Morning in Neria Village always began with the sound of birds. Sunlight filtering through the leaves broke over the dew-kissed grass, and spirits flitted between the trees, scattering small fragments of light.

Pyo I-hyeon was perched under a large oak tree on the outskirts of the village. His hair swayed with every breeze, and his eyes gazed somewhere far off, as if he couldn't remember a thing.