Read an Excerpt From The Floating World by Axie Oh
Published on April 29, 2025
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We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Floating World, a lighthearted YA romantasy by Axie Oh, available now from Feiwel & Friends.
Sunho lives in the Under World, a land of perpetual darkness. An ex-soldier, he can remember little of his life from before two years ago, when he woke up alone with only his name and his sword. Now he does odd-jobs to scrape by, until he comes across the score of a lifetime—a chest of coins for any mercenary who can hunt down a girl who wields silver light.
Meanwhile, far to the east, Ren is a cheerful and spirited acrobat traveling with her adoptive family and performing at villages. But everything changes during one of their festival performances when the village is attacked by a horrific humanlike demon. In a moment of fear and rage, Ren releases a blast of silver light—a power she has kept hidden since childhood—and kills the monster. But her efforts are not in time to prevent her adoptive family from suffering a devastating loss, or to save her beloved uncle from being grievously wounded.
Determined to save him from succumbing to the poisoned wound, Ren sets off over the mountains, where the creature came from—and from where Ren herself fled ten years ago. Her path sets her on a collision course with Sunho, but he doesn’t realize she’s the girl that he—and a hundred other swords-for-hire—is looking for. As the two grow closer through their travels, they come to realize that their pasts―and destinies―are far more entwined than either of them could have imagined…
Sunho shivered as he sat by the fire, watching the flames lick the night air. Above, the wind set the canopy to swaying. The eerie whistling sounded like the cries of restless spirits. He was hunkered beneath a thick coat, but even that couldn’t block out the chill. The cold was in his bones.
Something soft plopped atop his head. Sunho reached up to pull away a scarf. It pooled like a thick ribbon in his lap.
“Ay, Junho, where’d you find that?” Across the fire, Rohoon snickered. “Did you make it yourself?” The bowman’s voice was muffled by his own scarf. It was a gift from his grandmother, a fruit seller in the seventh ward. The others had already teased him mercilessly for it, and he took the jibes with a self-satisfied grin, claiming they were jealous of him because he even had a grandmother. He was right.
Sunho heard the crunch of rocks under boots. His brother crouched before him. Sunho looked into eyes that were like his own—dark, with thick lashes. They were always being teased for those lashes. Like a girl’s, Rohoon and Heetae would say.
Junho took up the scarf and raveled it around Sunho’s neck, his brow creasing slightly as he concentrated. It wasn’t often that Sunho viewed his brother eye to eye. Junho was three inches taller, just as he was three years older. It had been that way since they were little, and sometimes Sunho wondered if he’d ever catch up.
As his brother adjusted the scarf, Sunho noticed the scar on the back of his hand, where a year ago he’d caught an arrow. It still bothered him, though Junho would never admit it aloud.
“You’ll have to be strong,” Junho was saying, and Sunho drew his thoughts away from the scar to listen carefully. “I won’t be able to look out for you.” Tomorrow, Junho was moving to a larger regiment. The soldiers there would be older, not like Sunho and Rohoon, who were twelve, or Heetae, who was thirteen.
“It was just you and me for a long time.” His words conjured up memories of a childhood as orphans in a shantytown outside the Wall, tussling with the other children for scraps of food. In that world, as in this one, all they had was each other. “You’ll be all right.”
Sunho felt an ache swell up inside him. He turned his face away, not wanting his older brother to see.
“You’ll form bonds with these fools—” Junho continued.
“Hey, who are you calling a fool?” Heetae complained.
“I’d like to point out that I was the only one who knew how to start a fire.” This from Rohoon.
Junho ignored them. “And one day you’ll meet someone and have a family of your own.”
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“What about you?” Sunho mumbled from beneath the scarf. A family was Junho’s dream, not his. Families were separated. Families never lasted.
“None of that is meant for me.” Junho got to his feet, leaning back as he gazed up at the sky. “It’s not written in the stars.”
“You can read the stars?” Sunho asked in awe.
“You can read ?” Heetae cackled.
“The stars aren’t for people like us,” Rohoon grumbled.
“Maybe not for you fools, but Sunho’s different.”
The wind stopped; the trees stood still. Through a break in the canopy, the stars shone through. Innumerous. Winking in and out, like fireflies.
Sunho wondered what he looked like to the stars. Do you think we shine as brightly?
He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until the others laughed, Heetae falling off the rock he’d been perched upon. Sunho ducked his head into his scarf, but his brother only grinned, ruffling Sunho’s hair.
Sunho had been so cold before, but not anymore. The scarf was wound tight around him. But it wasn’t the reason for his warmth.
His brother was gazing up at the sky, but Sunho was gazing up at him. As he always had, as he always would. Junho was leaving, but only for a short while. They’d be reunited again, beneath a mithril sky.
He pulled the scarf up so that it covered his mouth.
Red. A vivid color. Junho’s blood had bloomed red when he’d gotten hit by the arrow. Sunho’s too, every time he’d gotten injured. They shared that between them, the color of their blood. Like a promise.
It was warm now, the scarf wrapped around him. A feeling of contentedness settled over him. Heat from the fire enveloped him. Sweat trickled from his brow.
The fire was close, too close. It was hot, unbearably so. He had to remove the scarf.
No, he wasn’t wearing it any longer. He’d lost the scarf. On the train. It had been swept away into the night. A heavy ache settled into his bones. Junho had given him that scarf. His brother. Who was missing. Who he hadn’t seen in over two years. Who he couldn’t remember. He was searching for Junho, that’s why he’d been on the train. He had to get up. He had to hurry. He needed to find him. But why was it so hot?
He cracked open his eyes. The sun bore down on him. Bright, too bright. He wasn’t used to the light. He’d lived his life in darkness.
He felt as if he were suffocating in the light. Like it would wrap around him until he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Then…
A coolness. It washed over him like a balm.
Red.
An umbrella. The coolness came from the shade it cast over his body.
He squinted.
A girl held the umbrella over him.
Slowly he sat up, grimacing at the lancing pain at his side. His hands brushed against the rough stalks of crushed reeds.
The girl thrust an object beneath his nose. A jug of water.
He ignored the pain long enough to take the jug from her, raising it to his lips. He drank greedily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was finished.
The girl crouched before him. She was wearing a mask that covered her entire face, though there were slight holes at the eyes and mouth. “We need to get you out of the sun. Can you walk?”
He shifted to stand. “I don’t need hel—” A wave of dizziness gripped him.
“Don’t be stubborn,” the girl said, her voice stern beneath her mask. She sounded young, around his own age.
“I saw a house,” she said, “a few yards northwest of here. It looked abandoned, but they might have a well.”
He remembered the assassin on the train, her blade piercing his side. He needed to flush the wound and stitch it closed. It was a miracle that he hadn’t bled out entirely.
“Come on,” she said.
This time, when she moved to help him, he let her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
They stumbled from the clearing. He searched for the tracks of the train, but they were hidden beneath the reeds. As they walked, he tried to keep some of his weight off her, but it was difficult—he felt lightheaded, weak. With one hand, he held his wound, which had started to bleed again; the girl held tight to the other. He noticed that her fingers that gripped his were blue. With blood—his blood. She was the reason he hadn’t bled out; she must have stanched his wound. He was alive because of her.
Who was she? Why was she helping him? He didn’t know what to make of her. The mask was odd, but he’d seen odder behavior in the Under World. It was tied at the back of her head, the strings disappearing beneath her braid. Though the mask covered the entirety of her face, the back of her neck was exposed. Small wisps of black hair fell out from her braid, curling against the curve of her throat.
His mind was wandering, his thoughts jumbled.
“We’re here,” the girl said.
They’d reached what appeared to be an abandoned cottage. The thatching on the roof was worn and frayed, the papered windows torn in several places.
The girl pressed open a wooden gate, and they stumbled into a small courtyard. Here, the reed field had spread, stalks popping up around a low wooden platform.
They headed toward the front of the cottage, passing empty earthenware pots, tipped over on their sides. The girl forcefully shoved open the door, revealing a single room covered in dust and cobwebs.
She helped him to the leftmost wall, where he slid to the floor.
“Wait here,” she said, removing her belongings and dropping them at her feet. He held his wound tight, blood spilling from between his fingers. His movements must have counteracted whatever she’d done to stem the blood flow. He could feel his life ebbing from his body, his vision blackening at the edges. He focused on the girl to keep himself from falling unconscious. She was wading through the contents of her bag, talking to herself as she did so. “No, not this,” she said, coming upon an item and tossing it over her shoulder. She did this several more times.
“Thank the gods,” she said with a gasp, holding up a sewing needle. “Hwi, you’re a lifesaver.”
Hwi? He wondered if that was a friend of hers.
She worked fast, gathering sticks and debris from around the room and piling them in the hearth at its center. She lit a fire with steel and flint, then placed atop it an iron pot filled with water from her jug. Even in his dazed state, he could appreciate her proficiency.
Grabbing the second of her sacks, she untied the thick knot at the top, the four sides falling apart to reveal neatly folded clothes. She didn’t hesitate, pulling an undergarment from the pile and tearing strips from the bottom. When the water boiled, she tossed the make-shift bandages into the water.
After holding the needle in the fire and cooling it off with a shake of her wrist, she finally returned, crouching beside him with the water jug.
First, she helped him take off his armor, her fingers untying the knots at the side, before pulling it over his head. Then she peeled back his robes.
He trembled as the cool air met his bare skin. He pressed his hand to his wound, having let go of it briefly to remove his clothes. She slid her blue fingers along his wrist, pulling his hand away.
The gash was gruesome, stretching from beneath his rib cage to his hip bone; the assassin’s weapon must have hit several organs. A normal person would have died hours ago, but he wasn’t normal. The Demon. As the girl gently poured the last of the water from her jug over the wound, he felt it stir.
His stomach tensed with panic. The Demon only ever awoke in battle. Did it sense his closeness to death? Would it lash out at the girl?
When she didn’t move, he glanced at her masked face.
“I—I’ve never done this before,” she said in a rush. “I mean, I’ve sewn up sheep, on the rare occasions they’ve managed to injure themselves, but… you’re not a sheep.”
She was close enough that he could see her eyes behind her mask. They were dark and wide. When she continued to hesitate, he asked softly, “Do you want me to do it?”
“No, I’ll do it,” she said. “Hold your breath.” Though it was she who drew one in, as she pierced his skin with the needle.
The pain was excruciating. Halfway through, he blacked out.
He woke up several hours later, with the feeling that his head was being split in two. The girl was no longer in the room, but there were signs of her presence. The area had been swept clean, the items she’d tossed to the floor put back where they belonged. His wound was bandaged; strips of cloth were wrapped around his stomach and across his chest. As he sat up, his robe slipped from his shoulder, where the girl must have placed it over him.
It was an odd feeling for him to be so vulnerable in front of another person, especially a stranger. Of course, he didn’t have a choice. He was too weak to do anything but rely on her.
He didn’t trust people, and he didn’t let anyone get close to him. He thought of Yurhee and Tag, who, in their own way, had tried.
For two years, he’d avoided forming any relationships, knowing what lurked inside him, but there was a part of him that had wondered if he’d always been that way.
He knew now that wasn’t true.
He thought of the memory he’d had before waking in the reed field. He hadn’t had time to fully process what it meant. It wasn’t just that he’d had a memory—his first new one in two years—it was that he could remember everything, up until that moment. His childhood outside the Wall. His years in the army. Rohoon and Heetae, his friends.
The sound of approaching footsteps drew his attention to the doorway, where a few seconds later the girl appeared.
“Oh, you’re awake,” she said, sounding relieved. “I brought you your sword.” She placed it against the wall by the door. “I figured you’d want it close by.”
He was surprised by the kind gesture, and a warm feeling stole up his chest.
She still wore her mask. He wondered if she ever took it off. She must—to eat, to sleep.
“Are you a soldier?” she asked, gesturing in the direction of the sword.
“I…” He was about to tell her that he didn’t remember, but that was no longer the whole truth. “I was.”
She tilted her head to the side, likely wondering why he’d hesitated. “Are you from the Floating World?”
“No.” This time, he didn’t hesitate. He wasn’t a Sareniyan. They were the reason he and his brother were in the army. Since Sunho was eight years old, he’d been forced to fight in the name of Sareniya.
She must have sensed his anger, because she was quiet for a long time.
His piercing headache eased somewhat, replaced with a dull, throbbing ache. He felt a chill sweep through him, and he shivered.
“Why is your blood blue?” she blurted out.
“I…” In the memory, his blood had been red, same as Junho’s. “I don’t remember.” He’d regained his memories from his childhood, up until that moment beside the fire in the woods—twelve years of memories—but nothing afterward. His memories were still blank, his mind filled with darkness. “Until today, I didn’t remember anything from before two years ago.”
Excerpted from The Floating World, copyright © 2025 by Axie Oh.
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