Book 1: Chapter 28 - The Ill-made Knight [Part 1]
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Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.
- Franz Kafka
He was in the throes of joy and despair. How could such a simple thing bring about these emotions? His employer, Myeong Mirae, the de facto president of the most powerful conglomerate in the country, had remembered his name.
It was a small thing, yet the greatest of things. Mirae was famous for not remembering anyone unless they were significant. He had observed her over countless hours; his entire life's focus was her. Added to this was an amalgamation of other details, like Mirae no longer doing her morning yoga routine or the fact that she had taken up completely new hobbies like fencing and archery and had almost immediately excelled at them. Not to mention her recent interest… in gambling. From horses, casinos, and underground fights, he had accompanied her to all of these places.
He understood her, perhaps in ways that she did not understand herself. His mistress had changed, and he had a feeling she was not the same.
He opened the door to his home, taking off his shoes before throwing his coat onto the small brown leather sofa. He took a deep breath, drinking in the reinvigorating aura of the place. The man's small apartment was a shrine to her existence. Nestled in a quiet corner of the city, the space was dimly lit by soft, ambient lights that cast a warm glow over the walls adorned with her images. Every inch was dedicated to Mirae. High-quality prints of her magazine covers, candid photos he had taken from afar, and posters from her old world tours covered the walls like wallpaper.
On a polished mahogany shelf rested framed items he treasured most. Among them were delicate pieces of her clothing—silk scarves, lace gloves, and even her small clothes—that he had meticulously collected over the years. Each was carefully pressed and preserved behind glass, like rare artifacts in a museum. He had retrieved them from her discarded belongings, taking great care to ensure no one noticed their absence. To him, these were not mere trophies but intimate connections to her essence.
In one frame, a lace garment lay elegantly arranged, its intricate patterns casting faint shadows against the back of the case. He remembered the day he had found it in her bedroom when she was fast asleep. His heart had raced as he discreetly slipped it into his pocket, the thrill of acquiring something so personal to her nearly overwhelming him.
There was also a crumpled note she had discarded, now smoothed out and encased. A piece of her creative thoughts, it bore her elegant handwriting—a list of song lyrics she had been working on. He had salvaged it from the trash, seeing poetry where she had seen only refuse. Words that were for him alone. Each item was a part of her story, fragments that he alone had the privilege and the right to cherish.
His collection extended to more conventional memorabilia: signed autographs, limited-edition merchandise, and every version of the game her subsidiary company had released, The Maiden of the Wisterias. He owned them all on every available platform. Not because he enjoyed games, but because possessing them felt necessary to complete his devotion. Rumors swirled on social media that one of the characters was based on Mirae's likeness. He doubted any artist could truly capture her delicate beauty, but he was determined to find out one day once he had some time.
It was not because he was a common pervert, as society might label him, that he accumulated such treasures; no, it was because he truly loved her. What he felt for her was no mere lust—it was a profound passion that only poets could begin to describe. It was deep. They were meant to be together, and this was no mere obsession.
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Since he was a boy, before her rise to fame when her songs had captured the world, he had loved her.
They had been classmates and neighbors in elementary school, two lonely souls who found solace in each other's company. His own mother had been violent and Mirae's mother was no better, often being absent or lost in a drunken stupor. This left the poor angel to fend for herself more often than not.
He remembered how he had taken her hand and together they would escape to the nearby park while her mother was passed out, the gentle rustling of leaves overhead as they played beneath the old maple tree. They shared secrets and dreams, their laughter mingling with the distant hum of the city. No matter how the others had tried to bully him for being friends with the dark and gloomy girl, he had been her confidant, her protector during those times. Her rock. Those memories were etched into his heart, forming a bond that, for him, could never be broken.
Mirae belonged to him. Only to him. Then she had moved, her mother running away from the creditors that were hounding her. She left his world and in that one fell swoop, his world had been destroyed.
They say a love born in youth is destined to fade, but theirs defied that notion. He felt they were bound by a thread of fate—delicate as a gossamer cobweb, yet unbreakable as a thick cable of steel. He nurtured that love in his heart, a quiet secret he tended to with care. Over time, it grew, giving him the strength to confront his own darkness. Finally, he was strong enough to push his father down a flight of stairs, putting an end to his daily torment.
And Sung Sang-woo was not easily broken. The destruction of his world had given him something that people in this day and age search for blindly with both hands. Motivation.
He had sworn that day so long ago that he would find her and that he would become a man worthy of her. Her Protector. He would become her knight.
To that end, Sang-woo would have to become the best of the best. Had become the best of the best.
He took a deep breath, centering himself as pulled himself back from thoughts of the troubled past. He was happy now. Fate had led him back to her.
The man moved to the kitchen area, the one small space in his apartment that was relatively devoid of Mirae-focused goods. There he fixed himself a coffee. Television told him that drinking coffee at such a late hour would affect his sleep, but his body had become too tolerant of it and he drew comfort from the dark liquid’s warmth.
He could have lived in a more spacious apartment; indeed, he could have resided on the estate itself. His salary was generous, bolstered by smart investments gleaned from the privileged information he accessed by being close to someone who could move the nation. But a smaller space allowed him to focus on what was important. There was a profound elegance in simplicity. Besides, living in the main house carried the risk of the other staff misunderstanding his devotion to Mirae.
His eyes turned to another picture of his love. Mirae, of course, had her critics—those who could not fathom the workings of a goddess. They called her cruel and callous. Inhuman. They simply could not grasp the perfection that was divine, limited by their tiny minds. Gods were above such things, such human flaws. A storm did not care what lives it disrupted, yet it possessed a fierce natural beauty all its own.
With a dark expression, he realized that it was her smile, born from a beauty deep within her soul that was above such mortal concepts as good and evil that kept him going.
Sang-woo pulled out his laptop and booted it up. Mirae’s public relationship staff, and they were legion, could not fight the darker war on her behalf. There in the hidden places of the world wide web, Mirae’s champion resumed his own battle behind the screen, unleashing verbal fire on the online trolls who dared to sully Mirae's name. His fingers flew across the keys, determined and sure.
Yet, he felt troubled as read vicious comment after vicious comment. Rumor after half-baked rumor. It caused him to pause and think. Lately, unease had begun to creep into his mind. Mirae was changing in ways he could not quite comprehend. The woman he had devoted his life to seemed different—her habits altered, her routines disrupted. Yet, when he tried to pinpoint the discrepancies, they slipped through his fingers like smoke. Why?
He continued his war for a few more hours before sleep called to him, for even the mightiest of warriors must rest.