The Strongest Bodyguard

Since the beginning, humans knew they were not alone.

Long before technology caught up, people lived beside creatures the world now called “mythical.” Werewolves ran beneath the moon’s pull. Vampires lurked behind velvet curtains and forgotten alleyways. Orcs hid deep in mountain caverns. Dryads whispered in forests older than civilization. Even unicorns, elusive, proud guardians of untouched land, roamed places untouched by humans.

Humans did not fear them, not entirely. They coexisted through instinctive boundaries, ancient pacts, and a mutual understanding of survival. But coexistence evolved into something new as humanity unlocked its own forms of strength:

1. Unique Abilities: Inherited powers passed through bloodlines. From families of fire-wielders to clans who bend shadows or manipulate metal with a touch. Each family’s ability differs, and some lineages are so powerful they influence nations. These abilities define heritage, status, and legacy.

2. Magic. A discipline forged through study and practice. Those with high mana can conjure spells, barriers, illusions, and elemental forces. Magic demands precision, training, and control—one mistake can destroy the caster.

3. Technology: The weapon of progress. Humanity engineered blasters, kinetic rifles, shock batons, autonomous drones, mech frames, and even power core–reactive weaponry. Some humans fight with no innate power at all—only the science they wield—and yet they stand on equal footing with monsters.

4. Qi: The spiritual energy present in every living being. Refining Qi strengthens the body—enhancing speed, power, senses, and durability. Qi is also the fuel that amplifies Unique Abilities: a small flame becomes a firestorm, a weak telekinesis becomes an overwhelming force. But Qi and Magic remain incompatible, no human can master both paths.

35 years ago, humans made their greatest breakthrough: a portal. A doorway to other worlds. Alien landscapes filled with ruins, monsters, and resources beyond imagination. Humans called “Adventurers” formed groups or parties, who entered these worlds in search of one priceless treasure:

Power Cores. Crystallized essence extracted from monsters, used to power spells, forge weapons, fuel technology, and strengthen entire cities.

Cores came in seven grades:

Grade 7 – Ember

Grade 6 – Spark

Grade 5 – Crescent

Grade 4 – Radiant

Grade 3 – Nova

Grade 2 – Astral

Grade 1 – Origin

The higher the grade, the stronger, and deadlier, the monster. Adventurers grew wealthy. Nations grew stronger.

Far removed from all of this—

A stadium rippled with light.

Tens of thousands of glow sticks moved as one, washing the arena in rose and violet as IVE, a famous girl group in Korea, took their final formation. The music vibrated through the steel ribs of the dome, humming beneath the roar of the crowd. Every breath inside the place felt charged, electric, almost holy, in a way only a perfect concert night could be.

At the center of the storm, Jang Won-Young stood poised, elegant as a carved figurehead cresting a wave. She lifted her chin with the regal confidence that had become her signature, statuesque but soft, refined but radiant. Sweat shimmered across her skin under the stage lights, but her smile held steady. Practiced. Confident. Controlled.

She could feel the camera lenses zooming in, capturing every micro-expression, every fractional movement. Her fans expected perfection; the industry demanded it. So she gave it. The final note hit its mark, crisp and resonant. The song ended on a final pose. Silence, half a heartbeat long. Then the dome erupted.

A tidal wave of applause surged over the stage. Won-Young held her expression perfectly, allowing just a subtle shift into the charming, playful smile her fans adored. She dipped into a graceful bow, long dark hair spilling forward like silk. Perfect. Keep it perfect. Not even a millimeter out of place. The other members joined her, linking arms for one last bow. The lights swelled, the confetti cannons burst, and the last chorus replayed faintly through the speakers as the stage rotated toward the backstage ramp.

But as soon as they stepped behind the curtains, reality snapped back with a different kind of intensity. The roar of the audience muffled into a distant vibration. The lighting shifted to harsh fluorescents that stripped the glamour from everything. Staff members rushed in, holding coats, water bottles, clipboards, replacement microphones. The chaos of efficiency replaced the orchestrated beauty of the stage. Won-Young inhaled deeply, letting her shoulders relax for the first time in two hours. Then her perfectionism pulled the tension right back.

“You were amazing out there,” Rei said, appearing beside her with a cold pack wrapped in a towel. “Here. You’re overheating again.”

“Thanks,” Won-Young replied, pressing it lightly to her neck. “My jump during the bridge… it was off by about two centimeters.”

Rei blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“No one noticed that.”

“I noticed,” she murmured.

Her voice wasn’t harsh, merely factual. Perfection wasn’t a goal. It was maintenance, like breathing. Like eating. A few staff members nearby exchanged looks that hovered between admiration and concern. Won-Young didn’t catch them. Her mind was replaying her choreography frame by frame, cataloging flaws only she would ever see. She was still thinking about that jump when Manager Han slipped through the crowd. He wasn’t rushing. That alone made her straighten, instinctively alert.

“You did great today,” he said, voice warm but taut around the edges.

She frowned slightly. He only opened with compliments when he was working up to something.

“Manager-nim,” she said carefully, “is there a problem? Did something go wrong on stage? With the cameras? With the fan event after?”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “The concert was flawless. You performed exceptionally well.”

That didn’t ease her anxiety, it heightened it. Manager Han wasn’t the type to sugarcoat unless he had to.

He glanced around the hectic corridor and gestured. “Walk with me?”

They moved away from the swarm of makeup artists and technicians, toward a quieter back corridor lined with silver flight cases and unplugged lights. Each step made her more aware of the heaviness in his posture.

“When you say it like this,” she said lightly, “it feels like you’re about to tell me I’m getting a curfew again.”

That earned a small, strained laugh. “No curfews. Not this time.”

“Then what is it?” she asked, brows gently drawing together. “You know I hate suspense.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Starting tomorrow,” he said, “you’ll have a new bodyguard.”

She stopped walking.

“…What?”Her pulse thinned.“What do you mean a new bodyguard? Why? What happened to—”

“That’s… something we’ll discuss in tomorrow’s briefing,” he said, voice level but careful. Too careful.

“What matters for tonight is that this is for your safety. The agency has already approved him.”

Her chest tightened—not dramatically, but with the muted pressure of something unwelcome and unfamiliar. She wasn’t afraid of change. She’d simply had enough of it for one lifetime. Worse, she was attached to her previous bodyguard. He had watched over her since the early IVE days—protective, steady, dependable. Somewhere along the endless nights of travel, rehearsal, and exhaustion, he had become like an older brother.

“Is…” she swallowed, steadying her emotions, “is he alright?”

Manager Han looked away. That was all she needed to confirm that no—things were not alright.

Her heartbeat fluttered. “Manager-nim—”

“For tomorrow,” he repeated gently. “Not tonight.”

She didn’t push further, not because she didn’t want answers, but because he had already closed that door.

She drew a calm breath, one she hoped sounded composed. “Fine. Then tell me this much… is he at least experienced?”

Manager Han hesitated. A small hesitation. Barely noticeable. But Won-Young noticed everything.

“He hasn’t worked as a bodyguard before,” he admitted. “But according to the test results, he scored unusually high in both physical and written evaluations.”

“Written?” she repeated.

“Yes. Extremely high. The instructors were confused, actually.”

Won-Young blinked. Physical ability she could understand. Idol guards needed reflexes, strength, awareness. But written exams? Those were for situational judgment, threat analysis, logistics. A top score there meant he wasn’t just strong, he was sharp. Still… it didn’t ease her. Someone new meant someone unpredictable. Someone she’d need to adjust to. Someone who would be close to her every day, every rehearsal, every commute, every moment her guard was lowered. She wasn’t ready for that.

Before she could gather her next question, footsteps echoed from the far end of the hallway. Slow, steady. Unhurried. Everyone else backstage moved with frantic urgency. Only someone truly confident—or truly careless—walked like that here. She turned.

A man approached. Tall. Dressed in black. His coat hung open casually, hands tucked loosely into the pockets as if he were strolling through a quiet park rather than the aftermath of a massive concert. People naturally stepped aside for him. They didn’t look at him, didn’t stare, they just moved, the way animals instinctively shift around a predator they can’t identify. Yet nothing about him appeared aggressive. If anything, he looked… relaxed. Almost lazy.

Manager Han straightened his posture. “Ah. There he is.”

Won-Young felt her nerves flicker. The man came to a stop a few paces away. Up close, he didn’t look like a rookie or an amateur. He didn’t even look like someone trying to impress. There was something strangely serene in the way he held himself—calm to the point of being unreadable.

“Won-Young,” Manager Han said, “this is Jake, your new bodyguard.”

Jake. The name didn’t match the man. Or maybe the man didn’t match any name that existed in the real world. He lifted his gaze to her. Their eyes met. Something like pressure grazed the air—not intense, not intimidating. Just… present. A subtle awareness, as though he wasn’t simply looking at her but quietly assessing every angle of the hallway, every sound, every movement at once. His expression didn’t shift.

Then—

He smiled. Small. Effortless. Unreadable. A smile that hinted he already understood far more than anyone here realized, not just about the situation, but about her. Won-Young did not smile back. Her uncertainty rose slow and steady, tightening in her chest like a tide creeping upshore. The air between them felt suspended. Paused. A moment stretched into something that felt like the quiet just before a curtain lifts.

A beginning.