The night Jang Woo lost everything—his family, his name, his humanity—the Dark Lord was born.
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"It was only then I realized—loving the rain had never been a choice. It was written into us. Men, after all, were clay."
He sighed, the sound heavy, almost bitter. But why would such a thought cross my mind? Why now, of all times...?
He stood motionless by the iron-wrought entrance, his presence swallowed by the weight of shadows. Raindrops collided with stone and rusted metal, composing a rhythmic symphony that drummed against his skull. As a creature of darkness, he had long grown accustomed to the shadows that clung like armor to his being. Yet still, something restless stirred within him, something that longed—achingly—for the radiance beyond the gate.
From the far side drifted faint voices, carried and distorted by the rain. They mingled with the endless pitter-patter like ghostly chants. He strained to listen. They spoke of a fragrance— Petrichor, they called it. The name for the pleasant, earthy perfume that rose when rain struck the thirsty ground. A scent he had never appreciated, never even noticed—yet his heart seemed to recognize it at once, as though it had always belonged to him.
Perhaps, like parched soil, he too was thirsty for rain.
He knew, though he rarely admitted it, that beneath the vulgar exterior and beneath the heavy veil of shadow, there remained a quiet yearning—for something greater than the darkness that had devoured him. Perhaps that was why he so desperately wished to feel the storm directly upon his flesh, to stand beneath it, to let its touch scour him clean. Perhaps then, and only then, would the answers come.
He raised his hand toward the blinding brilliance that poured from the portal. For a heartbeat it seemed almost within his grasp—only to recoil, rejected by its force.
"Only if this hand could cross this border..." he thought, clenching his fist.
He tilted his head skyward, where three moons carved their silver marks against the fog-streaked heavens. "Well, looking at the three moons aligning... I suppose it is almost time. Soon enough, I shall be able to recall it all... And..."
A slow, crooked smirk curled across his lips. Turning away, he drifted into the deeper hellwoods, his stride long and deliberate, accompanied by two mangled hounds, their blood-slicked jaws glistening in the dim light.
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As he ventured further into the desolate landscape of the dark realm, the land stretched bleak and lifeless around him. It was there, amidst withered roots and shattered rocks, that his gaze fell upon a peculiar, glowing artifact, half-buried in the dirt as though the ground itself had tried and failed to swallow it.
Intrigued, he stooped and lifted it, examining it closely until he realized it was some kind of heirloom.
The moment his fingers closed around its surface, a violent surge of energy pulsed through him. His body stiffened. Pain lanced through his skull. Then came the visions; unknown images flared before his eyes.
A woman's face—she smiled at him first, radiant and kind. But in a blink, her form shifted—drenched in blood, her figure collapsing, her eyes hollow. Though the second vision obscured her features, he knew with unsettling certainty it was the same woman. The two images clashed violently within his mind, flickering back and forth until the agony tore through him, so sharp and consuming that he collapsed, his body surrendering to unconsciousness.
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When he awoke minutes later, the world seemed distant, blurred by pain. His head throbbed as he dragged himself upright. There, upon the ground beside him, the artifact still glowed faintly, whispering with its strange power.
"That woman..." His voice was hoarse. He tried to recall more, to pull her image into clarity, but each attempt only sharpened the pain until it felt as though his skull might split apart.
He raised his eyes to the fog-bound heavens. The three moons still hung above, two of them aligned in haunting symmetry. "It's coming back, isn't it," he muttered, half to himself. Yet the memories, though insistent, remained fragmented.
Driven by a pull he could not resist, he reached for the artifact again. It was carved from a substance like black glass, obsidian yet more ancient, etched with delicate Hanja that glowed faintly with an inner fire. A seal—perhaps a family's crest. But what family? What connection bound it to him? And why, always, that woman?
This time, when the images came, he forced himself to hold them steady. The woman's face resolved, kind eyes meeting his, lips curling into a gentle smile. A warmth spread through his chest, only to be ripped apart as her figure shifted again, drenched in blood. Pain surged, pressing down upon him until a sigh tore free from his lips.
"Who is this woman? What ties her fate to mine? Why is she drowned in such violence? Why does my chest burn so when I see her? And the worst of it—was it by my own hand?"
The questions stabbed at him in an endless torrent until he felt himself unravel.
And then—another memory surfaced. He was no longer in the dark realm, but standing in a vast courtyard awash with silk drapes. Lanterns swung gently from the trees, casting warm light upon a scene of celebration. A pair of geese wandered idly. A bridal palanquin gleamed, adorned with carvings of impossible detail and fabrics rich with color.
She was there. The woman. Her hand rested upon his, delicate and certain. She wore a Hanbok of exquisite silk, embroidered with cranes and peonies—symbols of longevity, of happiness, of futures unbroken. The guests smiled, their admiration unhidden, as the two of them performed the sacred rituals of union. He was not a lord of shadows in that memory. He was a man loved, a man whole.
But the scene collapsed like ash in the wind. Darkness rolled in. Her smile curdled into fear. Then she was gone.
The memory struck him like a blow to the chest. He gasped awake, eyes wet with tears. The realization stung deeper than any blade. He, the dark lord, the merciless one—how could he shed tears for a memory?
But it was no blurred vision. It was as sharp as any wound. So sharp, in fact, that he could not escape it. For the first time in countless years, he wondered if perhaps he still possessed a heart.
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Burdened and restless, he began the long march back to his valley. The journey took two days, winding through barren lands and forests where countless creatures stirred. Some bowed as he passed, their fear instinctive. Others lingered near smaller, dimmer portals, too enthralled by their glow to move. His two monstrous hounds followed close, their breaths hot and ragged, their eyes gleaming like coals in the dark.
At last he reached his den. The hounds sprawled at the threshold, growling low as if guarding him from unseen threats. Inside, the shadowless lord finally found solitude, a moment carved out for him to wrestle with the fragments of his past.
But solitude, he soon learned, was not what fate had arranged for him.