Bumgok Land lay stretched like a golden quilt near the northwestern spine of Golpo Gaya, a broad plain that took its name from the mountain rising just beyond its northern border—Bumgok Mountain. Said to be the dwelling place of a sacred tiger spirit, the mountain was steeped in legend. For generations, it had been revered as the protector of wild beasts and humankind alike. Shrines built in its honor dotted the fields, where the people of Bumgok Land offered quiet prayers and burnt incense to the unseen guardian.
But when Goi arrived at the southern mouth of the plain, there was no trace of peace.
Villagers were fleeing. Clutching infants, dragging carts, calling for missing loved ones—they poured out of the village like a panicked tide. Screams rose from behind them. Fear quickened their pace.
Amid the chaos, a young man spotted Goi—a lone figure moving against the current. Dressed in a quiet gray dopo, two swords slung at his waist, the man walked toward the trouble with a calm that bordered on unsettling.
The young man hesitated. And then, heart pounding, he broke into a run.
"Hey! Sir—wait! Please, wait!" he cried, his voice cutting through the cacophony. He ran up to Goi, breath coming in hard gasps, and stopped just short of collapsing.
Goi turned to him with a faint, almost amused smile. His eyes—steady and clear—met the youth's with quiet patience.
"There's chaos in the village," the young man gasped, clutching his chest. "Please, turn back! It's not safe!"
Goi tilted his head slightly. "What's the matter?" he asked, his voice low and unhurried, as if the world weren't crumbling just over the next hill.
The young man, still winded, pressed his hand to his chest, trying to steady himself. "Tigers," he finally managed. "Three of them. They came down from the mountain—they're massive. Monsters. Tearing everything apart."
At that moment, the wind shifted. A faint chime rang from the bronze bells at Goi's waist—soft, deliberate, as if stirred by something other than wind.
Goi glanced toward the smoke curling above the rooftops. His fingers brushed the bells lightly.
"Not ordinary tigers," he murmured.
The young man—Dowoogi—nodded rapidly. "You're right! I saw them with my own eyes. Big as houses, I swear it! You need to run. Please, just go—before they see you."
But Goi's gaze had already returned to the village. His expression remained unreadable, yet in his eyes flickered something deeper—concern, perhaps. Not for himself, but for the people within.
Another scream rang out, closer this time. The crowd swelled in panic.
Dowoogi grabbed Goi's sleeve. "Please, sir! You'll die if you go in there!"
Goi looked at him—really looked at him. This trembling youth, who had risked time and safety to stop a stranger in the middle of chaos. There was fear in his eyes, yes. But also a kind of unthinking compassion. A willingness to reach back when the world shouted run.
Goi laid a steady hand on the young man's shoulder.
"For your kindness," he said gently, "I will face this danger."
Dowoogi stared. "You… you're going to deal with it? Alone?" His voice trembled with disbelief. "Are you mad?"
But Goi had already turned. In one fluid motion, he drew his steel blade—the metal catching what little sunlight filtered through the smoky haze—and stepped forward, each stride as deliberate as a drawn breath.
Over his shoulder, he called back to Dowoogi, "Find shelter. And wait for good news."
The words hung in the air, clear and calm.
Dowoogi stood frozen, torn between awe and terror. Then the crowd behind him broke apart again, and from its midst emerged a shape—striped, massive, eyes gleaming like twin lanterns.
A tiger.
It moved with slow, deliberate steps, each one thudding softly into the earth.
Dowoogi stumbled back, blood draining from his face.
But Goi didn't falter.
He walked forward—not with arrogance, but with stillness. As if the beast were not a beast at all, but simply a question that needed answering.
And so Dowoogi watched—watched as a man who could not ignore kindness walked straight into the jaws of myth.