Chapter 1 – The Sound of Snow
He woke to the sound of wind scraping across stone.
For a long moment, that sound was the only thing that existed. Then came the weight — heavy cloth on his chest, the ache in his ribs, the sting of cold air biting his throat. His fingers twitched, meeting rough bedding and the faint warmth of fading coals.
He opened his eyes. The ceiling was wood, old and darkened by smoke. A thin crack ran through one of the beams, letting in a sliver of white light. It felt unfamiliar, and yet the sight stirred something he couldn't name.
When he tried to move, pain rippled through his side — sharp, disciplined, as if his body refused to obey without permission.
He breathed, slow and uneven.
The air tasted like pine and ash.
He didn't remember this place.
No — he didn't remember anything.
Fragments floated in the dark: metal striking metal, a shout, falling snow turning red. Then, nothing. Only that sound again — wind scraping stone.
A door slid open.
An old monk stepped in, his steps quiet but firm, his robes whispering against the floor. His face was weathered, eyes half-closed as if he'd spent decades squinting into snowstorms.
"You're awake," the monk said.
His voice was calm, neither warm nor cold. It simply existed, like the mountain itself.
The young man's throat tightened when he tried to speak. "Where—" His voice cracked. "Where am I?"
"In the temple of Kishin," the monk replied. "You were found three days ago, half-buried in the eastern pass. Frozen. Your pulse was shallow enough to fool death."
The words came slow, deliberate.
The young man's mind struggled to keep up. Half-buried. Frozen. Found.
He looked down at his body — bandages wrapped around his chest, his arms thin but strong beneath the cloth. There was a sword leaning against the wall beside his bed, its scabbard plain but well-kept.
"I don't remember," he said quietly.
The monk gave a small nod. "Then start by breathing. Memory returns when the body does."
He left without another word, sliding the door shut behind him.
The room fell silent again.
He stared at the sword. Something in him stirred — an unease, a recognition that made his stomach twist. His hand moved toward it on instinct, fingers brushing the hilt. The touch sent a faint vibration through his arm, like a pulse.
The sensation vanished before he could grasp it.
He spent the rest of the day trying to stand.
The first attempt ended with him flat on the floor, the second with him bracing against the wall, and by the third, he managed a few uneven steps before the room began to sway. Each breath burned, each movement reminded him that the body he wore was not his own — not completely.
That thought followed him into the evening.
When night fell, the temple was quieter still. He lit a small lantern, watching its light tremble against the wooden walls. Snow drifted past the window outside, silent and steady.
He caught his reflection in the faint sheen of the lantern's glass.
The face that looked back was young — early twenties, perhaps. Sharp eyes, a jaw marked by faint scars, hair black as wet ink. The expression didn't match how he felt.
It wasn't his face.
Not entirely.
He leaned closer, studying the reflection. His pulse quickened. The silence pressed in, thicker than before.
He whispered to himself, "Who am I?"
The sound was barely audible, swallowed by the crackle of the flame.
There was no answer.
He didn't sleep that night.
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By morning, he was outside, supported by a wooden cane one of the monks had left for him. The courtyard stretched wide and white — snow smooth as polished steel. The cold stabbed through his clothes, but it cleared his head more than warmth ever could.
He moved slowly through the yard, each step crunching faintly. A group of monks were training nearby, their wooden swords cutting through the air in silent rhythm. There was no shouting, no ceremony — just precision and breath.
He watched, and something within him responded.
His hand twitched as they swung, his shoulders shifted unconsciously with their rhythm. The motion was familiar in a way that frightened him.
He didn't understand why his body moved on its own, or why the smell of oiled wood and sweat brought a hollow ache to his chest.
When the training ended, one of the younger monks approached him. "You're the man from the eastern pass, aren't you?"
He nodded.
"They said you should rest."
"I can stand."
The monk smiled faintly. "Then stand well." He bowed and returned to his duties.
He remained there long after they'd gone, staring at the sword marks in the snow. His breath fogged the air, fading fast.
For a moment, the world felt too large, too sharp, too real.
He looked down at his hands again. The fingers were calloused in ways that his mind didn't recognize. He clenched them, testing the strength, the rhythm of his pulse.
Each heartbeat felt like it belonged to someone else.
Still, he was alive. And that had to mean something.
He turned back toward the temple, his breath shallow in the cold air. Somewhere beyond the mountains, the world moved — wars, kingdoms, names he didn't yet know.
But for now, he had only one thought.
To remember whose life he was living.
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