There's a story they don't tell you in temples anymore.
Maybe because they forgot.
Or maybe because some fucker at the top decided humanity wasn't ready to remember who first taught them how to walk without chains.
Before kings wore crowns, before gods started scribbling rules in stone, there was a sky—raw, endless, mean—and there was Hwanung.
Not some polite boy in white robes floating down on golden clouds, nah.
He was born from thunder that didn't apologize, from light that didn't ask permission.
The son of Hwanin, the Lord of the Heavens—a being older than mortal fear itself.
And Hwanung?
He didn't want the sky.
Didn't want the endless throne.
Didn't even want the whole "obey me" crap that gods usually foamed at the mouth for.
He wanted the mess.
The dirt. The blood. The sweet, brutal humanity choking and fighting in the mud.
He wanted to live.
