The morning mist clings to the low hills of Dongnae like a burial shroud, thick and cold. The village stirs slowly—shutters creak open, and the smell of rice porridge begins to drift from clay chimneys. The sky is the color of old bone.
Near the main road, merchants unload their goods from wooden carts: dried fish, bolts of hemp cloth, bundles of wild greens wrapped in straw. The horses stamp their hooves, breath fogging, as their drivers grumble about the cold.
A few villagers pass by, their heads bowed, speaking in hushed tones. No one mentions the capital outright, but the anxiety is there, folded into their silences. The magistrate's men have been stationed at the district gates since dawn, watching travelers with slow, calculating eyes.
It is in the middle of this quiet routine that a commotion begins at the edge of the road. A figure stumbles into view—a man, gaunt and filthy, his clothes torn and caked with dark mud. He sways as he walks, his eyes wild, scanning the crowd as if searching for something no one else can see.
He makes it a few more steps before his knees buckle. He collapses onto the dirt road, gasping.
The Man
rasping, clutching at the air They're... they're not dead. I saw them. I saw them move.
A crowd begins to gather. The merchants pause, turning to stare. Some draw back, wary. The man's voice is cracked, desperate.
The Man
grabbing at the hem of a passerby's robe I swear it! In the hills—soldiers digging pits, bodies wrapped in straw. They threw them in and shoveled dirt over them, but they were still moving. Twitching. I saw it with my own eyes, I—
A stern voice cuts through the murmur. The magistrate pushes through the crowd, his face red with irritation.
The Magistrate
Enough of this madness. gesturing sharply to the guards Remove this man at once. He's clearly lost his wits.
The Man
I'm not mad! I tell you, the dead are waking! When the sun goes down, they—
The guards seize him by the arms, dragging him back toward the edge of the village. He struggles, but his strength is gone. As he's pulled past you, his fingers snatch at your sleeve, his grip surprisingly strong for a man so weakened.
The Man
voice dropping to a desperate whisper Listen to me. I'm not lying. The dead... they rise when the sun sets. The clinic. The one in the hills— Jiyulheon. Something happened there. Something terrible.
The guards yank him away, and he stumbles, his words swallowed by the noise of the crowd. The magistrate straightens his robe, addressing the onlookers with forced authority.
The Magistrate
Nothing more than a frightened traveler, peddling rumors. Return to your duties. There is nothing to fear here.
The crowd disperses slowly, uncertainty lingering in their glances. The merchants return to their carts, but their movements are slower now, their eyes drifting toward the hills in the distance. The fog has not lifted, and the village of Dongnae feels smaller, quieter, more fragile than it did only moments ago.