The forest path toward the ruins was overgrown, tangled with thorns and moss-covered roots that twisted like serpents across the soil. Ji-hyeon moved carefully, each step deliberate. He had memorized the map for days, every detail etched into his mind—every landmark, every deviation in the trail.
Birds fell silent the deeper he went.
There was something unnatural about the air here. It wasn't just quiet—it was watching. Ji-hyeon felt it in the way his skin prickled beneath his cloak, in the way his magic stirred even though he hadn't summoned it.
He reached a clearing. At its center stood a crumbled stone archway, half-buried beneath ivy and centuries of earth. Faint symbols were etched across the arch—symbols older than the known script of the kingdom. Ji-hyeon brushed his fingers over them, and the stone pulsed.
The pulse wasn't physical—it was mental, like a memory that didn't belong to him echoing in the back of his mind. He staggered back, eyes wide.
Then, a voice. Faint. Echoing.
"He returns..."
Ji-hyeon looked around sharply. No one. Just the whisper of wind and the hush of old magic.
He stepped forward.
The moment his foot crossed beneath the archway, the air shifted. The ruins no longer looked abandoned. The walls shimmered, showing ghostly outlines of what had once stood there: towers, bridges, glowing sigils suspended in midair. He saw people—not real, but shadows of the past. Mages in robes. Armies kneeling. A single throne made of black stone.
Ji-hyeon's head throbbed. The stone in his satchel glowed faintly.
And in a flash, an image burst into his mind—a memory that wasn't his:
He stood atop that black throne, thousands bowing before him, his eyes burning with fire, and wings of darkness stretching from his back.
He fell to his knees, gasping.
That was the Demon King's memory.
His memory.
The truth wasn't just waking—it was calling.