Pathetic.
It's such a small word, really. Two harsh consonants, soft in the middle like someone sighing through broken teeth. Pathetic isn't loud. It's not angry. It's not cruel—not really. Cruel words cut deep. Pathetic just... hangs there. Limp. Tired. Like a broken umbrella in the rain, barely holding together, twisting uselessly in the wind.
Pathetic is what people don't say to your face because it's too embarrassing. It's the thing they whisper behind your back, thinking they're better than you. And maybe they are.
Pathetic is the space between wanting and failing. It's sitting at the edge of everything you dreamed of, too tired or too stupid to reach out and grab it. It's knowing you could have been more, but now you're not. Now, you're just there, filling space, wasting oxygen.
That's me. That's who I was.
No dramatic story. No abuse or secret tragedy in my past. Just… failure by slow erosion. I didn't jump off any bridges. I didn't swallow pills. I just let life pass by one meaningless second at a time, until I couldn't even tell if I was awake or dreaming anymore.
And standing there on that cracked sidewalk in Seoul, with freezing rain dripping down my collar and headlights reflecting in my glasses, all I could think was one thing:
What a fitting way to die.
No glory. No hero's sacrifice. Just another forgettable idiot standing in traffic.
I didn't even flinch when the sedan came skidding toward me. Not because I was brave. Not because I was strong. But because I froze. Like I always did.
That's the other thing about pathetic people—we don't die screaming. We don't die kicking and biting and praying for another chance. We just go quietly, like the ending of a movie no one remembers.
And I—
The sound of metal against bone is nothing like in the movies. It's wet. Heavy. Like someone dropping raw meat on concrete.
I didn't feel heroic. I didn't feel enlightened. I felt my ribs snap like cheap plastic and the cold slap of my own blood washing over my lips.
Then nothing.
I thought the worst part of dying would be the pain. It wasn't. The worst part was realizing no one would miss me.
That should've been the end of it.
It wasn't.
"....'
I opened my eyes to birdsong.
Not the harsh, metallic squawk of city pigeons. This was soft, slow, drifting through the air like something delicate. The kind of sound that makes you want to close your eyes again and forget the world exists.
Except... I had closed my eyes. I had died.
This wasn't the blank, featureless nothingness I expected. It was warmth. Grass brushing the side of my face. The distant rustle of wind against leaves. The smell of dirt, clean and sharp.
I sat up slowly.
Pain. Good. That meant I wasn't dreaming.
My hands looked different. Pale, thin, almost sickly. My nails were slightly cracked. There was a scar across the knuckle of my right thumb, like an old burn.
I wasn't in my body.
That should've scared me. Maybe it did, in some part of my mind that hadn't caught up yet. But right then, I was too focused on the fact that I could breathe. That my lungs worked. That I wasn't choking on broken teeth.
I turned my head, expecting buildings, traffic, neon signs. Seoul.
What I got was mountains. Rolling green hills under an open sky. Mist curling through distant treetops. Somewhere far off, the echo of a bell. It didn't belong here, but it sounded... right. Like a memory I'd forgotten.
And then the voices.
Low, rough, arguing in a language that wasn't Korean. I understood it anyway, somehow.
"He's awake."
I turned.
Three men stood nearby, dressed in robes like something out of a wuxia movie. Loose cloth, tied at the waist, slightly torn at the edges. One of them had a sword strapped across his back. Another was missing three fingers on his left hand. They all looked tired. Dirty. And one of them—the one speaking—looked at me like I was a rat that had just crawled out of his rice bowl.
"What's your name, boy?" he asked, stepping closer.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out at first. My throat was raw, like I hadn't spoken in days.
Then, finally: "I don't... remember."
It was true. My name. My real name. The one I'd used my whole life. It was there, just out of reach, like a word on the tip of your tongue.
The three exchanged glances. The one with the sword snorted. "Great. Another broken one."
"Should've left him for the crows," said the man with the missing fingers.
I wanted to argue. I wanted to stand up and tell them who I was, to demand answers, to do something.
But all I could do was sit there, staring at my hands, feeling that old, familiar sensation curling up in my chest:
Pathetic.
"Get him up," the first man ordered. "Master won't be happy if we're late again."
Hands grabbed me. Rough. Impatient. Someone shoved me to my feet, and my legs barely held. Everything hurt, but not in the way I remembered from the accident. This was hunger. Weakness. Like I hadn't eaten in days.
Where the hell was I?
And then it hit me: this was like every cultivation novel I'd ever read. The robes. The swords. The mountain air thick with the smell of pine and something else—something sharp and metallic beneath the surface, like blood barely hidden by perfume.
I was in one of those worlds.
Of course I was.
And somehow, that was almost funny. I didn't laugh, but the corner of my mouth twitched upward for half a second.
Pathetic in one world. Pathetic in another.
But I was still breathing.
And that meant the story wasn't over yet.
"...."
We walked.
Or rather, they walked, and I stumbled behind them like some half-broken marionette. Every step jarred through my bones. My stomach growled so loudly the man with the missing fingers laughed once, low and sharp, before turning back to his silent trudge.
The path twisted upward through the trees. Stones poked through the dirt in odd places, as if the road itself didn't know where it was going. Here and there, I saw pieces of shattered tile or half-buried statues, worn smooth by wind and rain.
This place was old.
Old in the way of forgotten temples and broken gods. The kind of age that didn't just mark time—it weighed on you, pressing into your shoulders, reminding you that you were temporary.
The three men didn't talk much. Now and then, one of them would glance my way with something between pity and disgust, but mostly they ignored me.
I preferred it that way.
I didn't want to explain that I wasn't from here. I didn't want to explain that I didn't even know who I was anymore.
No name. No strength. No history. Just a shell filled with echoes of another life.
Pathetic.
But that old, quiet anger was stirring again. The part of me that hated quitting, hated being left behind. The part of me that froze on that street, but didn't want to.
I wasn't going to let this be the end. Not here. Not like this.
Somewhere, deep beneath the ache of my body and the fog of confusion, something sharp flickered to life.
Not much.
But enough.
More footsteps joined ours as we walked. I glanced to the side and saw other groups moving in the same direction, wearing similar robes, some limping, others carrying injured companions.
We were heading to something larger. Something organized.
Finally, the trees parted, and we stepped out into a clearing dominated by a single massive staircase leading up the face of the mountain. Dozens, maybe hundreds of steps, carved roughly out of the stone, with vines creeping between the cracks.
At the base of the stairs stood a single figure.
Robes cleaner, richer. A sharp contrast to the worn group I was with. His eyes were sharp, calculating, cold. Power radiated off him, the way a tiger might lounge lazily in the grass but you know exactly what it could do in an instant.
"Bring the new one forward," he said.
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the air like a knife.
They dragged me up, pushed me until I stood, wobbling, at the foot of the stairs.
"What is your name?" the man asked.
I opened my mouth.
And again—nothing.
No sound. Just emptiness where my name should have been.
"Good," the man said quietly, eyes narrowing. "You'll learn soon enough that names are earned here, not given."
I didn't know what that meant. But for the first time since waking here, the fear was sharper than the confusion.
Somewhere, deep inside, I knew something simple, brutal, and true:
This was not going to be easy.
And I wasn't going to be allowed to be pathetic anymore.