The Hidden in Myth

Azum Hemda stood like an old sentinel in front of the closed wooden door, his posture straight, his eyes alert despite the fatigue resting beneath them. For two days and two nights, he had not left this post — save for quick meals and water. He hadn't slept much. He hadn't dared.

Inside that room, his young master had been locked in a silent war — one Azum could not see, could not join, but felt in the very bones of the air.

The wind around the room had changed. Sometimes it was still. Other times it pulsed — like something breathing from the cracks in the wood.

And then — creeeeeaaak —

The door slowly opened.

A sudden wave of hot air burst out, carrying with it a stifling sulfurous scent, the stench of ash and sweat, and threads of white smoke that curled along the floor like living mist.

Azum squinted against the heat, his hand instinctively resting near his sword.

And then, through the pale smoke, he saw him.

Vern.

But not the boy who had entered two days ago.

This was someone else.

His body emerged bare-chested, drenched in dried sweat and streaked with black residue — the impurities of his old self, expelled like poison from flesh. His skin shimmered, not with light, but with something deeper — a vitality that hadn't been there before.

His hair was longer, wild and tangled, clinging to his shoulders. His bare feet touched the wooden floor with a soft thud thud, but his steps had gained a strange stillness — the kind that comes from shedding weakness.

He looked taller — or perhaps, more grounded.

More real.

His chest rose and fell slowly, as if even his breathing now followed some deeper rhythm.

Azum's eyes widened.

In that moment, he did not see a 14-year-old boy.

He saw a soldier returning from battle, alone, scorched by war but not broken. His eyes were distant — not blank, but piercing, like someone who had glimpsed the edge of something most mortals never dared to seek.

"Y-Young Master…" Azum whispered.

Vern did not answer immediately.

He turned his head slightly, the smoke drifting past his face as he stepped fully into the hallway. The floor beneath him creaked, and somewhere in the wood, the heat left small cracks where his essence had burned too hot.

fsssshh…

A faint hiss came from the last of the smoke vanishing behind him.

Then, finally, Vern looked at Azum — and for a flicker of a second, he smiled.

"Thank you for guarding the door," Vern said softly, voice deeper than before.

Azum swallowed hard, then quickly bowed.

"It is… my duty, Young Master."

Azum looked at Vern — the boy who had just stepped out of fire and silence — and his heart clenched.

His young master's body bore the signs of spiritual trial: dried blood around his ears, a sheen of burnt impurities clinging to his skin like charcoal dust, and an emptiness in his stomach that no silence could hide.

His hair hung loose, matted in parts, his lips slightly cracked.

"Young Master," Azum said, gently but firmly, stepping forward. "I'll arrange for a hot bath and food right away."

Vern turned to him, the residual heat still rising faintly from his body. The transformation he had undergone lingered in the air like the echo of a storm — not loud, but undeniable.

A faint, dry smile touched his lips.

"Of course," Vern replied, his voice lower now, calmer. "I need both."

Azum bowed slightly, his movements practiced and urgent.

"Please young master give me some time, Young Master. I'll have it all ready in moments."

Vern nodded, walking back toward his chambers with steady steps, the smoke of his trial already fading into memory.

Azum turned sharply on his heel, moving with a renewed sense of purpose.

Steam still clung to the corners of the room, a fading memory of the scalding bath that had washed away the grime of awakening. Dressed now in a fresh robe of silver-gray cotton, Vern sat at his table as Azum carefully laid out the evening meal — steamed wildroot, grilled river fish, and a small bowl of spirit grain porridge.

Vern picked at the food slowly at first, but hunger soon overtook habit. His body had burned more than energy during his two-day awakening — it had devoured something deeper, something from within. Now it demanded to be replenished.

Azum, ever vigilant, stood nearby with a folded cloth and a calm gaze. After a pause, he cleared his throat gently.

"Young Master," he said in a quiet tone, "a letter arrived for you two days ago. From… Lady Mizuki of the Water Tree Tower."

The name struck like a sudden gust across a still pond.

Vern's chopsticks stopped midair.

Lady Mizuki. One of Vern's father's wives. Mizune's mother. A woman of power, elegance… and cruelty. She had never missed a chance to humiliate Vern — whether in passing conversation or in the company of the clan's elders. Her disdain for him had been clear, sharp as a blade dipped in perfume.

And now… a letter?

He blinked, then calmly set his bowl down.

"Bring it to me."

Azum bowed slightly. "I have it with me, Young Master."

From his sleeve, he withdrew the sealed scroll — a delicate cream-colored parchment wrapped in pale blue silk and bound with a ribbon of silver thread. The mark of the Water Tree Tower was pressed into the wax seal.

Vern took it without another word. He held it for a moment in his palm, turning it slowly — as if expecting it to burn him.

Then he broke the seal and unrolled the scroll.

His eyes scanned the calligraphy. Polite. Controlled. Elegant. It spoke of tradition, of honor... and yet, something else. Beneath the surface formality was a current — something testing the waters.

Lady Mizuki had extended an invitation.

She wanted him to visit Water Tree Tower.

She requested his "presence" for a matter of "mutual cultivation benefit" — the wording was vague, but the message was unmistakable: she want something form Vern.

Strange… Vern thought.

He rolled the scroll back up slowly and placed it on the table.

Then he leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, a slow smile rising to the corners of his lips.

"Interesting," he murmured.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Very interesting."