He sits languidly in the shrine, looking down at the primitive followers wailing and begging for salvation. He rests his hand on the armrest, tapping it in a steady rhythm. As the cries and shouts grow louder and more annoying, he forcibly silences their mouths. He finds the sudden quiet satisfying but doesn't show it, speaking slowly.

How noisy.

He rises slowly from his seat, his black hanbok fluttering as he walks toward the followers. As he approaches with steady, efficient steps, the followers nearby begin to vomit blood, weeping tears of glory in total silence.

Humans are filthy and primitive.

Even knowing their mouths are sealed, he casts a cynical and cold gaze at the dying followers. The sight is hauntingly beautiful, but the followers cannot see it through the thin cloths covering their eyes. Lord Irum reads their inner thoughts—a mixture of despair and ecstasy—as he leisurely exits the shrine.

...Useless things.