Before fame, before music, before light… there was silence.
Long before neon lights painted the night skies of Seoul, the world was ruled by shadows and whispers.
The land that would one day be called Korea was divided — not by borders, but by despair.
Mountains slept beneath veils of mist, rivers carried the ashes of forgotten prayers, and the winds mourned the songs of those who no longer had the strength to sing.
Humanity had lost its Gi (기), the vital energy that once pulsed through every living thing. Without it, crops withered, spirits faded, and the night became endless. The gods, it was said, had turned their gaze away, leaving only echoes behind — fragments of sound that twisted in the dark, feeding on sorrow.
From that silence, three voices emerged.
Not born of royalty or temples, but of suffering and will.
Each carried a fragment of the ancient resonance — the Jeong (정), the emotional bond that connects all souls meant to protect. They were drawn together by destiny, not by chance, summoned by the music that the earth itself longed to hear again.
The First Voice: Haneul (하늘)
The flame of heaven.
She was born during a winter that nearly ended her village. Her mother, a shaman, died the night she was born, whispering, “Her cry will break the cold.”
And it did.
By the time she was seventeen, people called her The Phoenix Singer. Her voice could warm the hearts of soldiers and call fire to the surface of frozen lakes. Yet, her songs always ended in tears — because they reminded everyone of what they’d lost.
Still, she sang, believing that sorrow could become strength if carried in harmony.
The Second Voice: Byeol (별)
The silver star.
She grew among monks in a mountain temple where sound was sacred and silence divine. They said her heartbeat matched the rhythm of the moon. Her melodies were fragile, woven from prayer and moonlight.
She could calm the tempests that haunted men’s minds, or summon visions of lost loved ones through her echo. But she, too, carried loneliness — the burden of being heard, but never understood.
When she sang beneath the stars, she did not pray to gods. She sang for the forgotten.
The Third Voice: Baram (바람)
The whispering wind.
No one knew where she came from. Legends said she was found as a child at the edge of a typhoon, laughing amid destruction. Her laughter became thunder, her silence the calm that followed.
Her songs were not gentle. They were storms — wild, unpredictable, and alive. She could lift mountains of despair and tear down walls of fear. Her voice was chaos given beauty.
When their paths finally crossed, the world trembled.
It happened during the Year of the Fallen Comet, when an entire province vanished under a sudden night. People said the moon had shattered. In the ruins of that silence, Haneul found Byeol, weeping before the ashes of a temple.
Baram arrived soon after, carried by a storm she herself could not control.
When they sang together for the first time, the air itself bent. The sky glowed violet. Mountains bowed, and rivers began to sing. From that vibration rose a sphere of light — pure and resonant — containing the ancient mark of the Honmoon (혼문): the Seal of Protection.
The Honmoon was not a spell.
It was the awakening of balance — the bridge between the visible world and the Echo Realm, a dimension where every forgotten sound and memory wandered eternally. There, music took form, emotion became weapon, and corrupted echoes — spirits twisted by human despair — sought to consume the living.
The three women realized their songs were not mere gifts, but weapons of harmony.
And so, the first Huntrix were born — not hunters in the traditional sense, but guardians of resonance.
Their task: to cleanse the Echo Realm through music, to transform pain into rhythm, and to protect the boundary between silence and sound.
