The air smelled of old dampness and the dust of confinement. The ceiling had cracks that drew impossible maps. The light filtering through the window was dull, as if the day itself were still sleepy.
He opened his eyes, barely feeling the sun's rays slipping through the glass. He tried to sit up, but his body responded as if it had been used as a punching bag. He sat on the bed with difficulty, and with a grimace of pain, he muttered:
"Where the hell am I?"
He lifted his head to inspect the room.
He didn't recognize anything.
The walls, the narrow bed, the open backpack on the floor, clothes scattered in places. He got up slowly, feeling every muscle like something foreign, borrowed. As if someone had loaded him with a different body while he slept.
He staggered toward the mirror in the room.
And the universe crumbled a little. He pinched his face to check if he was dreaming, but only felt pain. He had no choice but to resign himself to observing his appearance.
He was short. Undeniably short, barely 5'3". He wore square glasses. His hair was brown. His skin, pale and dull. That face… he knew it.
"No…" he whispered. But even his voice wasn't his.
That was Namsoo Lee. Materialistic, obsessed with looking rich. He judged people by their wealth. And now, that body was his.
He collapsed onto a chair next to the desk.
The desk in front of him was covered in bread crumbs and crumpled papers, like someone had tried to study before giving up. He rested his elbows and interlaced his fingers in front of the face reflected in the dark monitor. The image was the same.
"Namsoo Lee…" he murmured.
It was hard to process. That body, that name—in the webtoon he'd barely had any lines. A human accessory. A spectator in his own story.
And now, he was him.
Memory didn't take long to drag in an uncomfortable truth: if he was now in Namsoo Lee's body, that meant he was inside the webtoon Lookism. And if that was true, then he was screwed. Lookism was a dangerous world. More than that—it was brutal. Almost every student had a twisted story, a silenced trauma. Combat geniuses, emotional strategists, social predators… All better prepared. All more broken.
He swallowed hard. He had to do something. Anything.
As if thinking about what always happens to guys who end up in fictional worlds and novels, he got excited thinking he might be some kind of chosen one. After snapping out of that dream, Namsoo, nervous and slightly hopeful, said:
"System?"
Nothing happened.
Not giving up, he tried:
"Interface?"
Nothing.
He gritted his teeth:
"Administrator?"
Silence.
After several more attempts, nothing happened. As if he'd lost all hope, as if his soul had left his body, he collapsed while murmuring:
"This can't be… What the hell am I supposed to do without a damn system?"
He scratched his head, desperate. Then tried to calm down.
"No… I can't panic. Let's see if I can do something in this life."
He stood up and looked for an old notebook in the drawer. He opened it between pages covered in scribbles. On a clean sheet, he wrote with firm handwriting:
I should first think about what I'm going to do.
His voice sounded dull, but determined.
I'd like to make money. A lot. To live well… without depending on anyone.
He crossed out a misspelled word twice, then continued.
I should also train my body. This isn't just a webtoon anymore… it's my life. If I get into a fight like the ones I've seen, this body won't last two seconds.
He looked at his trembling hand. Thin. No calluses. Fragile.
And above all… maybe I can grow. Even just a little. Maybe this body has some potential, right?
He didn't sound hopeful. He sounded strategic.
He set the pencil down on the table. Looked at the cracked ceiling and sighed in resignation.
He turned on the monitor. The screen flickered before showing the desktop, somewhat messy and sad. He opened the browser. If that world was real, then everything else must be too. And if he was going to survive, he needed more than words in a notebook.
He typed: "martial arts for small people."
Most of the results weren't useful. Styles too demanding, exaggerated demonstrations, fighters who looked like they'd been training since age three. Projection techniques, ground fighting, pressure strikes. Everything looked… out of reach.
He kept searching. And then he found it: Hapkido.
It wasn't spectacular. But it could work. It was a fairly complete martial art. It had joint locks, redirection of force. Defense from disadvantage. It seemed fluid. Precise. And above all, practical.
He leaned toward the screen and watched the movements over and over. They weren't flashy. But they were effective. They didn't require brute strength, just focus and technique. At that moment he thought:
"This… this I could try," he whispered.
He turned off the monitor. Picked up the notebook again and wrote:
Find a place that teaches Hapkido.
He took a deep breath. He was far from having a definitive solution, but for the first time since waking up in that unfamiliar room, he felt like he had a direction.
The sound of a voice came through the door.
"You gonna eat or not, Namsoo?"
It was his "mother." A woman with a tempered voice, without the exaggerated affection he knew from the previous world. He got up from the desk like someone interrupting a silent war. Turned off the monitor.
"Yeah, I'm coming," he replied without thinking too much, knowing he had no right to question this new routine.
Food was irrelevant at that moment. What mattered was change. The body he inhabited wasn't going to improve from the chair.
....
(Saturday – 7:12 a.m.)
Namsoo left early, his worn-out shoes clumsily tightened, as if getting dressed had been a last-minute decision. His mother watched him from the kitchen doorway, a mix of disbelief and astonishment in her eyes. It wasn't usual to see him move with initiative; the son she knew preferred staying indoors.
"You going for a jog…?" she asked, unable to hide her surprise.
"Yeah… I want to clear my head," he replied, not looking back, crossing the door before she could ask another question.
The street greeted him with a different rhythm, harsher. The air was dense, loaded with a tension you don't feel from the window. The glances he crossed weren't innocent. In an alley, three teenagers smoked openly. One laughed while pointing a broken bottle at another, in a game that bordered on threat. Violence was present, but disguised as a joke.
Namsoo swallowed hard. He didn't look back. He knew any sign of hesitation could turn against him.
Just ten minutes later, his body began to protest. His legs burned, his chest tightened. He wasn't used to physical effort, and each step was a negotiation between willpower and pain. But he kept going. Not out of pride, but because stopping there, in that environment, would be worse.
Half an hour later, he arrived at a bench, panting. The sweat covering him wasn't just from exercise—it was distilled anxiety, fear processed by the body. He muttered a curse at himself, feeling the weight of his fragility.
He dragged himself to a nearby park. There, a solitary pull-up bar stood like a challenge. He stood in front of it, breathing deeply, trying to fool his body with false determination.
He jumped. Didn't reach.
Tried again. This time he touched the bar, but his arms couldn't hold the weight. They trembled. Didn't respond. He couldn't do a single pull-up. The silence around him was crueler than any mockery. He let himself fall, defeated by a frustration that wasn't new, but now had a physical form.
He looked at his hands as if expecting answers in them. There was nothing. Just skin, bone, and a history of bodily neglect.
He returned home with aching legs and a colder heart. He locked himself in his room and started doing push-ups. Not many, but he did them like his life depended on it. Not out of discipline, but out of desperation.
Then he got in the shower. The warm water was the kindest thing that had happened to him in hours. It didn't fully comfort him, but at least it didn't judge him.
He knew he had to eat. A lot. Not for pleasure, but out of necessity. His body wasn't going to survive on willpower alone. And though he didn't say it out loud, he understood: reconstruction doesn't start in the mind—it starts in the body.
(Sunday – 6:48 a.m.)
The Seoul sky was just beginning to wake, tinted with diffuse blues mixed with a cold breeze sharp enough to bite the skin.
On a quiet street, Namsoo crouched to tie his shoelaces with determination, ignoring the persistent tremble in his fingers.
It was the second day he went out jogging.
Thirty minutes later, his body was already begging to give up. His legs burned, his chest ached, and the air felt heavier than the day before.
"Is it possible I'm weaker than yesterday?" —Namsoo murmured, panting like he'd run a marathon.
He stopped at the neighborhood park, a quiet corner where only birds and a few elderly folks walked in circles.
This time he didn't approach the pull-up bar. He lay down on the damp ground and started doing push-ups.
His max. Not many. Each push-up demanded twice the effort of yesterday.
His arms trembled, his core burned, and his whole body felt like weak jelly. He stretched out on the ground, tired and sore. Namsoo said with a grimace:
"I hope I get strong enough to stop feeling so weak and helpless."
(Time: 8:40 a.m.)
He returned home staggering. Showered and then, in front of the monitor, with clear intent, murmured:
"I'm on vacation right now, so I don't have to worry about J High School. That gives me a few days to focus on something more important—stop being so damn weak. It's the perfect time to get stronger, or at least improve."
He typed:
"Hapkido gyms in Seoul."
He didn't trust tutorials or copying random moves. He wasn't a combat genius. Nor a mimic genius like others.
If he wanted to learn martial arts, he had to do it right. With guidance. From the very basics.
The results were few, but useful. He wrote down two academies:
Cho Institute Moonhwa Dojo
He stared at the list. Two options. Two doors.
His body hurt. His pride too.
But if he wanted to survive in a world full of charismatic sociopaths and combat prodigies, he had to train like there was no other choice.
He turned off the monitor.
(Time: 1:17 p.m.)
Warm rice, spicy kimchi, and bulgogi with that sweet flavor only found at home were on the table.
He barely tasted them. His mind was elsewhere.
On the two names written in the notebook. Two gyms. Two possibilities.
He got up from the table, thanked his mother with a gesture. She looked at him curiously, maybe with disbelief.
The old Namsoo had no manners. It was as if she didn't understand who this new Namsoo was—the one who went jogging and ate like he was in a growth phase.
(Time: 1:42 p.m.)
Namsoo Lee walked through the streets with the folded notebook in his pocket. First on his list was the Cho Institute. The neighborhood had that mix of residential and worn-out, with low buildings and shops that seemed to survive out of habit.
The gym sign was discreet: white letters on a faded blue background. He walked in.
"Looking for someone?" —asked a man in his fifties, hair tied back, with a gaze that didn't need to raise its voice to command respect.
"Uh… yeah. I saw this place online. I wanted to know if you teach Hapkido from scratch."
The man looked him up and down. Not mockingly, but with curiosity.
"Got any experience?"
"None. But I want to learn. Properly. Not for the trend."
The instructor nodded slowly.
"We don't teach here so you can film yourself for TikTok. If you come, it's to train. To respect the body and the technique. Are you willing to start from the very basics?"
"Yes. I'm not strong. But I want to change that."
The man gave a faint smile.
"Classes are Monday to Saturday. You can come in the morning or afternoon. But remember—this isn't a game. You'll train hard. I don't want yelling or whining. Just work."
Namsoo looked at the tatami from the entrance. The place wasn't big, but it had the essentials. And most importantly—it wasn't flashy. The instructor seemed tough, but exactly what was needed to grow.
"Thanks. I'll think about it," he said, bowing slightly.
"Don't think too much. The body trains with action, not with doubt."
He left with his heart beating faster than when he jogs.
(Time: 2:26 p.m.)
The second place was near a market. Moonhwa Dojo. More modern. More visible. The sign had LED lights and a display case with photos of students in tournaments. From the outside, it felt more... competitive.
He walked in. The atmosphere was different. Soft music, a young receptionist, and an instructor who looked like he'd stepped out of an energy drink commercial.
"Hi there! Looking for classes? We've got monthly, quarterly, even intensive packages. Have you trained before?"
"No. I'm just starting. I want to learn from scratch."
"Perfect. We've got a beginner's program here. Though I'll warn you, the groups are big. Sometimes twenty people per class. But the vibe is motivating! A lot of our students have competed at the national level!"
Namsoo looked at the tatami. Spacious. Clean. Mirrors on the walls. But something didn't sit right. Too much exposure. Too much energy for someone like him, who just wanted to get strong without drawing attention.
"Are there classes with fewer people?"
"Only Friday nights. But those tend to be more advanced. Want me to sign you up for a trial class?"
"Not for now. I'm just exploring."
"Sure! Here's the brochure. If you decide to come, just give us a call."
He left with the paper folded in his pocket. The sun was starting to tilt.
(Time: 3:03 p.m.)
He sat on a bench near the stream. Took out the notebook. In it, it said:
Cho Institute Moonhwa Dojo.
The notebook rested on his knees, the ink still fresh. Without thinking too much, he firmly crossed out the last line:
Moonhwa Dojo: rejected.
He stood up. Walked with steady, almost ceremonial steps toward the institute he had chosen. The sun filtered between buildings. Today wasn't just Sunday. It was the beginning.
(Time: 3:38 p.m. – Cho Institute)
Master Cho Min-jun was adjusting the bandage on one of his students when Namsoo walked in.
"You came back?" —he asked without surprise.
"Yes. I want to sign up. Starting tomorrow, if that's okay."
The master looked at him in silence, measuring his words more with his gaze than with form. Then he walked to the desk where a registration notebook rested. He opened it calmly.
"Name."
"Namsoo Lee" —he replied, swallowing hard.
"Age."
"Seventeen."
Cho wrote without looking up. Then slid a small form and a pen toward him.
"Fill it out. Bring comfortable clothes tomorrow. Don't bring expectations or ego. Just discipline. That, you can build."
Namsoo signed. He felt the stroke like sealing something irreversible.
From now on, training would be part of the survival system. It was no longer a teenage dream. It was a defense protocol.
He left the dojo with the form still in hand, feeling something between nerves and anticipation.
(Time: 4:02 p.m. – Home)
His mother was watching TV when she saw him come in.
"You're back already? That was quick. I thought you went out with your friends."
Namsoo thought, with the clarity silence brings, that in this world he hadn't met anyone. And if he remembered correctly, he had no friends, nor was close to anyone. But since he couldn't say that to his mother, he simply replied:
"I just went to exercise."
"Is that so? Well, don't overdo it," —she said, without taking her eyes off the screen.
She didn't ask much. Namsoo sighed in relief.
"Thanks. I'm going to fix myself something to eat."
With that, his mother kept watching her drama on TV, while he served himself something quick: bibimbap, a bowl of rice with vegetables, meat, egg, and chili paste. All mixed together. Enough to refuel.
But as he ate in silence, a strange feeling settled in his chest. It wasn't physical exhaustion. It was something closer to a premonition. An intuition that had no shape or name, but felt like a warning: what was coming in the future wouldn't be easy.