Episode 1 — He Who Wields a Sword Knows Not the Commit

3:17 a.m.

The fluorescent light in the studio apartment had gone dark long ago. The laptop screen lit Iseong's face a pale blue. Nothing else in the room qualified as light. On the desk, a single cup of instant noodles, gone cold. Beside it, two empty bottles of Bacchus.

The terminal cursor blinked.

Iseong sat frozen for a long while, his finger resting on the Enter key.

— Should I press it?

He was seriously considering it. It was a two-month freelance job. Yesterday the client had shown up with their fifth round of requirement changes, and by now the code wasn't really code anymore — it was just a pile of accumulated apologies. Maybe it would be faster to wipe it all and start over from scratch. Really.

A solo founder at 3 a.m. thinks about things like that, and means it.

His finger pressed down, just slightly.

That was when it happened.

"Cut it down."

Iseong's shoulders flinched.

It came from right beside his ear. Too close. The distance of someone standing right next to him, speaking. Slowly, very slowly, Iseong turned his head.

There was a man standing there.

In the studio. Inside the locked door. At 3:17 in the morning.

Iseong shot up without even closing the laptop. As he rose, the chair toppled backward. Startled even more by the sound of the falling chair, he stumbled back another step, and his back slammed into the wall. The shock of his back hitting the wall startled him all over again.

"Wh-who are you?"

His voice wouldn't come. Once more.

"Who are you?!"

The man didn't answer.

He was tall. A clear hand's-breadth taller than Iseong. Iseong was 179, which meant this man was pushing 190. His shoulders were broad, and on those shoulders sat something — armor? — a thing of mixed black leather and iron. Something like a cloak hung down his back, and at his waist there was a sword.

A real sword.

It wasn't cosplay. Cosplay doesn't hang that heavy. That was real iron.

The man wasn't looking at Iseong; he was looking at the laptop screen.

"...Is it that?"

"What?"

"Is that the enemy?"

The man pointed at the screen with one finger.

`rm -rf ./client_project/` blinked there.

Iseong opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

"...No, hold on, can we start with who you are—"

"Cut it down."

"What?"

"Were you not about to cut it down? Do not hesitate."

The man stepped closer. His footstep made — no sound. A man in armor taking a step should surely make some kind of noise, but there was none. Only then did Iseong realize it.

This man — he isn't pressing down on the floor.

"...Brother."

Iseong had called him that without meaning to. Why he had said "brother," he had no idea. Maybe it was from watching too many period dramas.

"Brother, are you perhaps—"

"I am Yi Eon (李彦)."

"What?"

"My name is Yi Eon. Yi Eon, Grand General of the Sinmu Guard. Who are you?"

Iseong felt as if he had heard that name somewhere. Where was it. The framed family register that hung on the wall of his father's eldest uncle's house. The story his father trotted out without fail once he'd had a drink. The founding ancestor Yi Eon — something during the reign of King Gwangjong of Goryeo — something Grand General —

"...Yi Eon."

"That is right."

"Grand General... of the Sinmu Guard."

"That is right."

"...Our founding ancestor."

For the first time, the man's eyebrows moved.

"How is it that you know that name?"

Back still pressed to the wall, Iseong slowly slid down and sank to the floor. His legs had given out. Too much information was flooding into his head, so for now his body simply surrendered.

"...Um, I'm your 32nd-generation descendant."

"What did you say?"

"The 32nd generation. Iseong. The 'seong' that means sacred."

The man — Yi Eon — said nothing for a long while.

Then he slowly bent his knees to meet Iseong at eye level. Up close, the look in his eyes was real. A look you couldn't fake with cosplay. They were the eyes of a man who had cut another man down before.

"...The 32nd generation."

"Yes."

"A thousand years, then."

"...About that, yes."

Yi Eon stood up again. As he rose he looked once at the ceiling, once at the fluorescent light, once at the closed window. And finally he looked at the laptop screen.

"What is this demon-sword (魔)?"

"...It's a laptop."

"Lap."

"Laptop."

"Lap. Top."

"Yes."

"...Right. So — is that the enemy or not?"

Yi Eon pointed at the screen again. Only then did Iseong remember what he had been about to press a moment ago.

`rm -rf ./client_project/`. A two-month freelance project. No separate backup. The last time he had done a git push was — three days ago?

"...It's not the enemy."

"If it is not the enemy, why would you cut it down?"

"Well, I do want to cut it down, but I'm not allowed to."

"You want to cut it down, but you must not."

"Yes."

"What does that mean?"

Iseong slowly got to his feet. His legs were still shaking, but his head, oddly, had begun to focus on one thing. For now — accepting this whole 3:17-in-the-morning situation could wait — first, what to do about that command.

"Brother."

"Do not call me brother. What is 'brother' to a founding ancestor?"

"...Grandfather."

"That is not it either."

"...General."

"Yes."

"General, for one thing, if I press that, two months vanish."

"Two months."

"Yes. Everything I built over two months disappears. And except for what I had three days ago, there's no backup."

Yi Eon frowned. When Yi Eon frowned, the space between his brows creased deep. People from a thousand years ago frown the exact same way, Iseong thought, absurdly.

"What is a backup?"

"...I'll explain later."

"Hm."

"For now, that — I'm not going to press it."

"Why do you not cut it down? Did you not say you wanted to?"

Iseong went back to the laptop. He stood the chair upright and sat down. His hands were still shaking. Even so, he laid his fingers on the keyboard.

He deleted the command. Each single press of the backspace felt strangely long.

Instead, he typed something else.

Enter.

Enter.

Enter.

The result came up on the screen. Push successful. Two months — for now — had been saved.

Iseong leaned back against the chair. He looked up at the ceiling once. The fluorescent light sat there, switched off. It was 3:19 a.m.

"...Saved."

"...You did not cut it down."

"No."

"Why?"

Iseong thought for a moment. About how to explain it. To this man. To a man from a thousand years ago wearing armor. To a man who didn't know what Git was, didn't know what a backup was, who read "laptop" as "Lap. Top," one syllable at a time.

In the end, Iseong put it as briefly as he could.

"...Start with a commit."

The space between Yi Eon's brows creased again.

"Com. Mit."

"Yes."

"What is that?"

"Um... so, first you take what you've done so far and — you nail it down somewhere. After you've nailed it down, then you cut. That way, even if you cut wrong, what you nailed down is still alive."

"...Nail it down."

"Yes."

"Even if you cut wrong, what is nailed down stays alive."

"Yes."

Yi Eon said nothing for a long while.

Then — for the first time — he took his eyes off Iseong and looked at the laptop screen again. The "push successful" message was still sitting there. Yi Eon looked at it for a long time.

"...In the age I lived in."

"Yes."

"Once you cut, that was the end of it."

"...Yes."

"However much you regretted it after the cut, the dead did not come back, and a fallen fortress did not rise again."

Iseong held his tongue.

Yi Eon nodded slowly. A small nod. A nod to himself.

"...I see. You know how not to cut."

"...I don't know if that's a good thing."

"Whether it is good or bad, you will find out later."

Having said that, Yi Eon slowly looked around the studio. It was a cramped studio. Eight pyeong. One bed, one desk, one wardrobe. Next to the wardrobe was a small bathroom. The bathroom door was open.

Yi Eon walked toward the bathroom. Still, his footsteps made no sound.

Iseong did not get up from his seat. Sitting in the chair, leaning back, he watched the figure from behind. The cloak hung down the man's back, and that cloak — when he looked closely — was faintly translucent. The wardrobe showed dimly through it.

Only then did Iseong realize it.

Yi Eon stopped in front of the bathroom. Inside the bathroom there was a mirror. The mirror above the sink. A small mirror.

Yi Eon stood before it.

For a long time.

Iseong watched the figure from his seat. Watching, he slowly stood. He rose and took a step closer. Two steps.

Yi Eon's shoulders trembled, just once, very faintly.

There was no one in the mirror.

Even when Iseong went closer and looked in, all the mirror showed was the bathroom tile, the sink, and his own shoulder. The armor, the cloak, the sword — none of it was in there.

Yi Eon raised his hand. In front of the mirror. The hand was there. Iseong could see it. Thick knuckles, two scars on the back of the hand. A hand that had gripped a sword for a long time.

That hand cast no reflection in the mirror.

Yi Eon stood like that for a long while.

"...General."

Iseong called out carefully.

Yi Eon did not turn around.

"...General."

"...Yes."

"...Are you all right?"

Yi Eon did not take his eyes off the mirror. Without taking them away, he spoke slowly. His voice was — a little different from before. A little lower, a little more distant.

"...So I am dead."

Iseong could not answer.

"I died, a thousand years passed, and I have come to you."

Still, Iseong could not answer.

Yi Eon stood before the mirror and looked a while longer at the mirror that would not hold his reflection. Then he slowly lowered his hand. As if gripping a sword, he slowly clenched his fist. The scars on the back of his hand deepened once, then eased.

"...I should have cut it down."

"What?"

"A thousand years ago. There is something I should have cut down, and did not."

Iseong opened his mouth, then closed it.

Only then did Yi Eon turn from the mirror. He looked at Iseong. With the eyes of a man from a thousand years ago, he looked at his 32nd-generation descendant.

"...Descendant."

"Yes."

"Is there something you must cut down?"

Iseong thought for a moment.

Two months of freelance work. The fifth change request. Three days with no backup. The cup of instant noodles gone cold. 3:19 a.m. The balance in his bank account. His parents' calls. The calls he hadn't answered. The replies he hadn't sent. Three side projects, all built and never shipped.

There was a lot to cut down.

So much that, not knowing where to even begin cutting, at three in the morning,

he had reached out to press `rm -rf ./client_project/`.

Iseong looked at the laptop screen. The "push successful" message was still there.

"...There is."

"Is there a lot?"

"...Yes."

For the first time, Yi Eon smiled — very faintly. So faintly you couldn't tell whether it was a smile at all.

"...It is well."

"What?"

"I have no hands; you have hands. I have no sword; you have — that demon-sword."

Yi Eon pointed at the laptop.

"Let us cut them down."

"...General."

"Let us cut them down, descendant."

"...Yes."

Iseong sat down in the chair.

It was 3:21 a.m. The fluorescent light was still off, only the laptop screen lit Iseong's face a pale blue, and beside it stood a general from a thousand years ago — one who cast no reflection in any mirror.

Iseong laid his hands on the keyboard.

His hands no longer trembled.