The Hidden in Myth

Vern turned to the martial artists who had escorted him to the gates of the Wind Blossom Clan. Their expressions were still filled with concern and confusion, but he gave them a calm nod.

"I can go on my own from here," he said, his voice steady.

The men hesitated for a moment, as if wanting to say more, but in the end, they respected his tone.

He gave them a brief bow — not of gratitude, but of quiet finality.

"Thank you. Farewell."

They bowed in return, murmured respectful parting words, and turned away, their footsteps fading into the morning mist.

As Vern stepped through the great gate of the Wind Blossom Clan, a strange stillness bloomed in his chest. Not the silence of fear — but of remembrance.

The breeze that brushed past him carried the scent of plum blossoms and tilled earth, just as it had in the memories he now shared with the boy whose body he wore. The wind here had always whispered gently, as if too proud to howl, too graceful to scream. The stone path stretched inward, lined with delicate flowering trees that swayed with a lazy rhythm.

Children in training robes passed him without recognition. Elders moved in small groups, discussing cultivation plans and regional concerns. No one truly saw him — not yet. But Varn's eyes absorbed everything.

It was all the same.

The same as when Vern left it, chased and forgotten.

And now he had returned.

He did not pause for greetings.

He walked the path inward, each step retracing a life long thought erased.

And then he reached it:

His house — the one the clan had given him not out of love, but duty.

Compared to the grand residences of his siblings, it was modest. The roof was low, the wood untreated, and the garden fence slightly crooked. But it was clean. It was quiet. A place carved out for someone meant to be forgotten without guilt.

Still… there was a gentle beauty to it.

The small training ground beside it was ringed with stepping stones and wind-chimes, and the garden held simple plants — herbs, shrubs, and one stubborn white blossom growing where no one had planted it.

"Resilient," he murmured, looking at the flower.

"Just like the boy."

He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The air smelled faintly of dust and old wood.

The room was exactly as he remembered —

Neither too big nor too small.

It had always felt like a place made to remind him of his status: not unwanted, but not worthy either.

To the right was a low bed, carefully made, the blanket folded with practiced neatness.

A small table sat near the window, and a book rack with few books — cultivation theory, poetry, and a worn copy of "The Wind Principles of the Blossom Path."

A mirror, slightly cracked at the corner, leaned beside them.

The rest of the room… was empty.

No clutter. No luxury.

Just space.

Empty space, for a life that had yet to bloom.

He walked slowly across the room, running his fingers over the table, then glancing at the mirror.

For a moment, he saw Markin's eyes staring back at him from Vern's face.

Old and young.

Past and present.

A warrior in the shell of a forgotten boy.

The door creaked behind him.

A servant — middle-aged, nervous — peeked in, eyes widening.

"Young Master Vern…? You're alive?"

Then quickly, a bow. "I-I shall prepare hot water, clean clothes, and food immediately."

Vern turned to him. "Yes. Thank you. Leave them by the door."

The servant hesitated, then nodded and withdrew without question.

Vern stood alone again.

The house was quiet. The breeze returned, fluttering the curtain beside the table.

He walked to the garden and stood on the edge of the training ground, staring at the dummy targets that had never been used seriously.

"This is the place where owner of this body lived ," he said softly.

"But this will be the ground where I begin again."

He closed his eyes, and for a moment, the faint wind of the Lost Veil echoed in his ears —

Cold, eternal, haunting.

But here, in this place —

Among blossoms, breeze, and silence —

He would grow stronger.

After some time, a knock came at the door, followed by the quiet voice of the servant.

"Young Master Vern, the water is ready. You may bathe now."

Vern turned from the window, where he had been watching the gentle sway of the garden trees. The scent of flowers drifted faintly in the air.

"Yes," he said simply. "I'm coming."

He stepped out into the back corridor, where the bathing area lay — a modest wooden room with a deep basin of warm water, steam curling into the air. He stripped off the travel-worn, blood-stained clothes of the forest and stepped into the bath.

The water embraced him in silence.

The dirt and blood of his journey — of both death and rebirth — washed from his skin and sank into the still surface. He let out a long, quiet breath, the warmth soothing the aches that lingered in his muscles. He washed with methodical care, his hands steady, his eyes half-closed as if rinsing away not just grime, but remnants of another life.

When he emerged, he wrapped himself in a fresh light-blue kimono, simple but elegant — the kind of clothing only those born into a great clan could wear so casually.

He returned to his room, hair still damp, and stood before the mirror again.

This time, his reflection looked… settled.

Not whole — not yet — but clearer.

The dirt was gone, the wounds cleaned, the eyes steady.

A short while later, the servant returned with a tray of food — freshly steamed rice, soft dumplings, slices of grilled fish, and a small bowl of pickled vegetables. He placed it carefully on the table and bowed.

"Your meal, Young Master. Please eat and rest."

Vern nodded without words.

He sat cross-legged by the table and began eating. Each bite tasted of something he hadn't realized he missed — not the food itself, but the ritual. The familiarity. A meal served in peace, not scavenged in chaos.

After finishing his meal, Vern let the silence of the room settle around him like a thin mist. The wind outside stirred the chimes softly, and for a brief moment, the world felt still — a rare kind of stillness that only came before truths long buried rise to the surface.

He stood, his eyes falling upon the modest bookshelf in the corner of his room. Dust coated the top edges, but the titles remained legible — quiet witnesses of time. He reached out and pulled one volume free:

"The Record of the World in the Miran Continent."

His brows furrowed slightly.

"So this is Miran," he murmured, thumbing through the weathered pages.

It wasn't a shock. He had walked through Miran in his former life — as a traveler, as a fighter, as a seeker of forgotten paths — but this time, something felt… off.

He skimmed over names of empires, sects, and noble clans — many familiar. But then, one stood out like a thorn:

The Dunstar Empire.

He had never heard of it.

"Strange," he thought. "I remember the Iron Kingdoms, the Eastern Reaches, and the Old Jade Confederacy… but not Dunstar."

Still turning pages, his eyes halted on a familiar heading —

"The War of Hamaldan – Year 431, Flame Epoch."

His heart paused.

His hands froze.

The name was etched deep in his memory.

Not from a tale or book —

But from experience.

He had fought in that war.

As a mercenary.

As Markin Pigeon, under no banner, chasing coin and survival through a sea of fire and chaos.

But the date written in the current section of the book shattered something inside him.

"Current Year: 1176, Flame Epoch."

His fingers trembled on the page.

"Seven hundred year passed.," he whispered.

"I… I've been gone that long?"

He closed the book slowly, his breath steady but mind whirling. Time had moved on without him. The world he had once known — his world — was dust in the wind.

He leaned back, eyes blank, as the weight of centuries pressed against his thoughts.

He had not just returned to life.

He had returned to a different age.

To a world that had forgotten him…

…or so he thought.

Just then —

A knock at the door.

Tap. Tap.

A voice came through, formal and clear.

"Young Master, the Patriarch summons you."

Vern straightened.

For a moment, he didn't respond — his mind still half-bound in history.

Then he stood, his expression unreadable.

As the servant's footsteps faded down the hall, the soft echo of his words still lingered in the air like a question left unanswered.

"The Patriarch summons you."

Vern stood still for a long moment.

The Patriarch.

His father.

Rakel Stromvale.

The man who had given him life, but never love.

A figure more stone than flesh — carved by duty, defined by power, and ruled by the clan before he ever ruled his household.

Vern's fingers tightened slightly at his sides.

Why now?

He had returned to the clan gate barely a day ago — his clothes torn, his body bruised, and his soul… changed. And yet the man who had barely looked him in the eye for fifteen years had summoned him within hours of his return.

Was it concern?

No.

That word didn't exist between them.

"He must want to know what happened," Vern thought bitterly.

"Not because he cares… but because it threatens the clan's image."

In the fragmented memories he now carried — both his own, and those of the boy whose body he now inhabited — one thing was clear: Rakel had never seen value in Vern.

Born without talent, without presence, without the gleam of martial genius that his siblings carried like banners — Vern had always been the silent shadow at family gatherings. A name spoken only when necessary. A child marked by absence.

But now, the miserable son had returned from a death he could not have escaped.

And that — Rakel could not ignore.

Vern stepped toward the door, his thoughts quiet but sharp.

Was it suspicion?

Had the enemy clan revealed something that made Rakel wary?

Or was it curiosity?

How had the weakest son of the Stromvale bloodline survived a manhunt… alone?

Perhaps Rakel was seeking answers.

Perhaps he was already calculating what use this mystery might serve.

Or perhaps…

Vern paused mid-step.

Perhaps fate had begun to pull its threads — and even Rakel felt it, deep down, in the places he refused to name.

The air outside had shifted. The flowers still danced in the breeze, but now they seemed to bow in silence. Even the wind, once so gentle, carried the tension of what was to come.

He took a breath.

"Fine," he said to no one. "Let's see what the great Patriarch wants from his miserable, useless son."

And with that, Vern began walking down the corridor —

toward the man who had cast him aside,

and the past he was no longer bound to repeat.