The first thing he did after seeing his stats wasn't train.
It wasn't call Harin or tell anyone else.
He cleaned his room.
Folded the blanket on the floor. Picked up the empty ramen cups near the trash bin. Wiped the desk, even though there wasn't much on it except for an old receipt, a pencil, and the cracked mirror he hadn't bothered to hang.
Because some part of him thought: If you're going to keep going, even like this, something around you should look a little more alive.
And because the other part of him knew: if he stopped moving, even for a second, the weight of those numbers would hit him too hard.
Strength 4.
Agility 5.
Endurance 6.
It was better than nothing. But only just.
Just enough to make the world expect something. Not enough to survive inside it.
He didn't sleep much that night.
Didn't dream either.
Morning came like it always did—too fast, too loud.
The city was unforgiving in its routine. The same buses, the same stores, the same delivery guys half-shouting into phones.
Taesung walked out like nothing had changed.
Because to everyone else, nothing had.
He still looked like a regular kid. Still wore the same jacket. Still didn't glow or radiate mana. Still just a face in the crowd.
But inside, everything was louder.
Every footstep felt like it echoed against the version of himself he used to be.
He arrived early at Graylight's training facility. Too early. Harin wasn't there yet.
He stood outside the doors and watched a pair of D-rank hunters come out, laughing, gear slung over their backs like it weighed nothing.
He didn't know if he envied them. He just wondered if they ever had days where they doubted they belonged.
Probably not.
"Thought you'd chicken out."
Harin's voice cut through his thoughts like it always did sharp, steady.
She was holding two bottles of water and tossed one at him without slowing down.
"I'm here, aren't I?" he said.
"Barely."
They walked in together.
The training room smelled like rubber and sweat. Padded floors, target dummies, impact walls. Nothing fancy. Nothing dramatic.
But it was real. More real than anything he'd stood in before.
She didn't waste time.
"Stretch. Then basic stance drills."
He blinked. "That's it?"
"You thought I was going to throw you into a Rift and tell you to awaken again through trauma?"
"…Kind of?"
She rolled her eyes. "No. We start with foundation. You move like someone who never fought anything tougher than a stubborn vending machine."
And that's what they did. For three hours.
Taesung's muscles shook by the end of it—not from pain, but from how much attention it took just to move correctly. He hadn't realized how much of fighting was thinking.
"Don't lead with your foot like that. You'll get swept."
"Stop holding your breath. You'll black out before you even land a hit."
She wasn't gentle.
But she wasn't cruel either.
And for once, he didn't mind being corrected.
Because every time she said something, it chipped away at the blur in his mind—cleared a path forward, however narrow.
They sat outside afterward, backs against the building wall.
Harin handed him another bottle of water.
"You're not bad," she said. "You're just slow."
"Gee, thanks."
"I mean it. Slow learners stick. Fast ones burn out."
He nodded. He didn't have the energy to argue.
There was a long pause.
Then she asked quietly, "Have you told her yet?"
He knew who she meant.
"No."
"Why not?"
"What would I say?" he murmured. "That her son's still a C-rank with an unknown skill and trash stats? That he's planning to throw himself at Rifts anyway because he doesn't know what else to do?"
She didn't say anything for a while.
Then she looked over at him, expression unreadable.
"You don't have to prove anything to her."
"I know."
"But you still want to."
He nodded once.
And they let that silence sit.
Later that night, he walked home alone.
The streets weren't cold yet, but they would be soon. The sky was the color of steel wool—flat, tired.
He bought bread and instant curry from a store near his block. The lady at the counter asked how his mother was doing.
He smiled politely. Said she was okay.
He lied.
She'd been coughing again. Not the light kind.
The kind that rattled.
She never asked him about his Evaluation.
Never brought up the Rank.
It made him want to cry and scream at the same time. Because she knew. Of course she knew. And she loved him anyway. And she didn't ask questions because she didn't want to make him feel smaller than he already did.
So he cooked the curry. Poured it into two bowls. Made it seem normal.
They ate dinner like everything was fine.
They laughed once. About some dumb thing on the news.
And when she went to bed early, he didn't stop her.
Didn't follow.
Just sat there at the table for a long, long time after her door closed.
His food was already cold.
But he still finished it.
That night, he stared at his stat screen again.
He still didn't know what [Null Read] meant.
Still couldn't control whatever it was that flickered beneath his skin.
But he'd moved. Trained. Breathed. And made it through another day.
He closed his eyes.
Didn't pray.
Didn't beg.
Just asked, silently
"If you're there… show me how to survive."