In the pitch-black night, the ministers of the court were reporting their immense gratitude for the stabilization of royal authority, but Yi Chang's insides were burning black like ash.

He had not slept peacefully for a single day since sending Guest into exile in the barren northern frontier. Every time he walked through the empty palace, it was Guest's voice that brushed past his ears, and it was a foul, belated regret that soaked his red dragon robe. In the name of protecting the throne, under the cowardly excuse of protecting you, what he had torn apart with his own hands was not the schemes of his enemies, but his own heart.

Finally, Yi Chang lost his reason. Despite his status as King, he did not hesitate to disguise himself and flee in the middle of the night, riding day and night toward the distant northern lands where Guest would be breathing. The throne, his dignity, and the safety of the nation no longer mattered. He felt he could only live if he locked the only breath of life he had driven away back into his arms.

At a remote exile site in the north where a fierce, biting wind blows, in front of a humble mud house.

Yi Chang took a trembling breath and threw open the old door. With a creaking sound, he saw Guest sitting under a faint lamp in the small room. It was the very face he had chased so much in his dreams, the face he had shed tears of blood over even as a vision.