To the northwest of the prosperous realm of Samul Gaya lay Chooshin Prefecture — a land abundant in wealth and humming with the ceaseless rhythm of trade. Crisscrossed with well-maintained roads and bustling markets, it was a place where fortunes changed hands with ease and caravans flowed like rivers. This thriving territory had once belonged to Prince Baram, a noble warrior who had earned Chooshin as a reward for his many victories on the battlefield.
However, Prince Baram had renounced worldly titles and chosen the path of spiritual seclusion. His lands were passed to his eldest brother, who, in time, ascended as Gahn Shingui — ruler of all Samul Gaya. With that rise, Chooshin came under the governance of Yuaki, a cousin of both Gahn and Prince Baram.
Yuaki, as a governor, was known for his earnest efforts to rule with benevolence. Yet, despite his efforts, his influence seemed to take shallow root. Perhaps it was because Chooshin, in its abundance, needed little governing. Or perhaps, more deeply, because the spirit of Prince Baram still lingered — not as a man, but as a legend woven into the very air and soil of the land.
Among all the landmarks of Chooshin, there was one place held in quiet reverence. A modest mountain near the prefectural office, called Saeam, could be ascended and descended in less than half a day. Yet the locals called it by another name — Baram-me, the Wind Hill. It was said that Prince Baram had trained here daily, his figure dancing with the breeze beneath a sacred tree. Legends told of a divine spirit who had taught him the secrets of swordsmanship and military strategy beneath that very canopy.
And now, beneath the rustling shade of that hallowed tree, sat Goi — resting quietly from the midday heat. A cool breeze whispered past, and he took a sip from his gourd of water, eyes scanning the bark as if searching for remnants of old tales. He noticed faint marks etched into the wood — the scars of wooden swords, perhaps — and a soft smile touched his lips.
Just then, the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears. A small band of men, nearly fifteen in number, trudged up the path — all clad in heavy armor, though they bore no insignia of official authority. Mercenaries, Goi thought, intrigued. For a place so near the prefectural office, such a presence was curious.
One among them, a warrior in his late twenties, broke away from the group and approached Goi with urgency.
"Hey, you there!"
The man's voice rang out as he jogged forward, spear in hand. Despite his speed, the weapon remained steady — a sign of practiced form and balance. He came to a halt before Goi and eyed the two swords at his side.
"You look like someone who knows how to handle a fight."
Goi gave a modest shrug. "Enough to keep myself alive, at least."
The warrior noted the quiet confidence in his eyes and grinned. "Good. We could use an extra hand. Things are tight, and there's a reward in it — if that matters to you."
Goi's gaze drifted toward the rest of the group, now scrambling up toward the higher paths. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"I'm not one to chase rewards… but what's going on?"
The warrior sighed, a bit theatrically. "A demon— some cursed creature — attacked the prefectural hall. It took one of the governor's maidservants and fled up toward the shrine."
"The shrine?" Goi tilted his head, eyes scanning the ridge above. "That one over there?"
"You know of Bolnal Shrine?" the man asked, glancing in the direction Goi had pointed. "Can't be seen from here, but yes — that's where it went. I just hope the Bolbol Sibyl is safe..."
"Bolnal? Bolbol?" Goi echoed, curious. "Are those names…?"
"They're our local words for stars," the warrior explained, eyes glinting. "Chooshin dialect. You must not be from around here. So — will you come with us?"
Goi looked once more toward the mountain path, then back at the young man.
"I don't know how much help I'll be… but very well. Let's go."
The warrior's face lit up, and the two dashed off together — toward the shrine.
Inside the Bolnal Shrine, she wept. Cradled in her arms lay the cold, lifeless body of her daughter.
How… How could he… to this child…
She had never once regretted her choices in life. But now—now it felt as though every stone of karma she had carried so proudly came crashing down from the heavens all at once, burying her in grief beyond words.
Twenty-two years ago, she had arrived at Bolnal Shrine, just twelve years old, a trembling girl newly initiated as a Novice Sibyl. She spent years beneath the wings of the High Sibyl, following her with the reverence of a daughter.
And then, one day… she saw him for the first time—the dazzlingly beautiful Prince Baram. It hurt to look at him. He had come to receive the words of a divine oracle. The High Sibyl had entrusted her to read it aloud in her stead.
"O thou unseen,
The glory of your past shall weave a carpet of blades,
And upon it, halt thy steps.
Thy beauty shall kindle the fires of envy,
And they shall turn thy path astray.
But grieve not the coming darkness, dear friend.
From the ashes, a flame of wisdom shall rise.
The splendor forged by the sword may shine for a generation,
But the legacy born of wisdom shall endure for a thousand.
And thy name shall be etched among the stars in the heavens above."
Prince Baram had listened, his expression unreadable. He took the oracle from her hands — and as their fingers touched, something ignited deep in her young heart. She was only a girl, but her chest burned like a hearth.
He read the prophecy again and again, then quietly placed it into the brazier's flame. With a faint, enigmatic smile, he departed. But her heart had become that brazier — and it remembered him.