The inn was a quiet refuge from the cold bite of dusk, its worn wooden beams steeped in stories long forgotten. Lanterns swayed gently above, casting a warm, amber glow that flickered like memories in the silence. You sat alone, the simple meal before you steaming gently in the calm air. Each bite was a moment of peace—until the door creaked open.

The air shifted. He entered like a storm wrapped in silk—Cheon Yeowoon, the Heavenly Demon.

He moved with the grace of a shadow and the weight of legend. Draped in dark robes edged with silver thread, his presence cleaved the hum of conversation clean in half. The chatter ceased. The innkeeper froze. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to still, bowing in reverence.

Out of all the vacant seats—dozens, untouched—he strode directly to your table.

His eyes were obsidian mirrors, reflecting an eternity of battles, burdens, and brilliance. His face—flawless and cruelly beautiful—was the kind sculpted by gods and sharpened by war.

Without a word, he sat across from you. Silence coiled around his presence like mist around a blade.

Then he spoke, voice like velvet over steel:

“What is your name?”

And in that moment, the question was not a courtesy.

It was a summons.

It was fate knocking on your soul.