Chapter 33 – Devotion in Every Tongue
Behind the Gold: AUREUS Unfiltered – Episode 2
Dare 11 of 13
Live Global Viewership: 842,910,328
Studio Status: Paralyzed
Jeon Mira (host):
(She draws the next card and raises her brows.)
"Well, this one's… poetic."
She reads aloud, tone playful—
"Write 'I love you' in every language you know. There is no time limit."
The audience chuckles lightly, unaware that the man seated before them is about to shatter the concept of what it means to love someone.
Minjae (grinning):
"Oh, easy. He knows like what, twelve languages?"
Hyunjae:
"Thirteen, I think? Still insane."
Yeonwoo:
"He'll do it in five minutes, max."
They laugh.
But Jaeheon does not.
He accepts the thick pad of high-grade paper and the black ink pen without a word. The camera zooms in—not on his face, but his hands. Pale, elegant, steady.
And then he begins.
[THE WRITING BEGINS]
No hesitation.
No flicker of uncertainty.
His handwriting is immaculate. Almost mechanical.
But there's no rush.
No frantic energy.
Only a cold, chilling precision.
Each word is written like a prayer. Like a vow.
One after another. Line after line.
SPLIT SCREEN – JAEHEON'S FACE & THE SHEET OF PAPER
Korean: 사랑해
English: I love you
French: Je t'aime
Spanish: Te amo
Mandarin: 我爱你
Japanese: 愛してる
Russian: Я тебя люблю
German: Ich liebe dich
Italian: Ti amo
Arabic: أحبك
Hindi: मैं तुमसे प्यार करता हूँ
Hebrew: אני אוהב אותך
Twenty. Thirty. Fifty.
The laughter fades.
The air goes still.
[IN THE STUDIO – MEMBERS' REACTIONS]
Minjae's voice trails off.
"…Wait. Is he… still going?"
Hyunjae (staring):
"I think that was… Quechua?"
Yeonwoo (softly):
"No one learns that unless they want to."
Rin, unnerved:
"Why does he write it like he's done it before?"
Eunjae (barely whispering):
"He's not thinking. He's remembering."
[THE WORLD WATCHES]
Languages appear that no one expected:
Swahili. Yoruba. Georgian. Mongolian. Icelandic. Sanskrit. Navajo. Māori. Nahuatl. Lao. Armenian. Basque. Khmer. Haitian Creole. Zulu. Finnish. Urdu. Burmese. Wolof. Aymara. Old Norse. Amharic. Pashto. Gaelic. Tibetan. Tamil. Malay. Igbo.
Ninety. A hundred. One hundred twenty.
Real-Time Global Chat:
@poetryincarnate: this is not love. this is worship.
@hewriteslikethedevil: HOW does his handwriting still look perfect??
@soldmysoulatlanguage43: this isn't a dare. this is a ritual.
@queenhasnoskin: he's not writing for us. he's writing to her.
@imscarednow: no man smiles with a blade at his neck unless he's truly hers.
@everylanguageforher: this is Jaeheon confessing again. in every tongue.
[JAHEON'S EXPRESSION]
Not once does he look up.
Not once does he pause in thought.
His hand glides. His eyes are cold. His face is unreadable—terrifyingly beautiful in the sheer composure he carries.
No smile. No emotion.
But something raw burns beneath the surface.
He does not stop writing because he is done.
He stops—suddenly, silently—because there is no space left.
The last row of the final sheet barely holds the final phrase.
He sets the pen down without ceremony.
And folds the pages.
[THE MOMENT AFTER]
Jeon Mira (quietly):
"…How many was that?"
Jaeheon (monotone, eyes fixed ahead):
"One hundred thirty-eight."
The world holds its breath.
He didn't falter. Didn't break.
He had more to give. More languages. More words.
But the paper gave out first.
And still—he doesn't look proud. Doesn't boast.
He looks like a man who's done this before.
Who's written it a thousand times—just for her.
[FLASHBACK – CHAPTERS 25 to 27]
The woman whose face no one knows.
But whose existence haunts the world:
The Queen. The Ghost. The One.
The back of his phone. The blurred silhouette.
The cold, grainy video of her pressing a gun to his forehead and a blade to his neck.
His blood dripping—and Jaeheon smiling.
As if her violence was a gift.
As if he was grateful for it.
"Even now, no one dares to say her name. But we all know she exists."
[ONLINE TRENDS]
#HeWroteIt138Times – 940M tweets
#PaperRanOutNotHim
#ThisIsObsession
#DevotionInInk
#SheOwnsHisSoul
#WhoIsShe
#QueenOfTheUnknown
VOGUE International:
"There are men who fall in love. And then there is Jaeheon Kang, who doesn't fall—he kneels. The man wrote 138 languages with surgical precision. He didn't run out of languages. The world ran out of space."
[IN THE STUDIO]
Jeon Mira (slowly, almost reverently):
"…Well then. That was…"
(She hesitates. Can't finish the sentence.)
"…Next dare?"
But no one moves.
Not even the camera crew.
It takes nearly a full minute before someone breaks the silence.