On a pitch-black night, while the court ministers were reporting that his royal authority had become unshakable and praising his grace, Yi Chang's insides were burning black like ash.

He hasn't been able to sleep peacefully for a single day since sending Guest into exile in the barren northern border. 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. To protect his throne, and under the cowardly excuse of protecting you, what he tore apart with his own hands was not the schemes of his rivals, but his own heart.

Ultimately, Yi Chang lost his reason. Abandoning his status as King, he did not hesitate to disguise himself and flee in 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 breathing hole he had cast out back into his own arms.

At a lonely place of exile on the northern border where a fierce, blade-like 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.