TO&FQ: Book 1 - Chapter 28 (RAW)

Chapter 28 - The Ill-made Knight

Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.

- Franz Kafka.

He was in the throes of joy and despair. How could such a simple thing bring about these emotions? His employer, Myeong Mirae, the de facto president of the most powerful conglomerate in the country, had remembered his name.

It was a small thing, yet the greatest of things. Mirae was famous for not remembering anyone unless they were significant. He had observed her over countless hours; his entire life's focus was her. Added to this was an amalgamation of other details, like Mirae no longer doing her morning yoga routine or the fact that she had taken up completely new hobbies like fencing and archery and had almost immediately excelled at them. Not to mention her recent interest… in gambling. From horses, casinos, and underground fights, he had accompanied her to all of these places.

He understood her, perhaps in ways that she did not understand herself. His mistress had changed, and he had a feeling she was not the same.

He opened the door to his home, taking off his shoes before throwing his coat onto the small brown leather sofa. He took a deep breath, drinking in the reinvigorating aura of the place. The man's small apartment was a shrine to her existence. Nestled in a quiet corner of the city, the space was dimly lit by soft, ambient lights that cast a warm glow over the walls adorned with her images. Every inch was dedicated to Mirae. High-quality prints of her magazine covers, candid photos he had taken from afar, and posters from her old world tours covered the walls like wallpaper.

On a polished mahogany shelf rested framed items he treasured most. Among them were delicate pieces of her clothing—silk scarves, lace gloves, and even her small clothes—that he had meticulously collected over the years. Each was carefully pressed and preserved behind glass, like rare artifacts in a museum. He had retrieved them from her discarded belongings, taking great care to ensure no one noticed their absence. To him, these were not mere trophies but intimate connections to her essence.

In one frame, a lace garment lay elegantly arranged, its intricate patterns casting faint shadows against the back of the case. He remembered the day he had found it in her bedroom when she was fast asleep. His heart had raced as he discreetly slipped it into his pocket, the thrill of acquiring something so personal to her nearly overwhelming him.

There was also a crumpled note she had discarded, now smoothed out and encased. A piece of her creative thoughts, it bore her elegant handwriting—a list of song lyrics she had been working on. He had salvaged it from the trash, seeing poetry where she had seen only refuse. Words that were for him alone. Each item was a part of her story, fragments that he alone had the privilege and the right to cherish.

His collection extended to more conventional memorabilia: signed autographs, limited-edition merchandise, and every version of the game her subsidiary company had released, The Maiden of the Wisterias. He owned them all on every available platform. Not because he enjoyed games, but because possessing them felt necessary to complete his devotion. Rumors swirled on social media that one of the characters was based on Mirae's likeness. He doubted any artist could truly capture her delicate beauty, but he was determined to find out one day once he had some time.

It was not because he was a common pervert, as society might label him, that he accumulated such treasures; no, it was because he truly loved her. What he felt for her was no mere lust—it was a profound passion that only poets could begin to describe. It was deep. They were meant to be together, and this was no mere obsession.

Since he was a boy, before her rise to fame when her songs had captured the world, he had loved her.

They had been classmates and neighbors in elementary school, two lonely souls who found solace in each other's company. His own mother had been violent and Mirae's mother was no better, often being absent or lost in a drunken stupor. This left the poor angel to fend for herself more often than not. 

He remembered how he had taken her hand and together they would escape to the nearby park while her mother was passed out, the gentle rustling of leaves overhead as they played beneath the old maple tree. They shared secrets and dreams, their laughter mingling with the distant hum of the city. No matter how the others had tried to bully him for being friends with the dark and gloomy girl, he had been her confidant, her protector during those times. Her rock. Those memories were etched into his heart, forming a bond that, for him, could never be broken.

Mirae belonged to him. Only to him. Then she had moved, her mother running away from the creditors that were hounding her. She left his world and in that one fell swoop, his world had been destroyed.

They say a love born in youth is destined to fade, but theirs defied that notion. He felt they were bound by a thread of fate—delicate as a gossamer cobweb, yet unbreakable as a thick cable of steel. He nurtured that love in his heart, a quiet secret he tended to with care. Over time, it grew, giving him the strength to confront his own darkness. Finally, he was strong enough to push his father down a flight of stairs, putting an end to his daily torment.

And Sung Sang-woo was not easily broken. The destruction of his world had given him something that people in this day and age search for blindly with both hands. Motivation. 

He had sworn that day so long ago that he would find her and that he would become a man worthy of her. Her Protector. He would become her knight.

To that end, Sang-woo would have to become the best of the best. Had become the best of the best.

He took a deep breath, centering himself as pulled himself back from thoughts of the troubled past. He was happy now. Fate had led him back to her.

The man moved to the kitchen area, the one small space in his apartment that was relatively devoid of Mirae-focused goods. There he fixed himself a coffee. Television told him that drinking coffee at such a late hour would affect his sleep, but his body had become too tolerant of it and he drew comfort from the dark liquid’s warmth.

He could have lived in a more spacious apartment; indeed, he could have resided on the estate itself. His salary was generous, bolstered by smart investments gleaned from the privileged information he accessed by being close to someone who could move the nation. But a smaller space allowed him to focus on what was important. There was a profound elegance in simplicity. Besides, living in the main house carried the risk of the other staff misunderstanding his devotion to Mirae.

His eyes turned to another picture of his love. Mirae, of course, had her critics—those who could not fathom the workings of a goddess. They called her cruel and callous. Inhuman. They simply could not grasp the perfection that was divine, limited by their tiny minds. Gods were above such things, such human flaws. A storm did not care what lives it disrupted, yet it possessed a fierce natural beauty all its own.

With a dark expression, he realized that it was her smile, born from a beauty deep within her soul that was above such mortal concepts as good and evil that kept him going.

Sang-woo pulled out his laptop and booted it up. Mirae’s public relationship staff, and they were legion, could not fight the darker war on her behalf. There in the hidden places of the world wide web, Mirae’s champion resumed his own battle behind the screen, unleashing verbal fire on the online trolls who dared to sully Mirae's name. His fingers flew across the keys, determined and sure.

Yet, he felt troubled as read vicious comment after vicious comment. Rumor after half-baked rumor. It caused him to pause and think. Lately, unease had begun to creep into his mind. Mirae was changing in ways he could not quite comprehend. The woman he had devoted his life to seemed different—her habits altered, her routines disrupted. Yet, when he tried to pinpoint the discrepancies, they slipped through his fingers like smoke. Why?

He continued his war for a few more hours before sleep called to him, for even the mightiest of warriors must rest.

******

The next morning, as Sang-woo pulled the car up to the grand entrance of the estate, he watched her descend the marble steps with her usual grace. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the morning light, her black hair flowing elegantly over her shoulders. Her secretary, Hana followed closely, tablet in hand, listing off appointments.

"Good morning, Miss Myeong," he said, opening the car door for her.

She paused ever so slightly, her doll-like features turning toward him. "Good morning, Sang-woo," she replied, her voice smooth but distant. “Take us by the river before we go to the office. I want to pass by the new apartments.”

As they navigated through the bustling streets, he stole glances at her through the rearview mirror as they approached the Han river. She was reviewing documents on her phone, her eyes focused yet somehow detached. Summoning his courage, he decided to test her subtly.

"Miss Myeong," he began cautiously with a wide smile, "I was thinking about your very first concert. The song 'Promise the World' still moves me every time I hear it."

It was the first step Mirae had taken to get a voice that simply could not be silenced censored or brushed under the carpet like her mother had been. Years later, a paternity test would rock the very foundations of the country and pave the way to her meteoric rise to power.

She looked up, her dark eyes meeting his in the mirror. "Yes, 'Promise the World, a fine song,'" she echoed. "It was a pivotal moment in my career."

Hana mumbled some inane words of praise that he ignored.

Mirae’s words were correct, but there was something mechanical about the way she said them—as if she were reciting facts rather than reminiscing. There was no spark of nostalgia, none of the warmth one might expect when recalling a truly significant personal achievement. Clinical.

He felt a chill run down his spine. "Do you remember how the audience lit up with glow sticks? It was quite the sight."

She nodded lightly. "I recall the sea of lights. It was... inspiring."

Again, the response was appropriate, yet devoid of genuine emotion. As if she were an actor in a play. If he were to put a finger on it, it was as if she had read about the event rather than lived it. Not to mention… there was something off with her choice of words.

He tried once more, smiling slightly. "And that little girl who gave you the handmade necklace backstage. You wore it for the rest of the concert."

For a brief moment, a flicker of confusion crossed her eyes before she composed herself. "Yes, the necklace. It was a touching gesture."

Behind her thick-framed glasses, Hana's expression tightened ever so slightly. Like him, Mirae's secretary knew her mistress's history all too well. He had cultivated a casual intimacy with her; she was a reliable source of information. Beside the radiant Mirae, Hana seemed almost plain, yet she possessed an allure all her own. He grinned to himself—Hana always wore her dark brown hair in a tight bun, and he was probably the only man who had seen it cascade freely. The secretary harbored a fierce jealousy toward Mirae, yet was also somewhat infatuated with her employer.

He knew that no such event had occurred, as most likely so did Hana. There had been no little girl, no necklace. Though he had not been in her service at the time, he had been there, watching her every move from a distance. She had not caught his fabrication, and her acknowledgment felt hollow. Perhaps she was merely distracted, responding automatically without giving it much thought.

They arrived at the corporate headquarters, a vast edifice of capitalism and the center of Mirae’s empire. He opened the door for her, and she stepped out without a word, surrounded by bowing executives. Her secretary, clutching a bundle of files, trailed behind.

*****

That evening, he returned to his small fortress and oasis in the city, the weight of uncertainty pressing upon him. Surrounded by her images and possessions, he sought solace in the familiar. He traced his fingers over the glass frames that held her garments, feeling a connection he could not find elsewhere.

He sat down at his cluttered desk, illuminated by the soft glow of a single lamp. Opening an old notebook, he began to jot down his observations, meticulously noting every inconsistency, every subtle change. The pages were dedicated to her—the nuances of her expressions, the cadence of her voice, the way she tilted her head when deep in thought.

Flipping back through the pages, he noticed a pattern. The changes had begun shortly after she took up fencing and archery. Activities she had never shown interest in before, yet now excelled at effortlessly.

The worried man recalled stories from his childhood—tales of spirits and otherworldly beings that could inhabit a person's form. Could it be that his Mirae had been replaced? Or had it been aliens? The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. It would explain the disconnect he sensed.

Determined to uncover the truth, he devised a plan. He would gather more evidence, observe her more closely. If she had been taken over by another entity, he would find a way to bring her back. But was he mad for thinking such a thing in the first place?

The next day, he paid extra attention to every detail. As he drove her to various meetings, he tactfully engaged her in conversation, carefully selecting topics only she would know intimately.

"Miss Myeong, do you remember visiting the orphanage last year? The children were so delighted," Hana remarked gently.

Mirae glanced up, her expression unreadable. "It was a fulfilling experience," she replied with a faint smile. After a brief pause, she added, "Yes, it was in Guryong Village."

She seemed lost in thought. "We had Guryong Village demolished first, to make way for an orphanage," she half-murmured.

The details were indeed correct, but there was something slightly off. His heart sank. The pattern was clear—she knew the facts of her life but lacked the personal connection to them.

*****

That evening, after dropping her off, he lingered at the estate under the guise of performing maintenance on the vehicle. He watched from a distance as she moved through the well-lit rooms, her silhouette passing by the grand windows.

He made his way to a side entrance, slipping smoothly inside. A faint smile played on his lips as he passed the housekeeping staff, their hushed, excited whispers trailing in his wake. He paid them no mind, letting the familiarity of the halls soothe his nerves. Each step brought him closer to her private study, the one place where answers might finally await him.

The study was immaculate, every item placed with precision. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on a leather-bound journal resting on a large desk made from fossilized wood and inlaid with mother of pearl. His hands trembled as he opened it, revealing pages filled with Mirae’s elegant handwriting.

He flipped through it… finding nothing strange…  nothing of note. Then it hit him like a lightning bolt, she would never write her thoughts down in a physical journal.

Quickly, he made his way back home and in the solitude of his sanctuary, he prepared himself for the challenges ahead. He would delve into the unknown, face whatever forces had taken her, and restore the goddess to her rightful place. For his love was not a mere obsession—it was a devotion that transcended reason, a bond that even the supernatural could not break.

*****

Sang-woo’s suspicions only grew as the days slowly turned into agonizing weeks. Mirae’s responses, her actions, even her presence—everything about her felt slightly off. Like a puzzle where all the pieces fit but the picture was wrong. Yet, he was determined. A knight does not question his quest; he charges forward, metaphorical sword drawn, no matter the odds. He would save Mirae.

*****

The day it happened was like any other. Sang-woo had just opened the door for Mirae at a charity gala, her presence commanding the room as always. The cameras of the press hungered for her, lenses snapping like wolves' jaws, desperate to devour every fragment of her radiance. She wore a flowing gown of midnight silk, the fabric catching the light like dark water.

The charity gala was opulent, a temple to excess, and the city’s elite were its supplicants. Chandeliers dripped with light, laughter tinkled like glass, and the wine flowed as freely as the empty compliments. Mirae moved among them with practiced ease, a raven gliding through doves. She spoke in low, measured tones, her beauty a weapon as effective as any weapon had ever been.

Sang-woo’s sharp eyes caught a figure moving through the crowd—a man whose presence rippled against the gala’s smooth surface. His suit was unremarkable, his tie the wrong shade for the occasion, but it was his eyes that betrayed him. They burned with the smoldering embers of old pain and fresh rage.

The man’s focus was unyielding, his gaze fixed on Mirae like a predator stalking prey.

Sang-woo shifted closer, the instinct of a bodyguard and his military training overriding all else. He saw the man’s hand dip into his jacket and knew before he saw it what was there. The Daewoo K5 emerged—a pistol too familiar, the weapon of an officer. Sang-woo’s breath caught and saw it for what it was, the death promise.

“Your greed killed her!” the man roared, his voice raw as a wound. “She trusted your poison, and it took her! Yuna, my Yuna!”

Mirae turned, her head tilting just so, her expression calm, almost curious. Even as the barrel of the gun rose to meet her, she stood unmoving, porcelain and marble all at once.

Sang-woo did not think. Knights do not think when their duty calls—they act.

He moved between them, his steps swift, his body interposing itself as the man’s finger pulled the trigger.

The gun’s report tore through the gala’s fragile mask of civility.

Pain hit Sang-woo like a hammer, spreading outwards from his chest in a wave of fire and ice. His knees failed him, the world tilting as he sank to the ground. Mirae did not scream. She did not flinch. She simply watched, her eyes cold and calculating, her mask unbroken even as his life seeped out onto the polished floor.

Through the haze of agony and the growing dark, Sang-woo looked up at her one last time. In her gaze, he found no gratitude, no grief—only a distant acknowledgment, as though he were but another pawn removed from her board.

Darkness swept him under, cold and absolute.

*****

When Sang-woo opened his eyes, he was no longer at the gala. He found himself in a stark, white room where the walls stretched endlessly, glowing faintly as if lit from within. The air was silent, thick with an otherworldly stillness.

He sat up abruptly, his hand instinctively reaching for his chest. There was no blood, no wound—just a strange emptiness.

"Am I... dead?" he whispered into the void.

The room offered no answers, only oppressive quiet.

"Is this the afterlife?" he murmured, rising unsteadily to his feet.

He turned, and behind him stood a figure—a woman with flowing black hair and eyes as dark as the abyss. She resembled Mirae, but something about her was different. Mirae, for all her beauty, was not quite this... voluptuous. This woman radiated an aura of power, and her gaze pierced straight through him.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice trembling.

The woman smiled faintly, her features shifting and becoming fluid. Was that his mother? Her smile held all the warmth of deep winter.

"You may call me Iasis, the Mother," she answered in a tone both wistful and mocking. Tossing her head, she let out a long, drawn-out sigh, playing with a strand of ebony hair. She held his gaze and he felt the full force of her scrutiny. "I see… You fancy yourself a Knight in your heart of hearts, yet you know nothing of the real war to come."

Sang-woo's heart raced. "What do you mean? What is all of this? Where is Mirae? Is she safe?" he asked desperately.

The woman tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "Safe? No. But she is where she must be. And so are you. This is a place where a choice must be made."

Her words sent a chill coursing through him.

"Your devotion has brought you here, Sang-woo. Now you must decide—will you continue to follow blindly, or will you see the truth for what it is? Or will you, instead, choose to rest?" Iasis intoned.

As her words echoed in the vast emptiness, Sang-woo felt the weight of his past, his choices, and his unwavering loyalty pressing down on him. It could not end here.

"Please, just take me to her or tell me where she is..." he begged, falling to his knees. "Please, if you are a goddess or if this is my judgment, give me a chance. I will do anything."

"Oh, you will, will you?" the strange woman purred, her voice throaty and seductive. "I wonder, will that twisted heart of yours lead you down the same path? Will you find what you are looking for? Will you be able to save what you hold dear? You are most fortunate that your Resonance wishes for oblivion and you wish for life. This will make things easier."

Her expression grew serious, her voice now filled with deep gravitas. "If you will bear my Mark, first... you must choose."

Just as he about to voice another question, his vision exploded into stars as a wave of disorientation washed over him. When his senses cleared, he found himself holding a tablet—an honest-to-goodness stone tablet inscribed with archaic runes and symbols. Against his will, his fingers traced the script, and it offered him a choice. A choice he knew in his bones was based on all of his experiences.

As Sang-woo's fingers glided over the ancient tablet, images began to materialize around him, swirling like mist before solidifying into vivid scenes. Each scene depicted a different path, a different destiny—each one a reflection of a facet of his soul and an aspect of the life he had left.

The word Pugilist appeared on the surface of the stone. He became a bare-knuckled fighter standing alone in an arena, muscles coiled like steel springs. The crowd roared as the fighter dodged blows with fluid grace, every punch a symphony of power and precision. Sang-woo felt the raw physicality resonate within him, reminding him of countless hours spent honing his body into a weapon. He remembered the tenets of Courtesy, Integrity, Perseverance, Self-Control, and Indomitable Will. But this path was not for him and he rejected it.

The words across the stone surface changed, shifted to form the words, Rogue. Sang-woo emerged from the shadows—a figure cloaked in darkness, slipping unnoticed through enemy lines. Daggers gleamed under the moonlight as the Rogue dispatched foes with silent efficiency. The thrill of stealth and cunning strategy stirred memories of covert missions, where one wrong move could mean the difference between life and death. But like Pugilist, it was not the correct choice.

Again the words shifted and the word for Warrior appeared in a language he did not know but could read: He became armor-clad and wielded a massive weapon that cleaved the very air. Charging into battle with a roar,  he was unafraid of the onslaught before him. Leadership, bravery, and sacrifice—all values Sang-woo held dear—manifested in this vision.

Wizard was the next word. He became a scholarly figure surrounded by towering bookshelves filled with arcane tomes. This vision was superimposed over him studying in front of a screen, long hours in the pursuit of the perfection of knowledge to pass the national exams. With a wave of his hand, he summoned elemental forces, weaving spells that bent reality itself. Knowledge is power, a voice whispered, and Sang-woo felt a pang of longing for understanding the mysteries that eluded him. There was power here, true power, but it was not him. He could sense the madness behind its call.

There was chaos as the words struggled to form, Barbarian. A force of nature unleashed. Wild, untamed, wielding primal fury as its weapon. He fought not with strategy but with sheer will and overwhelming strength. Sang-woo recognized the raw emotion, the unbridled passion that sometimes simmered beneath his disciplined exterior. But he would need control if he was to accomplish his mission.

The word for Knight formed. He stepped forward, a shining figure adorned in ornate armor and bearing a shield emblazoned with a noble crest. As a Knight he stood tall before a besieged castle, protecting the innocent and fighting for justice. In the Knight's reflection of the Knight’s blade, Sang-woo saw his own reflection staring back at him. There was no resonance, but it was what he had always wanted to be.

"Choose," Iasis' voice echoed, softer now, almost gentle. "Each path is a fragment of who you are, yet only one can you walk."

Sang-woo's mind raced. Each option called to him, representing different chapters of his life, and different skills he had mastered. But his heart knew only one true path.

"I choose the Knight," he declared firmly, his voice echoing.

"Then so be it," Iasis said softly. "Your choice is made, and your path is set. As long as you bear my Mark, seek your heart’s desire, you will find it."

The white room began to fade, dissolving into darkness, and he found himself lying on cold, grimy cobblestones. The stench of sewage and smoke filled the narrow alley, where refuse piled against aged stone walls slick with moisture. Dim light from the evening sun struggled down here, casting long shadows that muddied his vision.

A sharp pain jolted him to full awareness. He looked down to see a rusted knife lodged in his chest, his heartbeat pounding around the intrusive metal. Panicked, he looked around… against all of his training, and the greater part of common sense, he grasped the hilt with trembling hands and pulled.  The blade slid free, and to his astonishment, the wound began to close—slowly but steadily.

Breathing heavily, he stood up unsteadily. His clothes were unfamiliar; a simple linen tunic, breeches, and worn boots caked with mud and dirt. Distant sounds of a bustling marketplace reached his ears: vendors shouting, cart wheels creaking, horses neighing. 

"Where am I?" he whispered, his breath forming a mist in the chilly air. 

Only silence answered him.

The reality of his situation sank in—this was not his world. Was this the afterlife? He remembered dying, the round hitting his chest where the knife had been lodged… which was real?

Insanity threatened to claim him. He racked his mind searching for a point of reference. Searching for anything, searching for a name.

"Lost, are we? A noble lad like you been out slumming," a gruff voice asked from behind. “I can hel…”

He felt the threat laced in the words and acted before thinking. Spinning around, he drove the knife into the stranger’s chest. The man—a dirty peasant, or perhaps a common criminal—gasped in shock. For good measure, he stabbed him again. And then, just to be sure, he struck a third time.

A strange message flashed across his vision, but he ignored it.

“Sir! Sir!” A shout echoed from somewhere nearby. He tensed, bracing for another fight. But the tone was not threatening.

Footsteps approached, and a young voice called again. This time, unfamiliar memories rose in his mind, whispering that the voice belonged to someone he knew: his Squire.

The boy came into view—a young man just shy of adulthood, his round cheeks still carrying traces of baby fat. He was stocky but not overly so, and his face was flushed from exertion.

“What happened, sir?” the Squire asked breathlessly.

An unbidden whisper in his head told him that this one’s name was Alain. “The peasant attacked me,” he replied in a gravelly and deep voice that was not his.

“Yes, sir. Evil things,” Alain agreed with a nervous nod, his head bobbing like a puppet’s. “It is good that you exacted the King’s Justice. As is your right, of course,” he added hastily, noticing the confusion on his master’s face.

“Check him,” the man commanded. “See if he carries anything of value to compensate for my… distress.”

Though his name eluded him, his purpose did not. Somewhere in this strange, new world, his lady waited for him. She was his purpose. He took a steadying breath, allowing the weight of responsibility to settle on his shoulders. 

If this was the path to her, he would walk it without hesitation.