The road to Lin Fu was a ribbon of dust winding through the summer heat, but around Yuna, the air felt like a cool cellar.
Andrew walked beside her, his eyes constantly darting to her feet. He had the look of a man trying to solve a puzzle that didn't want to be solved.
"What's the matter, Uncle Andrew?" Yuna asked, her voice as level as the horizon.
Andrew hesitated, then exhaled a long, weary breath. "I was just thinking. Back when I adventured with your mother, I noticed something. No matter the terrain—mud, dry leaves, loose gravel—her footsteps never made a sound. It was like she was a ghost haunting the dirt." He glanced at Yuna's boots. "You're doing the exact same thing."
"Mannerism training," Yuna replied simply. "Mother says if you can't control your weight, you can't control a blade."
"And the sweat," Andrew added, wiping his own brow. "It's nearly 90 degrees out here, and you look like you're walking through a spring breeze. Your mother was the same. Extreme heat, biting frost—she just didn't care. It was like the weather didn't have permission to affect her."
The party's mage leaned in, her eyes wide. "What's Madam Da-li's element, anyway? It has to be something related to temperature control, right?"
Andrew's expression went dark. "That's the thing. I've seen her use Fire. I've seen her use Wind. Earth, Lightning, Ice... it didn't matter. It felt like she owned the whole spectrum."
"That's impossible," the mage girl whispered. "No one has that many affinities."
"And what about you, Yuna?" the healer asked. "What's your natural element?"
"Cryo," Yuna answered.
"See!" the mage snapped her fingers. "That explains the sweat. She's naturally cold."
"Cryo isn't just 'cold,'" Andrew interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. "Cryo users are born from extremes. Trauma. Near-death. A tragedy that freezes the soul before it freezes the air." He looked at Yuna with a sudden, heavy pity. "But you're just a girl from a quiet town. Did something... happen?"
Yuna slowed her pace. The memory was sharp, crystalline. "It was when Eunha was born," she said softly. "She wasn't breathing. The healers said she was stillborn. I wouldn't let them take her. I held her, crying until I felt something break inside me. That was the Cryo awakening."
The party went silent.
"I'm sorry," Andrew muttered.
"Don't be," Yuna said, a faint smile touching her lips. "Because as I held her, she started to get hot. Burning hot. My ice triggered something in her—a Pyro reaction. We saved each other. She opened her eyes and just... stared at me. Like she was making sure I was still there."
At her side, the red charm Eunha had given her pulsed with a sudden, reassuring heat.
The Dead Silence of Lin Fu
They reached Lin Fu by evening, but there was no welcome. The village was a collection of beautiful houses and tea fields, but the silence was wrong. It wasn't the silence of sleep; it was the silence of a tomb.
Andrew knocked on a door. It creaked open just enough to reveal a pair of terrified eyes. "Another hero party?" the villager whispered, his voice trembling. "You'll run. Like the others. That thing... it doesn't kill. It carves."
"Tell us everything," Yuna said, her voice cutting through the man's panic.
"It prefers the dark," the man said. "It leaves pieces. Just... pieces."
"I'm baiting it," Yuna announced to the group. "We camp in the center of the village. If it wants a victim, it can come for me."
The Night of the Butcher
Night fell like a heavy shroud. The campfire crackled, the only sound in the suffocalting quiet. No crickets. No owls. Just the wind knocking a loose sign against a wall. *Tok. Tok.*
"It's watching," Andrew whispered, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
A sudden, sharp sound erupted from the nearby fields. *Crrack.*
Yuna didn't hesitate. She blurred into motion, leaping over the bushes. She stopped dead. The grass was painted in fresh, steaming blood. At her feet lay a wild boar, split perfectly in two down the middle. No bite marks. No struggle. Just a clean, vertical harvest.
*Gggrrrr…!!!*
A heavy, dragging sound came from the shadows. Step. Step.
The creature emerged into the moonlight, and for a second, the air seemed to stop moving. It was seven feet of pale, skeletal muscle. Its face was a nightmare of sunken pits and burning red eyes. In its hand—long, spindly fingers fused to the grip—was a massive, rusted scythe that hummed with a sick, hungry energy.
The Slasher didn't roar. It just tilted its head, the moonlight reflecting off its ghostly skin.
Yuna's hand moved to her katana. The red charm at her waist burned against her skin, a reminder of the sister who had stared back at her from the brink of death.
"So," Yuna whispered, the temperature around her dropping until the grass began to frost. "You're the monster Mother told me about."