We enter this story to the sight of a beautiful resting boy, breathing deeply.

He knows not of our presence, and dreams of a silent nothingness, beautiful in its peace, which, unfortunately, is merely ephemeral.

He lies on his side upon a bed of the finest silk and cushions, yet seems uncomfortable, his straight eyebrows pressed into a frown. His face is round, as a child’s is, puffed out with baby fat—still he looks like an angel, cheeks brushed with cherry pink and skin pale, smooth and clear, truly blessed with good looks from a young age.

He shivers in his sleep, disturbed by an outer noise, left hand gravitating towards the dresser to the edge of the bed.

We can hear a commotion outside, but the sound is light as it is far away. The child shifts restlessly.

Then, a pair of footsteps is heard.

Their sound grows louder and louder as they near. The boy’s eyebrow twitches. Then the door slams open, and quick as a flash, the boy is up on his feet, grabs something shiny from the dresser drawer, throwing it at—

(Use Namgung saying you should never let go of your weapon after blocking it)