In the northwest of the kingdom of Goryeon, where the cold winds of the Black Mountains of Haebak meet the thick mists of the Sangjin Gorges, two worlds coexist without ever crossing paths.
At the far north, in the depths of an extinct volcano named Jeokhwa, rises the feared Sect of the Celestial Flame. Hidden behind a curtain of scorched forests and steep cliffs, it stands like an inaccessible fortress. The paths leading there are few, steep, and bordered by ravines where the burning mist suffocates even the boldest. It is said that the disciples meditate on the edges of solidified lava flows, and that the fire there judges souls. No villager dares approach, for fear of never returning.
Fifty kilometers further south, at the bottom of a fertile valley protected by wooded hills, lies Songhwa, a forgotten hamlet that travelers call the silent village. The isolation of the place is not only due to distance: the roads leading there wind through dense forests and cross capricious rivers, making any journey long and perilous. This natural barrier keeps both marauders and the curious away.
The village lives to the slow rhythm of the seasons. In this late autumn, the fields are teeming with life: rows of radishes, cabbages, and squashes ripening under a still-gray sky, soon ready for harvest. The lands are irrigated by a network of streams descending from the hills, allowing the farmers to also tend their freshly planted winter vegetables. Here, they grow just enough to feed the families and sell a small surplus.
Exchanges with the outside world are rare. Once a week, at daybreak, a few farmers from Songhwa take the winding road leading to the weekly market of the neighboring village, five hours away on foot—a trip few dare to make without good reason.
There, they sell vegetables, rice, and medicinal herbs gathered from the hills, and in exchange, they buy salt, cloth, or tea imported from the great provinces. It is the only real opening to the world for the inhabitants, who, for the rest of the time, live cut off from the affairs and rumors of the kingdom.
Thus, between the silent flames of Mount Jeokhwa and the peaceful fields of Songhwa, there exists a void—a natural no man's land, almost impassable. Two worlds separated by the mountain and by fear: that of warriors who do not fear death… and that of peasants who fear only losing their harvest.
Dawn broke gray over Songhwa when Joon Woo opened his eyes with a start, his breath short and ragged. That damned dream again. Always the same. His friend Han Seok looking at him with those cold eyes before betraying him. Soo Rin screaming in pain under the flames. The betrayal burning his heart more fiercely than that black fire on his skin.
"Shit…," he muttered between his lips, the only part of his face visible along with his eyes. Or rather, his eye. The left one. The right, he had lost in the flames.
His bandages were soaked with cold sweat. They covered his entire body, leaving only his mouth and his one good eye exposed. Mi-young, the wife of Kang Dae-ho, changed them every two days with precise, silent gestures. She never asked questions about what he had been through. It was better not to know.
He tried to sit up, grimacing immediately. His left leg—that damn thing that could no longer carry him—sent a jolt of pain through his entire body. He groped with his right hand—the only one he had left—to grab his crutch. A solid, well-carved piece of wood that Mi-young had patiently made for him, replacing the worthless piece of junk he had before.
"Joon Woo?"
Mi-young's worried voice filtered through the oiled paper partition. It had been more than a month since she and her husband had noticed his abrupt awakenings. At first, they had asked gentle questions. Now, they were content just to check if he was still breathing.
"It's fine, Aunt Mi-young. I'll be there in a moment."
He stood up with difficulty, leaning heavily on his crutch. Every movement was calculated, measured. With only one hand and one good leg, he had to relearn every gesture of daily life. Getting up, getting dressed, eating. Simple things that had become a damn challenge.
He hobbled to the kitchen, dragging his leg. The Kang household was modest but well-kept, with its dark wooden beams and immaculate sliding partitions. Not wealthy, but comfortable. The polished wooden floor gleamed under the soft morning light. A peasant's home that fared well in this remote village where war never came.
Kang Dae-ho was already seated at the low table, a steaming cup of tea between his wrinkled hands. A sturdy man in his fifties, with the direct gaze of someone who had toiled all his life yet kept his dignity. His gray hair was tied in a simple knot, in the style of the local peasants.
"Nightmares again?" he asked bluntly, as he had every morning for weeks.
"Yeah. It'll pass."
"You say that every day, my boy."
Mi-young placed a bowl of white rice and vinegar-marinated vegetables in front of him. A woman with economical gestures, who spoke little but knew how to show her care through a thousand small attentions. She had a way of arranging the food so Joon Woo could eat easily with one hand.
"Eat," she said simply. "You need to regain your strength."
Their son shuffled in, his hair tousled from sleep. Min-jae, fourteen years old with a hardened body, at the age when you start to understand the world isn't as simple as you once believed. He sat down yawning and grabbed his chopsticks with practiced ease.
"Morning, hyung," he mumbled to Joon Woo, using the respectful term for older brother.
It still felt strange to be called that. Joon Woo was only eighteen, but he felt as old as a mountain. Min-jae still had that spark of innocence in his eyes—that damn luck of not knowing what it was like to see your loved ones betray you and die because of you.
"Hey, Min-jae," Joon Woo replied with what passed for a smile beneath his bandages.
"Did you sleep badly again?" the kid asked while chewing his rice. "I heard noise last night."
"Min-jae," his father cut in gently. "We eat first, talk later."
The boy nodded, but Joon Woo could clearly see he had questions. How could he explain? How do you tell a fifteen-year-old kid that sometimes friends stick a knife in your back? That sometimes love isn't enough to save someone? That sometimes you survive when you would have been better off dead?
After breakfast, they all went out into the back yard. The air was still fresh, carrying that smell of damp earth and wet grass you only find in the early morning. The sun was beginning to break through the clouds, promising a decent day for work.
The Kang family's fields stretched behind the house, well-tended and fertile. Not huge, but enough to feed the family and sell the surplus at the neighboring village's market. Rows of radishes, cabbages, and squashes grew quietly under the gray autumn sky.
"Today, we finish harvesting the squashes," announced Kang Dae-ho as he put on his straw hat. "Joon Woo, can you take care of watering the winter vegetable plants?"
"Of course, uncle."
It was the kind of task he could handle without trouble. Holding the watering can in his right hand, leaning on his crutch, moving slowly between the rows. It was his decision—he didn't want to be a burden even if it took him longer than before, but he managed. And more than anything, it cleared his mind. Those simple, repetitive gestures kept him from thinking about anything else.
Min-jae and his father tackled the squashes, lifting the large orange vegetables with grunts of effort. The kid had grown in recent months—his shoulders were broadening, his arms gaining strength. Soon, he would be as sturdy as his father.
"Damn, this one's heavy!" grunted Min-jae as he carried a particularly large squash.
"Watch your language," his father said automatically, but without conviction. Out in the fields, far from the neighbors' ears, he let it slide.
"Joon Woo hyung says bad words too!"
"Joon Woo hyung has his reasons," replied Kang Dae-ho, casting a look full of unspoken meaning toward the bandaged young man. "So shut up and work."
Joon Woo continued watering in silence. He had learned not to respond to that kind of exchange. The Kang family was the only one in the village who treated him normally, without fear or disgust. The others… the others averted their eyes when he passed through the alleys. They whispered behind his back, telling stories about the "bandaged monster" who lived with the Kangs.
"They say he was cursed by evil spirits."
"My sister-in-law says he talks to himself at night."
"My husband thinks he brings bad luck."
Nonsense, but it poisoned his life. Only a few shopkeepers still agreed to sell him snacks, and even then, they charged him more than others.
By noon, when the sun was beating down hard enough to make a man sweat even at this time of year, Mi-young called them for the meal. She had prepared pumpkin soup with buckwheat noodles, simple but filling. The kind of dish that warmed the body and the soul.
They ate under the veranda overlooking the fields, watching other farmers work in the distance. Songhwa was a small, quiet village nestled in a fertile valley far from the great trade routes. Here, they only knew of war through the stories told by passing merchants. The only battles were against drought, harmful insects, and poor harvests.
"This afternoon, I'm going to pick medicinal herbs on the hill," Mi-young announced as she collected the empty bowls.
"I'll come with you," Joon replied with determination.
"Uh, are you sure? I walk very fast, my boy," she said with an amused smile.
"Don't worry about me, I also want to improve my skills with medicinal plants."
He enjoyed these outings with her. Mi-young knew all the plants in the region—what each one could heal, how to prepare them, how to dose them. She had taught him how to recognize mugwort for wounds, ginseng for fatigue, chamomile for insomnia. Useful things, especially when you lived with a body as battered as his.
"Can I come too?" asked Min-jae, wearing the fake casual look he always put on when he wanted something.
"No, you're staying to help your father bring the squashes into the attic," Mi-young cut him off. "And after that, you'll take a basket of vegetables to old Hae-sun. She helped us with the harvest, we owe her that much."
"Oh, come on…"
"Min-jae," said Kang Dae-ho in a tone that allowed no argument.
The boy sighed but didn't press the matter. He knew how to recognize when his father wasn't joking.
In the afternoon, Joon Woo followed Mi-young along one of the trails climbing into the wooded hills surrounding Songhwa. These same hills that shielded the village from cold winds and prying eyes. There, sheltered by trees and rocks, the fertile soil and constant moisture nurtured an abundance of medicinal plants.
It was here, on these familiar slopes, that the village women had gathered mugwort, ginseng, and wild licorice for generations.
His leg throbbed with pain at every step, but he clenched his teeth and kept going. His crutch sometimes sank into the soft earth, throwing him off balance, but he held firm.
Mi-young adjusted her pace to his without saying anything, stopping now and then—pretending to examine a plant—whenever she saw he needed to catch his breath. She never asked questions about his pain, never showed pity. Just that discreet attention that was worth more than any speech.
"Look, there," she said, pointing to a purple flower growing in the shade of a rock. "Do you remember?"
"Uh… it's for headaches?"
"Almost. For nightmares and anxiety. Want us to pick some?"
He looked at her, surprised. She had said it without looking at him, still examining the plant as if it were nothing special.
"You know?"
"My boy, we live under the same roof. You think we don't hear your screams at night?"
He felt his face flush beneath his bandages. He thought he'd been discreet, muffling his nightmares into his pillow.
"Sorry… I didn't mean to bother you…"
"You're not bothering anyone. But if there's a way to help you sleep better, we might as well try it, right?"
She picked several flowers and slipped them into her woven bamboo basket. Then she continued on, showing Joon Woo other plants, explaining their properties and how to harvest them without damaging them.
"This one is wild licorice. Good for the throat and lungs. And this…" she bent toward some moss growing on a tree trunk, "this helps wounds heal faster."
Joon Woo drank in her words, trying to remember all the information. Since living with the Kangs, he'd discovered he had a good memory for this sort of thing. Maybe because it made him feel useful, like he could help in return.
They descended back toward the village in the late afternoon, their baskets full of various herbs and roots. Passing by the other houses, Joon Woo noticed the sidelong glances, the conversations that stopped as they walked past. As usual.
"Those idiots are scared of their own shadow," Mi-young muttered under her breath. "They see a banged-up guy and they start making up bedtime stories."
"Forget it, Aunt. I'm used to it."
"Doesn't mean it's normal."
When they returned home, they found Min-jae training in the yard with a wooden sword. The kid had talent—his movements were fluid, precise. He dreamed of becoming a martial artist, like all boys his age in this world where strength was respected.
"Not bad," Joon Woo commented, sitting down on the veranda steps to watch him.
"You think so?" Min-jae's face lit up. "My father says I'm improving, but I feel like I'm stuck."
"Show me your stance."
Min-jae got into position, holding the wooden sword with both hands. Joon Woo observed, his single eye scanning every detail.
"Your feet are too close together. Spread them a little more. And lower your left shoulder—you're tensing up."
The boy adjusted his posture. Sure enough, he looked more stable, more natural.
"How do you know that, hyung?"
Joon Woo froze. How could he explain that before—back in his old life—he used to watch his comrades train and memorize all their techniques? That he used to train in secret with Han Seok and Soo Rin, his real friends, before everything went to hell?
"I… I practiced, before."
"Before what?"
"Before I was like this."
Min-jae nodded, instinctively understanding not to press further. He continued his drills, applying Joon Woo's advice, while Joon Woo watched him with a mix of nostalgia and pride.
When evening came, after a dinner of rice and stir-fried vegetables, the family settled on the veranda to enjoy the cool air. It was the time of day Joon Woo liked most, when the village quieted down and all you could hear were the crickets and the wind through the bamboo.
Kang Dae-ho packed his pipe with contraband tobacco he bought from a passing merchant. Mi-young knitted a sweater in preparation for the coming winter. Min-jae sharpened his wooden sword with a whetstone.
"You know, my boy," Kang Dae-ho said suddenly, drawing on his pipe, "it's been nearly two months since you've been living with us."
"Yeah. Time goes fast."
"Do you think about your future?"
Joon Woo didn't answer right away. His future? He had trouble seeing beyond the next day. Surviving already took all his energy.
"I don't really know, Uncle. For now, I'm just trying to… heal."
"You're healing well. Better than we expected at the start."
Mi-young lifted her eyes from her knitting. "The herbs help, but it's mostly your will. You've got the will to live, even if you don't show it."
"You think so?"
"I'm sure of it. Otherwise, you'd have been dead long ago."
Mi-young lifted her eyes from her knitting. "The herbs help, but it's mostly your will. You have the will to live, even if you don't show it."
"You think so?"
"I'm sure of it. Otherwise, you'd have been dead long ago."
Min-jae stopped sharpening his sword. "Hyung… is it rude if I ask what happened to you?"
A heavy silence settled. Joon Woo stared at the horizon, where the mountains stood out against the starry sky. How could he sum it up? How could he explain the betrayal, the flames, the pain?
"People I trusted betrayed me," he said finally. "I lost everything. My body, my friends… everything."
"That must hurt."
"Yeah. It hurts. Especially at night, when I think about it."