Wanderer of the Sky • WonHoon

1

The dawn is cold.

The trees are stripped bare with the coming of winter, leaves long since fallen to the ground, crunched under the boot of the poor few who must travel through it on their day's journey. The birds that flock there during the spring are nowhere to be found, besides perhaps a stray crow, but even they are too well hidden from the biting freeze. There are few beings living up here at this point.

He is one of them.

The barest of sunlight is breaking the cool blue night sky when he opens his eyes. He blinks, wiping the grogginess of the morning from his eyes, and sits up.

He's taken residence in this long-abandoned home, far up into the mountains, for nearly two weeks now. It has poor insulation, but the cold hasn't bothered him in many years. He can't get frostbite, and he won't get sick. If anything, the blanket he sleeps under is a habit he's yet to break. Regardless, this is the last sunrise he'll spend there. He'll leave before he stays for too long.

He stretches his arms above his head, gaze settling over the sky, the small window offering a view as the dimmest bit of light creeps up over the trees.

Standing, Wonwoo slowly changes from his sleep clothes back into his jacket and pants. Even the birds are silent this morning. It's as if they know what's to come. The only thing he hears is the rustle of his jacket and the zip of his boot laces against each other while he ties them. When he's done, he stretches once more, rubbing a hand over his face to wake himself up. And then he turns his head, toward the window once more, and sees the very tip of the sun on the horizon.

It's a long time before he's able to look away from the skyline. He does so with heavy eyes, reaching for his broadsword that leans on the wall, and settling the weight of it on his hip.

Wonwoo sighs, knees aching from the cold, and turns away before he can finish watching the sun rise completely.

He has work to do.

—

Hardened snow crunches under his boots as he walks.

There's few places to hide when all of the trees are bare, and all of the sky has been stripped of color. Wonwoo is counting on this. His eyes are following the trail of small footprints that have dented the snow, glances darting around as he searches for movement.

His hand is still settled lightly on the handle of his sword, ready to draw, but hesitant to make noise.

Steadily increasing his pace, he continues on his path for several hundred feet, marveling at how far the small creature had gotten. Eventually, once he breaks into a small clearing, he finally spots small blood spatters that attach to the footprints and leave a trail. He's close.

The blood trail leads him only a small way into the clearing, his own boots creating a path in the snow as he searches. And then, there it is, resting atop a small snow bank: a fox, lifeless, in the snow. It's entirely intact, not dismembered, not eaten, not even mauled.

A kill for sport. And it's still a fresh kill— the creature who found it must be nearby.

The crunch of a twig sends him standing straight, spine rigid, eyes flitting around the clearing with focus.

In the dim treeline, he finds the fox's killer, emerging slowly, its eyes trained on Wonwoo. A hideous creature, resembling the form of a wolf, but not entirely; its skin lacks any fur and is leathery, scarred over and marred by hundreds of years worth of fighting to stay alive.

Wonwoo draws his sword, the tip of it piercing into the snow, and stares into its eyes.

A threat, by no light measure. The creature looks closer, unfazed by the silver blade, drawing breath in a snarling gasp worse than nails down a chalkboard. Wonwoo pays no mind, gripping the cold metal tight, ready to strike at the slightest movement.