Silence was terrifying. Not the stillness of temples at dawn. Not the hush of reverence or sleep. This was the silence of unannounced death. The silence of frost beneath a spectral mist floating among the corpses.
Lin Wújí walked through the remains of the camp with deliberate steps, his cloak trailing behind him like a tatter of shadow in place of his own. On either side of the path, war-spears stood upright, sheathed in frost, bearing banners rigid as bark. But there was no wind. All was motionless. As if time itself had paused over that stretch of land... and forgotten to resume.
The soldiers of the north-western detachment of Baekjoseon —hundreds of men, thirty officers, seven frontier exorcists— all rebels who had risen against the young king, lay there. None remained alive.
Bodies frozen in postures of agony. Some on their knees, others with hands still raised toward something unseen. Teeth shattered by ice. Eyes sealed with frozen tears. Some appeared to have crawled to their deaths; others petrified in the instant of purest terror. But the worst... were the growths.
From many chests, from mouths and bowels, crystalline branches bloomed like the roots of a cursed tree. Spines of ice, deep and sharp, as if something inside had blossomed... starving. The frost that cloaked the tents, weapons and barrels was white, yet streaked with red. As if blood had tried to escape and had frozen mid-scream.
Lin Wújí did not look away. He did not blink.
He moved among the corpses, which shattered like poorly-fired porcelain at the slightest touch. At the centre of the camp stood a collapsed watchtower, and beneath it, a grotesque statue of ice: a general, entirely frozen, his face buried beneath a layer of snow so thick his expression in death could scarcely be seen. One half of his face still fought.
And then, the sword spoke.
Xúnyè's voice was like a distant storm crawling through the abyss.
"This was no replicable magic." "Not a technique fed by well-cultivated Wolgi."
The swordsman felt the glacial cold rising through his boots. He sensed the young prince's hwaejeong in the very air, in each particle of ice and mist that seemed to watch him.
"Nineteen years have passed, and still I remember it," he murmured, as if recognizing that energy. "This is pure will," the sword went on. "An incurable frost. Far too ancient to trace its core."
Lin Wújí halted and lowered his gaze.
There were no signs of battle. They had not even had the chance to defend themselves.
"Has the prince's White Eye devoured their souls?" he asked, without turning to the blade.
No answer came at once. Only the sound of a snowflake falling, breaking.
"Not the prince. A spiritual link has opened."
Lin Wújí crouched and placed a bare hand to the frozen ground. He closed his eyes and let the cold seep into his fingers. Touch his bones and nerves; reach into his mind—and he saw it: Yi Hwan without his patch, and then, a white eye that silenced all who sought his blood.
Incredible, he thought as he pulled his hand away. So, he took longer than expected to let it out.
"Indeed," Xúnyè sighed. "He must have repressed the spiritual memory of his lineage for too long."
The exorcist breathed deeply, his breath instantly turning to frost in the air. Yi Hwan had passed through this place. But not as a man.
Lin Wújí unsheathed Xúnyè. The blade lit with a faint crimson glow, pulsing like a wounded heart.
"Then it's true," he murmured. "The Tenth Calamity is about to consume the prince. The Emperor wishes to wait a little longer. I, on the other hand..."
A sob.
Broken. Wet. Human.
"Do not let your guard down," warned the sword.
Lin Wújí turned. The air thickened.
The crunch of frost beneath his feet blended with the rustle of skin against ice. Something... was crawling.
From beneath a collapsed tent, among frozen canvas and broken masts, a body emerged—or what remained of one. The figure had only one arm. The other had fused with an ice formation climbing up its side. Its face was partially covered by a crystalline membrane that throbbed, as if still trying to grow. Where eyes should have been, hollow frost. From its mouth, vapour broke in jagged gasps, like shattered prayers.
"... Please..." the man rasped. "Please... kill me."
The exorcist hesitated.
"My soul... still burns..." He coughed frozen blood. "But the ice... won't let me die..."
He dragged himself forward, bare fingers tracing trails of frost on the frozen earth. His feet had vanished. Only stumps wrapped in ice-scales remained.
Lin Wújí approached with caution. His eyes, hidden beneath the hood, showed no judgement. Only understanding.
"Name?" he asked softly.
"Pointless," barked Xúnyè.
"Nam... Nam Gyeong. Third guard battalion... I..." the man groaned, "I saw the prince. He's a monster. Just stared. The cold didn't touch him."
Lin Wújí said nothing. Only gripped Xúnyè tighter. The blade let out a whimper, as if sensing what was to come.
"Thank you..." whispered Nam Gyeong. "Just... let me close my eyes... without the ice..."
And then, with a single clean stroke, swift and without hesitation, the sword pierced the man's chest.
No blood. Only a sigh. And then, the ice screamed.
Xúnyè flared red, its blade trembling as if resisting. The curse trapped in the man—a fusion of death, resentment and absolute cold—lunged at the sword, attempting to cling to it. To devour it. The crimson glow shifted to purple.
Then black.
The sword quaked and flew from its wielder's grasp.
"Xúnyè!" Lin Wújí murmured, kneeling. "Did you absorb it?"
A voice, faint, weak, replied:
"Too much hatred... too deep... cannot... contain it..."
The voice faded.
Slowly, Lin Wújí retrieved his thinking blade with care and sheathed it. Then he rose and examined the man's remains: now reduced to cold ash. The tent behind collapsed. The wind returned, carrying snowflakes sharp as blades.
The south rose on the horizon. Beyond the camp, beyond the Court of Storms, towered the End Mountains, where the most vengeful spirits of Baekjoseon were said to slumber. Beyond them, hidden behind eternal mists, the path to the Court of Ice vanished into the forest.
Lin WLin W\u00fují adjusted his hood and pressed forward. His cloak billowed in the wind.
"It is not yet time to act," he whispered. "But it is time to watch."