kyumills

He offers up a smile as you enter the building, going back to the white wooden desk. He knows he doesn’t look the part, but if you look deeper you can piece together exactly who he is. 

If you follow him, you’ll see the countless croquis scattered about his desk, sketches in the most vivid of colors with measurements scrawled on the side. You’ll see a cactus pin cushion with a golden flower on that same desk, gifted to him by the spa owner from the third floor, carefully placed right beside the croquis. Everything about the person in front of you might scream plain, but he is anything but. 

He is a couturier, responsible for all the custom pieces of clothing that find themselves scattered about this boutique. Right now, he is working on a lavish wedding gown for a very important customer. 

The couturier is concentrated. Even with the bustling and shuffling of people all around, the light chattering and admiration and outright astonishment at his work, the couturier focuses on the garment in his hands: a beautiful wedding gown with hand embroidered roses, a job requiring a steady hand of a well-experienced couturier.

You can hear the shuffling of feet and the slight scratch of plastic from the bottom of a spool of thread. Occasionally, you can hear a sharp intake of breath; most likely due to the needle that so ever delicately pricks his finger on the occasion that he completely goes on autopilot. 

His name is Jing Beiyuan. This boutique is his life’s work. 

On the third floor of the same building, there’s a door that leads a calming wooden oasis; a serene and peaceful ordeal ten years in the making. Compared to the bright lights of the downstairs area, this part of the building is dimly lit; serene, like it was meant to replicate the very beautiful pockets of nature that people could only dream of going.

A stoic, but kind face greets you, inviting you to relax—to take your time and be at peace. 

His name is Wu Xi; the serene spa on the third floor is his venture. The couturier downstairs is his partner and this is the story of how this boutique and spa came to be. 

Lee Sangyeon is a well known name in the world of underground boxing. 

He’s one hundred seventy-six centimeters of lethal poison, a hard hitter in the ring and the person most feared and most respected in this underground scene. Most would turn and run at the idea of facing him in the ring, others would stay and learn the consequences on their own, but the main consensus is that Lee Sangyeon--the Neon Medusa, as he is so brilliantly named--is no joke.

And whoever goes against him has to be even more insane than he is, which isn’t a lot of people. 

Now he’s acutely aware of the fact that, one day, he’ll be brought to his knees by someone better. Someone stronger, someone younger, someone faster--it’s the inevitable truth of getting older. One day, Sangyeon knows he's going to have to stop all of the fighting and find another thing he's passionate about. But that day, he hopes, isn’t today. The world around him can shatter another day, his body can deteriorate around him another day. 

Today is the fight of his life and he's not gonna go out without a fight.

Everyone looked forward to seeing him,  So, he’s expecting to win tonight. He’s expecting catharsis from punching someone’s teeth in for the sport of it, as terrifying as it might sound.

They don’t call him the Neon Medusa for nothing. One gaze into his eyes in the middle of that ring can get anyone to tense up and freeze. By then, it’s all over--that’s when Sangyeon captures you and wins, all in the blink of an eye. But, he should have known that nothing is ever as it seems, that no expectation about anything in the ring is the actual reality. He should have learned that the world doesn’t give two shits about anyone, nevermind him. 

There’s a bit of hype surrounding the both of them at the moment: around Lee Sangyeon, a seasoned underground fighter, and his return from a six month hiatus, and Kim Sunwoo, the rookie who took his place while he was gone. 

But then again, it’s all talk. It’s all spectator jibber jabber, muttering in attempts to frighten him before he steps into the ring--to make him lose this time around. Sangyeon can’t wait to get them to shut up, to cut a thread to sew in the fabric of history right before their very eyes--cutting through their nasty words. They can say whatever they want about him--about the death wish he hasn’t acted upon yet--but Sangyeon knows he’s one of the best, he’d bet everything on it.

Maybe Sangyeon is a bit of a gambler. Maybe he gambles a little too freely with his own life, but he doesn’t have anything else to lose other than blood, pride, and a bit of sanity. 

“Are you good?” 

“Yeah, totally.” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Jacob says, lips pursed. His arms are crossed in disapproval, nodding at the lit cigarette between Sangyeon’s fingers, “I know you’re not feeling well--there’s a smoke in your hand for god’s sake.”

“Well--” 

“You said you were trying to quit, hyung.” 

“Listen, everyone is trying, Jacob,” Sangyeon chuckles lightly. He leans back against the brick wall, blowing up smoke at the dark ceiling. His fingers twitch with nervousness settled deep into his bones--he’s always that way before a fight, but tonight there’s something that’s different. He’s more nervous than he’d like to admit because there is someone who can actually bring him down. Sangyeon sighs, “What do you want me to say, Jacob? That I’m scared out of my mind? Would that make you feel better?” 

“No. My problem is that you look terrified,” Jacob replies. He lifts his right hand and lightly flicks Sangyeon’s arm. “If  I can pick up on it, then Kim certainly can, and he’s definitely going to use it against you. I need you to fake it ‘til you make it, Sangyeon.” 

“Look at you,” Sangyeon grumbles, “Rocky has nothing on your spirit, huh Jacob?”

“Watch it,” Jacob warns, removing his hands from his ratty sweater pockets. He fiddles with the gauze wrapped securely around his knuckles in a neat bundle. “I’m not against fighting you, hyung, even if Kevin won’t like it because my knuckles aren’t healed properly.”

“Okay, first of all, you’re the one who kicked me in the goddamn knee like a degenerate during the last fight that got me fucked up for six months--” 

“But you flaunted it so easily, see what I mean?”

“That makes no sense--” 

“Do me a favor and quit yapping,” Jacob says, pointing a finger in Sangyeon’s face, “You’re revealing everything like an open book right now. You know fighting is about body language, and yours tells me that you’re dealing with a fucked up right knee because you wince when you put pressure on it. If I can tell that, Kim can definitely tell that, so while you’re in that goddamn ring don’t lean too much onto it if you don’t have to and keep both your knees bent as much as you can. If you give off even a sense of weakness in your right knee, he’ll know to take you down with it, so don’t give him the opportunity to even get that far. Got it?” 

“Got it,” Sangyeon replied. Sangyeon doesn’t make it a habit of being nervous in the moments before the ring, but this time is different. This time, the reality of the situation is that he’s going to fight for his life to ultimately die, to get the shit beat out of him all because of his no good knee, and that terrifies him. He’s hardly ever lost, but there’s a first time for everything. “Fuck,” Sangyeon continues, “Be real with me for a few seconds, Jacob: I’m gonna lose, aren’t I?” 

“Shut it, Negative Debby, you’ve got this.” 

“It’s Debby Downer or Negative Nancy, pick one,” Sangyeon grumbles, “Besides, you’re not supposed to be my Ben Kenobi, Jacob. I’m the older one--”

“But if I beat the shit out of you, I’m the asshole,” Jacob replies, pinching the bridge of his nose before continuing. “I should, then I’ll let Kim have whatever pickings are left--” Sangyeon exhales the puff of smoke he’d been holding in from the last drag of the cigarette sharply--nervously, as he goes through his habit of overthinking just about everything in his life so far. “Stop it, Yeon, I know what you’re probably thinking,” Jacob sighs, “He’s just a guy. They’re all just guys. You’ve won more times than he has. Stop being like that, have you seen yourself in a mirror lately? You beast.” 

“Of course you like me and my muscle,” Sangyeon teases, “Everybody likes me for my muscle--”

“Likes you? Everyone is terrified of you and your muscle,” Jacob says simply, “Which is good. All Kim is and all he’ll ever be is a pretty face compared to you, Sangyeon. And I mean it, so kick his ass a s best as you can tonight.” 

“Got it,” Sangyeon replies, “Let’s go watch me get murdered tonight.” 

“Wow, how optimistic of you, Sangyeon.” They walk down the darkened hallway towards the sounds of people chatting fills their ears. 

“I’m a raging ball of optimistic spirit, right Jacob?” 

“Nice optimism, Lee.”

“Mmh. One thing, though. When you drag my dead, bloody body out of the ring,” Sangyeon says, “Make sure you match a stunning look for my casket viewing. These pants--” Sangyeon runs his hands on the “Well, dragging me out of the ring in these pants and plopping me into a casket is a recipe for disaster--” 

“Don’t talk like that,” Jacob says, “You’re going to be fine.” 

“In this hell?” Sangyeon laughs, “I need to get out of this hell, it’s going to ruin my damn life one day--” He’s an opponent tonight and, even though there’s a chance Kim might beat him, he’s not going to go down so easily. 

Jacob continues. “You’re crazy if you think this is the hell you have to stay away from,” Jacob chuckles lightly, “This is nothing.” 

Sangyeon likes to boil his presence down to being here solely for the money.  He’s struggled a lot and this is something that helps ease the difficult financial situation he’s been in. He likes to boil his presence down to desperation--if he wasn’t in desperate need of some cash, he wouldn’t be here--but he’d be lying if he said that was the only thing. 

He could also boil his presence in this grungy boxing ring in a basement of a warehouse down to a single factor: the thrill. 

Sangyeon finds it thrilling to box like this, riding the rush of adrenaline all the way to the fight. Excitement lays hand in hand with apprehension, nesting comfortably in his bones when he steps out onto that blue mat for a match, and he greets the red splatters on the floor like they’re old friends. He puts everything he has into the ring, and reaps the reward of winning and growing stronger as he does so. Even as he nags, when he teases Jacob and says, “Well if this isn’t hell, what is it?” and gets no response, does Sangyeon feel the rush humming under his skin. 

Fighting is thrilling. He can’t change that fact, not that he wants to at all. 

The referee stands in the middle, and the crowd slowly starts dispersing back to seats. Sangyeon isn’t going to get an answer from Jacb, not before the fight starts anyway, but he gets closer as the crowd disperses. The ref is wearing old sweats and a college sweater from the class of ‘95, hilariously unofficial, but still commands authority in the underground ring. 

“Be careful with your knee, hyung,” Jacob reminds him, elbowing Sangyeon lightly in the ribcage. Jacob disappears back into the crowd, leaning on a pillar in the corner of the room. Sangyeon follows his direction with his eyes, seeing Jacob and Kevin giving him thumbs up from where they're standing.  

A lot of blood is going to be shed tonight. 

After all, two popular fighters are going head to head tonight, so why wouldn’t there be bloodshed?  Tonight is about to be horrible for the clean up crew. The last time there was a fight this legendary, clean up crew spent two weeks straight getting the blood out of the mat. 

Tonight is absolutely no different. 

“All right everyone,” the ref says, “Away from the ring. We’re gonna start soon.” 

Sangyeon cracks his knuckles, a bad habit for sure--something that he’ll work on dropping since it’s probably god awful for his joints. He looks straightforward at the hooded silhouette of a man in front of him and can't help but grin. 

He wants to fight so badly, he's eager for it, and whoever is on the other side of that ring better be ready for him.

Everyone who knows who Lee Sangyeon is might as well know Kim Sunwoo a little better because the rumours are stacked up when it comes to him. 

Kim Sunwoo is the man who’s known for smashing bones with his fists countless times because he’s brutal at best, off the hinge at worst. He is a first rate fighter and that’s something that nobody could take from him. And now, Sangyeon is walking straight up to the infamous Kim Sunwoo, the same man whose face is shrouded with a hooded cape that conceals his entire face with how big it is, and hoping for a victory that he knows might not come. There’s a tingle in his fingers, maybe because the gauze around his knuckles was wrapped just a bit too tight, but Sangyeon can bet that a healthy amount of it is due to excitedness. So what if he loses? The challenge of someone equally as skilled as he is sends adrenaline all throughout his body--something about the strike of a skilled punch makes him smile on the inside at what’s to come. 

“Ready?” Sangyeon nods. He mentally reassures himself that this is his fight to lose: nobody who comes into this ring can beat him without the fight of their lives. He’s never one to really talk in the ring, opting to focus on his opponent--to glare with the eyes of the Neon Medusa and hope to freeze this newcomer into place. 

Then, he’ll strike. 

“As ready as I can be, ref,” Sunwoo says, and his hands reach for the tied lace up of the cape. It’s obvious that Sunwoo wasn’t at all phased by him, shrugging off any preemptive intimidation attempts that Sangyeon could try to shake him with.  There’s something about the voice that Sangyeon swears he’s heard before, but he can’t quite place---like he knows who this guy is just by hearing him talk---but he can’t focus on that right now. He’s got a fight to win. 

“Step in the ring, gentlemen, and we’ll get this started.” Sunwoo steps in almost immediately and Sangyeon pulls in after--while Sunwoo undoes the string of his hooded cape that drowns his figure and obscures his face in fabric. 

Sangyeon is watching, borderline staring , at the figure on the right side of the ring. He’s ready for the scarred face of a man who’s taken one too many punches--a man with scars that litter his body; each one marking a win. A man whose body mirrors his own: scarred, broken, fucked up even. In his mind Kim Sunwoo is exactly like him: years upon years of getting beat down just to rise up and win once and for all.

But he should have known that expectations mean nothing.

When the guy’s cape comes off with a shrug, falling to the floor in a singular fluid motion, Sangyeon sees who Kim Sunwoo actually is. He sees the man from the gym that pleasant Saturday evening, the one with the kind smile and the large doe eyes--the same guy who stared at Sangyeon in awe and had a whole conversation with him like it was nothing.

He’s also the guy who tucked a bloody cloth into his back pocket like it was nothing, something that Sangyeon just shrugged off like it was normal. He should have known something was up. 

But, at the moment, he doesn’t know what to do. Every single day his boxing life folds into the separate calamity that was his everyday life. He tries to keep them separate, but the cosmic karma he faces for punching people into oblivion for fun  and for cash likes to catch up with him once in a while; it likes to throw him for a loop and rattle him because the guy right in front of him--the one he’s meant to smack down into oblivion--is the same guy he thirsted after not even a few days ago. Kim Sunwoo is the pretty boy he thought about hooking up with if he ever got the chance to see him again, the guy he wanted to press him into the tile wall of the gym shower and go stupid over. 

The world really is a small place, isn’t it?

next chapter

------

People looked at Yuto and thought he had his whole life together.

He moved from Nagano to Korea after high school and was studying at Yonsei, one of Korea’s top tier schools. Yuto was funny and handsome which allowed him to fit right in amongst all the college kids his age. And he was fluent in Korean, which was a major plus since he was in school. In Korea.

His body language and overall charm was different--he simply stood out; the professors even learned his name because of it.

In reality, however, Yuto didn’t have half a clue what to do with his life. He didn’t know why his father allowed him to step on a plane, go to a country he wasn’t familiar with, and get an education there out of all places. For some reason, it didn’t really matter to his dad. As long as Yuto didn’t spend all his dad’s money, shoot up drugs, or get a girl pregnant he was allowed to do whatever he wanted. He’d eventually figure out what his true calling was, but until then he’d just get a nine to five job. Or a seven-thirty to nine job if the world was completely honest. He’d work at a gas station if he needed to. Just until he figured out what to do. 

Yuto wondered if his parents always knew what they were destined to do, or if they had to figure it out as painfully and as long as Yuto had.

His father owned a very successful business. He was responsible for heading a cyber-security company in Nagano. Yuto’s dad was a CISO, chief information security officer, making the high end of two hundred and twenty two thousand dollars per year. His mother was a famous chef and Yuto?

Yuto was trying his best to be a son worth bragging about.

“Yuto I’ll be at Hyuna and Hyojong’s for the night,” Hui said, tying his shoe, “Don’t miss me too much.” Hui was Yuto’s roommate, the only one willing to deal with the wreck that was himself. He was averagely tall, passionate about the keyboard, and very kind; Yuto would consider he and Hui to be the best of friends. He couldn’t lie.

“Use protection!” Yuto teased as Hui closed the door, “You can actually get Hyuna pregnant if you don’t!” He heard a ‘dumbass’ from behind the door and slightly chucked. He was genuinely happy for Hui. Finding and keeping love was hard enough just for a pair, but \Hui, Hyuna, and Hyojong were a trio. And Hui managed just fine with them.

It was cute.

Hyojong was mature and overall collected; he was also kind of short and rapped extremely well. Hyojong liked to have fun too, which made him enjoyable to be around. When he and Yuto got together they teased the absolute heck out of Hui and Hyuna. They were relationship goals; goofy, honest, in love, and communication based.

Yuto hadn’t dated at all while in Korea. People would try to throw themselves at him--emphasis on try--and, while the concept of dating and relationships were great, he just didn’t feel up to it. Yuto had a lot to figure out and he didn’t necessarily know if he could do it with another person Back in Nagano, however, it was quite a different story. He had dated fifteen other people over the span of three years. He didn’t remember them well; he remembered small details of each of their faces. But he remembered why he was in Korea to begin with:

Kang Hyunggyu.

It sounded crazy, he knew, but Hyunggyu was his last boyfriend. He remembered it clearly: Hyunggyu and Yuto met in Tokyo and they promised each other forever. Yuto was there returning from a year in China, a study abroad program allowed him the opportunity to leave. He’d just gotten there and they rowed down the Chidorigafuchi moat together and watched the cherry blossoms bloom, went to Fuji-Q on multiple occasions, and were always together. Yuto wondered what happened between them. Maybe he thought their love was going to last forever. Scratch that, maybe he hoped their love would last forever. But it didn’t. Hyunggyu broke it off with Yuto a few days before he hopped on a plane and never came back to Japan ever again. Yuto wanted answers.

Maybe that was his dream: to get the answers he needed to finally move on.

Yuto stared at his work desk, piles of paper and books scattered across it. Winter break was almost over and he had nothing done. He had a pile of homework scattered haphazardly on his desk with no actual work done. Great, he thought, another thing to worry about. Yuto decided to do something about his workload instead of dwelling on the past.

Yes loitering between his bed and the mini-fridge he had freshly stocked with a whole bunch of Japanese snacks was fun, but he needed to do some work.

He put on his best pair of jeans, the black ones with rips in them, and a shirt before grabbing his leather jacket. I look good, he thought. He was ready to go out, headphones in his ears and backpack on his back.

When Yuto stepped outside the sky was nothing less than beautiful, ethereal almost. The sun hid itself between tall Seoul buildings, lending itself to nothing less than a lucrative piece of artwork. The blues, pinks, purples, and reds melted into each other, mesmerizing Yuto. He was awestruck, watching as the colours blended together.

When was the last time he looked up at the sky? Yuto couldn't remember.

He walked aimlessly up a hill by the campus, watching the sun peek through openings in the skyline on its descent away from the Earth. It didn't take Yuto long to fall into deep thought while staring at the sky. Maybe leaving Japan wasn't such a good idea after all. He wondered how his mother was doing, how she’d been holding up with him in a different country despite her constant protests of being alright. Yuto knew his mother was lonely without his father.

Maybe it's how she justified cheating on him. Because she was lonely.

The incident that happened when Yuto was young left a sour taste in his mouth. After all, he was the one to witness his mother and one of his father’s friends being rather comfy with each other. There was a kiss on the mouth involved in that too, and young Yuto had a hard time accepting that his mother most likely wasn't in love with his father anymore. Young Yuto couldn't understand why his mom would let another man--another friend--kiss her. In their home. Did his dad’s absence justify her situation? Probably.

Probably not though.

Maybe that was another part of his dream: to leave a home full of secrets and lies. “Man fuck that.” Yuto chided his thoughts, dubbing them as “fake deep” while laying back. The breeze tickled his face, lifting hair into his face. He stared at the sky again and smiled.

That is, until he heard a shudder from beyond his line of sight.

He got up, looking for the source of the noise only to find a boy with a camera to his eye. “Hey,” Yuto brusquely asked, “What are you doing?” Yuto realized he most likely sounded intimidating and softened his tone, “I meant to ask, are you taking pictures of me? Why?”

“Have you seen yourself?” the stranger asked, “You look like a god. And golden hour really accentuates your features.” The stranger walked up to him, handing Yuto the camera. They looked at the pictures and wow, Yuto thought, I look good. “Sorry I kind of rambled. I can delete them-”

“No no no it's fine,” Yuto answered, “Can I ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“What’s golden hour?” The stranger smiled at him and he smiled back. He looked at the picture on the camera in front of him. Yuto’s side profile, a huge grin on his face, combined with the wind gave off an ethereal vibe. The sun created a small flare across the picture and it looked so..beautiful. Was beautiful the word? He wasn't exactly sure about it.

“Golden hour?” the stranger smiled, “Well, golden hour is the perfect time to take pictures. It's when a period of time before sunset and after sunrise where the daylight is more reddish in color.” Yuto was still a bit confused, looking down at the pictures for the umpteenth time and not seeing what the guy saw. “It works across the skin beautifully. See? Yours is glowing here.”

Yuto saw it now that it was pointed out to him.

“That looks great,” Yuto smiled at the stranger. “But why me? Why did you decided to take pictures of me? You're a stranger, I don't know you.”

“Well, you're handsome with or without the golden hour,” the stranger responded, “Oh, where are my manners? I'm Jung Wooseok, I'm twenty years old, and I study media at Yonsei. Pleasure to make your acquaintance unintentional, yet very handsome, model. Can I take more pictures of you, if you don’t mind?”

“Oh please, it's just Yuto,” Yuto smiled, “What a coincidence, I got to Yonsei. I study business.” Yuto continued, “And as long as you don’t sell them off than sure. One would think you’re flirting Mr. Wooseok.”

“Oh really? I didn’t know,” Wooseok brushed his hair back, “I just think people look better in their natural state.” Yuto blushed. Another click rung through the air. “Hey, can you hold your jacket? Kind of like this?” Yuto obeyed, holding his jacket half way . “You know what? I think you’re right. I just like being honest with people, I appreciate natural beauty, so it might sound like I’m flirting. If it makes you uncomfortable I can-”

“Don’t worry about it.” Wooseok took pictures from a few different angles, instructing Yuto to give him natural looks. He didn’t know what that meant, natural looks, so he just posed like he did when he took his selfies. “Ooh no, I feel like I look ugly, don’t take pictures like that.”

Wooseok laughed and in the hour they'd spent talking and laughing Yuto realized his final dream: Jung Wooseok.

"Yuto do me a favor and think of something that makes you happy,"  Wooseok brought the camera to his eye, "Tell me about it."

And Yuto told him. Yuto told him all about Hyunggyu, and rafting. He told Wooseok about Fuji-Q roller coasters, Mt. Fuji, and even spending time with his mother in Nagano. Nagano. Yuto loved Nagano. 

Yuto missed Nagano. He smiled at the thought. 

"Nagano seems like a beautiful place Yuto," Wooseok said.

"It is. It's not just Nagano. Japan is a beautiful place."

"Yuto look towards the building. Tell me what Seoul means to you. How it compares to Japan. "

Yuto slightly turned his head towards the city and, much to his dismay, started going on about what Seoul meant to him. He went on about what he'd hoped from the city. He sat down. "I think Seoul is beautiful. I mean, I chose to start a new life over here so, there's that. I learned a strange language and worked my butt off to get here. So it's beautiful to me, but amongst all the beauty there are is spots of filthy places and filthy people. When I first got here, and I laugh every time I tell this story, I knocked a guy out for harassing this guy and his boyfriend. It wasn't any of the other dude's business and it infuriated me to no end." Yuto took a breath. "I always think of the people who do horrible things that I can't punch out. All the people who do evil and I can't stop it. I miss Japan because of it. At least there I had Somme influence. Sometimes I feel like I'm a stranger to Seoul, to Korea, although I've been here for nearly four years. I'm gonna make best of it though." Yuto heard the final click of Wooseok's camera, snapping back to reality. 

He began to apologize. He didn't mean to get that deep with a guy he just met. 

"Don't worry about it," Wooseok extended his hand to help Yuto up. "It's been in your mind for a while, huh? You switched from Korean to Japanese five times." Yuto took the hand in front of him. He was amazed at how large they were, and held his up to compare sizes. "Yuto, you know you have baby hands right?" Yuto interlaced their hands without realization, breaking it off once he did. This situation,  it was just like the way Hyunggyu and his situation unfolded. 

He couldn't deal with another heart break. 

The sun had disappeared, the last rays of sunlight filled the starless sky. They headed down the hill together as Wooseok trailed behind to get "edgy but dramatic" shots of Yuto. Not that Yuto was complaining, being a model for Wooseok was pretty fun. They watched their shadows fade away.

They neared campus and Wooseok startled him by reaching to his hair and slightly running his fingers through it. "Your hair," Wooseok began, "It had...dirt."

By the time they had to part ways,  night had washed over Seoul is lovely waves. 

"Thanks you know," Wooseok looked down at the floor, "For being my model. It was an honour. I got some great pictures." Wooseok handed Yuto his phone. "Can I have your number? To send these to you?"

"Oh! Uh, sure." Their fingers brushed during the exchange for a split second, but it was enough for a Yuto to know Wooseok was freezing. Only now did he realize Wooseok only o had a simple long sleeve on. "Wooseok, really? Take my jacket. You're freezing."

"No. No way. You need it."

"You're freezing! Take it and give it back to me next time we do this."

"Next time?"

Yuto smiled. "Yeah. Next time."

Clerics are no ordinary priests; clerics are imbued with divine magic gifted to them by the gods. They are intermediaries between the mortal world and the plane of the gods, mouthpieces of the will of the gods.  As varied as the god he serves, this cleric strives to embody the handiwork of his god;  he is the conduit of Asclepius’ mighty power of healing.   

When a cleric takes up a life of adventuring, it is usually because the gods demand it. This cleric knows as much. It involves braving the dangers of things outside of civilization, things that no ordinary fighter or paladin can take care of; things like smiting cursed evils of unholy origin or seeking holy relics. Of course, this cleric is no different: Asclepius blesses him with the divine power of healing to aid those injured in battle. Who is he to deny what Asclepius calls upon him to do? 

To deny Asclepius’s will is to deny the divine magic that grants him his power. 

This divine magic, as the very name suggests, has the power of the gods flowing from them. Clerics manifest this power as what mortals will call ‘miracles’,  miraculous effects to benefit humanity. This is a power not given to everyone who seeks it out, but only those chosen to fulfill this higher calling, making true clerics like this one rather rare. Harnessing divine magic is not something that has to be practiced or studies. Formulaic prayer and ancient rites are learned, sure, but the real power of clerical magic comes from devotion to the deity in which they serve and an intuitive sense of their deity’s wishes; in this particular cleric’s case, the devotion to Asclepius and his mighty power of healing. 

Clerics usually combine the magic of healing and inspiring their allies with spells that hinder foes. They can provoke awe, lay curses of plague, and even call flames from the heavens to consume their enemies. Clerics also depend on combat training to let them wade into battle with the power of the gods on their side. 

How this cleric ends up at The Selene is rather simple: the need to help. 

He’s heard stories of The Selene from the traveling priests, a place where brave warriors rest their heads after an evening of intense adventuring. Thousands upon thousand of brave adventurers frequent The Selene, many in dire need after battles that nearly claim their lives. Asclepius, as a great healer himself, gave this cleric intense and clear visions of this inn; in a way Asclepius himself had guided this cleric to this inn.

Thus it was settled. Who was he to deny the will of Asclepius? 

The journey is long on foot; The Selene was three towns from the town in which this cleric was raised, the western most costal town of Medela, leaving him on a long seven day journey to the central city of Tellus.  From Medela to Silva, Silva to Ornare, Ornare to Lapis, and finally to Tellus, the journey on foot is long and arduous, but the cleric finds it worth it in the end when he lays eyes on The Selene. He enters the doorway.

The innkeeper, from what this cleric can assume—a man with honey-brown hair and kind eyes—looks at him as the bell at the door chimes. “Ah, a cleric,” the innkeeper says, “What brings you here?” 

“To help,” the cleric replies, “I’ve read plenty of stories of the battles fought by the residents of this inn. I’d like to help, if you’d accept it.” 

“Of course I’d accept,” the innkeeper says, “A cleric with the mark of Asclepius? You must be an extensive healer.”

“Some could say.” 

“We could use any help we could get, so thank the gods for your arrival young cleric. Follow the bard to your room,” the innkeeper smiles, “They will show you the amenities and help you set up the clinic in the back. We’ve long lost our medic and were in dire need-” 

“Surely I must pay—”

“Absolutely not, your assistance in healing is more than enough,” the innkeeper smiles, “Now tell me your name, dear cleric, so I may keep it in the records.” The innkeeper looks up at him, eyes kind; he’s waiting with the quill in his hand. 

“Most call me Youngjae,” the cleric says, “but friends call me Eric.” 

Their natural desire for travel, to find new tales to tell, makes adventuring a natural calling. Using adventures as learning opportunities, bards love to accompany heroes and witness their deeds firsthand—the renown of first hand stories give bards their acclaim and rise to fame, something that isn’t taken lightly. If a bard chooses to stay in one place, normally it is at the end of their journey—when they are old and fragile, telling stories of their grand adventures to the townsfolk until their last breath. 

This elven bard, however, is a bit of an anomaly. Some might even call them unusual. 

Their permanent place of dwelling is The Selene, the cozy inn run by the eclectic innkeeper with honey-brown hair. This bard has called it home for years, has watched plenty of adventurers enter and plenty of adventurers exit; notices the joy in the innkeeper’s eyes when he sends an adventurer out on a quest and the pain when he’s told of another adventurer perished, gone to the wind—one with Zephyros and the rest of the Anemoi, never to be seen again.  In those dark times, there’s nothing more important than togetherness and understanding—the bard knows this more than anyone, spending countless times consoling adventurers  . Perhaps that’s a part of the reasons why the bard stays; to offer that togetherness and comfort that heals one’s soul. 

To offer some semblance of normal—of family— in the bustling inn to a man that, with even a sparring glance from the most distant of strangers, seems like he could break at any moment. 

Another reason could be the intrigue. The bard can’t deny that there is something more than meets the eye. There is a reason The Selene called to them, a reason why they are where they are, and a reason why they feel the inclination to stay despite spending years on their own. This intrigue alone causes the magic to flow from the tips of their fingers and through their citrol, outward to all the ears of everyone present in The Selene. The bard supposes the reason why might be in the story: maybe they weren’t meant to rehash the same stories of orcs and paladins, or brave knights and dragons—maybe this bard is meant to tell the stories of everyday men, of men like the innkeeper and his propensity for the strange. 

Either way, it is enough to keep the young bard in The Selene.

They play their songs in the front room of the inn in the morning, songs of fortune and of prosperity, and later tends to The Selene in the evening—when the innkeeper rests his head for the night. The bard has made their home in the room on the top floor, where they can practice their citol without a care in the world. Despite it being out of the comfort zone of a bard of their power and class, they suppose that The Selene is where they should stay—The Selene is their home now, the innkeeper and all the permanent residents of the Selene are their family, and there is nothing in the world they would trade for the illusion of something better: no riches, no land, nothing. 

So, they stay and wait. They stay and wait until early hours of dawn, when the sun has just begun to rise, strumming the strings of the citrol lightly—a wake up song for all those in The Selene to hear and gain strength from as they begin a day’s work. The bard stays and waits until the early hours of dawn to prepare a special meal for a special occasion, to tap lightly on the wooden door of his room, and enter. 

“Good morning, Kevin,” the innkeeper says. He stretches his arms up toward the ceiling, still wrapped in blankets. “You’re up rather early, aren’t you? It is a mere Saturday, what important thing have I done to gain your presence this early morning?” The innkeeper continues, wiping sleep from his eyes. The bard places the wooden tray on the small desk in front of them, motioning over a still half-asleep innkeeper to sit on one of the stools tucked carefully underneath. 

“Do not tell me you’ve forgotten the date, dear innkeeper,” the bard says, “The thirtieth of May. Your birthday? Or have I gotten it wrong? Hopefully I haven’t, but regardless.” 

“You’ven’t gotten it wrong, Kevin. I just have trouble believing it’s been a year already. The time flies rather quickly, doesn’t it?” The innkeeper states, “All while everything seems to have magically blended together.”

“That is true,” the bard says, “But that’s why events like these are so special. They take the mundane atmosphere of everyday life and change it into something special, something unique, and something personal. Just like songs.” 

The innkeeper smiles at them. The bard loves it when the innkeeper smiles at them. 

“Say, would you care to play me one of your songs?” The innkeeper says, “A birthday song would be delightful as a pick me up before work, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” the bard replies, grabbing their citrol from its holder on their back and letting the magical melodies pour out from their fingertips.