On a quiet floor of Chungnam National University Hospital in South Korea, there was a room that not just anyone could enter. Observation Room 71-A. To the hospital staff, that room was like an undying legend, whispered from mouth to mouth, yet no one dared approach it without permission.

Behind its ever-locked door, a teenage girl lay upon a white bed. She appeared to be around eighteen, though reality told otherwise. Her face was a delicate blend of Japanese and Korean features; her jet-black eyes were peacefully shut, her wavy black hair brushed her shoulders, and her skin was pale and smooth as if made of porcelain. At a glance, she looked like any ordinary patient, a girl sleeping peacefully.

But the truth was far different.

That girl—had been in a coma for the last twenty years. Strangely, she had not aged a single day. Her face remained exactly as it had been when she was first discovered. Her hair never grew, her skin stayed untouched by time, unscarred by needles. No heartbeat, no breath, as though her body were nothing more than a living doll. Yet the body was warm, radiating a faint fragrance unknown to humankind.

Her identity was a mystery. No fingerprints, no birth records, no family searching for her. She was simply “the nameless girl” who had been discovered and then handed over to two secret organizations: the Korea Anomaly Division (KAD) and the South Korea Anomaly Response Division (SKARD). Under their orders, she was given the name Yun—short for Yielded Unknown Neotype, a new being of unknown origin.

KAD monitored every flicker of her brain, recording occasional waves that pulsed as if she were dreaming. Meanwhile, SKARD prepared military protocols for the worst-case scenario—whatever Yun might truly be.

Yun remained silent, still asleep. The hospital changed faces; doctors who had once treated her retired or died, nurses who once whispered in fear were replaced by new faces who only knew her as “the girl in the long sleep.” For the next generation, Yun was nothing more than a file in the archives, not a living reality.

Until the early hours of March 21, 2021, at 03:47 KST, when the silence shattered.

Nurse Kim Hye-Jin, performing a routine check, witnessed something that froze her blood: Yun’s eyes slowly opened. That jet-black gaze stared blankly at the ceiling. Then, with a voice soft yet clear, one word slipped from her lips:

“Seed.”

Nurse Kim’s heart leapt to her throat. She rushed out of the room, calling for Dr. Lee Min-Jae, who had overseen Yun’s case for years. But when they returned, the girl was asleep again, as though she had never woken.

For months, even years afterward, Yun showed no change. Seasons turned, generations shifted, and her case slowly faded into near-forgotten legend.

Until half a century later.

April 2, 2073, 09:00 KST. Nurse Kang Ji-Won nearly dropped her medical notes. Standing before the window of Room 71-A was Yun, upright, staring out with eyes empty yet filled with something beyond explanation.

A report was immediately sent to KAD. Dr. Jung Tae-Hwan, the member in charge of Yun’s case, rushed over. He wanted to question the girl right away, but instinct held him back. Too dangerous, too fragile to force. He chose a cautious approach. SKARD was informed, and security forces were deployed.

In the following days, Yun did nothing but sit or stand, gazing through the window as if waiting for something. She never spoke, never responded to doctors or nurses. She did not eat, did not drink, yet her body remained fresh, untouched by time. Like someone blind and deaf, she lived within a world of her own.

But one change became undeniable: slowly, the black in her eyes faded, turning into a bright blue—as though something within her had begun to awaken.

On April 10, 2073, at 09:00 KST, Dr. Jung entered the room once more. For the first time, Yun turned toward him. Her voice was soft yet full of meaning:

“May I go outside?”

Dr. Jung froze.

“You… understand Korean?” he asked carefully.

Yun smiled faintly.

“I can understand anything that lives, anything that has a soul.”

The room tensed instantly. Dr. Jung drew a deep breath before saying,

“Give me a few hours to prepare everything you’ll need.”

Yun turned back to the window.

“Very well.”

At 10:14 KST, Dr. Jung returned with a third-generation SKARD lieutenant and a wheelchair. The lieutenant spoke firmly:

“Yun, you are permitted to leave this room. However, you must remain under strict supervision. We don’t know who you are, or what abilities you may possess.”

Yun’s face showed a trace of sadness, though her smile lingered.

“I know I am different from you. Does that make me dangerous?”

The lieutenant’s gaze was sharp.

“We don’t know. Please sit in the wheelchair. I will escort you out.”

At first Yun refused—she could walk on her own. But once it was explained that the wheelchair would make her seem more “normal” in the eyes of others, she agreed.

They moved down the long corridor and into the hospital garden. As the wheelchair rolled along the path, the lieutenant introduced himself. But before he finished speaking, Yun quietly said:

“I know your name, Kim Joon-Seo. I know the name of everyone I meet.”

Lieutenant Kim froze mid-step. Stunned, he stared at her for a long moment before guiding her to a bench in the garden. They sat side by side.

“What are you, Yun?” Kim asked, his tone low yet pressing.

Yun gazed at the ground.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember how I came to be here.”

“Do you remember who you are? At least a name?”

“No. But everyone calls me Yun, don’t they?”

Kim exhaled deeply.

“Yun is just a subject name. It stands for Yielded Unknown Neotype. To us, you are a new being—an anomaly of unknown origin. Do you recall anything from the beginning of your existence here?”

Yun shook her head slowly.

“No. I truly don’t remember anything.”

Kim lowered his eyes for a moment, then asked again,

“What about the word seed? Do you know that word?”

The moment the word was spoken, Yun’s face turned pale. It felt as though something unseen had struck her head. She groaned, clutching it tightly, before collapsing unconscious.

Reflexively, Lieutenant Kim lifted her into his arms, leaving the wheelchair behind in the garden. He ran swiftly back to Room 71-A.

Dr. Jung immediately examined Yun, confirming that she had only fainted and returned to sleep. Lieutenant Kim stood at her bedside, staring at the girl. Before him, she looked no different than an ordinary teenager in peaceful slumber. Yet deep within, Kim knew: something far greater was hiding beneath her fragile form.

After ensuring Yun’s condition was stable, Kim returned to his private quarters on the ninth floor.

[South Korea Demilitarized Zone (SKDZ) — March 19, 1996]

The ground suddenly began to tremble.

At first, the soldiers stationed at the guard post thought it was nothing more than a minor earthquake, typical of the unstable mountainous region. The tremor was brief, localized, like a long breath suddenly held in the lungs of the earth. Yet strangely, the military seismic sensors buried deep underground transmitted unusual data back to headquarters—data that did not fit any known pattern.

The waves of vibration bore no resemblance to tectonic movement. No fault shifts, no after-cracks. On the contrary: the tremor pulsed. Rhythmic. As if something were trying to beat—like the heart of a being just awakening from a long sleep.

The South Korean military wasted no time. In less than six hours, a covert black unit was dispatched to the epicenter—a hillside in Goseong, a borderland littered with mines and barbed wire. Their first suspicion: underground sabotage by North Korea or another state, perhaps a new tunnel being dug. But that suspicion quickly collapsed.

When the soldiers dug deeper, they uncovered a fractured hollow that emitted a faint glow. At the bottom lay something never recorded in human history.

A crystal.

Its form was simple, almost beautiful: no larger than a human heart, translucent blue-white. Yet it hovered a few centimeters above the cracked stone, untouched by gravity. Its inner light pulsed gently, like the heartbeat of a living creature.

Its presence was strange—no entry point from the skies, no meteor trail. It was as though the crystal had always been there, buried within the earth for an unfathomable time. The place where it was found resembled a small altar.

The surroundings were unnatural. Tree roots that brushed against the crystal appeared scorched, insects lay shriveled and dead, and the air around the hollow felt heavy, as if burdened by an unseen weight.

They tried to touch it. Every tool broke, every machine failed. Electronic weapons died instantly. Yet the crystal… sang.

Not with sound. Not with radio frequencies. It sang through thought. Soldiers who lingered too long near it reported hallucinations: a sky burning, the shadow of a crying girl, and a voice repeating a single phrase thousands of times in countless tongues:

“When she arrives, one relic shall awaken.”

[April 1996 — National Assembly, Seoul]

The crystal was soon given a codename: The Anomaly Crystal.

Efforts to move it failed time and again. Every machine that attempted to lift it shut down, as if the crystal rejected the touch of metal and electricity. In the end, the government decided to construct a research facility near the discovery site, under strict military control.

Two new organizations were established. The first: Korea Anomaly Division (KAD)—composed of scientists, linguists, psychologists, and theologians. They were granted full authority to study the origin and meaning of the phenomenon.

The second: South Korea Anomaly Response Division (SKARD)—a military unit free of political oversight, operating entirely in secrecy. They were trained to face threats that defied ordinary logic. Their mission was clear: protect the Crystal, guard the secret, and prepare for the worst.

Ancient documents were scoured. From old Korean manuscripts to the sacred texts of the world’s great religions, a pattern began to emerge. Recurring themes, as if whispers of the past had now taken shape:

Two flames.

A sundered God.

A judgment born of love and destruction.

[September 1999 — The Prophecy]

The Crystal began to change. Every thirteen days, it pulsed brighter, releasing ripples of light in a steady rhythm. KAD realized the light was no mere natural phenomenon—it was a code.

They named it the Crystal Prophecy.

The first deciphered text read:

“From the ashes of the First World shall come one without past, without name, without allegiance.

She will be loved. She will be feared.

And through her, all shall be judged.”

Other prophecies proved more difficult. Some were written in languages with no relation to any known human tongue. The words were heavy, hard to even think, nearly impossible to pronounce.

Thus, a new division was created: Korea Echo Division (KED), a group of linguists and cryptographers tasked with unraveling messages seemingly not meant for human minds.

Within KAD, fierce debate erupted. Were the prophecies a guide—a message meant to lead humanity toward a destined future? Or a warning—a foretelling of destruction drawing ever closer?

The answer was never clear. But one thing was certain: time was moving forward. And with every pulse of the Crystal’s light, all who studied it felt they were racing against something unseen.

[Third Month, 2001 — The Sky Sunders]

That day came without warning.

Military radar detected a massive object entering the atmosphere. Its path was too controlled, its descent too deliberate to be called a meteor. The nation prepared for disaster. But there was no explosion. No devastation.

The object landed with a soft thundering impact.

When the investigation team arrived, they found something that defied reason.

Not metal.

Not stone.

But a girl.

Her body was burned, covered in wounds and blood. She was surrounded by flames that neither consumed her body nor scorched the ground beneath. She was unconscious. Her breathing was faint, but present.

And in that instant, something extraordinary occurred: the Anomaly Crystal could suddenly be moved. Machines that once failed now worked flawlessly. As if the Crystal had been waiting for the girl’s arrival.

[After the Fall]

From that day forward, KAD and SKARD no longer dealt solely with mysterious light. They now faced a living being—someone who might be the answer to all the prophecies. Yet new questions loomed.

Who was this girl?

Why had she fallen from the sky?

And what was her connection to the Crystal’s voice, now louder and clearer, resonating throughout the research facility like a song?

The whispers were no longer faint, but sharp, piercing the minds of all who came near the Crystal:

“When she arrives, one relic shall awaken.”

[Interim Epilogue]

The mystery did not end there. The Crystal, once passive, grew increasingly active, its light responding to every change in the girl. At times it pulsed like a heartbeat. At times it flared with blinding brilliance.

And behind it all, another threat lingered. Intelligence reports hinted that foreign powers had begun to catch the scent of this secret. Japan, America, even Russia—all wanted to know what Korea had uncovered in the DMZ.

But for those who had heard the Crystal’s whispers directly, the greatest threat was not other nations, but something far older, greater, and more alien than humanity could comprehend.

Two flames.

A sundered God.

A judgment born of love and destruction.

And at the center of it all, a girl—now sleeping upon the earth for the first time.

[Private Quarters — Lt. Kim]

When Lieutenant Kim entered his private quarters, he immediately sank into the chair behind his cluttered wooden desk. The old wall clock ticked softly, marking each breath he took. His eyes followed the hands. Exactly 11:16 KST. Time seemed suspended there, hanging in the air. He sat in silence, the only sound the faint hum of the overhead neon light.

Minutes passed before he stirred. Rising from his seat, he crossed to the steel filing cabinet in the corner. From his inner uniform pocket, he produced a small key, slotting it into the lowest drawer. The lock clicked open. Inside was a thick folder bound in red, stamped repeatedly with official seals:

[CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT — K.A.D. / S.K.A.R.D.]

File No.: K-GA1127-X / SUBJECT_YUN

Even before opening it, Kim felt a chill creeping through his body. This was no ordinary file. It held decades of haunting records—records of a subject unlike any other.

Yun.

Kim placed the folder on the desk, flipped the cover, and began to read.

SUBJECT PROFILE

Designation Name: Y.U.N.

Code Name: Yielded Unknown Neotype

Approximate Age: 18 years (based on morphology)

Sex: Female (based on biological markers)

Date of Discovery: March 17, 2001

Discovery Location: Daejeon, South Korea

Detention Site: Chungnam National University Hospital

Room Number: Observation 71-A

Kim exhaled deeply.

“Eighteen years…” he whispered.

If this was true, then Yun’s biological age had remained unchanged for decades—while the world outside marched ever onward.

PHYSICAL, BIOLOGICAL & BEHAVIORAL OBSERVATIONS

Height: 168 cm

Weight: 48.2 kg

Hair: Jet black

Eyes: Deep black

Current Status: Stable (non-responsive; comatose, low brain activity)

Threat Level: Passive (for now)

Additional notes tightened Kim’s chest.

Yun’s brainwaves bore no resemblance to human patterns. Instead, they showed theta waves layered with an unknown frequency. She required no food, no water, no oxygen. Her body temperature remained constant at 39°C—as though a fire burned within. Wounds closed at unnatural speed.

And yet… she did not respond to any stimulus—sound, touch, heat, even pain.

Kim felt his skin crawl.

Whatever she was, she was not human.

INCIDENT REPORT — DISCOVERY

Eyewitnesses described a “burning object falling from the sky.”

No crater. No meteor fragments. No foreign material.

Only a girl—unconscious, drenched in blood, parts of her body still aflame.

Kim paused, picturing the scene: the fire, the broken figure of the girl, the panic of field personnel who could not understand what they had found.

BIOLOGICAL SAMPLES

Blood: Unidentifiable.

Saliva: Unidentifiable.

Hair: Unidentifiable.

None of Yun’s samples matched known human biology.

SECURITY PROTOCOLS

Full collaboration between KAD (medical/research protocols) and SKARD (security/tactical protocols).

Monitored 24/7 by rotating SKARD personnel.

Protocol CERULEAN LOCK to be enacted immediately if subject awakens with unpredictable behavior.

Responsible officers:

Dr. Lee Min-Jae (Director of Anomaly Entity Studies, KAD)

Col. Park Hyun-woo (Field Commander, SKARD)

Kim closed his eyes briefly. He knew those names—men who once stood at the front lines against unexplainable threats. Now gone, leaving only their records behind.

He turned the page. Attached were photographs of Yun’s first discovery: her frail, pale body, blood streaked across her skin, flames flickering unnaturally across her limbs.

Kim’s throat went dry. He swallowed hard. She looked fragile… and yet terrifying, like something that had no right to exist in this world.

The logs continued, page after page of routine examinations. Until Kim reached the entry that marked her first awakening.

DATA UPDATE (CODE: YUN-Δ1)

Date: March 21, 2021

Filed by: Dr. Lee Min-Jae & Anomaly Medical Team

INCIDENT: TEMPORARY CONSCIOUSNESS

Time: 03:47 KST

Duration: 5 seconds

Personnel Present: Nurse Kim Hye-Jin

Summary:

At 03:47, subject Y.U.N. opened her eyes for the first time since 2001. She looked directly at Nurse Kim Hye-Jin with a blank expression. Then she spoke a single word:

“씨앗 (ssi-at) — Seed.”

Moments later, she collapsed back into unconsciousness.

Kim’s hands tightened into fists.

“Seed.” The word echoed in his mind.

Seed of what? Seed for whom?

Medical notes recorded no major brainwave shift—only a slight 2.1% spike in the unknown frequency. The word was captured by the facility’s audio systems, verified, yet with no environmental context.

Follow-up noted that the linguistic division was tasked with analyzing the “seed” reference in interdimensional context.

But as Kim flipped further, his unease deepened. The trail went cold. No further research. No conclusions. As though the topic had been deliberately buried.

The records pressed onward, until the second awakening.

DATA UPDATE (CODE: YUN-Δ2)

Date: April 2, 2073

Filed by: Third-Generation Anomaly Monitoring Unit

INCIDENT: BEHAVIORAL SHIFT

First detected: March 28, 2073 — 06:12 KST

Duration: 5 consecutive days

Personnel Present:

Dr. Jung Tae-hwan (KAD)

Nurse Kang Ji-Won (KAD)

Lt. Kim Joon-seo (3rd Generation SKARD)

Former Personnel:

Dr. Lee Min-Jae (d. 2062)

Col. Park Hyun-woo (d. 2065)

Nurse Kim Hye-Jin (ret. 2041)

Summary:

That morning, Nurse Kang Ji-Won discovered Yun standing near the window of her observation chamber. No record indicated she had been moved. CCTV suffered unexplained interference.

Observed behavior pattern:

Standing or sitting near the window.

Staring outward, silent.

No response to voices, touch, or environmental changes.

Physical changes:

Iris shifted from dark brown/black to pale blue, emitting faint luminescence.

Additional notes:

Still no basic human needs (food, water, sleep).

No response to verbal or physical contact.

Personnel reported mental distress when near her for extended periods.

Subject appeared no longer entirely within physical reality.

Follow-up:

Surveillance level raised to Tier 3.

Multi-spectrum sensors installed.

Linguistic team reassigned to re-examine “seed” as possible marker of non-human transitional phase.

Protocol CERULEAN LOCK remains active.

Signed:

Dr. Jung Tae-hwan (Director of Anomaly Studies, KAD)

Lt. Kim Joon-seo (Field Commander, SKARD)

Kim stopped reading. He slammed the folder shut, the sound reverberating across the wooden desk.

The final report was his own—the one he had co-signed with Dr. Jung. He was not just a reader of history now. He was part of it.

Hours had passed as he sifted through the medical logs, incident reports, technical data. Yet one truth suffocated him:

There was no further mention of the word “seed.”

As though, from the moment Yun first spoke it, generations of KAD and SKARD had deliberately erased or sealed every trace of its meaning. No analysis. No conclusions. Nothing but a word—left hanging in the air, steeped in mystery.

Kim stared at the folder, hollow-eyed. Something vast. Something terrifying. Something the old guard had buried with their silence.

And now, that burden rested on his shoulders.