guess they thought they could survive without us."
Another laughed. "Guess they were wrong."
They moved toward the center of the village square, where the bodies were piled like discarded sacks of grain. Haejin's stomach twisted when he saw her—his mother, lying motionless beside his father. Her shawl was torn, her hair matted with blood. His father's body was half-buried beneath the collapsed roof of their house.
He bit his lip until it bled, forcing himself to stay still. To stay silent.
One of the men stepped forward, drawing a curved blade from his belt.
"Let's make sure none of them are still breathing."
Haejin's heart pounded so hard he thought it might burst. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cold earth, whispering a prayer—not to any god, but to the wind, to the trees, to whatever force might still care about a boy who had nothing left.
Please… don't let them see me.
Footsteps crunched closer.
Then—
A distant horn blared.
The men froze.
"What the hell is that?"
"Imperial scouts?!"
Panic rippled through the group. One of them spat on the ground.
"We'll finish this later. Let's move!"
As quickly as they had come, the invaders vanished into the forest, leaving only death and silence behind.
Haejin waited.
And waited.
When the moon reached its highest point in the sky, he finally crawled out from his hiding place.
His legs gave out the moment he stood. He stumbled forward, dragging himself across the scorched earth until he reached them.
His mother's hand was still warm.
Her eyes were open, staring at the stars.
He pressed his cheek to hers, tears mixing with ash.
"I'm sorry…"
She didn't answer.
His father lay nearby, his face frozen in rage and grief. A broken training sword—once used for practice, now splintered—was clutched in his lifeless fingers.
Haejin knelt beside him, placing a hand on his father's chest.
There was no rise.
No fall.
He looked up at the sky, at the stars that had watched silently as everything he loved was taken from him.
And then he made a vow.
Not in words.
In fire.
In blood.
In memory.
"I will become strong enough to kill every last one of them."