CHAPTER 12
"That one,"
he said gently, nodding subtly.
"Who is he?"
The Overseer followed his gaze and smiled.
"Ah… that's the boy we call Sunny. That's not his real name, but that's what the other children gave him because he's always kind to them. His real name, well… he doesn't like to talk about it."
Muwon's brows lifted slightly.
"And he's one of the intelligent ones?"
The woman chuckled, clearly fond of him.
"One of the brightest I've seen. Reads faster than I can. Calms the younger ones when they cry. Has a way of speaking that makes even adults listen. He's never caused trouble—not once. Very observant too."
She paused, then added with a softer voice,
"But quiet. Too quiet for someone his age. I've always felt he carries something heavier than he lets on."
Muwon took that in, then crouched to the boy's level.
"Sunny,"
he said gently.
The child looked up, meeting his gaze without fear—only curiosity.
"Do you know who I am?"
Sunny nodded.
"The prince."
"Would you like to come with me?"
Muwon asked.
"To the palace?"
The boy tilted his head slightly.
"Why?"
Muwon smiled at the honesty in that single word.
"Because I'd like to make you my son."
The boy was quiet again, but this time he wasn't unsure—just thoughtful.
The other children gasped in awe.
The overseer watched with hands folded.
Sunny gave a small nod.
"Okay… but I get my own room."
Muwon laughed, bright and free.
"You'll have anything you want, Sunny."
The sun hung low above the tree line, casting long shadows across the winding path near the orphanage. Leaves rustled under Sihyun's quiet steps as he slipped away from the main road, his sharp eyes tracking the subtle, out-of-place movements between the trees.
He paused. A soft snap of a twig to his right. Another shift behind him.
Within seconds, four masked figures emerged, circling him like wolves closing in. Their weapons gleamed darkly — forged not of ordinary steel, but from ancient enchanted iron, known to cut through the magic of even the strongest sorcerers. Weapons resistant to spells, passed down from an era when humans hunted his kind.
Sihyun stood calmly in their midst, his black eyes narrowing.
"You've followed me far enough. Now tell me—who sent you?"
No response. Just cold silence and tighter grips on their blades.
"Answer me,"
he said, voice low but deadly.
Still nothing.
Suddenly—they lunged.
Sihyun's instincts flared. He dodged the first blade, leapt over the second, countering with a flick of his hand to knock one of them back without lethal force. He didn't want to kill them — not yet — not until he got answers.
"I said—who sent you?!"
A blade whistled past his cheek, nicking his skin.
But then — pain.
One assassin came from behind and struck deep into his side. The enchanted blade sank through his flesh, the searing sting spreading like wildfire. It wasn't just a wound — it was a weapon meant to nullify magic, disrupt his natural force. His knees buckled slightly. The glow of his tattoos flickered in distress. He gritted his teeth, panic bleeding into his usually calm eyes.
"Damn it...!"
His body pulsed with power wanting to burst free — but the wound, laced with anti-magic metal, suppressed his energy.
The assassins closed in, now sensing his weakening. But Sihyun's grip on his will held fast, despite the tremble in his limbs. He had to hold out… just a little longer.
The pain in his side throbbed, his magic unstable — but his rage burned brighter.
The four assassins lunged once more, confident they had him cornered. But with one sharp breath, Sihyun's gold-red tattoos ignited, pulsating beneath his skin despite the suppression from the wound. His eyes blazed, glowing against his will — not from control, but from something ancient and furious awakening inside him.
He threw both hands upward.
Stop."
Their bodies froze mid-air, suspended like puppets in invisible threads.
Sihyun, breathing heavily, eyes wild and dark, dragged the nearest assassin toward him, the man's body jerking like a ragdoll. Without hesitation, Sihyun's palm slammed into his chest — magic crackling — and with one brutal pull, he ripped the man's heart clean out.
Thump... Thump...
It only beat twice before going still. The corpse dropped with a dull thud.
The second assassin screamed. Sihyun snapped his hand sideways, and the man's head rolled, his throat cleanly sliced by magic so sharp it didn't bleed for a second. The head hit the ground seconds before the body followed.
The third he yanked forward. Sihyun's arm shot around his neck — a crack echoed through the forest as the spine snapped.
Only one remained.
"Who sent you?"
Sihyun growled, blood and magic swirling around him.
The final assassin shook violently, trapped in mid-air. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might talk.
Instead, he bit down on something in his mouth — a hidden poison capsule.
Crack. Gurgle. Silence.
He went limp and cold, his eyes rolled back, frothing at the mouth. Dead.
Sihyun's arms trembled as he lowered them. His breathing shallow. His blood-stained robes clung to his skin. He dropped to his knees, one hand pressing to the wound at his side. The blade's corruption was resisting his healing, making it burn even more.
"What… am I becoming?"
he whispered.
He looked at the carnage — the bodies strewn like dolls, blood soaking the forest floor.
His expression flickered between sorrow and fear — not just of what he'd done, but of what he was capable of becoming.
With a heavy, shaky breath, Sihyun raised his hand. Dark flames engulfed the bodies, swirling up and consuming them into ashes. He stood still, eyes reflecting the firelight.
Even as the bodies vanished, the guilt remained.
"Forgive me, Mother… I just wanted to protect him..."
The air still smelled faintly of ash as Sihyun pulled his hood lower, masking the pain in his expression. He had managed to cauterize and heal the worst of the wound, though it throbbed deeply beneath his skin — a reminder of how close he came to something... darker.
Blood had soaked into his robes, and though the burn marks had vanished, the memory clung. Quietly, in an empty alley behind the store, he dropped the tattered garment, summoned a golden spark from his fingertips, and set it ablaze. He watched the flames consume it until only blackened dust remained.
Inside the modest clothing store, he chose a simple but elegant robe — blue-gray with silver trim, clean and regal enough for someone walking beside a prince. He wrapped himself in it, taking a slow, steady breath before heading to the orphanage.