(Monday – 7:12 a.m. – Cho Institute)
The tatami was cold beneath Namsoo's bare feet. The air smelled of sweaty fabric, old wood, and concentration. There was no music. No shouting. Only the sound of controlled breathing and measured steps.
Master Cho Min-jun watched him from the center of the dojo, arms crossed and wearing an expression that didn't need words to command respect.
"You arrived on time," he said without raising his voice.
"Yes…" Namsoo replied, offering a slight bow.
"Good. Today you won't learn to fight. Today you'll learn to stand."
Namsoo blinked, confused.
"To stand?"
"Correct. Posture is everything. If you don't know how to stand, you won't know how to move. And if you don't know how to move, you won't know how to defend yourself."
The master walked over and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees slightly bent. Back straight. Don't tense your neck. Breathe."
Namsoo obeyed, awkwardly. His body seemed to resist alignment.
"Don't fight your body. Listen to it," Cho said, adjusting the position of his arms. "Balance isn't strength. It's awareness."
For the first twenty minutes, Namsoo practiced only posture. Cho walked around him like a sculptor, correcting angles, pointing out mistakes with the precision of someone who had seen hundreds of bodies fail at the basics.
"Now walk. Not like you're in a hurry. Walk as if every step is a decision."
Namsoo took a step. Then another. Cho stopped him.
"Too much weight on the heel. Redistribute. Feel the ground. Don't strike it."
Namsoo tried again. This time slower. More aware.
"Better," said Cho, without exaggerated praise. "Now, defensive posture. Left hand forward. Right hand near the chest. Don't raise your shoulders. Don't hide. The body must be ready, not afraid."
Namsoo assumed the position. Cho watched him silently.
"Do you know why beginners fail?"
"Why?"
"Because they think technique is what matters. But technique without foundation is just theater."
The training continued with breathing exercises, basic movements, and how to fall without getting hurt. Cho made him roll across the tatami, corrected him when he tensed his neck, and forced him to repeat each movement until the body began to understand without thinking.
"Don't get frustrated if it doesn't work. The body learns slower than the mind. But once it learns, it doesn't forget."
(Hour: 8:46 a.m.)
Namsoo was drenched in sweat. He hadn't thrown a single punch. Hadn't received one either. But he felt like he'd been fighting himself for over an hour.
Cho approached with a towel and handed it to him without ceremony.
"Good start. Tomorrow, you'll learn to fall. And then, to get back up."
Namsoo took the towel, breathing heavily.
"Thank you… for teaching me."
The master looked at him calmly.
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when your body stops trembling."
Namsoo smiled faintly. Not out of pride. But because, for the first time, he felt he was in the right place.
With that certainty, Namsoo kept training for weeks. Even though he struggled with the movements because his body was somewhat stiff, having never been trained, he has expectations that this will change from now on.
(Friday – 7:04 p.m.)
Namsoo had spent the days in a strict routine: morning training with Master Cho, evening jogs, pull-ups, push-ups. His body had gotten used to the pain, but hadn't overcome it. Now he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, observing himself closely.
Although only two weeks had passed, he hadn't grown. Still just as short. But something had changed. The muscles, though subtle, looked more defined. Nothing remarkable. Maybe a little stronger than before. Maybe.
He sighed. It wasn't enough.
He left the bathroom and found his mother with suitcases by the door. She was leaving for a few days, for work. As for his father, there were no signs. No photos, no stories. Nothing.
"You're leaving already?" Namsoo asked.
"Yes. My trip leaves in a few hours," she replied, adjusting a strap.
Then she added:
"Namsoo, take care of the house. No mess. And try to eat well. No junk food."
"Don't worry. Travel safe. I won't do anything bad."
She frowned, half-joking:
"I can't trust your face while you say that."
Namsoo scratched his neck, with an innocent smile.
"I'll be fine, don't worry. Besides, you'll be back in no time. Time flies."
His mother sighed, resigned.
"Alright. I'll trust you."
They said goodbye. She left.
Namsoo closed the door with a mischievous smile.
"This is a good moment to grow more. Gain experience. With her gone for a while… it's perfect."
He went up to his room. Sat in front of the computer, notebook in hand. But this time he wasn't looking for fighting techniques. He was looking for what every teenager worried about their future ends up searching for: money.
He couldn't depend solely on his mother.
He typed: "flexible jobs." Delivery. Flyer distributor. Answering surveys.
He leaned back in the chair, thoughtful.
"All those jobs are boring… and above all, they can exploit me and pay me peanuts."
A slightly wicked smile appeared on his face.
"I got it…"
If this world had thugs, he could start a business. The idea was absurd. And kind of brilliant.
He remembered Robin Hood. Then thought about what thugs have.
Clothes.
Bad boys have good clothes. Expensive brands. Jackets that could sell well in second-hand markets. If he could steal them… select them without being detected… and resell them…
It was ridiculous. Illegal. Clever.
But then he murmured:
"That's impossible in my current state."
"For this to work, I need to be stronger. Faster. More precise."
He wrote in his notebook. Gave it a name: Phase 2.
"So now I should focus on what I had in mind before," he said, with a firm tone.
That's right. He was talking about gaining real experience. To become stronger.
But he needed something to cover his face. He didn't want that, if he hit someone, they'd come back for revenge. He had to be cautious.
He searched his closet. Something to hide himself.
He found a black cloth bag. Grabbed it. Examined it.
"This could work…"
With scissors, he made two holes for the eyes.
Then he sat down and wrote in the notebook:
Phase 1: Begins now.
(Friday – 9:00 p.m. – Alleyway)
In a dark and silent alleyway, Namsoo moved cautiously. He wore black clothes and had a dark cloth bag over his head, with two improvised holes for his eyes. His steps were firm, but his eyes betrayed insecurity. It was his first street fight.
At the end of the alley, two thugs were smoking calmly, laughing between taunts. One saw him approaching and burst out laughing:
"What are you doing, kid?"
"Are you a monkey?"
"It's not Halloween yet, little boy."
"Haha, better go drink your mommy's milk."
The laughter continued, but Namsoo, with his heart pounding and hands trembling, kept advancing. The thugs got into a fighting stance, and one of them, with a mocking smile, said:
"You want a lesson, kid? Then get ready."
The first one stepped forward and threw a punch. Namsoo tried to block with a Hapkido technique he had barely learned. His movement was clumsy, the punch grazed his wrist without being fully deflected. The thug didn't flinch and threw another punch. Namsoo ducked just in time, barely dodging it.
But the second thug took advantage of the confusion and launched a side kick. Namsoo, unprepared, took it full on. He stumbled over a cardboard box and fell on his back, feeling the air escape his lungs.
Fear took over. He hesitated whether to keep fighting or run. The thugs' laughter intensified.
"That's it, kid? Better go cry to your mommy," one said, laughing.
Namsoo, breathing heavily, slowly got up. He couldn't give up. Not now.
The first thug advanced and grabbed him by the neck, pressing him against the wall. Namsoo clenched his teeth and, with a desperate impulse, kneed him in the solar plexus. The thug groaned, releasing his grip. Namsoo took advantage, grabbed his hands and pushed them forward, making his face slam hard against the wall.
Using his short stature, he slid under the thug's body and appeared behind him. He grabbed his head and slammed it against the wall. The impact was sharp. The thug's nose broke. He fell to the ground, dazed.
The second thug, furious, cursed and started throwing punches. Namsoo barely managed to dodge them. He deflected some with his forearm, but also took hits. He wasn't skilled yet. Not enough.
The thug threw a direct punch. Namsoo, remembering a NewTube video. One about a guy who wears a "chicken head," who is none other than Samdak, placed his forehead to absorb the blow. The pain didn't come. Without wasting time, he countered with a palm strike to the jaw. The thug stepped back.
Trying to kick, the thug lifted his leg and launched it with force, but Namsoo raised his forearm to block, taking some damage, but it was necessary. He quickly moved to the side, since that was the moment. The thug's leg was suspended in the air, with only one foot touching the ground. Namsoo took advantage of that instant and swept the only leg the thug had on the ground, making him lose balance.
Namsoo jumped and kneed him in the face. The impact left him lying on the ground, with the mark of the knee on his face and his face covered in blood.
Namsoo stood, trembling. Adrenaline dominated him. His body ached. His heart pounded as if trying to escape his chest.
But he had won.
Not by technique. Not by strength. By instinct. By necessity.
And that, in that world, was enough to begin.
(10:18 p.m. – Home)
He arrived home without making a sound. Went straight to the bathroom. Took off the black clothes slowly, as if each garment weighed more than before. Got under the hot water, letting the steam wrap his aching body.
After the shower, he applied ointments to the bruises. He had no experience in first aid, but had read a bit. His body hurt, yes, but it wasn't broken. Just beaten.
He served himself some Korean food: rice, kimchi, a bit of warm soup. It wasn't a feast, but it was enough to regain energy. While eating, he thought.
He had done badly at first. Very badly. Clumsy. Uncoordinated. Vulnerable.
But he ended up winning, barely, but he did it.
"It's normal," he told himself quietly. "It was the first time doing this."
He didn't sound proud. He sounded realistic. Like someone who accepts the journey is just beginning.
(11:02 p.m. – Room)
He went up to his room. His body begged for rest. He collapsed onto the bed, without even adjusting himself. The mattress received him as if it understood the weight of the night.
And just like that, Namsoo fell asleep.
He didn't dream of fights. He didn't dream of glory.
Only of silence.