Episode 5

The next morning, Jisoo woke up to the sound of shouting.

At first, he thought it was a dream—his sister yelling at him for skipping breakfast again, or Haneul nagging him to get out of bed. But when he cracked open his eyes, the sharp clash of metal followed, ringing through the still air like thunder.

He sat up, groggy, only to find the village square alive again. This time not with markets or curious stares, but with training.

Dozens of villagers moved in precise formations, sparring with wooden swords, spears, even bare hands. Some of them weren’t even touching their weapons—their blades floated, glowing faintly, guided by invisible threads. Others whispered words that set the air sparking, fire blooming in their palms.

It was like watching a hundred fantasy dramas come to life.

And of course, Taeyun was right in the middle of it, moving like a shadow carved into flesh. His blade caught the light as he swung, deflecting a strike before twisting and disarming his opponent in a single breath. Not a drop of sweat clung to him.

Jisoo muttered, “Of course he’s good at this. Figures.”

“You should be out there too.”

Jisoo flinched at the voice. Yerim stood beside him, arms folded, eyes cool as ever.

He scoffed. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather not get impaled before lunch.”

Her lips curved—half amusement, half disdain. “Then you’ll stay weak. And weakness gets people killed here.”

The words sank like ice. He wanted to argue, to toss back some smart remark, but the memory of the Wraith clawing at his chest silenced him. She wasn’t wrong.

Before he could reply, Taeyun’s voice cut through the square.

“Han Jisoo.”

The sparring ceased. Dozens of heads turned his way. Jisoo blinked. “Wait—me?”

Taeyun’s gaze was unwavering. “You’ll train. With me.”

“Oh, no. Absolutely not. I don’t do swords. I don’t even do pull-ups.”

Taeyun didn’t argue. He simply held out a wooden blade.

Jisoo stared at it like it might bite him. The villagers’ eyes burned holes in his back, waiting. Yerim’s smirk didn’t help.

With a muttered curse, he grabbed the blade. It felt too heavy, awkward in his grip.

“Stand here,” Taeyun ordered, motioning him to the center of the square.

“This is public humiliation, not training,” Jisoo grumbled, but he stepped forward anyway.

Taeyun drew his own wooden sword, stance loose but coiled. “Attack me.”

Jisoo blinked. “What? No way.”

“Attack,” Taeyun repeated, his tone leaving no room for refusal.

Jisoo sighed. “Fine. But when I accidentally take your head off, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He swung—wild, clumsy, nothing close to proper form. Taeyun shifted an inch, and the blade whooshed past harmlessly.

Again.

Jisoo tried harder, putting his weight behind it. Taeyun deflected with a flick, sending vibrations up Jisoo’s arms.

Again.

Sweat prickled at Jisoo’s temples. His breath came sharp and uneven. Each strike was batted away effortlessly, as though Taeyun were brushing off dust.

Finally, Jisoo dropped the blade, panting. “Okay. I give up. This isn’t for me.”

The square was silent. Then Taeyun stepped closer, voice low but sharp as steel.

“You think strength is about swinging harder?” He pressed the tip of his blade under Jisoo’s chin—not enough to hurt, but enough to freeze him. “Strength is control. And right now, you have none.”

Jisoo’s throat went dry.

“Pick it up,” Taeyun commanded.

Something in his tone made refusal impossible. Jisoo bent, retrieved the sword, and forced his shaky hands to grip it again.

This time, Taeyun didn’t tell him to attack. Instead, he guided Jisoo’s stance, correcting the way he held the blade, shifting his shoulders, adjusting his feet.

“Your body remembers fear before it remembers form,” he said. “We’ll change that.”

Hours blurred. Strike. Block. Reset. Over and over, until Jisoo’s arms screamed and his legs felt like stone. He stumbled more times than he cared to count, but Taeyun never relented.

The villagers whispered among themselves, some amused, others skeptical. Yerim watched silently, her expression unreadable.

At last, when Jisoo thought he’d collapse, Taeyun lowered his blade. “Enough.”

Jisoo dropped his sword with a groan and flopped onto the dirt. “Finally. I thought you were trying to kill me.”

Taeyun’s lips almost twitched—almost. “If I wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t be talking.”

“Comforting,” Jisoo muttered.

But beneath the exhaustion, something stirred—a strange flicker of pride. He hadn’t quit. Not this time.

---

Later, when the square emptied and lanterns began to drift above, Jisoo found himself sitting by the river again. His muscles ached, but his mind was restless.

He picked up a smooth stone and tossed it across the water. It skipped twice before sinking.

“You’re sloppy,” Yerim’s voice cut in, making him jump. She leaned against a tree, arms crossed.

“With the stone or the sword?” Jisoo asked.

“Both.”

He laughed dryly. “Good to know I’m equally bad at everything.”

Yerim’s gaze was sharp, but not cruel. “You think this is a game. That you can joke your way through. But when the Wraiths come again—and they will—your jokes won’t save you.”

Her words chilled him. “What exactly are those things?”

Yerim was quiet for a moment. Then: “The Wraiths are born from shadows left unclaimed. Regret, anger, grief… when it festers, it feeds them. That’s why they hunt you.”

Jisoo froze. “Me? What did I do?”

“You touched the Chronicle. It marked you. That alone is enough.” Her eyes narrowed. “But maybe there’s more.”

Before he could ask what she meant, she pushed off the tree and walked away, her silhouette fading into the glow of the lanterns.

Jisoo stared at the water, his reflection rippling. For the first time since arriving, he felt the true weight of it all pressing on his chest.

Chosen. Marked. Hunted.

And no way back.

---

That night, as he lay on the thin mattress, exhaustion pulling at him, a voice echoed faintly at the edges of his thoughts.

You’re not alone.

He didn’t know if it was memory or something else. But he clung to it, because the alternative was too heavy to bear.

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