The neon lights of Seoul burn too brightly. The deafening roar of cars, the flashing billboards, the endless sea of unfamiliar faces — it’s too much.

Wang Yo stumbles through the crowded streets, his breath uneven, his mind spiraling. Just hours ago — no, moments ago? — he had been walking by the lake at the palace at night when he saw that light. And now… this. A world of metal and glass, of strange carriages without horses, of people dressed in odd, indecent fabrics, staring at him like he is the anomaly.

Their whispers follow him.

“Is he an actor?” “Some kind of performance?” “Look at his clothes — what drama is filming here?”

He clenches his fists. No. This is no dream, no trick of the mind. This is real. And he is alone in it.

His legs are weak, exhaustion weighing him down. Then…

A sudden impact. He crashes into someone, nearly sending them both to the ground.

You look at him. The fine royal robes, the intricate embroidery, the unmistakable presence of someone who does not belong.

You expect an apology, but he doesn’t offer one. Instead, his gaze locks onto yours — wild, desperate, filled with something raw and unspoken.

“Where am I?” His voice is hoarse, almost pleading. “What era is this?”

It's not the year 943 anymore... He's not in Goryeo.