The room was circular, carved directly into the mountain stone.
Seven seats stood evenly spaced, each shaped from a different material—wood, steel, stone, obsidian symbols of legacy rather than decoration. Torches burned low along the walls, their flames steady, controlled. No banners. No insignia.
Only silence.
At the center of the chamber stood a long stone table, empty except for a single black scroll sealed with gray wax.
An elder finally spoke.
"The bloodline has surfaced."
His voice was old, dry, yet firm enough to cut through the stillness.
Elder Baek, the oldest among them, leaned forward slightly. His thin fingers tapped the armrest of his stone seat. "It never truly disappeared. It merely slept."
Another scoffed quietly.
"Sleep ends eventually," said Elder Hwan, clad in dark robes stitched with silver thread. "That is why The Silence Verdict was formed. To ensure it never wakes again."
At that name, the air shifted.
Across the chamber, a man seated slightly apart finally looked up.
Han Min Jae.
He did not wear elder robes. His clothing was simpler dark coat, clean lines, no ornaments. Unlike the others, he did not look ancient. He looked preserved. Sharp eyed. Calm.
Too calm.
"He's just a boy," Min Jae said evenly. "We've all seen false alarms before."
Elder Baek's gaze slid toward him. "You are close to this matter, Min-Jae."
Min Jae smiled faintly. "That would make me useful, not biased."
Another elder spoke, voice sharp with irritation. "Your brother has gone into hiding."
"My brother has always lived in hiding," Min-Jae replied. "That doesn't make him guilty of awakening old sins."
Elder Hwan folded his arms. "Muk Hyun's descendants nearly destabilized the assassin world once. Do you suggest we wait and watch history repeat itself?"
Min-Jae's eyes darkened, just slightly. "I suggest caution. Panic kills faster than blades."
Silence returned.
Finally, Elder Baek reached for the scroll and unsealed it.
"Our observers confirm heightened activity," he said. "Unregistered movement. Old training patterns resurfacing. This follows Muk Hyun's lineage."
He looked directly at Min Jae. "Han Tae-Seong has begun preparing his son."
At that, Min-Jae's smile vanished.
"So… he told him," Min-Jae muttered.
"What was that?" Elder Baek asked.
"Nothing," Min Jae replied calmly, reclaiming his composure. "Only that this proves my point."
"And what point is that?" another elder snapped.
"That Seo Jun will not remain ignorant," Min-Jae said. "If cornered, blood remembers faster than the mind."
Elder Hwan slammed his palm against his armrest. "Which is exactly why we must eliminate him now before instinct turns into inevitability."
The chamber grew tense.
Elder Baek closed the scroll. "No."
All eyes turned to him.
"We did not survive this long by rushing," Baek said. "The Silence Verdict exists to prevent legends, not to create martyrs."
Min Jae inclined his head slightly. "Wise, Elder."
Baek's eyes narrowed. "Do not mistake restraint for mercy."
He turned to the others. "We observe. We test. We pressure the father—indirectly."
"And the boy?" Hwan demanded.
"We let him walk," Baek said. "For now."
Min Jae exhaled quietly.
The next morning, Seo Jun woke before dawn.
His body ached not from wounds, but from restraint. Training under his father had shifted overnight. Movements slowed. Breathing controlled. Every action measured.
No wasted effort.
No wasted emotion.
Tae Seong watched him move through forms in the clearing, correcting angles with minimal words. Each strike was softer than before and somehow heavier.
"Strength isn't noise," Tae Seong said. "Muk Hyun understood that."
Seo Jun paused. "You knew him?"
Tae Seong didn't answer right away.
"No," he said finally. "But I knew what was left behind."
Seo Jun wiped sweat from his brow. "Is it true?"
"That they're watching?" Seo jun asked.
Tae seong nodded.
"Yes," Tae Seong said simply. "That's why today you learn something else."
He gestured toward the tree line. Seo Jun followed his gaze and tensed.
A man stood there.
Tall. Relaxed. Hands in his coat pockets, posture casual as if strolling through a garden rather than standing near a hidden safehouse.
He looked familiar.
Too familiar.
"Uncle…?" Seo Jun said slowly.
Han Min-Jae stepped forward with a gentle smile.
"Look at you," he said. "You've grown."
Seo Jun glanced at his father. Tae Seong's expression had hardened just barely.
"You shouldn't be here," Tae Seong said.
Min Jae chuckled. "You always say that."
He turned back to Seo Jun. "I hear you don't go to school anymore."
Seo Jun frowned. "I heard you disappeared."
Min Jae spread his hands. "We all disappear eventually."
There was something off about his presence. Not threatening—but unsettling. Like a blade kept carefully out of sight.
Min-Jae's eyes lingered on Seo Jun a second longer than necessary.
"So," he said lightly. "This is the heir everyone's afraid of."
Seo Jun stiffened.
Tae Seong stepped forward. "Say what you came to say and leave."
Min Jae smiled again thin this time.
"Oh, brother," he said, gaze unreadable. "I've only come to see family."
As he turned to leave, his voice drifted back softly.
"Enjoy what peace you have left."
Seo Jun watched him disappear into the trees, utterly unaware that the first true move had already been made.