A young Jichang Kwak stood by the walls of an empty playground. The place was desolate, save for three small figures lingering quietly.
Jichang sat in the grass, head down, picking at the blades one by one. He looked... sad. His eyes drooped toward his thighs, where a long scar stretched across the skin. The area was still red—fresh. Recent.
'Papa… is no more.'
His eyes—narrow, slitted—glazed with tears. One by one, the droplets fell, landing on the grass he held in his hands, soaking them.
He quickly wiped his face with the back of his hand. 'I can't cry… not now.'
His head turned to the right, toward his two younger brothers. They were only three years old—too young to understand what had happened. And yet, they cried, unable to make sense of the heavy, suffocating sadness that had overtaken their home.
Jichang had only been eleven when it happened. His father—a wealthy businessman—and his mother had been mugged on a street corner at nightime. The attackers had come out of nowhere. No warning.
He still remembered his father's last words.
"Take care of them."
He had tried to stop the bleeding, pressing his small hands against the wound. But they had come away soaked in red. That moment—those words—would never leave him.
His mother was next.
Even as a child, Jichang had understood the world was vile.
His mother was beautiful. The kind of woman men often tried to court. But she had belonged only to his father. She had been kind, loving, and devoted—a wonderful mother.
But when the muggers turned their attention to her, they did it with sick intentions in mind.
Jichang had tried to fight back.
His eyes dropped again to the scar on his thigh.
'I wonder… if I hadn't dodged, would the knife have pierced my stomach instead?'
He looked to the sky.
'Would I have died, too?'
But things didn't happen that way.
A young police officer, patrolling the area, had heard the screams. He arrived just in time to intervene.
His mother was spared the worst… but not her life.
She too died—stabbed in the chaos.
Back in the present, Jichang looked at his hands. They were clean now. He'd washed them twenty times that day.
'They still look dirty.'
Footsteps echoed faintly behind him. A man crouched beside him, placing a hand on his head.
"You alright, kiddo?"
The man was tall, built like someone who hit the gym four times a week. But his eyes looked tired—hollowed out by life. Even so, he tried to smile.
It didn't make Jichang feel better. But he appreciated the effort.
"I'm really sorry, buddy," the man said. His voice was quiet and gray. "The only upside is the fortune your father left behind. It won't last more than a few years, but… at least it'll get you to eighteen."
Jichang just stared.
A strange thought echoed in his mind:
'Why do I feel like I've heard this before?'
Suddenly, the world shattered.
Buildings cracked and crumbled into rubble. The air exploded into streaks of blinding light. Time and space blurred around him, rushing by in a surreal blur.
He covered his eyes.
When he opened them again, he was no longer in the playground.
His hands were pressed to his father's bleeding chest. Blood flowed like a faucet left running, pooling beneath them.
He'd practiced suppressing his emotions for years—but even he couldn't stop the panic rising in his chest.
'What... what am I doing here—'
A sharp cry broke out beside him.
His baby brothers.
'I remember now... they were there, too.'
He scanned the alleyway. The same crisscross of gray chimneys and rusted pipes overhead. The same broken, industrial sprawl. A full moon hung above them, massive and burning white.
Then he saw them.
The muggers.
Two men, both in black ski masks, sweaters, and tight pants. One of them had a gun. He held it like it had turned into a curse, his hands trembling.
'I don't remember this.'
Jichang blinked, his tears vanishing in a flash of clarity.
'These two… they've never killed before.'
He knew what was coming.
His mother would lash out in fury, and the moment she did… they would change. They would become monsters.
'I need to stop them!'
His fists clenched. He tried to stand—but his body shook. A violent tremble rooted him to the ground.
'What…?'
His mother lunged, just as he remembered.
'Move!' he screamed at himself. But his body refused. Frozen.
PTSD.
The men grabbed her.
One struck her across the jaw. The other paused, eyeing the clothes she wore with sinister intent.
'Do something!'
He screamed again inside.
They stepped toward her.
And that's when it happened.
Jichang Kwak snapped.
He wasn't a child.
He wasn't a loser too weak to fight for the ones he loved.
No.
He was Jichang Kwak—the future king of Seoul. The elder brother of two precious children.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
His eyes darted, finding a shattered liquor bottle on the ground. He dashed for it, grabbing the jagged glass. Silent. Focused.
No scream. No warning.
Puchi.
The bottle drove into the man's throat. Deep. Lethal.
Before the other could react, Jichang snatched the pistol from his hip.
His hands didn't hesitate.
'You're the one who ruined everything.'
His eyes burned with fury.
He didn't know how he understood the gun's mechanics. He just did.
Click.
BOOM.
Jichang didn't realize it yet.
But that day—The wall broke.
........
Y'all , four chapters done today !!!!,
I hope you can see the increase in writing quality,
Powerstones !!!
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