"A sign. A word often heard. A word always used as a guide. A word as a direction. But sometimes, a sign is merely a mark that makes you a target."— Iguare, Seeker of Knowledge

  "Why, my son? Why?"

  Han Zhe’s heart was heavy with grief. Out of all the people in the world, why did it have to be his son?

  He had fought cultists before—had sin them without hesitation, without remorse. He had never allowed himself to feel emotion when cutting down their twisted figures, never hesitated as he crushed their ambitions underfoot. But now… now he had to face the reality that his own flesh and blood had been marked.

  By that book.

  Han Zhe clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms. He forced himself to maintain his usual expression, to suppress the storm raging inside him. But deep in his heart, he wept.

  "Forgive me, my wife. Forgive me."

  His son stood beside him, unaware of the depth of his father’s anguish.

  Han Ye, however, was not oblivious.

  Though his father’s face remained impassive, the silence between them was wrong. Heavy. Suffocating. The weight of unspoken words pressed down on Han Ye’s shoulders, making it difficult to breathe.

  He gnced down at his hands, where the dark markings still pulsed faintly. They had not spread any further, nor had they vanished. They were simply there—a quiet reminder of the moment his fate had shifted.

  Was this truly a curse?

  Or was it something else?

  “…Father.” Han Ye’s voice was quiet, hesitant.

  Han Zhe inhaled sharply, then turned to face his son. His eyes, though still sharp, were clouded with something unreadable.

  “Yes?”

  “…What exactly does this mark mean?” Han Ye asked, holding up his hands.

  His father stared at the markings for a long time before answering.

  “It means you have been noticed.”

  Han Ye furrowed his brows. “By who?”

  Han Zhe’s lips pressed into a thin line. “…By something beyond our understanding. Something that should never be disturbed.”

  Han Ye swallowed.

  He had suspected as much.

  After all, the book did not feel normal. The whispers, the pull, the unnatural sensation of something watching him—it was all too unnatural.

  “What happens now?” he asked.

  Han Zhe hesitated.

  If it were anyone else, he would have already made his decision. He would have eliminated the threat before it could fester, before it could grow into something uncontrolble. That was what he had done in the past. That was what he should do now.

  But this was his son.

  Han Ye was different.

  Han Zhe exhaled slowly. “For now… we wait. We monitor. If the mark changes, if you hear anything, if you see anything that is not there—tell me immediately.”

  Han Ye nodded, though his mind was already moving a step ahead.

  Waiting would not change anything.

  He needed answers.

  That night, Han Ye y awake in his room, staring at the ceiling. The faint glow of the moon seeped through the paper windows, casting soft shadows along the walls.

  His body was exhausted, but his mind refused to rest.

  His father had told him not to touch the book again.

  But he had never said he couldn’t study it.

  Slowly, Han Ye sat up. His hands trembled slightly as he unwrapped the cloth around them, revealing the dark, twisting markings. They pulsed faintly, as if aware of his thoughts.

  I need to know.

  Moving carefully, he slipped out of his room and padded silently toward the main hall, where the book had been locked away.

  He wasn’t going to open it.

  Not yet.

  He just wanted to see it again.

  Just to understand.

  As he approached the sealed chest, his heartbeat quickened. The air around it felt different—thicker, heavier. The closer he got, the stronger the sensation became, like an invisible presence pressing against his mind.

  Han Ye stopped just short of the chest.

  He could hear something.

  A whisper.

  Faint. Incoherent.

  His fingers twitched.

  Then—

  "Han Ye."

  He nearly jumped out of his skin.

  His father’s voice cut through the darkness, sharp and unyielding.

  Han Ye spun around to see Han Zhe standing in the doorway, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were filled with disappointment.

  “…You never intended to listen, did you?”

  Han Ye opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out.

  Han Zhe sighed, stepping forward. “Come with me.”

  Han Ye hesitated, but obeyed.

  His father led him outside, to a quiet clearing behind their home. The cold night air bit at Han Ye’s skin, but he didn’t compin. He waited.

  Han Zhe turned to face him.

  “Draw your bow.”

  Han Ye blinked. “What?”

  “Draw. Your. Bow.”

  Confused, Han Ye did as he was told. He reached for the bow at his waist and nocked an arrow, steadying his breath.

  Han Zhe watched him carefully.

  “Now—”

  Suddenly, a flicker of movement.

  Han Ye barely had time to react as a shadow surged toward him. His instincts screamed, and without thinking, he let the arrow fly.

  The projectile whizzed through the air—

  And vanished.

  The shadow lunged, but Han Ye twisted his body just in time. He reached for another arrow, but before he could fire—

  A hand gripped his wrist.

  Cold. Unnatural.

  Han Ye’s breath hitched. He turned—

  And froze.

  The figure before him was not his father.

  It was himself.

  A perfect copy, staring at him with hollow, glowing eyes.

  Han Ye’s heart pounded. He tried to move, but his body felt sluggish, as if he were sinking into the ground. The thing gripping his wrist tightened its hold, tilting its head slightly.

  Then, in a voice that was eerily identical to his own—

  "You’re not ready."

  Darkness consumed him.

  And the st thing he heard was his father’s voice, distant and filled with sorrow.

  "Forgive me, my son."