Another host leaned back, scoffing.
"Are we supposed to believe that Hwanung—the Son of the Heavenly Lord—was struck down by some dragon with boundary issues?"
One of them tapped their earpiece, pretending to get a production note. "Quick, someone call Netflix. I smell a new fantasy franchise."
Still, the woman said nothing.
She didn't need to. She had already said everything.
She simply stood there, unmoving. Her silence was not submission. It was warning.
Then one of the hosts leaned forward, his sarcasm sharpened by something darker now. An edge of obsession, perhaps. Or fear.
"Fine," he said. "Let's go with your bedtime apocalypse. Let's say Daegon did kill Hwanung. Let's say the dragon broke the sky and won the battle."
He looked at her. No longer smirking.
"Then what?"
His voice dropped.
"Why didn't he take the world?"
"Why didn't he finish what he started?"
"If he could kill a son of heaven… who stopped him?"
No one answered.
