The sky above was bruising over, transforming into a deep, ugly purple. Dark clouds swelled like a rolling sea, swallowing the last traces of dusk and plunging the world into shadow. A sharp shiver of wind cut across the desolate expanse of the Broken Fang Plains, carrying the heavy scent of wet earth and the metallic tang of impending rain. Moments later, the first drops hissed against the hard soil, turning the dust into slick mud.
Han Jiyul stood alone in that empty wasteland, motionless amidst the downpour. His long black cloak clung to his frame, heavy with water, while strands of soaked hair stuck to his pale, expressionless face. Mud gripped his boots, but he didn't move. In his right hand hung a sword—old, rusty, and unremarkable to anyone who didn't know its true hunger. He stood the way a man does when he has seen too much, felt too little, and killed too often.
"Stop there, kid!"
Five shapes emerged from the curtain of rain—bandits, their clothes patched with filth, their grins as sharp as their rusted weapons. They moved like carrion birds circling a dying animal. But Jiyul was not dying. He was waiting.
"Pretty boy's lost," one of them sneered, licking rainwater from his cracked lips. His teeth were yellow, and his eyes were sharp with greed. "Or maybe he's just slow in the head".
Another bandit jabbed his chin toward Jiyul's blade. "What's that in your hand, eh? Looks worth something".
"That thing's gotta be worth a lot," a third added, stepping closer. "Hand it over".
The largest of the group stepped forward—a man built like a boulder, with a jagged scar splitting his face in two like cracked stone. His broadsword rested casually across his back. "Kid," he growled, his voice heavy as thunder. "Give me the sword, and you can walk away".
Jiyul didn't answer. The rain drummed relentlessly against him, masking the faint creak of his grip tightening on the hilt. His eyes—cold and unreadable—studied them the way a hawk studies prey moments before the strike.
The scarred man took a step closer, annoyed by the silence. "You deaf, or just stupid?" He reached out his hand to grab the sword.
Steel hissed.
Jiyul moved.
It was a single flash—too fast for the eye to follow. One moment the man's arm was whole; the next, his hand spun through the air, trailing a fan of crimson blood. Shock froze the bandit in place before the pain could even find his voice.
"You don't touch this sword," Jiyul said, his tone as flat as stone. "Not unless you want to die for it".
The man's knees buckled. Jiyul's blade came down once more, clean and final. The head fell into the mud with a dull thud, rain splattering against lifeless eyes. Blood sprayed upward, painting the air red before washing away into the dirt.
The other four froze. Terror stole the smirks from their faces instantly. One stepped back, his boot slipping in the mud.
Jiyul ignored them. Kneeling beside the fresh corpse, he pressed his hand onto the dead man's chest. Beneath skin and bone, a dim red glow pulsed—the Blood Ember's whisper. Heat surged through his arm.
Blood Ember Art: Soul Spark.
His eyes closed. The man's final memory rushed into him—a small cottage in the mountains, an old woman waiting at the door, her eyes tired but warm. "Come back alive, my son," she had said.
Jiyul's lip twitched. It wasn't a smile. It was something colder. "This memory again… A mother's hope? What do I care?".
He rose, wiping the blade clean on the dead man's clothes.
"You bastard!" one of the others roared, snapping out of his fear. "You killed Jin!".
Jiyul's gaze slid to him, completely void of pity. "He reached for what wasn't his. Now he belongs to the mud".
They charged.
The first lunged with a short spear, but Jiyul sidestepped effortlessly, the weapon slicing through empty rain. His sword swept upward in a blur, splitting the man's chest in a burst of ribs and blood. Another swung a heavy axe. Jiyul ducked low, rolled forward, and drove his blade deep into the attacker's thigh. A twist, a scream—then silence as steel punched through his throat.
The last two faltered. One turned to flee.
"Bad choice."
Jiyul's sword cut the air, bisecting the fleeing man in a single motion. The final bandit dropped his weapon, falling to his knees in the muck. "Please… don't…".
For a heartbeat, Jiyul seemed to consider. Then his voice came like a winter wind: "You stood with thieves. Die with them".
The blade fell.
When the rain finally drowned out the screams, only Jiyul remained, standing among the broken bodies. His breath was steady, his eyes unblinking. Kneeling again, he claimed another Soul Spark. This time, the memory was a child's laugh in a sunny field.
"Pointless," Jiyul murmured. "A bandit is still a bandit".
The rain washed the blood from his face, but it couldn't touch the chill in his soul.
"I wasted my time," he said softly. "Foolish men chasing a curse".
A low rumble rolled across the plains—thunder, or perhaps something worse. Jiyul turned his back to the dead and began walking, his boots sinking into the wet earth. The Blood Ember whispered promises in the dark corners of his mind, but he paid them no heed.
He would carve his own fate. And if the world tried to stop him?
It would have to bleed.