Rudra drags his luggage down the street, his movements deliberate, slow.
He mutters under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.
"Fuck this flight… it was garbage. Absolutely garbage."
His hand rubs at his temple, then over the back of his neck. His stomach twists again. He can feel the remnants of motion sickness from the long ride. Every bump of the plane, every sudden shift, now echoes in his joints and head.
The city stretches out before him. Neon signs scream from every building, buzzing lights flicking, blinking, flashing too fast. Advertisements. Storefronts. Billboards. Cars with their headlights bouncing off glass. Everything alive, everything moving.
His stomach twists further.
He grits his teeth.
He doesn't do well with this. Rapid, sharp lights—they hurt his head. His vision fights against them, and the pulsing neon gives him the sensation of vibrating inside his skull.
Too much. Too fast.
He pauses at the corner, taking a slow breath. Hands on his knees, leaning slightly forward. He stares at the lights for a second, trying to pick out one pattern, one line, anything that doesn't hurt.
His teeth click together.
"Goddamn it…" he mutters again.
Bhairava's voice hums inside his head, amused.
And yet you insisted on taking a night flight.
Rudra groans.
"Would you shut the fuck up? You don't even feel it."
He pushes forward, gripping the handle of his luggage like a lifeline. Each step deliberate. He keeps his head low, trying to block out the worst of the flashing signs. The city hums around him, electric and sharp, but he moves through it like a predator avoiding traps.
Neon buzzes. Lights blink. Cars honk. People pass. He feels it all too much, and yet he refuses to slow down.
This city is trying to kill me slowly, he mutters.
Bhairava laughs quietly in his head.
You're not wrong.
Rudra keeps moving.
Bhairava's voice cut through the static in Rudra's head.
Banpo Bridge. That's where you're meeting the other Hunter. Your guardian starting tomorrow. Until the Goddess's womb is retrieved.
Rudra grunted, adjusting his grip on his luggage.
The street ahead buzzed with neon, cars moving too close, lights blinking too sharp. He tried to block it out, tried to focus on the path.
Then a sudden burst of sound made him stop.
A nearby television, mounted on a building wall, blared loudly. Civilians gathered, staring up at the screen, their chatter mixing with the news.
The anchorwoman's voice carried clearly now, even over the city hum. She was reporting in Korean. Rudra activated the translator in his ear.
English filled his mind, crisp and accurate.
"Sixty years ago, the United Kingdom entered a civil war that continues to this day. The conflict began when the House of Scotland broke the treaty of 1707 and declared independence from the House of England. After decades of intermittent skirmishes, full-scale battles erupted in 2023, marking the 60th year of ongoing war.
"The war stems from historical grievances. Following the bankruptcy of Britain after World War II, most colonies gained independence, leaving only Canada and Australia under the Crown. Ireland is fully independent. Scotland, taking advantage of Britain's weakened state, has sought to reclaim control over the island nation, challenging England's rule directly.
"Throughout the past decades, the House of England has attempted to reclaim lost territories. Both sides have mobilized modern and conventional armies, with fluctuating control over key cities. In 1963, the Treaty of London attempted a temporary ceasefire. In 1979, the Battle of Edinburgh resulted in a significant Scottish victory. By 2002, London had reorganized its defenses following repeated Scottish advances.
"Civilian life remains precarious. Borders are heavily militarized. Trade is inconsistent. Reports indicate intermittent humanitarian crises. Both Houses continue to vie for legitimacy, each claiming authority over the island and the monarchy. Observers say the war may continue indefinitely unless a decisive resolution is reached."
Rudra didn't flinch at the content. He didn't need to. He only observed the people around him, noting how the civilians reacted—some uneasy, some curious, some ignoring it entirely.
Bhairava, as always, murmured quietly inside his head.
Remember. Banpo Bridge. Guardian waiting. No distractions.
Rudra adjusted his path, moving through the neon-lit chaos, keeping his head low, letting the translator relay every detail of the world's instability, filing it away for later.
Rudra kept walking, the neon glare bouncing off the wet pavement.
"This is so stupid," he muttered, voice low. "Why does Scotland even want control over the island of Britain? The signing in 1707 already made the Scottish king King of the UK."
Bhairava's voice answered immediately, sharp and mocking.
"Because royal people are people too. Unfortunately, everyone is born with a worm. A worm that lives in their rectum. When it jumps around, to relieve the feeling, people do unnecessary shit."
Rudra paused, one hand tightening on his luggage handle. "That was my line. You stole it."
He exhaled, scanning the city lights, neon buzzing in his eyes. "The Rhodesian Bush War in the 1970s also put a lot of strain on the English Crown. I feel like they'll let go of Canada or Australia in the following months."
He tilted his head, thinking, watching the crowds moving past him.
"If there's one winner in all this," he said quietly, "it's the House of Ireland."
Bhairava chuckled inside his head.
Of course it is.
Rudra didn't respond. He just kept moving, letting the neon city press around him.
"Whoever wins, UK loses," he muttered. "Pretty sure the winning cat would be so financially raped the monkey named USA would come in with monetary help and put a puppet monarch."
He swung his luggage slightly, scanning the street. "World's already divided. East and West. Blue eagle of Uncle Sam, or the Red Hyena of Papa Stalin."
"You mean USSR?" Bhairava said. "Just had its 101st anniversary two months ago. But if there's anything to be concerned about, it's China. More population, more production than the USSR ever had."
Rudra tilted his head, thinking. "China is not communist-communist. If anything, it's state capitalism. Especially after the second civil war of the 1990s. No reason to befriend the Soviet Union."
"Yeah," Bhairava replied, voice low and mocking. "Because it has all the means to replace the Soviet Union as top dogs of the East. It doesn't need a reason. Conquering forces rarely do. They do it because they can."
Rudra let the words sit in his mind as he moved, the neon blur of Seoul pressing in on every side, his thoughts sharp despite the chaos of lights and noise.
"Korea. This land's an American puppet," Bhairava said, voice low, scanning the streets. "Counters Japan in the east, China in the west."
"Soviet to the north," Rudra added, voice clipped.
"Speaking of north, there are forces that want to revive North Korea," Bhairava continued. "Remember that communist half of the peninsula?"
"It existed for like a decade before getting watered back into a capitalistic government," Rudra said, uninterested. "I mean, it did exist longer than the American Confederacy, I'll give you that, but I don't think it can come back."
"Many things have come back," Bhairava said. "You know that. You met something that did just a month ago, didn't you?"
Rudra stops.
The tension builds. Bhairava can feel it—the rage simmering under the surface.
You're still thinking about that? the voice mocks quietly, before falling silent.
Rudra's steps faltered for a second as someone darted between the crowd.
A kid. Young, cheeky, probably rich.
The kid didn't even apologize. Instead, he slammed his hands on Rudra's chest, yelling.
"You bumped me, asshole!"
The insults came fast, one after another.
"Smells like someone poured a whole bottle of perfume on you!"
"Gross. And are you sweating? Jesus, disgusting!"
"Your drip's trash. Bitchless. Shoes fake."
Rudra's eyes narrowed.
The kid pointed at his Js, clearly unaware they were real.
"You look like someone who didn't even pay for Spotify Premium!"
Rudra clenched his jaw. His hand twitched toward the kid.
Bhairava hissed inside his head, amused and sharp.
Do it. I dare you.
Rudra's hand stopped mid-motion.
He exhaled slowly, letting the tension leave his shoulders.
The kid scowled, noticing nothing had changed.
Rudra muttered under his breath and walked on, ignoring him, though the anger lingered in his chest.
Suddenly, the kid froze.
Then he started walking in one direction, slow, stiff, like a zombie.
No one around noticed. No one reacted.
Rudra did.
His left eye glinted gold. He saw it immediately—a small, dark butterfly hovering ahead, moving deliberately.
"A Wraithwing," he muttered.
A truck roared down the street, heading straight for the boy.
"No way," Bhairava hissed inside his head. We don't want him to get isekai'd into another universe. We've had enough of that slop already.
Rudra's body shifted. Instinct, training, everything kicking in at once.
He stepped forward.
The world around him narrowed. The neon, the noise, the crowds—all faded.
The boy, the butterfly, the truck—everything focused.
Rudra moved.