The sun hits the tiles of the main dojo, casting long shadows across the wide stone courtyard. Two young warriors face off, surrounded by the distant murmur of servants and the sound of swords clashing in other training areas. Park Jong Gun, barely fourteen years old, throws his half-sibling to the ground with a sharp, precise hold.

"Get up," he spits coldly, not bothering to hide his contempt.

His voice is deep for his age, already tinged with the severity that others take years to develop. He stares with a frown, his lips pressed into a tight line.

"Is that all you've got? It makes me think we inherited different blood."

The half-sibling sits up, coughing slightly. Jong Geon spins on his heels and mechanically reaches out to help, but his gaze shows no compassion, only expectation.

"Don't think I'm like you. I don't have the luxury of being weak."