Chapter 4: Twilight Reading

Gun-woo's apartment, bathed now in the lambent glow of his solitary desk lamp, felt like a scholar's hideaway, the chaotic hum of Seonjin City reduced to mere white noise by his focus. He sat ensconced in his chair, his imposing frame making the furniture appear almost child-sized. The book lay open before him like a portal to another epoch, each word a cobblestone on the path leading into untold histories. He was poised at the precipice of the unknown, the worn pages a gateway demanding passage.

With the map of the book's distant world etched into his mind, he ventured into the first chapter. The introduction was an invocation, setting the scene of a realm where the thrum of war was the heartbeat of the land. Seemingly endless, the conflicts sprawled over landscapes scarred with the ravages of time, fought by legions whose names ebbed and flowed with the tides of power.

Gun-woo's attention was unbreakable. Each sentence wove intricate tapestries depicting gallant warriors and cunning strategists, arbiters of fates sealed with ink and blood. He read of armor that shone under relentless suns, of shields emblazoned with the sigils of forgotten dynasties, and of spears that whispered death with their every thrust.

The world outside dwindled away, leaving only the parchment, word, and Gun-woo himself—a solitary vessel navigating the sea of this novel's history. His imagination soared, unfettered by the confines of boardroom deals and financial analysis. Here in the book's embrace, he danced with ghosts of valorous combat and cunning wartime ploys.

As twilight's tapestry unfurled in hues of bruised purple and orange beyond his window, his room grew progressively dimmer, the once vibrant edges of reality softening into the penumbra of the encroaching night. His eyes moved hungrily across the page, the only sound the delicate rasp of paper and the occasional ruffle of movement as he settled ever deeper into the story.

The book was relentless, unforgiving in its pull. Page after page, Gun-woo delved through histories of sieges, of clandestine meetings in moonlit groves, and valiant last stands that echoed with the cries of the fallen and the victorious. Feats of bravery and sacrifice leapt from every page, painting his mind with ash, steel, and the fire-lit faces of warriors past.

Hours unfurled unnoticed, the night deepening as Gun-woo continued to drink in the chronicle. The intensity of his focus matched only by the visceral nature of the accounts, time ceased to exist. The narrative swirled in the room, a miasma of battles won and lost, of tactical prowess that transcended ages—and of the toll such endless conflict exacted upon lands and peoples.

Eyelids heavy with the toil of reading and a mind awash with adrenaline-soaked campaigns, Gun-woo felt a weariness settle upon him. It was a fatigue borne of journeying through chapters filled with human glory and its inevitable companion, human suffering. His head started to droop, the words blurring before his eyes, lines merging as the toll of the day's labor and the evening's intense study converged upon him.

The moment his brow touched the open page, reality wavered, frayed at the edges like a flag torn in the winds of ceaseless battle. The sound of the city, once a distant drone, was now lost entirely—a profound silence enveloped him, broken only by the steady rhythm of his breath, sinking into sleep.

In that liminal space between waking and dreaming, Gun-woo stood amongst the legions of a thousand battles roaring into life from the frescoes of time, a spectator within the tumult he so ardently read about. Unbeknownst to him, as he slumbered there, the world of "The Endless War Chronicles" was already reaching out, its ancient energies encircling him in spectral arms.

Slipping under the surface of consciousness, Gun-woo surrendered to a dream of such vividness it was indistinguishable from reality. In that twilit realm, he stood tall, not merely as a reader of epics, but as a living, breathing entity poised on the brink of legend.

And thus, as the night claimed Seonjin City and the apartment grew silent save for the beat of a distant heart, Gun-woo's real journey—the one for which he had been unknowingly chosen—commenced. For when dawn's light next caressed his face, it would not shine through the familiar glass panes of urban life, but rather filter through the emerald canopy of an ancient and mysterious forest, the book beside him as his silent sentinel.