The night air was a crisp current against Ethan's skin. He stood on the opulent balcony, the vast, luminous spread of Seoul beneath him, but his attention was fixed five kilometers away on the dark, solitary spire of a high-rise building.
He had waved. A casual, almost dismissive gesture directed at the shadowy figure observing him.
"Alright," Ethan murmured and his smile widening into a playful grin. "Hide-and-seek is over."
Without a sound—without even a ripple in the air—Ethan's figure vanished from the balcony.
One heartbeat he stood there, bathed in silver moonlight, and in the next, only empty space remained, curtains swaying lazily in the night breeze.
It wasn't a spell or illusion. It was simply speed—speed so fast that it left no trace behind.
.
.
.
Five kilometers away, perched precariously on the spire's narrow ledge, the shadowy figure watched the distant balcony go empty.
The figure's eyes, usually sharp and cold, widened with a momentary jolt of shock.
"He disappeared—?"
A calm voice suddenly echoed behind him.
"That's not very nice, you know? Sneaking around a couple during their honeymoon~. Also, the high-up-on-a-spire look is a bit cliché for a stakeout."
The figure spun, his body moving on pure combat instinct honed through countless life-or-death situations. His hand went to the short dagger concealed at his side, muscles coiled and ready to strike—
Only to freeze mid-motion.
Ethan Carter stood there, unarmed and unbothered, his hands shoved casually into the pockets of his night pants. He wore that maddeningly confident smile.
The moonlight cast his features in sharp relief—the easy smile, the relaxed posture, the complete and utter lack of concern. He might as well have been discussing the weather.
"If you wanted to say hi, you could've just asked. I'm not great at hide and seek, but I'm game if you insist~"
The man's jaw tightened.
Ethan continued, "So, how about we skip the rest of this game and talk like civilized people? You've been following us for a week now. I figure we're past the whole mysterious stalker phase of our relationship."
The figure's mind raced, calculating. How long has he known? Since the beginning? Why didn't he—
"...Civilized, huh? Are you even human?"
The words came out harsher than intended, defensive.
Ethan chuckled, "Ouch. That's kinda hurtful, you know. You're looking at a human. A mostly functional one, anyway. Feel free to look closer." He tilted his head.
He spread his arms wide, as if presenting himself for inspection. The moonlight illuminated him fully—a young man in casual clothes, handsome features, messy hair that suggested he'd just rolled out of bed. He looked utterly, completely, mundanely human.
"Two arms, two legs, one head. I eat, I sleep, I breathe. I laugh at bad jokes and enjoy good food. I'm definitely human, I assure you." Ethan's smile turned slightly teasing. "Though I suppose from your perspective, I might seem a bit... exceptional."
The figure studied him intently, looking for any crack in that casual facade. Nothing. Just a man standing on a rooftop, smiling like they were old friends meeting for coffee.
Then Ethan's smile sharpened, gaining an edge that made the temperature seem to drop several degrees.
"Or did age finally catch up to you, Mr. Sung Il-Hwan? Should I get you a pair of glasses for better sight?"
The effect was instantaneous.
Il-Hwan's control shattered. His eyes flared wide. His grip on the dagger tightened, his stance shifting from defensive to lethal.
"How do you know that name?!" Il-Hwan spat, his identity has been exposed.
Il-hwan's entire body had shifted into a combat stance—weight distributed, center of gravity lowered, every muscle ready to explode into lethal motion. The dagger in his hand gleamed with a faint light that suggested it was no ordinary weapon.
Ethan didn't move. Didn't flinch. He just stood there, that infuriating smile still on his face, completely unbothered by the blade that could punch through steel pointed at him.
"Wow, straight to violence. And here I thought we were having such a nice conversation." Ethan's eyes flickered down to the dagger, then back up to Il-hwan's face. His smile turned oddly nostalgic.
"Ah, and the dagger," Ethan continued, completely ignoring the threat, "Like father, like son, I suppose. Both of you really do love your daggers, huh? Must be a family thing. It's a nice design, very aerodynamic."
Il-hwan's grip tightened on his weapon. "Answer me."
"Oh, I know lots of things," Ethan said airily, waving his hand dismissively. "Your name. Your history. Your... extended vacation in a certain dungeon. The deal you made. Your son's career choices." He paused, his smile turning slightly melancholic. "The fact that you're standing on this rooftop playing secret agent instead of going home to the family that thinks you're dead."
Each revelation hit like a physical blow. Il-hwan's mind raced through implications. How much did this man know? How much did he understand?
"But hey," Ethan continued, his tone shifting back to that casual friendliness that was somehow more unsettling than hostility, "I'm not here to psychoanalyze your family drama. That's between you and a very confused son who definitely inherited your communication issues."
Il-hwan forced himself to breathe, to think tactically. His gut instinct—honed through years of surviving impossible situations—was screaming a single, undeniable truth: This man is dangerous.
Il-Hwan knew from instinct alone that Ethan was not someone to take lightly. Even though Ethan possessed no Mana — making it impossible to measure his power through normal means — the sheer pressure he gave off was enough for Il-Hwan to judge that this man may very well stand on equal ground with the strongest Monarchs.
He didn't want a fight. Not if he could help it. Ideally, he wanted to understand Ethan's intentions — and that of the two women who accompanied him. If he could confirm they posed no threat, then conflict could be avoided.
Ever since Il-Hwan made a pact with the Rulers and accepted the role of the Apostle of the Brightest Light, he had carried a mission: eliminate the vessel of the Shadow Monarch. But that vessel was his own son. He hoped that by buying time and learning more about Jinwoo and his actions, he could make the Rulers reconsider.
But everything changed once he returned from the dungeon.
Entities — not from their world, not even from their universe — invaded. Three in total. The Rulers ordered him to observe their purpose on Earth and eliminate them at once if hostility was present.
So Il-Hwan followed them. One week of quiet observation revealed something unexpected.
They were… simply on their honeymoon.
Strange, yes. One man with two wives felt unusual, but he had no right to judge individuals from another universe. Different worlds had different norms. He didn't know them, so naturally, their actions were foreign to him.
There was no sign of malice or destruction. Only laughter, sightseeing, and shared warmth between the trio. That is why he decided it was time to speak — to approach Ethan directly and, if possible, convince him to assist in the coming war against the Monarchs.
But now, standing face-to-face with the man, Il-Hwan understood one thing clearly.
This man was on a level far beyond what he could handle.
The absence of Mana meant Il-Hwan couldn't even sense him properly. He was fighting blind. If things went wrong, he would be at a massive disadvantage.
'If I fight him,' Il-hwan thought grimly, 'I die. Instantly... without even understanding how.'
Il-Hwan slowly lowered the dagger, though he didn't sheath it.
"I see," Il-hwan said, his voice regaining some of its composure. "You've made your point. You know things you shouldn't. Fighting you was a guaranteed, instant loss. You're..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "...not someone I want to fight if I can avoid it."
"Smart man," Ethan approved with a nod. "I like you already. You think before you stab. That's rare."
'I must determine his intentions,' Il-Hwan thought desperately. 'The Rulers sent me to verify the intentions of these otherworldly entities. Hostility means elimination. But if he is this powerful, and he hasn't moved against the humanity yet, there must be an opening for dialogue.'
Il-hwan's jaw tightened. "Let's skip the flattery. I don't know how you know what you know, and I'm guessing you're not going to tell me."
"Finally, we're on the same page!"
"And let's keep personal matters out of this for now." He adopted a serious, guarded posture.
"So, let's get straight to the point, Mr. Carter. Why has a being of your immense stature come to our universe? You come to our world with two companions who radiate similar pressure like you. You spend a week touring tourist spots like you're on vacation." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "What's your real objective, Ethan Carter? What do you want with our world?"
Ethan let out a long, theatrical sigh, a touch of genuine exasperation creeping into his voice. "Finally. Took you a solid week to ask that. Honestly, it was agonizing having to act like I didn't sense a highly trained spy lurking in the surroundings. Even my wives complained—'Honey, why is that creepy man stalking us?'"
He gave a helpless shrug. "I told them it was a pigeon."
Il-Hwan's eyebrow twitched. His voice flat. "…A pigeon."
Ethan nodded without missing a beat. "A very persistent one."
He took a step forward, closing the space between them. Il-Hwan instinctively tensed, but held his ground.
"But anyway," Ethan said, his tone shifting. The playfulness bled away, replaced by something more serious. His eyes seemed to darken, reflecting the moonlight in strange ways. "To answer your question—yes, we're here for the honeymoon. That's the main part. Seoul's lovely this time of year. The food is incredible in this world. Five stars, would visit again."
He paused, and the weight in the air intensified.
"But it's not the only objective."
Il-hwan's entire body tensed. There it was. The admission. Whatever game this being had been playing, whatever facade of casual tourism he'd been maintaining—it was dropping now.
"Our world—" Il-hwan started.
"Is in danger, yes, I know," Ethan interrupted. "The Monarchs, the Rulers, the whole cosmic chess game playing out with Earth as the board. Shadows rising, chaos spreading, apocalypse on the horizon. Real doom and gloom stuff." He met Il-hwan's gaze directly. "And you, Mr. Sung Il-hwan, are caught in the middle of it as the agent of Angel lookalikes."
Il-hwan said nothing, but his hand tightened on his dagger.
"Let me guess," Ethan continued, beginning to pace slowly along the rooftop's edge with the confidence of someone who knew gravity was merely a suggestion. "The Rulers made you their Apostle. Gave you a mission. Kill the vessel of the Shadow Monarch before he fully awakens." He stopped, turning back with a knowing look. "But that vessel is your son. So now you're stalling, trying to find another way, hoping to convince your cosmic bosses that maybe genocide isn't the answer this time."
Il-hwan felt his blood run cold. How did—
"And then," Ethan said, his voice dropping lower, "we showed up. Three unknown entities from another universe. The Rulers freaked out—understandably—and changed your mission. Now you're supposed to determine our intentions and eliminate us if we're hostile." His smile returned, "How am I doing so far? Hit all the major plot points?"
The silence stretched between them, heavy with implication.
Finally, Il-hwan spoke, his voice carefully controlled. "You seem to know everything already. So why haven't you acted? Why let me follow you? Why do all this?"
"Because," Ethan said simply, "I'm not your enemy, Mr.Il-hwan. Despite what your gut is probably telling you right now, despite how terrifying I apparently am—" he said this with a self-deprecating grin, "—I'm not here to conquer your world or unleash some eldritch horror or whatever worst-case scenario the Rulers are imagining."
"Then what—"
"But I am interested in your situation." Ethan's expression grew thoughtful. "This world, your son, the coming war. It's all very... engaging. And it would be a real shame if everything went to hell and destroyed all these lovely tourist destinations."
He turned to face Il-hwan fully, Ethan's casual expression melted away, replaced by a focused, serious intensity that sent a cold spike of dread through Il-Hwan's heart.
Then it was gone, and Ethan was just a man again, smiling under the moonlight.
"Tell me, Mr. Sung Il-Hwan... Apostle of the Brightest Light...," he said, his voice carrying a weight that seemed to make reality itself pay attention. "How about we make a deal?"
The words hung in the air between them, pregnant with possibility and danger in equal measure.
.
.
.
**Unknown Location**
The air tasted of copper and decay.
Deep beneath the earth, in what appeared to be a dungeon that predated modern construction, darkness clung to crumbling stone walls like a living thing. Water dripped somewhere in the distance—a steady, rhythmic sound that echoed through corridors no human had walked in decades.
Until now.
A figure stirred in the center of a ritual chamber, surrounded by the remnants of shattered chains and scorched circles carved into the floor. The man—if he could still be called that—straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders as if testing unfamiliar joints.
He was Chinese, perhaps in his mid-forties, with a muscular build that spoke of years dedicated to physical cultivation. His eyes, however... his eyes were wrong. They glowed with a dim crimson light that had nothing to do with humanity and everything to do with something far older, far more terrible.
"Haaaah..." The sound that escaped his lips was almost orgasmic in its satisfaction. He flexed his hands, watching muscles ripple beneath skin that seemed to shimmer with an inner heat. "Yes. Yes. This body..."
He laughed—a low, cruel sound that made the shadows seem to recoil.
"This vessel is magnificent." His voice carried two tones now, one human and one that resonated with inhuman power. "Strong enough, durable enough, powerful enough to contain my essence without rupturing like cheap pottery."
He raised his hand, and crimson mana erupted from his palm like liquid flame. It swirled around his fingers, thick and viscous, carrying the weight of ancient malice. The very air seemed to scream as the energy pulsed outward, cracking the stone floor beneath his feet.
"Unlike that last pathetic vessel." His expression twisted into disgust at the memory. "Barely lasted three minutes before exploding from the inside out. Messy. Inefficient. Humiliating."
The mana intensified, filling the chamber with oppressive heat. Stone began to glow red where the energy touched it.
"But this?" He grinned, and it was a predator's expression—all teeth and promised violence. "This body belonged to a National Level Hunter. One of humanity's precious treasures. The Architect truly outdid himself this time."
The being's eyes, burning with malevolent yellow light, surveyed the cave. He was the Iron Body Monarch, Tarnak.
He took a few experimental steps, each movement flowing with deadly grace. Power radiated from him in waves, making the air shimmer and distort. This wasn't the tentative possession of a desperate spirit—this was complete dominance, a perfect fusion of monstrous soul and mortal flesh.
"I must remember to thank him," the being mused, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "Before I inevitably betray and consume him, of course. Such is the way of monarchs."
He began to pace, his eyes reflecting the dim light filtering through cracks in the ceiling far above. Each step left scorched footprints on the ancient stone.
"Most of us have found suitable vessels now," he continued, speaking to the empty chamber as if addressing an invisible audience. "The preparations are nearly complete. The pawns are in position. The stage is set."
His grin widened into something truly monstrous.
"I can't wait to reduce those self-righteous Rulers to ash and cinders." The words came out as a snarl, full of ancient hatred that had festered for eons. "To watch their perfect faces melt. To hear their screams as we tear down everything they've built. To finally—finally—crush them beneath our heels and—"
"That's quite the villain monologue you've got going there."
The voice came from directly behind him—casual, almost bored, with a hint of amusement that suggested its owner found the entire situation mildly entertaining at best.
Tarnak froze.
He instantly spun around, his Mana senses—which should have felt any fluctuation of energy in a several mile radius—registering nothing.
Standing in the center of the chamber, where absolutely nothing had been a moment before, was a young man in pajamas.
Not armor, Not combat gear but Pajamas.
Blue cotton pants with little white clouds printed on them. A loose white t-shirt that looked soft and comfortable. Bare feet on the scorched stone floor. Messy blonde hair that stuck up in several directions, as if he'd just rolled out of bed.
And an expression of mild interest, like he'd just stumbled onto something moderately amusing during a late-night bathroom trip.
Tarnak stared.
The young man stared back, one hand in his pocket, the other raised in a small wave. "Hi."
Tarnak's mind raced. He'd been alone. He'd sensed the entire facility—no life signs, no mana signatures, no presence whatsoever. The Architect had specifically chosen this location because it was isolated, warded, undetectable.
And yet here stood this... this human, looking like he'd teleported in from a sleepover.
Tarnak reached out with his senses, probing for any trace of mana, any hint of power.
Tarnak tilted his massive head, confusion overriding his contempt. 'No Mana? None at all?'
The man before him registered as completely, utterly mundane.
Tarnak's lips curled into a dismissive sneer. "A human? Here?"
He tilted his head, studying the intruder with the interest one might show an unexpected insect. "How boring."
His assessment was instant and complete: civilian, lost, wrong place at the wrong time. Probably stumbled through some crack in the wards. Not a hunter since he got no mana and not a threat. Just another fragile mortal about to have a very bad day.
One moment he was standing ten meters away. The next, he was directly in front of the intruder, fist already in motion. The air screamed as his punch cut through it—a blow that could shatter steel, pulverize concrete, reduce a normal human to a red mist.
"It's your fault for being entirely too handsome for a regular human," Tarnak snarled, justifying the murder.
He laughed as his fist rocketed toward the man's face.
The punch connected—
—and stopped.
As if he'd thrown his fist into an immovable wall of metal itself.
Tarnak's grin froze on his face.
The blonde man stood exactly where he'd been, that same mild expression of interest on his face. One hand remained casually in his pocket. The other had simply... raised... and caught Tarnak's fist.
Without effort... Without strain... Without even bracing himself for the impact.
"That's rich," the man said conversationally and his grip not even tightening around Tarnak's fist, "coming from a Monarch. Have you seen your kind? Half of you are walking fashion disasters. The other half look like you escaped from an edgy metal album cover."
Tarnak's mind went blank with shock.
It hadn't been his full power—true. Just a casual strike, meant to paste an ordinary human across the walls. But even at a fraction of his strength, that punch should have liquified bone. Should have turned flesh to jelly. Should have killed this man a thousand times over.
Instead, his fist sat in the stranger's palm like a child's toy.
"What—" Tarnak tried to pull his arm back.
It didn't move, Not even an inch.
He pulled harder, channeling mana through his vessel's enhanced musculature, engaging the full strength of a National Level Hunter's body reinforced by a Monarch's power. But still nothing.
The blonde man's grip was so strong it reminded him of another Monarch—one known for monstrous strength.
"Who the hell are you?!" Tarnak snarled, crimson mana erupting from his body in a wave of heat and pressure.
The chamber's temperature spiked instantly. Stone cracked. The air shimmered and distorted. Air itself seemed to groan under the weight of a Monarch's fury.
And through it all, the stranger just... stood there. Completely unaffected. Not even sweating in the superheated air.
His smile widened slightly—a friendly, almost apologetic expression.
"Oh, where are my manners?" He tilted his head, blonde hair catching the crimson light of Tarnak's mana. "Introductions first. That's proper manners, isn't it?"
"Hello," the man said, his voice carrying the pleasant tone of someone greeting a neighbor over a fence. "I'm Ethan Carter."
The temperature in the chamber seemed to plummet despite Tarnak's raging mana.
"And I'm here," Ethan continued, his smile never wavering even as something changed in the air around them—a pressure that had nothing to do with mana and everything to do with the simple, undeniable weight of presence—"to free you from this life."
His next word came out soft, almost gentle, "Completely."
The crimson light from Tarnak's mana flickered.