The northern chamber of the palace was a masterpiece of curated peace—and a perfect killing floor. Latticed windows filtered the morning light into geometric patterns on the polished floor, and tapestries of long-dead kings watched the living with silent, woven eyes.

The Prince decoy sat at a low table, his fingers trembling as he clutched a scroll. To the court, he was the future of the nation. To Hwajin, he was a sacrificial lamb.

Hwajin moved through the room with a silence that made the palace guards look clumsy. He was watching the "weight" of the room. His Jeong-gwan pulsed; he saw the threads of intention gathering at the windows. Beside him, Arin held Doyun’s hand. The boy’s presence had begun to thaw something in Hwajin—a forgotten warmth from a life before his name was erased.

“Stay behind the pillars,” Hwajin murmured to Doyun. He allowed himself a brief, almost invisible smile. “The floor is for walking, not for hiding under. Keep your feet.”

Doyun beamed, his trust in Hwajin now as solid as the palace stone. “I will, Hwajin!”

Muryeong, leaning against the far wall, let out a dry chuckle. “Look at that. The monk is turning into a nanny. If you keep smiling like that, the assassins might think you’ve gone soft and give us an easy time.”

Hwajin’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and steady. “Softness is for cushions. This is clarity.”

The air in the room suddenly curdled. The Jeong-gwan flared—red and jagged.

“Down!” Hwajin commanded.

The lattice windows didn't just break; they exploded. Dark figures flooded the room like ink dropped in water. These were not the "state-enforcer" types they had seen before; these were specialists. They moved with a desperate, frantic energy.

Hwajin was a study in non-lethal geometry. He flowed around the first attacker, his palm connecting with the man’s center of gravity. He didn't use a weapon because he didn't need to externalize his power. Each strike was a conversation between his soul and the attacker’s body—a reminder of the responsibility of violence.

Muryeong was the storm to Hwajin’s pond. He drew his single blade, the steel singing a low, mournful note. He moved with a cynicism that turned combat into a chore. To him, these men were just obstacles between him and the payout—and the eventual reckoning with Jang Saheon.

Arin spun, her sword parrying a dagger aimed at the decoy’s throat. “I won’t let them take him!” she cried.

“Control your breath, Arin!” Hwajin shouted over the din. He intercepted a blade meant for her, his fingers locking onto the assassin’s wrist with the strength of iron. “Panic is a second enemy. Strike with intention, not fear.”

Then, the world slowed. Through his Jeong-gwan, Hwajin saw a thread that didn't lead to the Prince. It led to the doorway. It led to Doyun.

He realized the trap in a heartbeat. This wasn't an assassination attempt on the Prince. It was a harvest. Min Gyeongmok didn't want the decoy dead yet; he wanted the witnesses—the ones who knew the Prince was a fake—removed.

“Muryeong! The boy!” Hwajin roared.

The realization hit Muryeong like a physical blow. He pivoted, his single blade carving a path through the attackers to reach Arin and Doyun.

One of the assassins, realizing the diversion was failing, threw a heavy, curved blade. Hwajin didn't have time to reach it. He did the only thing a "thinking man" could do—he stepped into its path. The steel bit into his shoulder, but he didn't flinch. He used the momentum to throw a devastating punch that sent the assassin through the remaining lattice.

The room fell into a jagged silence as the remaining attackers retreated, sensing the shift in the "weight" of the battle.

Hwajin stood, blood beginning to bloom on his gray sleeve. He didn't look at the wound. He looked at Doyun. “Are you unharmed?”

Doyun nodded, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and worship. “You... you took the hit for me.”

Hwajin allowed the rare smile to return, though it was tinged with pain. “Responsibility, little one. It’s a heavy thing to carry, but it keeps us upright.”

Arin rushed to his side, her eyes wet. “Hwajin, you’re hurt. Why would you—”

“Because,” Hwajin interrupted softly, “I have decided that you and this boy are part of my record now. And I do not allow my records to be erased.”

Muryeong sheathed his sword, his expression unreadable. He looked at Hwajin’s wound, then at the terrified decoy Prince. “They’re playing us, Hwajin. This was a test of our loyalty, not a hit. Min Gyeongmok and the other officials are watching.”

“Let them watch,” Hwajin replied, his voice regaining its meditative stone-like quality. “They see a bodyguard and a mercenary. They do not yet see the men we are becoming.”

Deep in the palace shadows, a single observer pulled back into the dark. The pieces were moving. The decoy had served his purpose. The "witnesses" were still alive, but now they were marked.

And far away, at the other side of the palace gates, the Thousand-Soul Bearer had arrived. The real hunt was about to begin, and this time he would not listen to the bell’s chime.