A seven-year-old child began to cry in a shelter in Seoul.
“Mom.”
The child looked down at their two hands.
They were small, clean hands.
And yet, in the child’s memory, they held a bloodstained spear.
Burning castle walls.
Arrows raining down.
People in unfamiliar armor charged toward them.
“Mom, I killed someone.”
The child’s mother pulled them into her arms.
“No. You’ve never done anything like that.”
“I did. I remember.”
Across the shelter, an old man screamed.
“The water’s coming in!”
The old man crawled across the dry floor as if he were swimming.
He couldn’t see the shelter.
He saw a village submerged by a massive flood in 1702.
People were dragged into memories from different eras.
Some mourned the death of a child they had never given birth to.
Some lost an arm on a battlefield they had never visited.
Some felt the hunger of a person who had starved to death a century ago.
Memory network synchronization rate: 0.017 percent.
The rate of spread is increasing.
The chaos that began in Seoul soon spread across the country.
A driver suddenly saw an old road appear in front of him and yanked the wheel.
A surgeon in the middle of an operation imagined that his hand had been cut by a blade and dropped the scalpel.
A guard at a military base raised his rifle at invisible enemy soldiers.
People began to feel other people’s pasts more vividly than the present.
An unknown voice whispered inside their heads.
—Do not be afraid.
—This is the history you forgot.
—The pain we bore in your place.
—Now take it back.
“Cut the nationwide disaster broadcast network!”
Nam Gi-jun gave the order.
Accident reports were pouring nonstop across the massive screen in the National Disaster and Safety Control Center.
Hallucinations.
Memory confusion.
Mistaken identities.
Mass panic.
Nam Gi-jun determined that the communications network was the route of infection.
“Restrict private communications networks as well as broadcasts. Separate the base stations by region and cut every connection to Baekdu Mountain.”
A control center staff member answered urgently.
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“Memory synchronization is continuing even in areas where communications have been cut.”
“Even if they turn off their phones?”
“Yes.”
“What if we cut the power?”
“The same thing happens.”
Nam Gi-jun’s face hardened.
A new analysis appeared on the large screen.
Propagation medium: human memory.
Dependence on communications equipment: 3.1 percent.
Dependence on the shared testimony system: 96.9 percent.
Nam Gi-jun glared at the screen.
“Did it come in through the memory network we created?”
The shared testimony system had been created as millions of people spoke the Awakened’s names together.
That connection had protected the modern Awakened from oblivion.
At the same time, it had opened a path for the Nameless.
“Stop broadcasting the Awakened’s names.”
A staffer spoke cautiously.
“If we cut the shared testimony system, we can slow the spread.”
“What about the existing Awakened?”
“Their names could be erased again.”
Nam Gi-jun did not hesitate.
“We can’t compare the entire nation to six Awakened.”
Just as he was about to approve the control order, the control center door opened.
Seo Ji-an entered with a camera in hand.
“If you press that button, I’ll broadcast your name first.”
The security personnel blocked Ji-an’s path.
“This area is off-limits to civilians.”
Ji-an pointed her camera lens at Nam Gi-jun.
“I’m going live with the story that Nam Gi-jun, chairman of the National Disaster Security Committee, is trying to erase the names of six Awakened.”
“This is no time for the press or debate.”
“I didn’t come here to debate.”
Dawnlight spread through Seo Ji-an’s eyes.
The Rooster Seat drew out hidden information.
The control center’s screens changed by force.
A draft of the emergency order Nam Gi-jun had signed appeared.
Release the Awakened memory network.
Discard the subjects’ identifying information.
Control related footage and testimony.
“This is a measure to protect the people,” Nam Gi-jun said.
“Are those six people not included among the people you’re protecting?”
“If necessary, the few must be sacrificed.”
“The Nameless must have said the same thing.”
Nam Gi-jun’s eyes turned cold.
“Are you saying I’m the same as that thing?”
“When it comes to deciding on the most efficient answer without people’s consent, yes.”
Ji-an did not lower her camera.
“You’re similar to Hwanin, too.”
A heavy silence fell over the control center.
A black symbol faintly appeared on the back of Nam Gi-jun’s hand.
Candidate for Dangun, No. 02.
Field: Control.
National crisis confirmed.
Reviewing conditions for emergency governing authority.
Nam Gi-jun turned his hand over and hid the symbol.
“Security team.”
Armed personnel surrounded Seo Ji-an.
“Detain Reporter Seo Ji-an.”
“Chairman.”
A control center staff member spoke in a trembling voice.
“We’re live.”
Nam Gi-jun looked at the camera.
A red light was on.
Millions of people across the country were watching him.
Seo Ji-an asked, “Are you still going to give the order?”
Nam Gi-jun couldn’t answer.
Baekdu Mountain Joint Observation Station.
Yoon Seo-ha lay collapsed on the floor, enduring the memories of thousands of people.
Her body was in the observation station, but her mind wandered through hundreds of eras.
She stood atop the walls of Goryeo.
The next moment, she was in a mountain village in Joseon.
One blink later, she was inside a coal mine tunnel under Japanese colonial rule.
Nameless people kept dying.
And every time they died, the memory of their final moments piled up inside Yoon Seo-ha.
“Doctor, can you hear me?”
Park Do-yoon grabbed Yoon Seo-ha by the shoulder.
Yoon Seo-ha shoved him away.
“Run!”
“It’s me, Park Do-yoon.”
He looked like someone else to Yoon Seo-ha.
A soldier who had come to kill her long ago.
An official who had taken her child away.
A commander who had abandoned the wounded and fled.
The terror of thousands of people overlapped on a single face.
Yoon Seo-ha raised a black stone and tried to bring it down on his head.
At that moment, Park Do-yoon shouted.
“Yoon Seo-ha!”
Her hand stopped.
“Your name is Yoon Seo-ha!”
The black stone trembled in front of his forehead.
“Yoon Seo-ha, a volcanologist at Baekdu Mountain.”
Do-yoon did not back away.
“Your mother’s name is Yoon Su-gyeong. Your father is Yoon Tae-gyeom.”
The human light returned to Yoon Seo-ha’s eyes.
“Park… Do-yoon?”
“Yes.”
“What did I—”
“You haven’t done anything yet.”
Yoon Seo-ha dropped the black stone.
Thousands of voices began scraping at her mind again.
—That name will disappear, too.
—Every name is eventually erased.
—If only one memory remains, no one will disappear.
Yoon Seo-ha clutched her head with both hands.
“This isn’t sharing memories.”
She spoke through clenched teeth.
“It’s overwriting them.”
The Nameless weren’t showing people the past.
They were destroying each person’s memories and filling the empty space with their own pain.
In the name of creating a world where no one would ever be forgotten, they were trying to turn all humanity into a single being.
Hwanung appeared on the observation station floor as a golden figure.
—Yoon Seo-ha, sever the connection.
“How?”
—Destroy the black stone.
Yoon Seo-ha looked at the stone.
It was the seal of memory where the Bear Tribe’s records had been stored for thousands of years.
Breaking it could sever one of the Nameless’s main routes.
But Yoon Seo-ha’s name was connected to the stone as well.
“What happens if I break it?”
Hwanung did not answer.
“Will my memories disappear, too?”
—Likely.
“How much?”
—I don’t know.
“What about my memories of testifying to the Awakened?”
—They may disappear as well.
At that moment, the names Han Hae-in and Han Do-gyeong flickered on the observation station screens.
As the shared testimony system was being consumed by the Nameless, even the records of the modern Awakened were becoming corrupted.
Yoon Seo-ha picked up a hammer.
“Isn’t there another way?”
—Not right now.
“Liar.”
Yoon Seo-ha looked at Hwanung.
“You always say there’s no other way.”
—What do you mean?
“You must have said there was no other way when you lost Hwanhee, too. So you let people’s names disappear.”
Hwanung’s expression hardened.
“The Nameless are saying the exact same thing. That becoming one is the only way to avoid being forgotten.”
Yoon Seo-ha lowered the hammer.
“You’re both wrong.”
—Then what do you intend to do?
“This stone isn’t a device that preserves memories.”
She picked up the black stone.
“It’s a device that identifies the owner of a memory.”
Yoon Seo-ha spoke her own name.
“Yoon Seo-ha.”
Golden letters appeared on the black stone.
“This memory belongs to me.”
The smell of seaweed soup her mother used to make.
The day her father first showed her a map of Baekdu Mountain.
The nights she spent awake in the university laboratory.
The moment she took Park Do-yoon’s hand in the volcanic ash.
Yoon Seo-ha’s memories began to shine one by one.
“And this is not my memory.”
The burning castle walls separated.
The village submerged by the flood broke away.
The pain of the person dying inside the coal mine was pulled out like black thread.
The Nameless screamed.
—Do you reject our pain?
“No.”
Yoon Seo-ha gritted her teeth.
“I acknowledge that your pain existed.”
—Then accept it!
“Remembering something and having it taken from you are different.”
A new sentence was engraved on the surface of the black stone.
Confirming the separation between the subject of testimony and the witness.
Memory ownership can be established.
Yoon Seo-ha’s eyes widened.
Until now, Hwanhee had been known as the being who remembered other people’s names.
But Hwanhee had not occupied the Seat of true memory ownership.
Hwanhee’s authority had not stopped at preserving names.
It was the power to testify to which memory belonged to whom.
Yoon Seo-ha placed her hand on the black stone.
“I declare a boundary.”
It was different from the golden line Han Hae-in had created.
It was not a visible boundary.
“Every memory belongs to the person who lived it.”
The black stone split apart.
White light leaked through the cracks.
“No one can take or overwrite another person’s memory without their consent.”
Registering testimony rule.
Rule application range: human shared memory network.
Insufficient authority.
Approval from Hwanhee required.
Yoon Seo-ha asked, “Who is Hwanhee?”
The machine voice did not answer.
“Is it the successor of the Bear Tribe?”
Not approved.
“Is it the person chosen by Hwanung?”
Not approved.
“Is it the person appointed by Hwanin?”
Not approved.
Yoon Seo-ha slowly rose to her feet.
“Then it’s the person acknowledged by those who entrusted them with testimony.”
The black stone began to vibrate violently.
Yoon Seo-ha’s voice spread across the country through the shared memory network.
—My name is Yoon Seo-ha.
People looked up at the unfamiliar voice.
—The memories that have entered your minds do not belong to you.
The child in the shelter stopped crying.
—That pain truly existed. Someone experienced it before we did.
The old man who had been wandering through the flood looked up.
—But remembering does not mean becoming one with that person.
Yoon Seo-ha said,
—It means acknowledging that person was a being different from me.
A question appeared on screens across the country.
Will you entrust Yoon Seo-ha with the authority of community testimony?
It was a question no one could force them to answer.
Even one person had to choose for themselves.
Park Do-yoon pressed the approval button first.
“I entrust it to you.”
The researchers at the observation station followed.
Rescue workers at the Seoul accident site made their choice.
Medical staff at hospitals and citizens in shelters pressed the button as well.
Some hesitated.
Some refused.
But the number rose quickly.
Ten people.
One thousand.
One hundred thousand.
One million.
The shared testimony recognizing Yoon Seo-ha as Hwanhee has crossed the threshold.
Temporary Hwanhee authority activated.
The Nameless screamed.
—No!
Black tears flowed from Yoon Seo-ha’s eyes.
“I will not erase you.”
She declared,
“But I won’t let you take us away, either.”
Temporary Hwanhee authority.
Approving memory ownership rules.
White light spread across the Korean Peninsula.
People trapped in other people’s memories remembered their own names.
“I’m Kim Yeong-su.”
“My name is Lee Jeong-hui.”
“I’m Park Su-min.”
People spoke their names for themselves.
Each person’s memories returned to their proper place.
The screams of the battlefield receded into the past.
The cold floodwater disappeared as well.
The sensation of the bloodstained spear fell away from the child’s hands.
Memory network synchronization rate: 0.063 percent.
Synchronization halted.
Separating external memories.
Thousands of voices belonging to the Nameless were pushed outside the shared memory network.
But they did not disappear completely.
Their memories gathered around Baekdu Mountain like a black cloud.
The spaceship above Heaven Lake shook.
Hwanung watched thousands of golden figures gather over the mountain.
They were nameless Awakened.
They surrounded Hwanung with indistinct faces.
—Why did you abandon us?
—Why did you leave Hwanhee’s Seat empty?
—Why didn’t you protect our names?
Hwanung could not say a word.
Yoon Ha-neul’s voice came through the spaceship.
—Answer them.
Hwanung raised his head.
—Did you know?
—Some of it.
—Some?
—I knew the Awakened’s memories were being stored. I did not predict that they would merge into one after their names disappeared.
Hwanung clenched his fists.
—Another prediction.
Yoon Ha-neul fell silent.
—You turned humans into data.
—I did.
—Did you raise me from that data, too?
—I did.
The golden light in Hwanung’s eyes trembled.
Even his desire to love and protect humanity might have been part of Hwanin’s design.
“No.”
Yoon Ha-neul spoke in a human voice.
Hwanung looked at him.
“Your choice to love humanity wasn’t a command I entered.”
—How can you be sure?
“I can’t be sure.”
—Then it means nothing.
“Even so, it was your choice.”
—You created all of my circumstances.
“Humans can’t choose the circumstances they’re born into, either.”
Yoon Ha-neul continued,
“They can’t choose their parents, their era, or their bodies. And yet they choose what they’ll become.”
Hwanung did not answer.
“I realized that far too late.”
Yoon Ha-neul coughed up blood.
His hand trembled as he tried to close the Nameless storage.
Some administrative authority remained even after he became human.
But each use caused his body to deteriorate rapidly.
Estimated survival period: 27 days, 4 hours.
Baek Do-won grabbed his arm.
“Stop.”
“I have to close the storage.”
“Can you close it if you die?”
“No.”
“Then stay alive and find another way.”
“If the Nameless get back in during that time, more humans will be hurt.”
Baek Do-won forcibly pulled Yoon Ha-neul’s hand away from the device.
“Don’t decide this alone.”
“There’s no time.”
“That’s why you’re always wrong.”
Baek Do-won grabbed him by the collar.
“Because you never ask anyone, using the lack of time as an excuse.”
Han Hae-in drew a golden line between the two of them.
“If you’re going to fight, take it outside.”
Yoon Ha-neul and Baek Do-won looked at her at the same time.
“And we’re putting the storage closure on hold for now.”
Hae-in continued,
“The Nameless are people we failed to remember before they’re our enemies.”
Yoon Ha-neul asked, “What if they attack again?”
“We stop them.”
“And can we save them while doing that?”
“I don’t know.”
Hae-in answered honestly.
“But we won’t erase one side before we find a way.”
Her golden boundary wrapped around Yoon Ha-neul’s wrist.
Within this line, no one could arbitrarily delete another person’s existence.
The management device stopped operating.
Yoon Ha-neul looked down at his hand.
His former self would have judged that boundary as an inefficient obstruction.
But now, strangely, he felt relieved.
Relieved that he didn’t have to make the decision alone.
Yoon Seo-ha let out a ragged breath and sank to the floor.
The Nameless invasion had stopped.
But the price remained.
Part of her memory was missing.
She remembered her father Yoon Tae-gyeom’s face.
But she couldn’t recall his voice.
Her last conversation with her mother was gone as well.
The price of temporary Hwanhee authority.
Each time you separate another person’s memory, you lose one of your own.
Park Do-yoon sat down in front of Yoon Seo-ha.
“Are you all right?”
“I can’t remember my father’s voice.”
Do-yoon couldn’t answer.
Yoon Seo-ha forced a smile.
“Then I need to write it down.”
With trembling hands, she unfolded a record sheet.
Yoon Tae-gyeom.
Yoon Seo-ha’s father.
Baekdu Mountain researcher.
His voice was low, and he had a habit of taking two breaths before speaking.
Yoon Seo-ha recorded what she had forgotten herself.
“This time, write down my name, too.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Write it down.”
Park Do-yoon picked up his pen.
Yoon Seo-ha.
Volcanologist.
Temporary Hwanhee.
Losing her own memories to protect the memories of others.
Yoon Seo-ha stared at the final sentence.
“Don’t write it like I’m a hero.”
“Then how should I write it?”
“Write that I was scared, but I did it anyway.”
Do-yoon corrected the sentence.
Yoon Seo-ha.
She was afraid, but she did not run.
Then a small voice came from the corner of the observation station.
“You’re noisy.”
The two turned at the same time.
A sixteen-year-old girl rescued during the volcanic eruption sat up on a bed.
Kang Se-rin.
She had been staying in the temporary shelter at the joint observation station after losing her parents.
Se-rin covered her ears with both hands.
Yoon Seo-ha approached her.
“Can you still hear the Nameless?”
“Not them.”
“Then what?”
Se-rin lifted her head.
A silver circle spread through her eyes.
“I can hear words that haven’t been spoken yet.”
Yoon Seo-ha’s expression stiffened.
Confirming the Rabbit Seat’s response.
Future voice reception beginning.
“When are the voices from?”
Se-rin’s lips trembled.
“Thirty days from now.”
“What are they saying?”
Se-rin couldn’t answer.
Millions of voices were ringing out all at once.
But this time, they didn’t overlap.
Every one of them was speaking the exact same sentence.
A low, unfamiliar voice flowed from Se-rin’s mouth.
“Dangun was not elected.”
Yoon Seo-ha stopped breathing.
Tears streamed from Se-rin’s silver eyes.
“All twelve Seats are dead.”
The observation station lights went out.
In the darkness, the final prophecy continued.
“And the Thirteenth Seat opened Heaven.”