Under the quiet moonlight, Shin Rirang sat cross-legged on a flat stone, the night breeze brushing through his white fur. His breath slowed, a faint blue glow of Qi pulsing beneath his skin like ripples in still water. After a long silence, he rose and began his routine. Each kick cut through the cool air, swift, smooth, and precise yet carried the gentle grace of a poet’s brushstroke.

Between strikes, thoughts of old friends surfaced. Faces from Dongyeo City, laughter beneath lanterns, voices carried by memory. The ache of distance pressed against his chest, but he let it guide his movements, every step a quiet promise to protect them when they met again.

Pausing, Shin Rirang reached for his small diary. Under the pale moon, he wrote a single line: "The wind carries their laughter, though mountains keep us apart."

Closing the book, he exhaled and stilled his Qi. That was when a faint sound reached his ears, a soft rustle of grass behind him. Someone was approaching. The night was too deep for a casual wanderer. His ears twitched, catching each careful step.

Shin Rirang turned slightly, eyes narrowing toward the shadows. A presence lingered there, unseen yet undeniable. Training had sharpened his instincts, but the sound of another soul after years of solitude stirred something else—curiosity, and the faint hope of connection. "Footsteps?" he thought to himself. "Who's there?" Shin Rirang said aloud as he shifted his stance, ready yet hesitant, unsure if it belonged to someone he's acquainted with or some random stranger.