5 months already passed.
It's been almost a year now since that Logan Lee incident. A year since Daniel looked me in the eye, blood dripping from his lip, and asked me to make him strong.
And he wasn't joking.
This kid's been training nonstop like a man possessed. Every. Single. Day.
From the moment the sun creeps over the skyline to late at night when even the cockroaches are clocking out, Daniel Park is grinding.
We started with Kyokushin Karate and Aikido. Now, we're onto Muay Thai and Taekwondo. I'm gonna build a monster, I'm building one with a well-rounded toolkit. Strikes, grapples, counters, footwork—he's gonna learn it all.
He may have that freaky copy talent—which, yeah, I knew about before he even did thanks to reading *Lookism* in my past life—but talent alone doesn't build discipline. I drilled it into him from day one: repetition builds perfection. His body's adapting fast, but that mind of his still wanders.
"Left. Elbow. Again," I bark, standing over him while he shadowboxes in the cramped, peeling-walled living room of the old apartment.
*Thwack.*
"I said elbow, not flapping like a chicken about to cross the road. Again."
He groans but does it again. And again. And again. Sweat soaks his sleeveless hoodie, muscles straining with every strike. His movements are sharper now. Cleaner. More weight behind each blow.
"Dad," he pants, throwing a spinning kick that whips the air. "I already copied it perfectly last month."
I sip my coffee—black, no sugar, like my patience.
"And your point is? You wanna rely on some cheat code for the rest of your life? Newsflash, kid. In the real world, talent without repetition is a glass sword. Looks cool. Breaks fast."
Daniel sighs, wipes the sweat off his forehead, and goes back to drilling.
Honestly? I'm proud of him. But I'd rather drink bleach than actually say it out loud. We're Asian. Praise is illegal.
---
In the meantime, my days have become... oddly peaceful. The mansion's air conditioning hums like a lullaby, my bulletproof Audi glistens in the driveway like a VIP waiting for its master, and my beautiful wife—who somehow looks ten years younger now thanks to regular meals, massages, and a complete skincare routine—buzzes around our home like it's her second honeymoon.
She made kimchi jjigae this morning. Spicy enough to burn my sinuses and wake my ancestors.
"You should bring some to Daniel," she said, giving me that soft, motherly smile.
"He needs to suffer more," I said with a deadpan face, stuffing my mouth with rice. "That's how muscle grows. Through suffering."
"You're impossible."
"I'm lovable."
"You're old."
Okay, she had me there. I was 58, sure. But I looked 42, max. Thank you, hanma genes and protein powder.
---
I drove the Audi to the apartment later that afternoon. It gleamed under the summer sun, black and sleek like some kind of Batmobile but for a former commando dad who now lives like a billionaire. The kids on the street stopped and stared.
One even shouted, "Yo! That old dude's whip looks sick!"
Damn right it does.
When I walked in, Daniel was practicing knee strikes. Barefoot, shirtless, sweat dripping from his abs. Yeah, abs. The fat? Long gone. My boy now stood 6'4" and weighed 79kg of lean, taut muscle. Like a replica version of Gun, but with slightly better skin and way less serial killer energy.
"That the new knee combo I showed you?" I asked.
He nodded. His face lit up when he saw the Tupperware in my hand.
"Is that... kimchi jjigae?!"
"Earn it."
He groaned.
"Three rounds. Heavy bag. No breaks. Show me your Taekwondo combo."
He didn't hesitate. The fire in his eyes said it all.
We spent the next hour drilling. Muay Thai knees, Taekwondo kicks, Aikido rolls, and the occasional sarcasm.
"You kick like a ballet dancer," I muttered.
"Is that bad?"
"No, it's graceful. Are you auditioning for *Swan Lake* or trying to knock teeth out?"
---
Later, as we sat on the cracked balcony eating jjigae, Daniel looked out over the city with a strange smile.
"You think I'll be ready?" he asked.
"For what?"
"To stand on my own. To not get bullied. To actually win."
I leaned back in the plastic chair, arms crossed.
"You're already halfway there. Not because of your body or your moves. But because you chose to change."
He looked at me. And for once, he didn't look like a scared boy.
He looked like a young man.
"Thanks, Dad."
I blinked.
He's never called me that before. Not seriously.
I gave him a sideways smirk.
"Don't get soft on me now, punk. We still got leg day tomorrow."
He groaned so hard I thought his soul left his body.
---
One more month till his 18th birthday.
One more month until he truly steps into the world.
And this time, he won't be stepping in as prey.
He'll walk in as a storm.
---
POV: Daniel Park
I never thought this day would feel different.
I turned eighteen today.
For most people, birthdays come and go, like waves brushing against the shore—familiar, predictable, forgettable. Mine had always been the same: an old cake from a discount store, a single candle lit by my mom's tired hands, and a quiet dinner where we pretended things were okay.
But this year… everything changed.
I stood in front of a mansion.
No—this wasn't just a mansion. It was colossal. White marble steps gleamed under the summer sunlight, trimmed hedges lined the driveway like art, and fountains poured crystalline water that danced to some rhythm I couldn't hear. Tall gates stretched behind me, and security cameras were subtly nestled along the walls like sentinels. The place felt like something out of a chaebol drama, the kind of estate only the rich and powerful could own.
"Is… this really ours?" I whispered.
"Yours, mine, and your mom's," Dad said beside me.
He wore a sharp black suit, his broad shoulders perfectly filling it out. His usual teasing expression was gone. What replaced it was something even more unfamiliar—pride. Real, unshakable pride.
I turned toward him. "This isn't a prank…?"
Dad smirked, "You think I'd prank you with a fifty-billion-won mansion?"
That's when I saw it.
Parked by the side of the circular driveway… was a Lamborghini Huracán EVO Spyder.
It shimmered in sunlight—pearl white with a hint of silver flake, sculpted aerodynamics carved across its body like veins of lightning. Black carbon fiber trim lined the sides, and its forged wheels sat low like a beast ready to strike. The convertible top was down, revealing scarlet leather seats and a dashboard that looked like a fighter jet's cockpit.
I gaped.
"What the hell is that…?" I asked.
Dad chuckled, tossing me a key fob. "Your ride. You're eighteen now. You'll need something that says you're a man." then he pitch the car key to me.
My hand trembled as I caught it.
"A Lambo? Seriously?!"
He folded his arms, watching my reaction. "Not just any Lambo. That one's customized. Tuned for performance, reinforced frame, and fitted with an onboard biometric lock system. Only you can start it."
My throat dried up. "Why…"
Dad tilted his head. "Why what?"
"Why give me something this expensive? I haven't even done anything yet. I'm not—"
"You're my son," he said simply. "That's enough."
I didn't know what to say. I clenched my fists, unsure if I wanted to cry, scream, or laugh.
Then Mom stepped forward.
She looked beautiful today—her hair pulled back into a bun, her cheeks glowing. She handed me something soft. Wrapped in paper.
"I don't have much," she said. "But I made this."
I opened it slowly, revealing a scarf. Hand-knitted, dark navy with subtle golden threads. I touched it, recognizing the hours spent, the love woven into every fiber.
"It's... warm," I said, voice cracking.
"You always forget to wear one," she smiled. "This time, you won't have an excuse."
I pulled her into a hug without thinking.
"Thank you, Mom…"
"Happy birthday, my sweet boy."
And for the first time in years—I cried. Not because I was sad. But because I was full.
POV: Sangcheol Park (MC)
I watched my son break down in front of the mansion gates and felt something stir deep in my chest.
Pride.
No… not just that. It was satisfaction. This was what I had dreamed of—not the riches, not the estate—but the moment Daniel realized he was no longer alone.
He had a family again.
I reached into my inner pocket and pulled out a matte black envelope, embossed with gold lining. Inside was a metallic blue-black bank card. When I handed it to him, he looked puzzled.
"What's this?" he asked, wiping his eyes.
"Your new monthly allowance."
He blinked. "Monthly…?"
"There's 3 billion won loaded into that card. You'll get the same amount every month starting today."
"Three… THREE BILLION?!"
I grinned. "Pocket money. Try not to blow it all on gacha games."
Daniel's face was a mix of disbelief, fear, and awe. "Dad, are you serious…?"
"I've never been more serious."
"I don't even know what to do with that kind of money…"
"That's the fun part. You'll figure it out."
He stared at the card like it might detonate.
I placed a hand on his shoulder, firm but gentle. "Money doesn't change who you are, Daniel. It reveals it. And I believe in the man you're becoming."
He looked up at me with glassy eyes. "Thanks, Dad… I mean it."
I nodded.
There was still so much ahead of him. So much strength yet to grow, battles yet to be fought, enemies yet to rise. But right now? He needed to feel that he was valued. Loved. Worthy.
I gave him the mansion. The car. The money.
But none of it compared to the gift I cherished the most:
His trust.
POV: Seonhui Park
Watching Daniel today felt like watching the boy I raised being reborn.
I remembered his bruises. His late nights crying. The way he'd try to pretend he wasn't hurt, that he didn't hear the words people whispered behind our backs.
But now… he stood in a courtyard surrounded by marble pillars, with a car that even the wheels worth more than our entire old apartment complex, and a scarf in his hands that I made with nothing but thread and love.
He wore that scarf immediately.
That's when I cried.
I walked to my husband and gently took his hand.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He turned to me, looking confused.
"For giving him something I never could," I said. "Security. Power. A future."
His grip tightened, and I saw it in his eyes—the unspoken pain. The responsibility he carried. The past life he left behind to make this one better.
"We're not done yet," he said. "This is just the beginning."
POV: Daniel Park
Later that evening, we stood on the third-floor balcony of the mansion. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky orange and gold.
I looked down at the scarf still around my neck, the bank card in my pocket, and the Lambo parked below.
I wasn't just Daniel Park anymore.
I was the son of Sangcheol Park.
I had trained every day for almost a year. My muscles now ached with purpose. My fists were calloused, my form refined. Kyokushin. Aikido. Muay Thai. Taekwondo. I'd mastered them all through drills, sweat, and a gift I had only recently come to understand—the Copy Talent.
I could imitate any technique I saw once.
But I chose to earn them instead. Day by day. Strike by strike.
Because my father didn't raise a cheater.
He raised a warrior.
And on this birthday… I made a silent vow:
I would become someone worthy of this new life.
Not for the mansion.
Not for the car.
Not even for the 3 billion won.
But for them.
For Mom and Dad.
For the people who finally saw me—not as a punching bag, not as a joke—but as a son.