The rumors came fast after that.
Too fast to ignore.
Pre-Generation fighters disappearing.Old names whispered only in past tense.Men who once ruled the streets reduced to shadows—or corpses.
Some fled.
Some hid.
Some tried to fight back.
None of it mattered.
Korea was being cleaned.
Quietly.
Efficiently.
Not by the First Generation.
We were still standing—still kings, still monsters, still dominant. Cities remained under our rule. Our names still carried weight. People still feared us.
But we weren't the target.
Not yet.
The Pre-Generation had been something else entirely.
They were legends before legends existed. Untouchable figures. The peak before peaks had names.
And now?
They were gone.
Thrown into the dark corners of history like mistakes someone wanted forgotten.
I stood on the same warehouse rooftop where Gapryong had visited me months ago, the wind tugging at my coat as the city stretched out below.
Ten seconds into the future showed me nothing.
Just stillness.
That scared me more than violence ever could.
"So this is how it ends," I muttered. "Not with a roar… but with people pretending you never existed."
I clenched my fist.
Not in anger.
In conviction.
The First Generation Kings still ruled—for now. But the world was shifting, and whatever was coming next didn't care about history, loyalty, or legacy.
It cared about control.
And for the first time since I became King of Ulsan…
I realized something.
Gapryong Kim's era wasn't just ending.
It was being buried.
I exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"…Guess I'll keep protecting," I said quietly.
"Someone's gotta remember."
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Night settled over Ulsan like it always did.
Quiet. Heavy. Unmoving.
I stood at the edge of the harbor, boots planted on concrete darkened by years of salt and oil, watching the water roll in slow, tired waves. The city behind me hummed softly—engines, distant voices, metal grinding against metal.
Alive.
Gapryong Kim wasn't.
That thought no longer felt sharp.
It felt cold.
Death itself wasn't strange to me. I'd seen enough bodies hit the ground to know the difference between endings that mattered and endings that didn't. But this—this wasn't right. Not for him. Not for a man who once held the entire country in his fists and told monsters where to kneel.
An alley?
No witnesses?
No resistance?
I exhaled slowly.
Ten seconds into the future shimmered faintly.
Nothing.
No danger.No attack.No interruption.
Just me.
Someone had to know.
Not rumors. Not speculation. Not news anchors reading off scripts they didn't understand. Someone who had stood beside him. Someone who had bled with him.
"…Someone has to know how you died, teach."
The words came out as a whisper, carried away by the sea wind.
And then—
A name surfaced.
Not shouted.Not forced.
Just… there.
"Jinyoung Park."
I said it quietly, like speaking too loud might scare the thought away.
The Fist Gang.
All of them were close, but Jinyoung had been different. Where others led with force or pride, he led with understanding. He saw people, not just fighters. If anyone knew the truth—if anyone had noticed something wrong before the world decided to move on—
It would be him.
I clenched my hand, feeling conviction settle in my chest like a weight I'd been missing.
"…Alright," I muttered. "Guess I've got a job."
I wasn't going to let Gapryong Kim be erased.
Not while I was breathing.
Leaving Ulsan wasn't dramatic.
No farewell. No announcement.
The city didn't need one.
It knew I'd come back.
I packed light. Jacket. Phone. A little cash. Didn't need much else. People tended to give you space when you were my size and carried my name.
As the bus pulled out, Ulsan shrinking in the window, I felt something unfamiliar twist in my gut.
Not fear.
Responsibility.
"Protect," the old man had said.
He hadn't told me what.
Maybe this was it.
Seoul was louder.
Angrier.
Like a city constantly grinding its teeth.
I stepped off the bus and stretched, shoulders rolling as my phone buzzed in my hand. I glanced at the screen and typed with one thumb, casual as ever.
Bouya: I'll be visiting your city for a while. Let's meet up for a drink.
I hit send.
Didn't add context.Didn't explain.
That snake would understand.
He always did.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket and looked out over the streets of Seoul, eyes scanning faces, buildings, shadows. Somewhere in this city were answers. Somewhere were men who had once stood at the top of the world—and had survived long enough to be forgotten.
Former members of the Fist Gang.
Ghosts.
I smiled faintly.
"Guess I'm dragging the past back into the light," I said to no one.
The Golden Lion had stopped waiting.
And for the first time since Gapryong Kim's death, the future—ten seconds ahead or ten years—didn't feel empty anymore.
It felt inevitable.
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In a building somewhere in Seoul, Jichang Kwak, the King of Seoul, was sitting in his office before he got a message
Jichang saw the message while standing in a quiet room that smelled faintly of ink and old paper.
He didn't rush.
Didn't react.
He glanced down at his phone, eyes scanning the words once, then again. The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile.
"…Interesting," he muttered.
He typed a reply with practiced calm.
Jichang:You know where I'll be.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and exhaled slowly.
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Some visits were never casual.
The place was small.
Too small for either of us.
A narrow eat-out joint tucked between taller buildings, the kind that survived purely because it refused to die. Plastic chairs, metal tables, steam rising from grills packed too close together. The air smelled like sizzling beef and garlic, mixed with Seoul's ever-present exhaust.
I was already there when Jichang arrived, leaning back in my chair like it might collapse under my weight. The owner eyed me nervously but didn't say a word.
People rarely did.
Jichang approached calmly, coat neat, posture straight. He stopped when he reached the table and looked me up and down.
"…You're taller than I remember."
"Growth spurt," I grinned. "Happens when you don't stress."
He snorted softly and sat down.
We ordered without looking at the menus.
Some things didn't change.
Food came quickly. Beef hit the grill, fat crackling as smoke curled upward between us. For a while, neither of us spoke. Just the sound of eating, of a city pretending not to watch two kings share a table.
"So," I said eventually, popping a piece of meat into my mouth. "How've you been?"
"Busy," Jichang replied. "You?"
"Still unemployed."
He glanced at me.
"…Figures."
I laughed.
We talked.
About small things.About nothing important.
The kind of conversation men like us used to pretend the world was still simple.
Then I tilted my head slightly, eyes half-lidded.
"Hey," I said casually, "I heard a Busan kid was going around. Challenging you all before he went to prison."
Jichang's chopsticks paused mid-air.
He sighed.
"Yeah," he said after a moment. "A wolf."
That word lingered.
"I met him when I went to find the King of Cheonliang," he continued. "Happened to meet them both. I told him to stop being a dog."
Measured.Controlled.
I narrowed my eyes.
"…So it was you," I said slowly, "that convinced him to kill Dalyoung Oh."
The air shifted.
The sizzle of the grill suddenly felt too loud.
Jichang set his chopsticks down and reached for his glass, fingers tightening around it as he looked at me with narrowed eyes.
"Is that why you're here?" he asked quietly.
The glass creaked.
I watched him for a long second.
Then I sighed.
"Nah."
I leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms before lifting my cup and taking a drink.
"I've got some business to attend to in this city."
His eyes didn't leave me.
Silence stretched.
Then I smiled.
A little too easily.
"By the way," I added, tilting my head, "you reckon you can get me a suit? All black."
That finally made his brow lift.
"I assume it's for Gapryong Kim's funeral," he said.
I nodded.
Then, without asking, I reached over and stole a piece of beef from his plate, popping it into my mouth.
Jichang twitched.
"I can get you one," he said tightly.
I nodded again, smiling.
"Thanks."
I chewed, then side-eyed him.
"You know," I said casually, "a car would—"
"Don't push it, Bouya."
He cut me off with a frustrated huff.
I froze.
Then slowly reached over and took all the remaining beef from his plate.
Jichang's eye twitched.
"Fine then," I huffed, turning away and crossing my arms. "Just get me the suit, you stingy bastard."
He clenched his glass.
"Just stop being broke and get a job."
I gasped dramatically.
"Wow," I said. "That's low."
"It's meant to be."
I stared at him.
Then laughed.
The tension eased—just enough.
But beneath the jokes, beneath the stolen food and cracked glasses, we both knew something.
The past had started moving again.
And it wasn't stopping.