The sea mist rolled in like a living thing that morning—cold, thick, and watchful.
On an island hidden beyond satellite reach, covered in fog and legend, Ian Park stood barefoot in the courtyard. His black training gi clung to his lean, powerful frame, drenched in sweat. Thirteen years old now, and already his aura pulsed with calm danger.
His crimson eyes were fixed ahead, unblinking. Before him stood three summoned combat specialists—elite biotech war veterans—ready for the young master's morning sparring routine.
His knuckles cracked. The wind shifted.
Then he vanished.
A blur of motion. A straight punch. One summon dropped like a broken tree.
The other two moved in perfect sync, flanking him, rifles slung to the side, switching to CQC mode. Ian ducked low, swept the leg of one with an elegant spin, then parried the other's strike mid-air.
"Pause simulation," he muttered, chest rising with steady breath.
The summoned soldiers froze. A calm voice chimed from the hovering console nearby.
[Combat Evaluation: Excellent. Efficiency: 97%. Lethality: Restricted for training mode.]
"Good," Ian said. "Send them back to the quarters and rotate the squad. We'll continue this evening."
He turned and walked toward the garden path that led to the heart of the island estate. His sandals slapped lightly against stone. Goro, his ever-present butler—a massive man dressed in black, with skin like granite and discipline sharper than a katana—followed at a respectful distance.
"Young Master," Goro said, bowing slightly. "Lady Anna says your brother is awake and quite... active."
Ian smirked. "He's learning to walk. He already tried to climb the wall again, didn't he?"
Goro gave a rare, amused grunt. "He attempted to suplex a goose."
"...He's one."
"Yes."
Inside the estate, the atmosphere was warm and ancient, decorated with both old Korean calligraphy and subtle signs of overwhelming wealth. Every inch of this mansion breathed legacy. And yet, the true power of the Park family still remained hidden beneath its surface.
Ian stepped into the nursery where little Jinyoung Park—barely a year old—was waddling with determined defiance, clumsily throwing a baby toy like it was a grenade.
"HYAH!" he screamed.
Ian crouched beside him and ruffled his soft hair.
"Don't scream 'Hyah' when throwing something that's soft and squeaky," Ian said.
"Hyah!" Jinyoung repeated.
Ian sighed. "You'll be a menace in five years. I can feel it already."
Anna, the silver-haired maid and former intelligence operative, entered with a tablet. "Young Master, your father requests your presence in the western wing. He says it's time."
Ian raised an eyebrow. "Time?"
Anna nodded. "He wants to introduce you to the Roots."
The Western Wing – The Hall of Silence
Few ever walked this path. Fewer returned changed.
Ian followed the hall, his heartbeat steady. He had seen things no 13-year-old should ever witness—war simulations, assassination techniques, psychological warfare, business takeovers—but this... this felt different.
The massive doors opened with a hiss of old air. Inside stood three figures.
His Father, the current patriarch. A man whose mere presence silenced rooms and cracked egos.
His Grandfather, seated on a carved obsidian throne, blindfolded yet utterly aware of everything.
And beside them, leaning lazily against a pillar, a man Ian had never really know before—but felt. His Great-grandfather.
"You've grown, Ian," the patriarch said. "It's time you knew more."
Ian stepped forward, posture flawless. "I'm listening."
The grandfather's voice was like crushed gravel. "Your bloodline spans centuries. Kings have knelt to our ancestors. Armies have vanished because of our command. The Park name was never meant to be loud—it was meant to be final."
Ian's great-grandfather chuckled, voice like a bored god. "Back then, wars were different. Men died like weeds. We killed with our fists, not names. These days, all you kids have are guns and phones."
Ian asked, "Why hide all this?"
The patriarch answered, "Because the world is fragile. And we're not meant to be known. The moment the Park Bloodline steps into the light... everything burns."
They gestured to a large, cloth-covered object.
Ian pulled the cloth off.
A map. But not just any map.
It was a global web. Corporations. Banks. Governments. All subtly owned or influenced by one name:
PARK GROUP.
Construction firms that built empires. Resource companies that supplied entire nations. Luxury brands that defined global fashion. They had quietly bought their way into every corner of the world—with only one sector missing:
Weapons.
Ian understood. That would be his path. Not yet—but in time.
The great-grandfather stepped forward and flicked Ian's forehead.
"Still too soft," he muttered.
Ian winced slightly. "I took down three summoned soldiers before breakfast."
The old man shrugged. "Try fighting with your soul. Then we'll talk."
They all laughed. A rare moment. Even the patriarch cracked a small smile.
"You have time," he said. "Grow stronger. Train harder. And protect your brother. He may one day walk a path darker than even ours."
Later that Night
Back in his room, Ian stared out at the ocean. The wind was quiet. Stars hung above like scattered jewels.
He whispered, "Gun... Goo... Daniel... I wonder if you'll ever understand the storm that came before you."
Behind him, little Jinyoung rolled over in his sleep, drooling on a plush toy shaped like a grenade.
Ian smirked, his eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
"The world doesn't know it yet... but the Park Bloodline never left."
--
A week passed. Ian Park, now thirteen and glistening with sweat as he finished his 2,000th one-handed push-up, the mist was just ambiance.
"Too easy," Ian muttered, rising from the polished stone platform built atop one of the island's mountainous cliffs. His breath steamed in the cold air. Muscles tensed like coiled steel, not a single ounce of fat on him. His hair was tousled, his jaw sharper than an obsidian blade. And yet, despite all that power pulsing beneath his skin…
He still looked like a smug teenage heartthrob straight out of a manhwa panel.
Below, on the private beach, the summoned butler Goro barked at trainees—other summoned soldiers who had once served in wars across dimensions and now trained under Ian's command. Live combat drills. Tactical teamwork simulations. Firearm proficiency exams.
And all of it being watched from afar by Ian's youngest sibling.
"Guuuuh," baby Jinyoung muttered, sitting in a tiny custom-built titanium stroller with Park family crest embroidered on the leather seat.
He clapped when he saw Ian leap down from the cliff's edge, landing silently behind him like a panther. Jinyoung smiled.
"Wanna train, little bro?" Ian grinned, flexing.
Jinyoung responded by burping and throwing a wooden toy at Goro's head.
"That's the Park spirit," Ian laughed.
That Evening – Park Family Estate
The estate was a sprawling mansion carved into the island's highest peak. It wasn't just a house—it was a fortress disguised as luxury. Marble halls, reinforced walls, training dojos, private hot springs, and even a bunker loaded with priceless relics from generations past.
At the head of the long dining table sat Ian's father—the current Patriarch of the Park Family.
Even in his late 50s, he radiated an aura that could paralyze a lion mid-charge. His presence didn't shout—it commanded. He had yet to even raise his voice since Ian was born, but when he spoke, even the fog outside the mansion seemed to hush.
"Ian," he said, folding his hands behind his back. "Come with me."
The rest of the room fell silent.
Jinyoung, eating mashed sweet potatoes from a golden spoon, just stared blankly. Goro and Anna stood still like statues.
--
The hallway stretched far beyond the dimensions of the house. It was hidden behind the library, accessible only by pulling a first-edition copy of The Art of War and placing a bloodstained ring on a secret mechanism.
Ian followed his father into a room filled with portraits. Not oil paintings. Not photographs.
Carvings.
Marble engravings of men so terrifyingly handsome and powerful, they looked more like myths than blood relatives.
"That one is your great-grandfather," the Patriarch said, pointing at a carving of a man in traditional hanbok holding a broken sword.
"He once defeated the entire leadership of the Yamazaki Syndicate using only his left hand. He was right-handed."
Ian stunned but not impress.
"That one," he continued, nodding to another carving, "is your grandfather. He fought in World War II—not as a soldier, but as an independent force. He hijacked a German train filled with gold, rerouted it, and bury the money under this island."
Ian stepped closer, examining the third carving—of a man resembling his father but with even colder eyes.
"That… is you."
The Patriarch turned and met Ian's eyes.
"No carving is added until it is earned. You are next."
Later That Night – On the Balcony
Ian sat with a cup of warm ginseng tea, Jinyoung dozing beside him wrapped in a custom wool blanket stitched with the Park family crest. Anna was somewhere nearby, knitting daggers into baby booties.
Suddenly, the butler Goro arrived with a sealed envelope.
"From the mainland," he said grimly.
Ian opened it.
Inside was a photo.
A blurry shot of a man with a scar over his eye. Short hair. Thick arms. Smoking under a broken street lamp.
Scrawled on the back: "Gapryong. Seoul. War's not over."
Ian narrowed his eyes.
"The Pre-Generation… is stirring again?"
Elsewhere – An Old Bar in Seoul
A man with wild eyes, lightning tattoos, and a bottle of cheap soju sat in the dark.
His phone buzzed.
He answered. "Yeah?"
A voice replied. "He's coming."
"Who?"
"Ian Park."
Silence.
Then, a chuckle. "Finally... something interesting."
Back on the Island – At the Temple Shrine
Ian stood alone before the tombs of his ancestors.
He bowed. Then raised his head and whispered, "The world's about to remember again the Park name."
Behind him, the wind shifted, and the sea fog parted just slightly.
Something old was waking.
And the Pre-Generation era?
Was about to witness the rise of something older than legends.