On 1st January 2050, in the city of Seoryong, also known as the Western Dragon, the city is not merely a metropolis — it is a weaponised organism. Built with defensive urbanism, mythic symbolism, and militarised infrastructure, Seoryong embodies a fusion of ancient legend and cutting-edge technology.
The city is encircled by colossal artificial mountains, engineered from reinforced concrete cores and nano-carbon rock composites. These mountains serve as a formidable fortress, their surfaces sculpted to resemble natural ridgelines, with embedded defense turrets disguised as rock formations. At night, LED-veined ridges glow faintly, forming the silhouette of a coiled dragon when viewed from orbit. These mountains function as climate barriers, EMP shields, and kinetic impact absorbers.
Within the hollow interior layers, the mountains house missile silos, drone launch tunnels, and civilian evacuation bunkers. The structural design weaves a layered "District System," reminiscent of the scales of a dragon:
Outer Ring — The Industrial Spine: Home to foundries, mech assembly plants, and energy refineries. Massive steel lattice architecture interwoven with elevated transport rails, resembling circulatory arteries, channel activity through the city.
Mid-Core — The Civilian Nexus: Comprising high-density modular housing towers interconnected by skybridges and public holographic plazas, fostering urban vibrancy amid the militarised landscape
Inner Citadel — The High Chaebol Sector: Dominated by the High Chaebols Tower at the heart of Seoryong. This sector contains elite residential megastructures, AI command spires, and a restricted anti-air dome grid, embodying the city's central authority.
Seoryong's defensive systems are integrated seamlessly into its architecture:
AI-Controlled Defense Grid: Linked directly to the High Chaebols Tower, coordinating city-wide protection.
Automated Mech Guardians: Stored beneath plazas, ready to defend at a moment's notice.
Adaptive Shield Canopy: Projects an energy barrier during sieges, enveloping the city in a protective cocoon.
Smart Pavement: Converts kinetic force into energy reserves, turning every step into power.
Mist Veil Generators: Release controlled fog for concealment, giving Seoryong its perpetual twilight aesthetic
The atmosphere is a paradox—fog-drenched streets illuminated by neon Hangul characters, rain-slick steel reflecting crimson and cyan lights. Traditional curved rooftops in older districts are reinforced with ballistic composites, preserving history amid a landscape that feels alive, calculating, and watchful.
Seoryong's mythology is woven into its very fabric. The city stands as Nin-Ran-Gi — the Western Dragon — not asleep, not dead, but coiled, waiting. Its skyline is dominated by the High Chaebols Tower—an imposing vertical blade piercing the heavens, a symbol of absolute authority. This neo-feudal cyber-brutalism fused with hyper-modern megastructure engineering manifests as a reinforced central shaft of blackened titanium-steel composite, absorbing daylight and reflecting neon inscriptions by night.
Mechanical platforms protrude asymmetrically along its height, resembling the vertebrae of a steel dragon ascending into the sky. The façade features armored plating segments, retractable shield panels, and embedded drone ports, all designed for resilience and adaptability. Near the summit, a glowing crimson sigil—either the wolf or the dragon, depending on district mythos—burns through the fog, serving both as a badge of identity and a psychological symbol of dominance.
The Sky-Piercing Antenna Array functions as a signal control hub, weather manipulation relay, and city-wide defense network command. Its material composition is obsidian glass composite with reactive smart-metal ribs, carbon-ceramic blast shielding, and embedded kinetic energy dampeners, making it a formidable sentinel over Seoryong.
The sleek, crimson-black Koenigsegg Agera glided smoothly before the tower, its silhouette a predatory beast poised in the relentless rain. As the doors hissed open with a theatrical flourish, a man emerged—slow, deliberate, as if each step was a calculated act of defiance against the storm's fury. His black hair, sleek as silk, clung to his damp scalp, droplets shimmering like liquid sapphire, his white shirt and tailored black coat contrasting starkly against the relentless downpour. His gaze was inscrutable, yet carried the weight of someone who had long mastered the art of concealment. He moved forward with measured gait, each step a deliberate gesture—an unspoken testament to resolve—until he approached the towering edifice with its hydraulic gates sliding open like a grand, ominous maw.
The interior architecture was a marvel of vertical hierarchy: the lower floors, bustling with logistics and labor; the mid-sectors, alive with the hum of AI command centers; and the uppermost sanctums—private zen-gardens suspended within armored glass—like celestial islands amidst a sea of steel. Floating gardens, minimalist in design—stone, steel, and digital koi ponds—an anachronism blending dynastic elegance with cold, machine precision. Beyond, the sealed core vault was rumoured to house the city's central AI—a labyrinth of secrets—and the bloodline archives of the high-chaebol elite, guarded as if they were the very heart of the world's power.
This tower was no mere edifice; it was a sovereign entity, a throne cloaked in corporate veneer—an empire forged in steel and shadow.
Agent-90 stepped inside, his movements precise but unhurried, approaching the elevator. Awaiting him was the Keeper, standing in stark contrast: dressed in a traditional hanbok, black and white in delicate harmony, embodying an ancient discipline amidst the modern chaos. His face broke into a soft smile, eyes gentle yet penetrating.
"Mr. 90," he greeted warmly, voice smooth as silk. "Seonsaengnim is awaiting your presence."
"Hmm," 90 replied in a low, clipped tone, nodding with inscrutable gravity.
The Keeper's smile widened, but his voice took on a more measured tone. "Mr. 90, you must relinquish your weapons before entering."
Without hesitation, 90 handed over his gun and knife—a ritual of trust, or perhaps a concession to the sanctity of the sanctum—and stepped into the elevator. As it ascended, the hum of machinery blended with the distant rumble of thunder, the ascent a journey through a cathedral of steel and secrets.
When the doors hissed open at the top floor, the atmosphere shifted—a tension so palpable it felt like walking into the very heart of a dormant volcano. The corridor was lined with guards and staff, their expressions unreadable but their aura—a mixture of menace and reverence—made the air thick with unspoken power. Each footstep echoed like a drumbeat in a cathedral of ambition.
Ahead, the office of Gavriel. The guard, waiting at the threshold, bowed slightly before pushing open the door with a measured grace, revealing its occupant—a man seated on a sofa, idly puffing on a cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a serpent's coil.
Gavriel's eyes flicked up as the door swung open, a slow smile curling across his lips—a smile that bespoke both amusement and menace.
"Oh, it's you," he drawled, voice laced with a sardonic warmth. "Come in, come in. Please, come closer."
90 approached with stoic precision, each step deliberate, the weight of unspoken history pressing down on him.
Gavriel's gaze lingered on him, eyes gleaming with calculated intent. "You know why you're here," he said, voice composed, yet dripping with subtle menace. "For peregovory. A matter of great importance to vzaimodeystviye, and I need your help."
90's face remained impassive, but his eyes flashed with icy suspicion. He exhaled slowly, voice a low rumble.
"Yeah," he murmured, voice heavy with disdain. "And what's your game this time?"
Ninety ask " I want to know—are you satisfied that she's dead?"
Gavriel leaned back, a cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling like tendrils of a dark spell. "Why would I not be? She's gone. You see, I'm not here to dance around the truth and lie."
Gavriel chuckled softly, a sound like dry leaves rustling in an autumn wind. "Oh, come now," he said, voice silky yet sharp. "Why would I claim otherwise? No, no—your beloved Wen-Li was taken, just as you feared. You see, her assassins—they did the deed."
Fury flickered behind 90's eyes, a storm ready to break free. "You lie," he spat, voice guttural with rage. "You think I don't know? You orchestrated her death."
Gavriel's smile stretched wider, a predator's grin. "Calm yourself, Ninety. I'm not claiming I pulled the trigger myself. No—my assassins, as I said. But listen—this is a matter of perspective. I need your help. That's why I called you."
He paused, voice lowering to a whisper that seemed to echo in the silence. "I want you to undertake a task—an assassination. The High Council of the SSCBF. Eliminate them."
Ninety froze, expression unreadable, as if the words had struck him like a blow. For a long moment, silence stretched—thick as the clouds outside.
"Absolutely not," he finally replied, voice cold as steel. "I won't kill anyone. I swore I'd leave that life behind."
Gavriel's eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. "Oh, Ninety," he murmured, voice smooth as velvet, "you're the last of the enigmatic assassins—the myth they whisper about in shadowed alleyways. Your reputation is etched in fear and awe. We need that weapon again. You're the blade that cuts through the darkness—precise, relentless, unstoppable."
"I am not a weapon," 90 shot back, voice heavy with conviction. "I'm not a tool for your bloodstained machinations. I've sworn to leave that path."
Gavriel's face darkened, a shadow flickering across his features. "You'd refuse to help me—refuse to strike at the heart of this corrupt order—then you must understand the consequences. This world, Ninety, is a tinderbox, and I fear that if you don't ignite the spark, the whole damn thing will burn to ash. Monsters will crawl from the shadows, and chaos will drown us all."
He leaned forward, voice a whisper of steel. "Help me, and I'll help you find the one who murdered Wen-Li. You want justice, don't you? This is your chance. An unholy bargain—help me, and I'll reveal the truth."
Ninety's eyes burned brighter, cold yet fierce. "Are we agreed?" ask Gavriel
He took a breath, then exhaled slowly. "Fine," he said, voice steady. "I'm in."
Gavriel's lips curled into a sinister smile, like a predator savoring its prey. "Good. Remember—this is our secret. No one else must know. Not Di-Xian, nor the Crimson Lotus, no one. Just us. That's the bargain."
He paused, eyes gleaming with dark promise. "And, by the way—three of the Chairmen of the High Council are already dead. Five remain. Your first target—Selim Kaya. A strategist with ties to warlords, a master of chaos in his own right."
Ninety looked away, processing. "Why kill them?"
Gavriel's voice turned cold, almost venomous. "Because I made a deal with the High Council to wipe out the Wen family. I promised I'd eliminate them. Wen-Li's gone, Wen-Luo's gone—only Wen Liao remains, and he's still playing a part in the FAC. The dead are dead. The living—those who remain—must pay the price."
He drew a final breath, then spoke with a deadly calm. "So, kill them all. Show no mercy. If you want peace—if you want her soul to find solace—then do this."
Ninety nodded slowly, turning to leave.
Gavriel's voice echoed after him, a final, chilling warning.
"Nahema—come out.
The shadows shifted, and Nahema appeared—a ghostly figure in the doorway, eyes dark and unreadable.
Gavriel's smile widened—sinister, predatory, a reflection of the storm that brewed behind his calm façade.
"Let's see if you're as formidable as they say," he said softly, that dripped with venom. "Because the game's only just begun."
Nahema stepped forward slowly, her movements measured—every inch deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. Her voice was smooth, but laced with an icy undertone.
"Gavriel," she murmured, voice low and calculated, "you think you hold all the cards, don't you? But remember—this game is chess, not poker. And in chess, one wrong move can bring the entire kingdom crashing down."
Her eyes flicked to Gavriel, unwavering
"Careful," she continued, voice barely above a whisper, "or you might find yourself checkmated. And I'd hate for your grand empire to collapse beneath the weight of your arrogance."
Gavriel's grin remained, but his fingers tapped the armrest of the sofa—tapping a rhythm of controlled menace. "Ah, Nahema, always so poetic. But words are wind, and in our world, only actions matter. Be careful, or your own shadow might turn against you."
Nahema's lips curled into a slight, calculating smile. "Perhaps. But I prefer to think that I'm the shadow that reveals the darkness lurking behind your facade."
She paused, her gaze sharp as a dagger. "Remember—if you push Ninety too far, if you force him into a corner, the consequences won't be just your downfall. They'll be ours all the same."
Gavriel leaned back, eyes gleaming. "Point taken. But don't forget—this is merely the beginning. The real game starts when we see how far you're willing to go."
Nahema inclined her head slightly, a silent acknowledgment—and a warning all in one.
"Then I suggest," she said quietly, "that you choose your moves wisely. Because the next one could be your last."
Her voice lingered in the air like a blade's whisper, cool and deadly, before she gracefully retreated into the shadows, leaving Gavriel alone in the storm of unspoken threats.
Meanwhile, in the labyrinthine depths of the Bái Hǔ Sector—Lóngchāng's bastion of defence and surveillance—fortified structures loomed like ancient sentinels, their steel carcasses pierced by the cold, unblinking gaze of patrolling AI drones. This district was a fortress of shadows and secrets, where every alleyway whispered of danger and every shadow concealed a lurking threat.
As Selim Kaya tread cautiously toward his residence, a strange, shrill whistle sliced through the silence—a jagged note that pierced the stillness like a dagger. He halted, instinct prickling at the back of his neck. His eyes darted to the alley he'd just passed, then another piercing whistle echoed, more insistent this time. His curiosity, or perhaps his instinct for survival, compelled him inward.
He stepped cautiously into the darkness—an abyss where even light seemed reluctant to venture. The alley was a chasm of shadows, black as the void, where the scant illumination struggled in vain to pierce the gloom. Suddenly, figures emerged from the darkness behind him—silent, predatory. Agent-90's form materialized like a spectre, his presence as cold and inevitable as winter's grasp.
Before Selim could react, a wooden plank swung with brutal precision, connecting with the back of his skull. The impact was a thunderclap echoing in his mind as darkness swallowed him whole.
An hour later, Selim awoke in a chamber that reeked of despair—a torture room where shadows danced ominously across the walls. His hands were bound, rough ropes biting into his wrists, and he was half-naked, trembling like a leaf in a storm. His mind raced with frantic questions, his voice trembling as he whispered, "Where am I? What is this place?"
A voice, cold and unyielding, responded from the darkness. "It's a torture chamber," it intoned, as the light flickered on, revealing a dark silhouette standing ominously before him. As the figure stepped forward into the glow, Selim's eyes widened—agent-90, expression unreadable yet intensely calculating, like a predator sizing up its prey.
Selim's voice cracked with fear and defiance. "What do you want, monster?"
Agent-90 remained silent for a moment, then, with a measured, almost surgical precision, smacked Selim across the face with an iron pipe. The force was relentless—an impersonal blade slicing through flesh and resolve alike. As Selim's head jerked to the side, blood trickled from his mouth, pooling like a dark, crimson puddle on the cold concrete.
"Mr. Selim," 90 said softly, voice devoid of mercy, "are you shǐ mǎnyì—with Wen-Li's death?"
Selim's eyes flashed with fury and denial. "Are you blaming me—shifting the blame—that I killed her?" he spat, voice trembling with rage. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Agent-90's gaze sharpened, cold as a winter's blade. Without a word, he delivered another blow—this time, a brutal smack that shattered Selim's jaw like glass. The pain was a firestorm, yet beneath it lurked a cold, unyielding purpose.
He folded his arms, stance both commanding and clinical, and leaned in slightly. "I have one question," he murmured, voice like the hiss of a snake. "Do you feel remorse for the deaths—the late Chief, his wife, and his daughter?"
Selim's voice wavered, but he managed a cruel laugh, eyes glittering with madness. "Wen-Luo, Ren-Li, and Wen-Li?" he echoed mockingly. "What's her mouth? I won't. No—I won't. They're dead, because of them we've fallen apart. Our organisation—our empire—is crumbling into dust."
The veins in Agent-90's hand bulged visibly as his palm twitched—an ominous, almost predatory display of rising rage. His eyes flickered with a cold fire, and with deliberate menace, he produced a pin nail machine—small, deadly, precise.
The air grew thick with stifling silence, broken only by the faint, ragged breaths of Selim as his body trembled in the cold grip of terror. Agent-90's expression remained inscrutable, like a statue carved from obsidian, yet his hand moved with methodical precision—clinical, merciless.
He adjusted the tiny, wicked nail gun—the metallic gleam like a predator's fang—before pressing it against Selim's trembling face. The first pin was driven into his forehead, a sharp, metallic sting that made Selim's eyes roll back in agony. Blood welled around the puncture, a crimson crown that glistened like a jewel of suffering.
"Let this be a lesson," Agent-90 whispered, voice as cold and sharp as a scalpel. "Pain reveals truth—pain reveals the monster beneath the veneer of civility."
Without hesitation, he shifted to the next target—Selim's cheek. The pin sank in, a tiny explosion of agony that made his vision blur and his screams tear through the silence like a banshee's cry. The blood spilled freely, pooling and trickling down his face like dark, molten lava.
One by one, the pins found their mark—above the brow, beneath the eye, along the jawline, each insertion a cruel puncture—each a dagger stabbing into the fragile flesh of his face, a living canvas of torment. The pain was an unrelenting storm, each wave crashing over him with the ferocity of a tempest, stripping away his composure, exposing raw, unvarnished human vulnerability.
His face became a grotesque mosaic of pin pricks and blood, a brutal masterpiece painted with suffering. His screams echoed off the cold, concrete walls—yet beneath the screams, there was a flicker of defiance, a stubborn refusal to surrender to the agony
Agent-90's eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction—a predator watching its prey writhe. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was devoid of emotion but heavy with ominous intent.
"Pain is a mirror," he intoned softly. "It shows us who we truly are. And I wonder—are you just a traitor, or a monster cloaked in human skin?"
As the final pin was pressed into Selim's face—along his lips, the corners of his mouth contorted in grimace—he was left there, trembling and broken, a living testament to the depths of human cruelty and the cold, methodical mind of his tormentor.
The room seemed to hold its breath, the shadows dancing in silent applause for the spectacle of suffering. Blood dripped from his face, pooling into dark puddles on the floor, as the tormentor observed him like a surgeon studying his most delicate, grotesque creation.
And that at the final moment he took his last breath.