The car hummed softly, its wheels murmuring against the endless road. Fog drifted past the windows in slow ribbons of gray, like the world couldn't decide whether it wanted to stay real.
Seok-min sat beside the unconscious man, his arms crossed, eyes half-closed in thought. The driver said nothing. Only the rhythm of the engine filled the silence.
I leaned against the seat, exhaustion clawing at my bones. The fight had taken everything out of me—the adrenaline, the truth-paths, the after-images of that mirror still hovering behind my eyelids.
"Rest," Seok-min said quietly. "You did enough."
I tried to answer, but the moment my eyes closed, the sound of the road blurred into something else—like wind through dead leaves, whispering words that weren't mine.
And then the car was gone.
I stood on a hill overlooking a small village bathed in amber sunset. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, children's laughter drifted through the air, and somewhere below, a woman's voice called out, "Dinner's ready!"
A man—tall, broad-shouldered, gentle in the way he carried himself—walked down the path toward the house. His armor hung on a peg by the door; his sword was clean but worn. He smelled of iron and soil. A little girl ran to him, squealing, "Father!"
He caught her mid-jump, laughing. "You've grown again, Mira."
A boy followed, mock-saluting with a wooden sword. "You're late again, Father. I held the gate just in case."
"Did you?" The man ruffled his son's hair. "A fine little guard I have."
A woman appeared in the doorway—dark hair, calm eyes, the quiet confidence of someone who had seen war and chosen peace anyway. "Come inside before it gets cold."
They ate together. They laughed. They were happy.
For a while.
The night fell too quickly. Screams tore through the village before the moon had climbed halfway up the sky. Flames rose where homes once stood.
The man grabbed his sword, shouting for his family to stay inside. Outside, shadows moved—men in black armor, torches in hand, their banners bearing the mark of the capital's army.
"By decree of the crown, this territory is seized!" one shouted. "Resistance will be purged!"
They came like locusts, breaking doors, cutting down anyone who resisted.
The man cut through the first soldier with a single stroke. The second fell just as fast. But there were too many. The streets ran red.
He stumbled back toward his home—and stopped. His children were screaming. His wife was at the door, eyes wide with terror.
He couldn't let them die.
Something inside him shifted.
The air turned cold. His eyes darkened to gray. He whispered words that didn't belong to human tongues.Just like incantations
The ground responded.
Bones clawed their way out of the soil—first one hand, then another, then dozens. Skeletons rose from the earth, still wearing scraps of armor and rags. Their sockets burned faintly blue.
He commanded them to protect everyone
And they obeyed.
The undead surged forward like a tide, colliding with the invading soldiers. Swords clashed. Torches sputtered out. The screams of the living blended with the hiss of things that should never have moved again.
The man stood at the center of it all, a grim conductor of death. Where he pointed, skeletons marched. Where he spoke, flesh withered. His power spread like smoke—terrible and beautiful, both curse and salvation.
For a moment, he believed he could win.
Then the horn sounded.
From the far end of the burning street came a squadron of heavy knights—thick armor, polished crests. Their leader, a tall man with crimson plumes, raised his hand.
"Arrest him," he ordered. "The necromancer is ours."
The tide turned. Steel crushed bone. Arrows rained down. One by one, the risen fell, their blue light flickering out.
He fought like a man possessed, his blade cutting arcs of black flame through the air. Each time he was struck, the wound smoked instead of bleeding. But even he couldn't fight forever.
A sword pierced his side. He dropped to one knee, gasping. The last of his undead crumbled into dust.
"Please…" He looked toward his house. "My family…"with tears he said "don't do anything to them."
The soldiers didn't answer. One of them—different from the rest, robed, carrying something wrapped in white cloth—stepped forward.
"If you wish to save them," the robed man said, "take this. It will grant you the strength to protect what you love."
He unwrapped the object. A mirror. Small, silver, flawless.
The man hesitated. But his wife was crying, clutching their children. The soldiers were closing in. He reached out.
The instant his fingers touched the mirror's surface, everything stopped.
His body froze. His breath halted. His voice caught in his throat. Only his eyes moved, wide with terror, reflecting the horror that unfolded.
The robed man turned. "He's yours," he said to the soldiers. "Finish the rest."
They did.
He watched them enter his home. He saw the flashes of blades, heard the screams of his wife and children—and couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Couldn't die.
The mirror pulsed once, feeding on his despair. His reflection inside it smiled, cruel and hollow. And then, there was only silence.
I woke with a start, heart hammering. The hum of the car returned. Morning light bled through the windows.
Seok-min looked over. "Nightmare?"
I swallowed hard. "Not mine."
The man was still unconscious beside us, his breathing steady but shallow. His face looked peaceful now—almost too peaceful.
I stared at him for a long time. "He didn't want to fight," I murmured. "He just wanted to protect them."
Seok-min turned his gaze back to the road. "Sometimes, the world punishes the ones who try to keep it honest."
I nodded slowly, the images still burning behind my eyes—the skeletons, the mirror, the frozen scream. Outside, the fog began to thin, revealing a faint light ahead that wasn't sunlight at all.
Somewhere deep inside, I knew this was only the beginning.