Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kim Dokja’s aunt, or Aunt Kim for convenience’s sake, was your run-of-the-mill urban Korean lady as far as she was concerned. She had a plain and unassuming appearance, a boring and quaint life, and a normal (if fairly anger-prone) family. There was nothing worth bragging about, but nothing worth complaining about, either.

　　That all changed when her brother died.

　　Murdered, the people would yap on the streets. Stabbed to death by his wife who could not deal with his drunken tantrums anymore. Aunt Kim despised Lee Sookyung for killing him, for the former would always side with her family, regardless if evidence suggested that it was the relative who was guilty. She was just that close-minded.

　　(Little did she know that it was not Sookyung who had wielded that knife that fateful evening, but her little son who deserved far more than what the world gave him. A horrible family, ignorant adults, irresponsible authorities and bestial peers—they were all people who mistreated Dokja because they failed to understand the meaning of basic decency. They taught him that the majority of humanity could be barbaric and evil.)

　　Young Kim Dokja was thus thrust his aunt’s arms, his hair the same color as his father’s, yet the rest of his features identical to his mother’s. Seeing the child reminded Aunt Kim too much of the brother whom she had lost and the woman apparently responsible for his death. Plus, the boy was far too quiet and reserved for her liking, so she figured that he was a waste of time.

　　A waste of money, too, after she heard that he had fallen from a couple of stories and had to be whisked to the hospital for treatment. She was all too glad when he finally left the house for good, completely cutting off contact with her.

　　Thereafter, the apocalypse occurred, and she along with the rest were promptly killed off, their souls transported to the Underworld to be judged.

　　Whatever exam was in session, she must have bombed, because she now wore a ragged uniform and was stuck doing menial labor for eternity under the strict observation of the henchmen of Hades and Persephone. (She would never dare say their true names out loud, lest she be smote for insolence. After all, names held power.)

　　While she spent years toiling, rumors began to spread about a mysterious man with a censored face and a white coat, gaining allies and enemies left and right while achieving impossible feats, dying only to rise from his own ashes and be reborn as a constellation, and leading his nebula beyond the Final Wall and completing the scenarios thrown at him at every turn.

　　The Demon King of Salvation, people would utter in awe. The beloved prince of the Underworld, her coworkers and superiors would gossip. The final and sparsest title, however, would shake her to the core.

　　Kim Dokja.

　　Kim Dokja? The pathetic little waif that she was obliged to shelter eons ago? Evidently, he had risen to stardom (no pun intended) and surpassed everyone’s expectations. He became a universally renowned hero.

　　And how wonderful it would be to be affiliated with said hero, she thought with a greedy glint in her dark eyes.

　　So, Aunt Kim would jostle her colleagues’ arms and point to herself, saying: “Do you know Kim Dokja? That’s my nephew they’re talking about. Kim Dokja is my nephew!”

　　To her disappointment, no one believed her. The young man refused to willingly mingle with people unworthy of his time. To make matters worse, no one knew what he looked like until the scenarios ended, and candidly, now that his face was bare for everyone to see, it was a fact that he bore almost no resemblance to his aunt. She was unprepossessing, another face in the crowd, while Dokja was beautiful enough for people to wage wars over his face once they looked at it properly. He was ideal idol material with his aspect and personality.

　　Twenty-two years had passed since then, when news of the Demon King of Salvation waking up from a coma spread around the world, including the heavens and underground. He was a martyr, as messengers would acclaim, who had survived against all odds and should be treated with utmost respect.

　　He sounded like a paladin from age-old fairytales, and Aunt Kim desired seeing him in person.

　　She implored for a day off to meet with the royal couple’s adopted son, indicating her relation with him for the monarchs to double-check. Eventually, they acquiesced, having received a message from Dokja providing his consent and the specific time for the meeting. They would convene at the throne room and eat lunch in his palace chamber at noon tomorrow, though the constellation insisted that he would bring some company with him.

　　(It was unnecessary for souls to partake in real meals for nutrition; however, tasting foods and drinks was a nostalgic delicacy.)

　　The following day, Aunt Kim found herself in the vacant throne room, donning a simple but tasteful dress and a wristwatch to replace her wonted trappings. The walls and floor were all the shade of obsidian, the only sources of light being the lamps and lanterns decorating the barriers.

　　She glanced at the watch. 11:50 AM, it read. Her nephew and his escorts would arrive soon. No, they were probably already here by now.

　　“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

　　Aha. There they were. Aunt Kim drew herself up to observe the hosts of today’s event.

　　From her left to right stood a woman and two men, all seeming to be in their twenties at most (or early thirties for the larger man if one pointed out the silver streaks in his curls) with jet black tresses and equally inky eyes, though Aunt Kim knew that despite their youthful features, appearances could be deceiving and their eyes (or genes) indicated a much more prolonged amount of existence. The woman was short and slender, her hair shoulder-length and a beauty mark under her left eye, her catty orbs sharp and intelligent paired with an impish grin. The tall man on the right had a wavy mane and wary eyes narrowed at Aunt Kim’s face, broad shoulders and enticing muscles—a drop-dead gorgeous warrior exceeding the standards of archetypal masculinity. Finally, the man in the middle was literally a male definition of Snow White—ebony locks, cherry-colored lips and milky smooth skin, matched with a gracile physique and cinched waist, and long-lashed eyes with stars twinkling in the irises. All three knockouts wore silk ruffle shirts tucked into their sable dress pants, accentuating their torsos—the woman and smaller man’s shirts tinged white and horoscopes faintly scintillating on their skin and hair, while the larger man’s top was as black as the rest of his attire—and swords attached to their belts. The trio was too otherworldly to be human.

　　It took several seconds for Aunt Kim to register that the shorter male was her nephew all grown up. He had gained a few centimeters, his face had filled out and a pink tint brushed his cheeks like watercolor paint. He was still willowy, but no longer thin like a twig ready to snap by a zephyr. Overall, he looked happier and healthier, never having to go hungry again, though his guarded eyes reflected no sentiment as they met hers.

　　“Kim Dokja,” Aunt Kim saluted distantly, drinking in her nephew’s figure.

　　Not a “hello” or a “great to see you” in return—disappointing but not surprising. They were not close enough for such frivolities.

　　“Auntie,” Dokja ceremoniously greeted back. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

　　“Yes, several decades, more or less.”

　　“Mm-hm.” He did not ask her how she had been, for it would have been offensive to someone whose career was tedious and intense and lacked fervor. Kim Namwoon could vouch for that. “It must be uncomfortable standing here for so long. Why don’t we take a walk? Lunch will be prepared shortly.”

　　“That would be nice; thank you.”

　　“Good. Come along, Joonghyuk-ah, Sooyoung-ah.”

　　Yoo Joonghyuk and Han Sooyoung. Of course Dokja would choose them as chaperones. Their eminence had spread around the world approximately as much as their chief’s. Joonghyuk was one of the strongest transcendents and Dokja’s life and death companion, while Sooyoung was a powerful constellation who led Kim Dokja’s Company during the reader’s coma. They were forces not to be trifled with. Speaking of which…

　　“Hah? What am I, a dog now?” The indignant high-pitched voice was clearly Sooyoung’s.

　　“Ha, ha! No, I think you befit a cat more. Yoo Joonghyuk, on the other hand, suits the description more, don’t you think?”

　　“Kim Dokja, shut your mouth,” a much deeper voice rumbled, sounding reminiscent of a wolf’s growl.

　　“Aw, is Joonghyukie upset? Don’t be; I meant it as a compliment!”

　　“Joonghyukie… Pfft—hey, Dokja! Stop talking or he might slaughter us both.”

　　What a lively bunch they were, Aunt Kim marveled as the four ambled through the corridor leading to Dokja’s room.

　　When they reached their destination, the Underworld’s sentinels stationed there opened the door, and Dokja gestured for his aunt and partners to enter first before following them inside. Aunt Kim paused her stride to absorb the view.

　　The bedchamber—it was enormous. On the far side was a king-sized bed with luxurious pillows, a cushioned frame and a curtained canopy. The floor was carpeted, and there were several armchairs and sofas scattered around, some coupled with tables to snack at. A ginormous bookshelf filled to the brim with novels of any genre stood majestically by the wall.

　　For this afternoon, a rectangular dining table was situated near the doorway. One side had one chair and the other had three. The delectable smell of Joonghyuk’s cooking and the china tea set served on the table permeated the air.

　　Aunt Kim took notice of the seating arrangements. They were not evenly distributed. Naturally, Dokja and his companions were to take the side with more chairs.

　　She did not realize that this was a ploy to enforce power dynamics. No matter what, Dokja was going to be shielded, his partners acting as bodyguards during the rendezvous in case the situation soured.

　　“Let us eat lunch first,” said Dokja, signaling everyone to sit at the table. “Joonghyuk-ah was in charge of the meals, so I’m certain that they will suit everyone’s tastes.”

　　And they won’t be poisoned, was clandestine from his speech, but Aunt Kim did not need to know that.

　　They picked up their chopsticks and sampled the victuals. Abruptly, the piquant flavors burst on their tongues, nearly putting Aunt Kim in a chokehold from how heavenly the food tasted. Moans spilled from the consumers’ (read: Dokja and Sooyoung’s) mouths as they dug for further helpings, small side talks being the few other sounds in the room.

　　Was this Joonghyuk fellow a professional chef or what? It should have been his calling, Aunt Kim surmised.

　　As everyone gradually finished their repasts, she saw the lips of her nephew quirk up as he read her expression. “The food was delicious, I presume?” he chuckled.

　　“Indeed, it was,” Aunt Kim acceded, wiping her mouth with a handkerchief. “It tasted so much better than that of restaurants. How could this be?”

　　“Joonghyuk-ah is earnest apropos the culinary arts. He also doesn’t eat food made by other people, so forgive him if he acts a bit pretentious. You’ll have to acknowledge that his cuisines put even five-star chefs to shame, nonetheless.”

　　“Kim Dokja,” interposed Joonghyuk. (Wow, was that his favorite phrase now? It was starting to get old; he should pursue more variety in his addresses.) “Don’t beat around the bush and get to the point.”

　　“Right.”

　　The prince motioned for servants to clear the table. Once their task was completed and they retreated to their posts, Dokja clasped his hands together on the table’s surface, a predatory glint in his stellar globes.

　　“Let’s cut to the chase. Auntie, why did you insist on soliciting for an appointment with me?”

　　The older woman restrained an instinctual flinch. For a second, she swore that his irises flashed crimson. A hallucination?

　　“Is there anything wrong with wanting to reunite with a relative whom I haven’t seen in ages?” she responded.

　　Dokja’s smile was not unlike a chiseler’s.

　　“Under normal circumstances, no. But you had never seen me as family, hadn’t you? Until recently, that is.” The heir of the Underworld tapered his eyes toward her. “Why did you suddenly change your mind? I’m quite intrigued in hearing your plea.”

　　Ah, yes. The million-dollar question. Aunt Kim ought to tread carefully if she wanted to maintain inconspicuousness. Her nephew was much smarter than he let on—had he not been bullied in school, he might have become a top student.

　　“I’ve heard rumors of a man matching your description accomplishing impossible milestones during the scenarios. I wanted to see if those rumors were true.”

　　Dokja’s eyebrows twitched.

　　Dang it, thought Aunt Kim. She forgot that skills still existed after the Star Stream was restored. The atmosphere was thickening enough to resemble that of a cross-examination.

　　Sweat-dropping, she caught Joonghyuk hovering his hand above his sword handle. Did weapons work against spirits even now?

　　Dokja noticed this maneuver, too, and precluded the pro-gamer: “Joonghyuk-ah, no.”

　　Joonghyuk put his hand down.

　　What the heck was that?

　　“Nice try, ahjumma,” snarked Sooyoung, her canines flashing. “Now give us the real reason why you’re here.”

　　Aunt Kim internally cursed. She was already being driven to a corner, and the discussion had not properly commenced yet. Unfortunately, she was an asinine individual, and in her trepidation, she made a desperate effort to appeal to her sole surviving family.

　　“Is it so criminal to see the one whom I raised all those years ago?” she demanded.

　　It was the wrong thing to say.

　　“On the contrary,” refuted Joonghyuk dryly whilst barely controlling his temper, “he might have starved more comfortably on his lonesome than in your own home.”

　　He side-eyed Sooyoung, who smashed a fist onto the table with a clamorous POW.

　　“Raised?!” she screeched, her pupils shrinking into slits. “You didn’t do squat! Yoo Joonghyuk and I are the reasons why your nephew isn’t rotting in a graveyard as we speak!”

　　“Sooyoung-ah,” chided Dokja gently, albeit halfheartedly.

　　“I’m not sorry.” She pointed an accusing finger at the other female. “You only gave Dokja shelter, but it was not a home. You berated him for things through no fault of his own, and merely fed him scraps to the point that he suffered from malnutrition. He looked eleven when he was fifteen. You should have been arrested if you survived the apocalypse, for you a hard woman. You hear me? You are a hard, selfish, worldly woman!”

　　That last sentence sounded awfully familiar, Dokja could not help but identify. Wasn’t that from A Little Princess? Does she know that she is quoting another author’s work at a time like this? Although, it is too inappropriate to call her out at the moment…

　　Meanwhile, Aunt Kim waved her hands frantically and sputtered, “I didn’t… It was to teach him discipline!”

　　Joonghyuk scoffed. What a load of bull. He would not venture in inflicting such an unusual punishment on Mia.

　　Apprehending the lady’s protestation, Dokja was ultimately fed up with her flubbing.

　　“You were cruel to me!” he cried, jumping from his seat and glaring daggers at the interrogee, his companions immediately following suit as the creaks of chairs being shoved backward rang in their ears. “I was your ward, yet you treated me like trash! Your words hurt me as much as the glass bottles that my father threw at me!  (Don’t give me that look—you refused to accept the evidence in front of you about what a scumbag he was.) Despite you never laying a hand on me, you were just as horrible as your brother. I was a child, but you were a monster. So don’t act like you care about me—all you want to do is sustain your reputation.”

　　A demonic aura spread around him, slowly staining his shirt black. The air grew thick and his aunt registered that if she were alive, she would have begun asphyxiating.

　　She trembled in her seat, eyes shaking as she stammered, “N-no, I… I didn’t mean to…”

　　“Admit it!” Dokja roared, Electrification sparks crackling around his body like lightning. “You just want a publicity stunt—yes or no?!”

　　“I…”

　　“ANSWER ME! YES OR NO?!”

　　The poor woman palpitated, chills running down her spine as the younger three loured at her. Their shadowed faces struck them as comparable to grim reapers or angels of death.

　　Her voice hoarse from fright, Aunt Kim faltered: “N-n-no…”

　　The blue system screens flared within her line of vision anew.

　　Joonghyuk reached for his sword again. Dokja did not separate his gaze from his aunt as he tugged at Joonghyuk’s arm in reprimand.

　　Sooyoung whispered to the reader: “Dokja, suppress your status.”

　　Noting that Aunt Kim was on the verge of crumbling to dust, Dokja complied, taking a deep breath and receding his aura. His shirt faded to its original ivory hue.

　　He stared deeply at his aunt, blasé to her terror. “I want you to listen well, Auntie. It matters not if you try to brag about your relationship with me to anyone else. My words hold more authority and authenticity than yours. If you so much as attempt to use me for your personal glory, I will snuff out such endeavors in an instant. I’m sick and tired of having my life story fabricated for entertainment or others’ benefit. Do you understand?”

　　The woman nodded shakily, her sweaty palms clenching onto her skirt.

　　Dokja harrumphed. The sight of her lineaments was making him ill. It was like ogling at his father’s profile afresh.

　　“You are dismissed.” He called to the bouncers outside: “Please escort this lady back to her lodgings.”

　　This lady. Not my aunt. It almost sounded like he was disowning her.

　　The beady eyes of Aunt Kim expanded, incredulity splashed across her face.

　　“You’re making me leave?” she said stupidly.

　　“You’re complaining?” Dokja retorted, his mien blank and scrutiny disengaged. The stars in his eyes were painfully blinding while his irises sucked the air out of Aunt Kim’s metaphorical lungs like black holes. “You are no longer welcome in my life. I don’t think you have been for a long time.”

　　Joonghyuk crossed his arms and turned his head away from her, fixating on Dokja’s hair. Sooyoung grinned wryly and cocked her head at the doorway in invitation, her schadenfreude transparent.

　　There was no room for argument. Aunt Kim was being kicked out, losing all opportunities of redemption. She must reap what she sowed imperturbably, or else she would face the wrath of Dokja’s parents.

　　With a heavy heart, she stood up and trudged to the exit, where the guards would whisk her back to her domicile. She rotated her head a bit to see her nephew one last time.

　　His guise as cold as ice, he nodded curtly at her and bid: “Good day.”

　　The sentries grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her away, their gripes so tight as to dare her to make a single fuss.

　　Dokja gazed absently at the doorway for several seconds, his mind in a place far away as he recalled what just happened. The hollering, the whimpering, his temperature rocketing… Once the memories settled in his brain, his knees buckled.

　　Sooyoung shouted in alarm as Joonghyuk caught Dokja by the waist, the latter’s head resting on the taller man’s chest. The reader discerned calloused fingers touching his cheek, tapping for signs of cognizance.

　　“I’m fine,” he breathed, expeditiously patting the robust arm. “I’m fine; help me up.”

　　Joonghyuk obeyed, preserving his grip on Dokja’s midriff. Sooyoung entangled her fingers in Dokja’s right hand and squeezed it soothingly.

　　Exhaling woodenly, the dreamer groaned, “That was so draining.” His exhausted dim orbs fixed themselves on his partners with the unlucky glimmer that they particularly dreaded. “Sorry that you had to witness that disaster.”

　　“Stop apologizing for things that aren’t your fault,” Joonghyuk brusquely directed as a rejoinder.

　　“Okay,” said Dokja complaisantly, slackening in the other’s embrace like a weighty teddy bear.

　　Sooyoung asked him: “How are you currently feeling?”

　　He hummed, pondering for a bit. The ache from his traumatic childhood had dulled considerably after his screaming session, like a rock had been surgically removed from his stomach.

　　“Cathartic,” he determined. “I feel lighter somehow, getting everything off of my chest. But it’s not so easy to mend entirely. I’m not that naïve.”

　　“Is there anything we can do?” Joonghyuk inquired.

　　Dokja issued a sough-like noise, nestling his head amply into his eldest incarnation’s neck and strengthening his hold on his author’s hand. Basking in their warmth was all that his mind could conjure up right now after the emotional roller coaster.

　　The Dokja of yore had supposed that he was not made to be cherished, yet after years of coaxing, he had learned to accept his family’s endearments.

　　“Just hold me,” he whispered softly as he shut his eyelids, his heart secure and content, “and just love me. That’s all I really need.”

Jung Heewon took one good look at the eye bags of the throuple members as they stumbled inside their house that afternoon and commented, “That bad, huh?”

　　Dokja muttered some incoherent sound and nodded sluggishly, reporting: “We ended up yelling a lot.”

　　“Nuh-uh. Not Yoo Joonghyuk. He managed to keep his voice level,” Sooyoung corrected.

　　Joonghyuk grunted in agreement, leading the other two to snigger at him.

　　Heewon shook her head, acclimatized to Joonghyuk’s deliberately limited vocabulary. “Go get changed.”

　　They adhered to her, retreating briefly to swap their regalia for casual garments. When they returned, Joonghyuk made a beeline for the kitchen, removing dumpling wrappers, seasonings, vegetables, meat and soy sauce from the refrigerator and cabinets.

　　Come to think of it, didn’t he say that he was going to make Murim dumplings with chicken broth? Dokja fought the urge to drool as he and Sooyoung approached their companion.

　　“Do you need any help?” he asked, hovering over Joonghyuk’s shoulder like a young meerkat.

　　“No,” said Joonghyuk. “Go sit down and rest, Dokja. It’s been a long day for you.”

　　Dokja pouted indignantly. “I can still—”

　　“You look like you’re going to keel over. No.”

　　“But what if—”

　　“No.”

　　Why was this sunfish always so stubborn?

　　Dokja placed his hands on his hips and admonished, “Yoo Joonghyuk.”

　　“Kim Dokja,” the pro-gamer countered, inclining toward the other man’s face.

　　The space betwixt them was so crammed that Dokja edgily wondered if Joonghyuk was going to kiss him.

　　Alas, someone else was not having it.

　　“Han Sooyoung,” the female constellation chimed in, just to be a menace.

　　The tension between the two men shattered as Dokja chortled and Joonghyuk huffed in amusement. Sooyoung simpered at a job well done.

　　“How about this?” she proposed. “I’ll go help Yoo Joonghyuk. You go sit at the table and look pretty.”

　　Gawking at Sooyoung’s audacity, the reader sneered: “Am I being relegated to furniture?”

　　“You can talk to us while waiting,” suggested Joonghyuk. “Talk about anything you want, so none of us will get bored.”

　　Hesitating, Dokja pursed his lips. It was not every day that Joonghyuk insisted on Dokja rambling like an incessant chatterbox, but this was too great of an opportunity to pass up. Moreover, there were some recent novels that he wanted to prattle about…

　　Perhaps this was Joonghyuk’s method of distracting Dokja from the fiasco that was lunch.

　　He timidly peeked at his partners under his eyelashes and murmured, “Anything? Really?”

　　“Anything,” Joonghyuk affirmed.

　　A deep flush cascaded down Dokja’s face and neck.

　　“Okay.” He smiled delicately. “I’ll wait for you. And then, we’ll all watch cringy movies after dinner and criticize them.”

　　Sooyoung snorted. “I look forward to the trash-talking.”

　　Dokja laughed. Subsequently, he kissed both of his companions tenderly on the cheek and hustled to the kitchen table.

　　The three babbled aimlessly, absorbed in their own little world. They made a unique trio—a woman who was once a loner, a man who was once alone, and another man who was once lonely. Yet when one saw them together, those words no longer held any constraints.

　　Dokja beamed. It was true that their epilogue was no happily ever after. But it was still the best ending that he could ever hope for. After everything that they had suffered, this was more than sufficient.

　　He rested a cheek on his palm, thinking: I can’t wait for dinner with everyone.