Dawn was nothing more than a thin blue cut across the frozen horizon.

  The capital of the Shogunate—white breath, blackened steel, and disciplined silence—kept breathing the eternal winter that belonged to it.

  The cold carved the stone.

  The cold dimmed the light.

  The cold ruled Hwarangdo.

  But it did not touch Ayame.

  Osorane—what everyone called her, even when she wished they wouldn’t—sat on the threshold of the military temple, a black cup between her bare fingers.

  The loose yukata over her tattooed skin revealed the seals that kept her fear caged beneath layers of flesh.

  Snow melted over her legs.

  She did not shiver.

  The cold had stopped hurting her years ago.

  A hanging lantern swayed above her head, casting shadows that seemed to move on their own across the sutras that ran along her collarbone, her neck, the curve of her thigh.

  Steam curled from the cup like a tired spirit.

  Ayame watched it rise, still, serene, dangerous.

  Then it happened.

  A pulse.

  A strange throb, foreign and faint.

  As if the tattoos on her back had inhaled sharply without her permission—as if something unseen had brushed against the marks meant to restrain her power.

  Ayame opened her eyes.

  —..Again,— she murmured.

  Not fear.

  Not surprise.

  Only recognition.

  The incense beside her leaned to the right.

  A talisman chimed in an air that was perfectly still.

  And then:

  Knock.

  A single strike.

  Clear.

  Short.

  Too respectful to be an intrusion, too precise to be casual.

  Ayame did not move.

  She only tilted her head slightly, listening to the silence that followed.

  Knock.

  Another.

  Identical.

  She set the cup on the step, steam brushing her fingers as she rose in one slow, ceremonial motion.

  Snow cracked beneath her bare foot.

  The cold tried to bite her… and failed, as always.

  She stepped toward the sliding door.

  The shadows behind the paper screen shifted.

  Two figures.

  Different heights.

  Different breathing.

  Recognizable even without seeing them.

  Ji-an.

  Despair dressed as a broken doll.

  Liáng.

  Fury that burned even in sleep.

  Her companions.

  Her equals.

  Her monsters.

  Ayame rested one hand on the wooden frame.

  —I am awake— she said softly, with the quietness of someone who never needed to raise her voice.

  On the other side, neither spoke.

  But their presence vibrated in the air like a wicked prayer.

  Ayame narrowed her eyes.

  The sutras along her arms pulsed… once.

  The door began to slide open.

  And the chapter ends right there, with the first line of the shōji screen revealing the other two fleshs.

  The knock came again.

  Sharp. Impatient. Too familiar.

  Ayame didn’t move.

  She watched the steam from her tea rise in trembling spirals, like a spirit unsure whether to leave or cling to her skin.

  The tatami groaned.

  And the sliding door opened without her permission.

  Ji-an entered first.

  Small. Frail.

  A porcelain doll with honey-colored eyes far too large, far too wet. Her pale pink and white hanbok swayed with a tremor that didn’t come from the cold. Her ink-black hair fell to her ankles, braided with red ribbons that seemed to pulse faintly.

  A Gaksi Tal mask hanging crooked at her hip smiled a grin that didn’t match her own.

  And yet… the true danger was her gaze: sweet as a poison that doesn’t warn where it begins to hurt.

  —Ayame-unnie… —she chimed, tilting her head with that cracked tenderness of hers— I thought the winter had swallowed you whole. What a disappointment to find you intact.

  Ayame held the tea bowl without trembling.

  A larger shadow darkened the entrance.

  Hóng Liáng stepped inside like an impact.

  A lean, sinewy body made of coiled muscle beneath a dark red hanfu; a posture so hard it felt like even breathing was some restrained form of violence. Her jet-black hair was bound in a warrior’s knot, metal pins jutting through it; loose strands brushed the sharp lines of her cheekbones.

  Her crimson eyes burned like living embers.

  A Jing mask at her belt —grotesque, vengeful— looked disturbingly similar to the smirk that briefly touched her lips.

  —Still alive —she muttered, bracing a shoulder against the frame—. Shame. I thought the cold had finally shown mercy.

  Ayame inclined her head just a fraction.

  —If you wanted me dead, Liáng… —she whispered— you should’ve opened the door a little sooner.

  Ji-an let out a sharp, delighted giggle.

  —So mean, I love it.

  Liáng snorted a dry laugh.

  —Shut it, Ji-an. If anyone kills her, it’ll be me. You’d cry because you ruined your pretty hanbok.

  Ji-an tilted her head, smile sweet as a clean cut.

  —And you…? —she murmured, venom wrapped in lace— Would you cry because you finally felt something other than rage?

  Silence dropped like a stone slab.

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  Ayame set the tea aside.

  —You didn’t come to bicker —she said, never raising her voice—. Speak.

  Ji-an blinked, her sweetness peeling away to reveal a polished void beneath.

  —The Shogun calls for you… Osorane.

  The name fell like a brand of glowing iron.

  Liáng straightened, arms crossed like shackles across her chest.

  —Not just her. He wants all three of us. Now.

  —Her smirk held danger— Though look at her… sipping tea like she doesn’t have dried blood under her nails. Can you walk, or should I drag you by the hair?

  Ayame stood.

  Her shadow —always a step out of sync— seemed to move before her body did.

  —I walk —she said, letting the cold bury her voice—. And I kill. If either of you wants to test me before the mission… Step closer.

  Ji-an clapped silently, delighted.

  Liáng raised an eyebrow, amused.

  And for a single breath, something settled between them.

  Not camaraderie.

  Not affection.

  Just the cold recognition that together they were one creature:

  an instrument with three pulses. Three emotions. Three dooms.

  Ji-an slid open the second door.

  —Come —she whispered, smiling with fractured innocence—. They say the prey isn’t foreign this time.

  Liáng clicked her tongue, intrigued.

  Ayame stepped forward without looking back.

  The door closed.

  The incense trembled.

  And the temple was left empty.

  There was no escort.

  No procession.

  In Hwarangdo, neither monsters nor saints needed an escort.

  The three walked together down the stone path that descended from the temple.

  Frost cracked beneath their sandals, and every breath turned to pale mist that never quite touched their skin.

  Not even the cold dared.

  As they advanced toward the lower city, the streets opened like a silent corridor.

  People did not flee.

  Did not scream.

  Did not bow like worshipers before divine idols.

  They simply lowered their heads, deeply, without lifting their gaze.

  Absolute respect… and fear taught since birth.

  Liáng walked at the front, her steps firm, the warrior’s topknot shifting with each controlled breath.

  Ji-an drifted behind her, almost dancing, her endless braid brushing the ground like a sleeping serpent.

  Ayame closed the trio, still, ceremonial, with her sutra-tattoos pulsing faintly beneath her skin.

  The air tightened for a moment.

  A little girl —small, bundled in a coat far too big for her— ran after her mother.

  She stumbled.

  And her rag doll shot forward, rolling until it stopped right at Liáng’s feet.

  The world did not move for a heartbeat.

  Liáng looked down.

  The doll had button eyes and a crooked mouth, as if begging for mercy.

  The girl froze several meters away, knowing she had made a mistake her family would remember for years.

  Liáng exhaled… and crouched.

  A quick gesture. Practical.

  She picked up the doll and, not gently but not cruelly, held it out to the child.

  —Don’t lose your things —she muttered.

  The girl took it with both hands, trembling.

  She bowed so fast she nearly fell.

  Ji-an took a step forward, tilting her head.

  —What a shame… —she sang—. If it had fallen in front of me, I would’ve opened it to see what was inside.

  The girl made a soundless sob and hid behind her mother.

  Ayame didn’t turn her head.

  —That’s why Fortune dropped it in front of Liáng —she murmured—. Not in front of you.

  Ji-an smiled.

  A smile so sweet it made you forget she had said something monstrous.

  —Ah, unnie… but I wasn’t lying. Lies are scarier when they come from you, not me.

  Liáng snorted.

  —Keep talking and I’ll rip that smile off.

  —Go on —Ji-an replied, still in that innocent, tinkling tone—. I’d love to see someone try.

  Ayame kept walking.

  She didn’t speed up.

  Didn’t intervene.

  They didn’t need mediation; they needed tension to breathe.

  The three crossed a bridge glazed with thin ice, and on the other side the capital rose:

  Modern buildings of black steel and glass, raised in vertical lines reminiscent of ancient temples; curved roofs inspired by Korean palaces; red lanterns dimmed by snow.

  A world both beautiful and oppressive, designed to break anyone who wasn’t them.

  The palace appeared soon after.

  Colossal.

  A giant of obsidian and dark wood, with tiered walls and towers shaped like blades pointed at the sky.

  Four statues of ancestral warriors flanked the entrance, watching like judges deciding who deserved to approach.

  Liáng stopped at the base of the staircase.

  —I hate this place —she growled.

  Ji-an clasped her hands behind her back, swaying.

  —I love it. Something bad always happens here.

  Ayame didn’t blink.

  —Move —she said quietly, her voice low and heavy—. The Shogun does not wait.

  The black wooden doors began to open…

  slowly…

  without anyone touching them.

  And the three —the Flesh of Fear, the Flesh of Despair, and the Flesh of Fury— ascended into the darkness of the palace that demanded their names.

  The palace doors finished opening with a low, resonant sigh, like a temple exhaling a warning.

  The entry hall was enormous and dim, lit only by tall braziers burning blue fire.

  The shadowed throne at the far end was empty.

  Instead, three high-ranking officers awaited them.

  At their front stood a woman in ceremonial uniform, obsidian dragon pauldrons gleaming on her shoulders: General Soryeon.

  Her voice cut the air like a dry blade:

  —Fleshes of Hwarangdo… the Shogun will not receive you today.

  Ji-an tilted her head, smiling like a mischievous child about to break a toy.

  —Did he run away? —she sing-songed.

  Liáng clicked her tongue.

  —If only. Then I’d have something to chase.

  Ayame said nothing.

  She didn’t need to.

  Soryeon did not react to the provocations.

  She continued in a tone that didn’t ask for respect — it imposed it.

  —His absence does not change the essential. There is a problem at our borders… someone, or several, are entering the country without permission. No records. No trace.

  A cold murmur slid through the corridor.

  —Immediate reconnaissance of the three vulnerable zones is required, —the general said, handing a mission tablet to each warrior— Do not capture. Do not eliminate. Observe. Report.

  Liáng took hers without even glancing at it.

  —Reconnaissance? —she scoffed— Didn’t know they wanted us to play explorers.

  Ji-an hugged her tablet to her chest as if it were a gift.

  —Ahh… what a cute little mission.

  Soryeon fixed her eyes on Ayame.

  —You are assigned to the Deep Forest Corridor.

  —The Southern passage, —she emphasized— where no one enters without freezing… or being torn apart.

  Ayame inclined her head slightly.

  Pure acceptance, with no emotion behind it.

  —Understood.

  —You depart today, —Soryeon ordered— The Shogun demands silence and efficiency. There will be no ceremony. No official blessing. You already know what you are.

  Liáng turned on her heel.

  —State weapons, —she spat— Shocking news.

  Ji-an spun playfully, the bells on her red ribbon chiming.

  —See you later~. Try not to die without me.

  Ayame didn’t answer.

  She simply headed toward the exit, walking slow, measured steps — a walking omen.

  Liáng gave her a light shove as she passed.

  —If you find something interesting, kill it first and ask questions later, alright?

  Ji-an giggled softly.

  —No, no… bring it back alive. I love new toys.

  Ayame kept moving, never speeding up, never turning back.

  —Hwarangdo doesn’t tolerate toys, —she finally said, her voice dry as a cut— Only threats.

  The three left the palace through different paths.

  No ceremonial farewells.

  No ritual.

  No bonds.

  Only warriors marching toward their assigned hunt, leaving behind the blue fire of a palace that never needed to give them instructions twice.

  The freezing wind swallowed their footsteps.

  And the night opened to receive them.

  Ayame walked alone down the path that led from the palace toward the edges of the capital.

  Snow fell in thin, sharp threads, dragged by a wind cold enough to break skin… if her skin still remembered what cold felt like.

  She took a few more steps.

  Then it happened.

  A pulse.

  In her spine.

  Right where the sleeping spirit of Kurogumo was chained to her flesh.

  Ayame froze.

  The vibration shot through her vertebrae like an electric whip, tightening her neck and raising the tiny hairs beneath her dark sutra-tattoos.

  —…Again— she muttered, irritation buried under the softness of her voice.

  The second pulse struck harder—quick, eager, like a foreign heartbeat trying to escape its cage.

  Ayame clenched her jaw.

  She knew this sign better than she wished to:

  some distant desire brushing against Kurogumo’s instinct, tugging at her from somewhere across the country.

  A call with no name yet, but undeniably alive.

  —Don’t start— she growled.

  The sutras inked along her back reacted, as if someone had grazed them from inside.

  A hot prickling sensation climbed her spine, rising to the base of her skull.

  Ayame inhaled slowly.

  The icy wind howled between the severe buildings.

  But the pulse kept going.

  Erratic.

  Unsteady.

  As if something—or someone—were learning how to desire for the very first time.

  —How aggravating…— she murmured, smacking her own back lightly as if that would silence it.

  It didn’t.

  Kurogumo kept throbbing.

  And then, like an old poison awakening only in moments of unrest, the ancient resentment stirred in her chest—an inherited bitterness she had spent years trying to strangle.

  —Damn her memory…— Ayame hissed.

  —The one who left this burden in my bones… may her name rot.—

  The tattoos shivered faintly, as if answering the curse.

  Ayame shut her eyes for a heartbeat, regained her composure, and resumed walking without looking back.

  Her steps erased the fresh snow behind her while the pulse kept hammering through her spine, beating out a direction she refused to acknowledge.

  North.

  Toward the corridor.

  Toward the thing—the desire—that had awakened Kurogumo.

  And though she would never admit it…

  Something deep inside her vertebrae

  was smiling.