One who's lived 999 lifetimes could grow tired by the 1000th.
And one who's lived 1863 lifetimes should feel relieved when bypassing the final wall to his struggles.
However, that would only be if the circumstances were different, if what lay there wasn't just the barren remains of countless world lines that he'd lived and died in. Countless lives that he missed as much as he resented.
Eternity was a curse, and he was the one who bore it's pains.
Yoo Joonghyuk no longer suited the man whose only purpose was to pass the wall, that now stood crumbled behind him. He gazed at his pasts, a feeling of detachment in his chest as he looked at himself; feeling more of a foreigner to his own image than he'd ever been in his seemingly endless regressions. Had he fought so passionately? Had he gazed at Lee Seolhwa and Shin Yoosung at her arms, Lee Jihye by his side with so much fondness? Had he stood by Lee Hyunsung in the face of the apocalypse dragon with such determination, once upon a time?
Gaze drifting over to another world-line, he felt guilt prick at him the same way a mosquito would nip at skin; he felt it, but it never made its way inside of him, clawing through mind and heart until only the shell of a warrior was left. It just stayed as a feeling of dismay (like oil floating on water, never merging and becoming one) as he watched the child he helped bring into the world crawl amongst rubble in the ruins of the world with dazzling eyes and a naive smile.
It didn't feel like he was watching his child.
He lifts his gaze up, wondering if the many worlds drifted into nothingness, until this universe merged with another, and looked back down, raising a hand to the screen-like display.
Yoo Mia, he vaguely remembers. He'd named this child after the sister he raised like his own. He loved and protected her, but even he couldn't shield her from the wrath of the star stream. It"s a distant thing, the way he held her small body, cold and dripping with blood. He'd cried like his soul had shattered, and the rage fueled him to cut down constellations, the fury in his veins igniting the last flame he needed to go berserk and release hell on those damnable beings like eden themselves had disgraced them. He wonders if he still harbours the ability to act such a way, when all he feels is a dull, numb ache in his chest at the memory.
As if he'd be able to recall what it was to be truly human again, with hopes and fears alike, he lifts a scarred finger to the screen, tracing the child's movements.
[An unnamed constellation is interfering with the 2nd world line.]
Like a ripple to a still pond, the scene shifts slightly. The child catches herself before she trips over a stone. He doesn't remember her being particularly clumsy, but it wasn't fate either.
A small spark burns his finger (it hurts, but he doesn't wince—instead widening narrow eyes to the sensation; to the revelation that though small and momentary, he felt something), flickering like sparklers he'd see people wave around at the beach a long, long time ago—before the scenarios, before the star stream, before the apocalypse.
Such a thing an eternity away feels more like a dream than a memory.
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The human, one of five survivors inside that particular train caboose—Kim Dokja, scanned through the sponsorship options thoughtfully, hand on his chin. Critical, sharp eyes considered each option carefully, before flickering to the next one after deciding the prior wasn't worth it.
His eyes flickered to the third one and blanked at the lackluster, underwhelming alias. He even had the gall to pause and make an annoyed face at it. Said constellation felt a vein throbbing in his head, but still left the sponsorship up. Miraculously. A gloved finger was hovering over the button to retract it. Though perverseness was a strong trait of his, self constraint was not, and this new development was really testing it.
The Secretive Plotter thought curiously as he peered at his display; he'd spent eons upon eons watching his regression turns in silence, like a never-ending movie reel. He'd sit in silence and watch, observing the man that was once him as if to relearn who he was.
Upon repeating the cycle for a time he's lost count of, he noticed something different in the third round. A miniscule difference, which could be the domino effect of him interfering with the second round for that split second—but a difference nonetheless.
Rewatching the same scene for many times would make one's eyes more sensitive to the change. Akin to running around a park and realizing that one of the tree's had a swing, or recognizing a clocktower standing tall. Maybe even passing by the same bird twice—or more; who's to say that what goes unnoticed is something that doesn't exist?
When the Secretive Plotter first laid eyes on Kim Dokja, his gaze settled for less than five seconds before moving onto the other people in the subway; he was nothing but a speck of dust in the endless star stream, regardless of how he'd glittered for a moment.
Upon closer inspection, much, much later, Secretive Plotter realizes that he'd been looking at a star all along.
A bright and pure star, the constellation 'Demon King of Salvation' was.
How ironic, he thought when he watched Kim Dokja (now more than just a good brain with skin and bones) reach for the jade—not out of selfishness for power, nor to wreak havoc on those who damned him. He smiled slightly, and it made the constellation watching it unfold clench his jaw. He had an annoying smile; one too gentle, already subjected to the horrors that lie before him. But it was also one that was firm enough to say don't pity him, because it was always something he could handle. As if he always had a plan up his sleeve, hidden in that damn smile of his.
(He did.)
He watches as the channel scene pans to Yoo Joonghyuk—the other half of him, who chose to walk another path and follow Kim Dokja into the de-facto third round, losing all his memories in the process. But somehow, despite that, despite all the lifetimes that he'd lived before the existence of such an incarnation-turned-constellation, Yoo Joonghyuk always found Kim Dokja. As if his soul was bound to this confusing being, and the Plotter stares in irritation as Joonghyuk makes a hauntingly familiar face. On the rarer side of emotions he'd expressed in his vast life, as he watches his companion sprout wings as dark as night, demonic energy tracing his skin. It's something hopeless, something upset.
Something yearning.
It's a little too honest, a little too reminiscent of the 1863rd round—of the hellish forever that he's been subjected to for as long as time itself exists, and it makes the Plotter's fist curl up into a tight, steady grip. A twisted feeling he doesn't want to be reminded of resurfaces—just the barest hints of making itself known, when, fortunately for him, the newly crowned demon king seems to convey how he was feeling.
"Don't make such an expression. You can't change what has already happened, don't you already know?"
For a moment, he's glad that this new, unpredictable addition to the equation of his eternity was someone like this; compassionate but frank. He knew what was necessary and moved towards it. And for that moment, he'd forgotten that this being was the same one who held his face and stroked his hair, who told him with all the vigor in the world to not give up on life and to see it to the end. Someone who was neither his ending nor his beginning, but seemed to encompass an overwhelming part of his existence, even if only existing in this world line.
It's a little strange, how such a significant figure only existed in one of thousands of worlds. Maybe that was a reason why neither part of him wanted to look away from, or let go of the strange reader. After all, what would rhodium and sapphires be if it was something that everyone could have? The other rounds had Lee Seolhwa, Lee Jihye, Shin Yoosung, and Lee Hyunsung—members of pacheonmang, before Kim Dokja had come into this world and swept them off of their feet with a few more people that The Plotter couldn't be bothered to remember.
Maybe it's a little astounding how a group woven together by fate for eons was so easily manipulated by one person, but Secretive Plotter doesn't mind. It's one of kim dokja's few, yet endless charms; how he's managed to form a nebula so devoted that their world spins around him, and he doesn't even know it.
Something dark curls in Secretive Plotter's chest as he watches Yoo Joonghyuk's blade pierce through Kim Dokja's chest. He knows that, after all these turns, if Yoo Joonghyuk was still capable of crying, that's what he'd be doing as he sinks to the floor with Kim Dokja in his arms. The Plotter's jaw clenches, eyebrow twitching and eyes narrowing, rapping slender fingers against the throne's armrest.
How pathetic.
[The constellation 'Secretive Plotter' doesn't wish for your death.]
From the display, Dokja tilts his head back to look up at them, the constellations who found entertainment in their misery, and the outer god who masqueraded as one. And then, with that same, infuriating smile, he laughs. Something made to be loud and full and happy, but it comes out as a painful wheeze, blood spurting from both his wound and mouth.
Then he gazes at Joonghyuk, calm, serene, tired, and so full of love. As if this was what he was meant to do. An intimate moment, in all its tragedy; to assure the other, who held onto the dying demon king with trembling fingers and uncertain eyes, that this was how things were meant to be. That everything's alright. That Yoo Joonghyuk did the best he could.
He watches Dokja turn into nothing as the castle collapses into sand around them; watches as Joonghyuk scrambles to hold whatever remains, until he's left alone in the ruins—where he belongs, the plotter adds as an afterthought, foul taste in his mouth. He was a man with an endless amount of lifetimes to live, yet he was someone who could never protect the things that he wanted to keep. Truly, what was the purpose of such a man? If he couldn't even do that much, he deserved to just suffer in the confines of his consequences until it ate him alive.
"Let's meet again, Yoo Joonghyuk."
The words ring in his ear, echoing. He tries to ignore the hope in the sentence, the way that Kim Dokja, even in his dying moments, wished to meet the man who was always the reason he had to suffer. Even if it wasn't beside him, why he was so heavily fixated, so dedicated, so devoted to such a person—Secretive Plotter doesn't know. But he doesn't like how it makes him feel. As a distraction, he conjures a wine glass; the taste is bitter on his tongue, unsettling on his eyes.
The colour, once divine, smooth, and regal now made his stomach churn.
Its glass stem cracks under his fingers.
—— ❈ ——
When he first met Kim Dokja in the 1863rd round, back when his name was still Yoo Joonghyuk, and he was a man cursed to watch his comrades die in every lifetime, he thought Kim Dokja was an indestructible force. An immovable object, a light that would never dim. He was the best of humanity poured into one; whose smaller frame protectively stood in front of his when Han Sooyoung insisted he should die.
He always wondered why such a human would be so caught up in him, specifically.
(There's always been fans and devotees, but there's something in Kim Dokja that's so much more whole than blinded admiration, to the point it's almost overwhelming.)
Then he realizes that it's because he's human, that Kim Dokja would be so fixated on something beyond a point of reason.
(Selfishness and desire were what kept humans existing and evolving, after all.)
He also realizes that it's because Kim Dokja is a human at his soul (whether or not his heart was a dragon's and his body shimmered like a night sky in the way no human being could), that he's so fragile; walls built high to keep his own thoughts out, thickening it until he was all false smiles and pretenses.
It's because he's human that he's managed to push the others so far, but it's also because he's human that he needs someone to pull him into their arms before he reaches his limit and inevitably breaks.
It's because kim dokja's so painfully human; a liar, a hypocrite, loving, selfish, selfless, wanting—someone who can fearlessly lead his comrades to a point before he breaks down crying because he's so unsure of what to do, because he cares and fears and loves and feels. It's because of that that Secretive Plotter wants him, as if a ◾️◾️ that wasn't an eternity of hell waits for him somewhere in the soul of a person so desolate and barren and kind and real.
But of course, he's one of many admirers of a man who considers himself lower than a rat and barely above a cockroach, but he and Yoo Joonghyuk hadn't derived from the same person for nothing. If anything, Yoo Joonghhuk acted confident that if he held onto Kim Dokja tightly enough, he wouldn't be able to slip from his grasp.
Unfortunately for him, he failed to realize that a version of himself far more powerful had already planned to steal away everything he wanted to protect before Joonghyuk could even lay a finger on it.
The plan is essentially simple: he'd bide his time until he could descend to take Kim Dokja away from his haphazard company. He wouldn't rip their leader from their grasp, but make it so that he falls into the palm of Secretive Plotter's hands with no intervention from the Plotter whatsoever.
Nothing crafted could hurt as much as it does to simply watch them face the consequences they brought upon themselves, as he takes what he came for and leaves. He vows to make his exit, with Dokja in his arms, so painful in its singular action, that they spent all their waking days wishing they'd treated him better. Wishing they'd cared more, paid more attention, tried harder.
And then, he would tend to Kim Dokja in the way that he deserved; give him every novel his heart desired, let him live in the height of luxury, the peak of comfort, and never let him set foot in harm's way again.
Because such a person was so extravagant, so complex, so luminous, that he only deserved the best; that he deserved to be attended to at every moment—others merely just servants at his feet, he deserved to have people plan out routines, scenarios, everything for him rather than the other way around, to the point that he'd never have to worry about a single thing in his life ever again as long as Secretive Plotter has anything to do about it.
Because whether in utopia or in the middle of the apocalypse, human survival depended on three things, when it came down to it:
Desire. To see more, to have more. Humans are selfish beings who could never be satiated, even with the highest riches, the most extraordinary of accomplishments, or the most enchanting beauties at their feet. They always want more, regardless of what they need. Money, fame, love. Such a never ending cycle was the pilgrim of what drove their existence forward.
Fear. If any person could have anything they desired, then the world would be fair and humans wouldn't be selfish. But such is not the way of the world; and it's because people fear others taking what they want, others reaching to points in life that they want, others having what they want—that humans cannot sit still with the world. Two things that went hand-in-hand, that could either end in the peak of evolution or the foulest of sins.
Companionship. Humans are a social species that always require the presence of another; they can survive on food and water out of a desire to live and a fear of death. Creatures that survived extinctions of major species and developed complex, intricate thought processes—as well as habits, until they were far more civilized and superior to the rest of the food chain the world was made up of; that's what often defined the evolution of mankind. The ability to develop the brain to such an extent is one of their largest strengths, but also their biggest downfall.
The human mind could only take so much before it broke. People in solitude for extended periods of time tend to lose their consciousness and drift into insanity, killing them in a way far more painful, more pitiful, than death in the time it took for their physical bodies to decay. They weren't made to withstand troubles by themselves, desiring a companion out of fear that they'd be alone.
Because the human mind is so weak to being loved and longed for, that the ache of it could kill someone from the inside out.
It's what made survivors of such an apocalyptic world; no one could regress, return, or reincarnate without such a need to have those vacancies fulfilled.
It's what led him through 1863 lifetimes; all three factors laced together to form human nature at its purest form. Selfishness, cowardice, lust. It's also what pulls him to Kim Dokja, the Star Stream's resident anomaly. Someone who survived on the sole desire to see the end of a novel alone. Someone who didn't fear of losing, because he wasn't a person used to having. Someone who used the word companion to bring people together, only to be content watching from the sidelines without any involvement.
Someone so internally disconnected from what made humans humane, long before he'd become a star.
Someone who felt so familiar, despite only having a brief respite to know. A person who wants, gets scared, and accompanies people for their sake—without expecting anything in return. Without wanting anything in return. As if the option was never his for the choosing. As if he was woven into the galaxy with no hopes of escape, only being able to shine a borrowed light on his beloved comrades from a place far, far away. Because he gives and gives without the fear that he'll ever end, as if he's eternal.
Eternal and so, so lonesome.
It feels like watching his past regressions, except for one detail. Where Yoo Joonghyuk continuously gathered and raised his warriors, for the sake of surrounding himself with their presence, so that they were together when they fought, so that they could reach the end together—Kim Dokja pushed his companions forward, while he stayed back. Or he pushed them back, while running into the face of danger to protect them as if they're Kim Dokja and company, rather than Kim Dokja's company.
The fact makes his fingers itch to do something. It makes his veins burn under his skin, makes it a pain to just sit on the aged throne and watch. Because he remembers so clearly how much love and care Kim Dokja had put into keeping him alive in the last life he'd lived as a human. The patience, the gentleness in handling the scattered, broken pieces of what were once a strong mind and an even stronger heart. The devotion poured into making him want to live again. The way Kim Dokja's existence intervened its way into his regressions; made him want again.
As much as the company members tried to make him stay, tried to rope him down, they'd never tried extreme extents. They'd never tried to find out what would keep Kim Dokja, specifically, in place. They'd never put their lives on the line to prove that there were other ways to clear the scenarios, because Kim Dokja would always be one step ahead of them, and they'd never tried to read him like the constellation he was; because to them, his existence was a confusing splatter of stars in the sky that bound them together.
They loved him, and for him, they could cut down mountains, tame gruesome monsters, become an indestructible force to take down evil, and rewrite the future. But they couldn't die for him.
He loved them, and for them, he could bet on anything, faith never wavering. He could spend everything he had and not count it as a loss, because they were worth everything. He could spend restless nights planning for a future for them, and fearlessly stand in the face of death for them. He loved them, and he died for them.
And he would die for them again, because his love was as infinite as his life.
It infuriates the Secretive Plotter to no end, starting off as a small spark at the compassion Kim Dokja displayed, using himself as a barrier to shield Yoo Joonghyuk from the 41st Shin Yoosung. A small ember of annoyance, when Yoo Joonghyuk pressed his palms to Kim Dokja's bleeding wound in worry; taking action always a moment too late. Even if he was unaware, he had hundreds and thousands of lifetimes' worth of attributes and skills on him, while Kim Dokja only had one.
Really, if the regressor was going to call himself the man's companion in life and death, shouldn't he be more aware of who they're facing and their capabilities? He's lived through this before.
Yoo Joonghyuk could handle stab wounds; attributes, skills and natural endurance alike shielding him from the pain. Kim Dokja could not, bleeding out from a wound so deep it split open his abdomen. And then he had to smile, as if everything was alright. As if his suffering was reasonable. The nerve.
The flame steadily grew.
From an ember to a candlelight, at first. Beginning as mild annoyance, because to someone who's done these actions countless times to the point he could recreate them in his sleep, the sluggish pace of Kim Dokja's Company was nothing besides annoying.
This was Kim Dokja's first and only life, yet he was more adjusted to this world than any of his company members who'd appeared in the other regression turns. Of course, it's not like they'd remember the prior regression turns, because to them, it was the only life they'd lived. But the universe was truly unfair; someone of his caliber deserved to exist in the other world lines, because with such intellect, reaching the end of the scenarios would become doable.
(If kim dokja was in any of his world lines, he wouldn't have had to regress and suffer.)
(Then again, it's not like all the rounds deserved such a gem.)
And yet, here he was. With a Yoo Joonghyuk who couldn't even correctly recall which world-line he belonged to, surrounded and adored by incompetent fools.
(Kim Dokja was a rarity, and the secretive plotter despises that he belongs to the pseudo 3rd world-line instead of his.)
Thw comparisons keep happening.
An off-handed thought, at first, because if it were him, Kim Dokja wouldn't be in a situation where he could just slip out easily from their sight for something stupidly self sacrificial. Because the opportunity to slip away would never present itself. Because he wasn't a slow-witted member of the kim dokja company. Because he wasn't a dense Yoo Joonghyuk.
Because he would watch over Kim Dokja as the man's beside him, rather than stare longingly, regretfully, at the sky when all is said and done.
—— ❈ ——
He'd always wondered how Yoo Joonghyuk would react upon seeing what lay beyond the veil of stars. Angry, horrified, maybe even regress on sight—but he made a promise to Kim Dokja that he would see this life to its end, and though this man was too foreign to be considered what was once a part of himself, he knew that the promise would never be broken. Yoo Joonghyuk isn't one for lies or false hope. He is painfully honest in the sense that it's the one thing that makes him break.
And break he does, when desperate, scarred fingers just graze at the ends of a white coat before being gripped by a rivaling force.
Secretive Plotter watched as a multitude of emotions flashed by Yoo Joonghyuk's face, until it overtook his body in tremors. Fear, desolace, hatred. The Plottee revelled in it all. Nothing could be more satisfactory than watching the face of the man he hates as it crumbles into despair.
Go back. You can't save anyone.
He'd said that, not because he thinks Joonghyuk would actually obey and turn away—because he knows this man more than anyone else, more than Kim Dokja, and knows that he'll fight against reason, even in the most hopeless of situations, until it landed in his own death.
He's merely cracking salt into the wound, seasoning it.
Yoo Joonghyuk gained his bearings soon enough, baring his teeth in disbelief and anger, spitting out that the Secretive Plotter wasn't him with all the distaste that The Plotter himself feels whenever he looks at the incarnation. He'd agreed with that, easily. He didn't like the fact that they'd found common ground, so, patronisingly, he looked down at Kim Dokja, tucked under his arm, for the sole purpose of one system message.
[The constellation 'Secretive Plotter', is looking at the constellation 'Demon King of Salvation'.]
Though they were two different beings, Secretive Plotter swore that Yoo Joonghyuk saw red.
He'd growled, spat out threats and demands to let go of Kim Dokja, and the Plotter slightly marvels at how the former's managed to bring out such intense emotions within such a rigid, stone cold person. Joonghyuk never faltered, even with his body tearing down and protesting with every step, every strike he aimed at the outer god. Secretive Plotter wanted to see just how far it'd go.
It's a miracle that you managed to survive this far with such a slow head.
"Shut up, and let go of him." Yoo Joonghyuk spat. "or else…."
The Plotter narrowed his derisive eyes. Or else what?
He watched, with unbridled satisfaction (and an insatiable need to see more) as status and blood alike poured from Joonghyuk's wounds, making him stumble. He still glared up at the outer god, hand pressed to his nose in an attempt to stop the bleeding—he wasn't going to back down, eyes glowering sharply, but it was obvious; he was fighting a losing game. He could fight against constellations, and inflict injuries upon the other gods, but Secretive Plotter was far, far away from his reach.
He watched the man from his position, as he struggled against the Plotter's own status, akin to the way an ant would fight against a particularly heavy on-pour of rain, motions stuttering at the slightest change of weather. He thought about it as he stared down at the human, who'd fought beyond reason to the point it was idiocy than heroism, and puts a finger to those thoughts; that's what he is, an ant.
A small, insignificant bug that could be crushed under his foot, and crawled on the floor just the same.
What exactly can you do to me ?
Loathe as he admits, Yoo Joonghyuk put up a good fight. Eons ago, he might've been proud, but this was a time in which the only thing Secretive Plotter could do when he stared at the incarnation, was wish that he'd burn in hell. When he stood in his path and foolishly attempted to keep him from leaving, like someone believing they're of a higher status then they truly were. Yoo Joonghyuk knew what the plotter thought of him, and still roared out a demand to not look down on him—it took everything in the great Plotter not to crush the man's skull right then and there.
It's be too quick, too merciful of a death. No, Yoo Joonghyuk deserved to suffer for eternity. A pain far more cruel than death could ever bring him, and it laid in Secretive Plotter's arms as he easily, slowly took away the one thing that kept the man together. The N'gai forest wasn't something as accessible as the demon world, existing outside of the world-lines and requiring far more probability and power than an incarnation could ever have.
(And Yoo Joonghyuk would never be able to reach him, even if he ran on all the fables of the world.)
But still, the imbecile fought.
[Great fable, 'demon world's spring', has begun it's storytelling!]
Secretive Plotter's treasured every fable in all his world-lines, even as they were forgotten and were nothing but an incomprehensible jumble of words. They were his, and he'd treat them with care until they were no more, for they were the reason he was ever able to make it this far.
However, if there was one that he wished he could rip apart with his swords, it would be this one.
You can't win against me.
He would wonder why Yoo Joonghyuk needed Kim Dokja's presence when he'd lived so many regression turns without him, but he knows the answer. Perhaps even more so than Joonghyuk himself. Which is why he couldn't let the incarnation have him.
In order to reach my objective, I require Kim Dokja's presence.
(Because Kim Dokja is my objective.)
"Then, that's my answer too." it made something flare up within the Plotter—and for a moment, he understood how Uriel felt when she utilized her skill. Because though his words remained calm, a flame of wrath engulfed him with maddening ferocity, refusing to calm down until he sent Yoo Joonghyuk flying into a painful descent back to the Earth's surface where he'd be plagued by the remains of his losing fight until the day he took his last breath.
And now, an unconscious Kim Dokja lay in his arms, fables protectively wrapping around him like bandages where his wounds were severe. It was okay, though—none of it would be fatal. Ample rest and fables (of which, Secretive Plotter has plenty. And for Kim Dokja, he would even set out to find the Wenny King for the rarest of them.) and he should be perfectly fine. His incarnation body might take a while to heal properly, but—
He takes a moment to look at the man, tattered and torn in his arms. But still warm, weighted. alive.
—They had all the time in the world.
—— ❈ ——
By the time he returned, the kkomas were staring at him with vaguely disgruntled expressions, watching as he carried a figure in a white coat with all his care. They crowded around his feet, spouting questions about what he'd involved himself in this time—41 sends a glare to the particular finger he'd exchanged for probability and tsks, looking away.
999 is perceptive enough to push open one of the many bedroom doors and usher him inside. Hw also pulls the covers back with all his might, before 888 and 777 join his side and successfully yank it off on one end. Secretive Plotter doesn't say anything, but the unspoken gratitude exists between them. His eyes never leave the unconscious man in his arms as he sets Kim Dokja down on the soft, plush bed.
Dokja doesn't make a sound, doesn't even stir. 999 clambers onto the circular bed and presses his hand to the star's neck, reaffirming that the other had a shallow pulse, and a warm fever from overly exerting himself. Really, what kind of fool would go to such reckless lengths for his comrades without a second thought? His lips twitch slightly.
Most of them flood out of the room for or their own duties after checking on the Plotter. He doesn't move from his spot; neither sits down nor leaves. He watches Kim Dokja, with his eyes instead of a flat display, takes in what makes him real,mand reaches a hand out to brush longer strands of hair from his face.
It's not like monthly haircuts were an affordable luxury in the middle of the apocalypse, after all. Much less matching dinnerware or socks. In fact, the Plotter thinks that this length suits the incarnation much better.
One thing that's a little absurd, though, is how different Kim Dokja looks. From the channel, all they saw was a snarky leader of fighters who'd see the end of the scenarios. His face wasn't exactly clear, blurry and almost filtered out from distortion, sharp at the edges. He isn't some enthralling beauty rivaling aphrodite, sure, but he didn't look bad. On the nicer side of average, maybe.
Pale, smooth skin that was surprisingly well-kept—aside from his very heavy dark circles. Long, thick eyelashes. A small nose. Soft looking lips. A thin face, and thin, silky strands of hair. He wasn't pretty in the sense that he looked particularly feminine, but he couldn't be considered particularly handsome either.
Soft.
That's a word that fit him. Like this, at the very least.
When he wasn't snarling and eerily smirking at his rivals, scowling at particularly hard scenarios, getting ripped to shreds, or scrunching his face up in dismay of not being able to come up with a plan, Kim Dokja looked soft. Oddly so. It suited him. His countenance like this was much more tolerable than whatever rat bastard rose within him every time he awoke.
Relaxed muscles and a calm countenance suited him much, much better than the stuffy attributes he invested his coins into out in a murderous world, Secretive Plotter thinks. He has half a mind to brush his fingers over Dokja's cheek, but he curls them into a fist and leaves for his duties in the hall before he does.
Patience is virtue, and he has all the time to make Kim Dokja stay. It wouldn't make a good impression if he pounced the very moment an opportunity presented itself; it wouldn't be well mannered to do so, either. And he was a gentleman, not a brute.
(Besides, it's just the law of nature; predators moved so silently that they couldn't be noticed, stealthily chasing their meal until their prey tires from running away and finds themselves caught with claws around their neck.
though it's not like Kim Dokja could run away; Secretive Plotter was the King of the outer gods and the forest they resided in, one tap of a finger and everything would bend to his will. But even if Dokja tries to make an escape, Secretive Plotter would never use his powers to stop him.
Not directly, at least.
Because the N'gai forest was an inescapable maze of hedges and foliage, folding in on one another and shaping into pathways that'd inevitably lead back to square one—the only thing that would await Kim Dokja at it's end would be Secretive Plotter. Kim Dokja would inevitably run to him, regardless of the path he took; all he had to do was wait, cursed with time. And when Kim Dokja finally reaches him, he'll open his arms and catch the star that'd fall into them.)
It's all just a matter of time.