Seoul, Autumn – One Week Before Enrollment
Kim Daeho had never been in a fight before.
He knew how it felt to lose, though.
The taste of blood in his mouth wasn't new—just like the ache in his ribs, the sting of split skin across his knuckles. But this time, it wasn't from tripping down the stairs or getting shoved into a locker.
This time, he'd swung back.
And now, three older boys had him pinned against the brick wall of the alley behind his old school, their breath hot with cheap soju and laughter.
"Look at this bastard," one sneered, gripping Daeho's collar. "Thinks he's tough now?"
Daeho's vision swam. His first punch had been wild, desperate—more of a flail than a strike. It had barely grazed the leader's chin. But for a single, stupid second, he'd thought: Maybe I can win.
Then the kicks came.
A steel-toed boot slammed into his gut, and he crumpled, gasping. The second kick caught him in the ribs. The third—
Crack.
Something in his side gave way.
"Pathetic," the leader spat, wiping his mouth. "You don't even cry. What, you think you're some kind of hardass?"
Daeho didn't answer. He just stared at the ground, at the blood dripping from his nose onto the cracked pavement.
He wanted to cry. But the tears wouldn't come.
Maybe he was too tired.
Or maybe—just maybe—he was angrier than he was scared.
The bullies left him there, tossing a final insult over their shoulders. "Transfer somewhere else, loser. Next time, we break your arm."
Daeho waited until their footsteps faded before he moved.
Every breath was fire. Every shift of his body sent pain screaming up his side. But he forced himself up, leaning against the wall, his fingers leaving smears of red on the brick.
This is how it starts.
Not with a roar. Not with some grand awakening.
Just a beaten kid, standing alone in an alley, finally realizing one thing:
I don't want to lose anymore.