In this world of lies, an assassin's task goes awry for a hundred reasons. The innocent suffers where treachery is everywhere, and love is part of the problem instead of the solution. Between power plays, the impact of one's decisions can be so over...
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Gotjawal Mountains, Jeju, Year 1822
The scent of fresh blood clung to the cold December air, sharp and suffocating, like the iron taste of power. My senses were alive with it, as they always were in moments like this. There was no disgust, no hesitation—just a familiar thrill that twisted deep in my stomach.
My body, taut with anticipation, welcomed the tension wrapping itself around me like a coiled serpent, ready to strike at the first sign of weakness.
As I entered the clearing in the heart of the Gotjawal Forest, I could almost hear the silence waiting, holding its breath in the stillness of the night. The snow, pure and white just moments ago, had already begun to soak up the crimson stains. The blood spread across the landscape like an artist's final stroke, turning the ground into a canvas painted with death. Beautiful in its own way.
There was an elegance in the violence, something poetic about the way life could end so abruptly, leaving only the evidence of its struggle behind.
The brittle branches overhead groaned under the weight of the wind, their forms stark and skeletal against the pale moonlight. Each creak sounded like the groan of nature itself, bearing witness to the cruelty of men. In the distance, the frantic sound of hooves grew louder, cutting through the quiet, accompanied by the dull jangle of reins and the desperate wails of a man being dragged through the snow.
I could hear his voice break in terror—wild, hoarse, pleading. But his cries barely stirred me.
I had heard worse.
I had caused worse.
This was nothing new to me.
The horses pulled to a stop, their breath fogging the cold air as they stamped and snorted. The man behind them, once dragged across the snow like a beaten animal, now lay limp in the snow, blood streaking the ground behind him.
He was a pathetic sight, really—his body broken, his clothes torn and soaked through with dirt and blood. He had once been something, someone, a man of status and power.
Myung Dae Hwang.
I knew the name well. Once a proud official of the court, now reduced to this—a bloodied, pitiful mess. He was barely recognizable beneath the filth, the proud man gone, leaving only the betrayer behind.
I watched him with cold amusement, the way one might regard an insect struggling in the web it had woven for itself. His screams had dulled now, replaced by ragged, shuddering breaths as his chest heaved with effort. He knew his time was short.
I dismounted my horse with calm precision, each movement deliberate, controlled. The cold wind bit at my skin, but I barely noticed it. Around me, my men stood in dark hanboks, their faces set, grim and emotionless as they awaited my command. They didn't know who I really was, of course.
