The clock on Yoon Seojin's desk glared back at him like an accusation: 3:47 a.m. Another night wasted waiting for nothing.
He slammed his laptop shut, the sharp clack echoing through his dim room.
"Seriously, how long is this hiatus going to take?" he groaned, rubbing his bleary eyes.
The update page of Star Ginseng Store mocked him with its stubborn emptiness. No new chapter. No apology from the author. Nothing but a wall of silence. Empty snack wrappers littered the desk like casualties of his late-night obsession, and the glow of the desk lamp threw weary shadows across the cramped apartment.
"I've reread this manhwa so many times I could teach a course on it," he muttered, pacing. "And after all this waiting… still nothing?!"
His voice cracked with frustration. He kicked at a pile of notebooks, sending them sliding across the floor.
"Why is it so hard to update? Who even ends on a cliffhanger like that?"
He knew he was being dramatic. He didn't care. Star Ginseng Store wasn't just another webtoon—it was the story. The one that carried him through long nights, bad days, and too many moments of loneliness. And now, after nearly a year of silence, he felt abandoned.
Finally, exhaustion won. His anger sputtered out, leaving only dull disappointment and the heavy drag of sleep. Seojin collapsed onto his bed, laptop's faint blue glow flickering in the corner.
"Fine," he muttered into his pillow. "Maybe the next chapter will show up in my dreams."
When he opened his eyes again, everything was wrong.
The ceiling soared above him, impossibly high, carved with gilded crown moldings. Sunlight streamed through tall windows draped with heavy curtains, scattering warm rays across polished floors that gleamed like mirrors. A chandelier an actual chandelier hung at the center, scattering rainbow fragments of light.
"…What the hell?" His voice came out hoarse and small.
This wasn't his dingy apartment. This wasn't Seoul, 2025. The sheets beneath him were smooth and cool, the air faintly scented with something sharp and clean. His heart hammered.
He reached for his phone instinctively. It wasn't there. Instead, a slim black flip phone sat neatly on the nightstand. He flipped it open. The pixel screen lit up with a cold, simple truth:
March 7, 2006.
His breath caught.
"Two… thousand six?"
The device was cutting-edge for its time, something he'd only seen in dramas. His hand shook as he snapped it shut.
And then—
The pain came.
It started as a low throb, then roared into something unbearable, like his skull was being ripped apart. The phone clattered to the floor as he doubled over, clutching his head.
"Ahhh—!" The scream tore out of him raw and broken.
Memories not his crashed in, a flood with no mercy. Images of a boy with the same name. A cold, cavernous house. Parents absent more often than not, their presence replaced by empty rooms and silence. Days and nights spent alone, everything neat, everything expensive, but nothing warm. Lessons drilled into him, routines followed, but no real family.
Each fragment pierced him deeper. He writhed on the floor, nails scraping polished wood as the pain refused to stop. His thoughts shattered, his body convulsed. He screamed until his throat burned.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the torrent eased.
Seojin lay gasping, drenched in sweat, trembling on the cold floorboards. Slowly, shakily, he dragged himself upright against the carved bedpost, the wood icy against his palms.
His vision was blurred, but the truth was clear: the room, the year, the unfamiliar yet vivid life in his head.
This wasn't his body. This wasn't his world.
"Reincarnation…?" he whispered, voice shaking.
The silence of the vast house pressed in around him, heavy and suffocating. For the first time, Yoon Seojin realized
He was completely, utterly alone.
I… I died?
No. He remembered falling asleep, nothing more.
Reincarnation?
That was ridiculous. And yet…
The luxury of the room, the 2006 date, the alien-yet-familiar name in the memories—all of it whispered the same truth.
This wasn't a dream.
Seojin drew a shaky breath and forced his thoughts to slow. Okay. Step one: figure out where I am. Step two: figure out who I am.
He opened the wardrobe. Neatly folded clothes greeted him—crisp shirts, tailored slacks, and a few casual hoodies that screamed "wealthy teenager." On the desk sat two passbooks with a lot of numbers on it and a wallet grab it look inside the wallet a stack of cash and an i.d.
Then he his gaze drifted to a sleek acoustic guitar propped against the wall. His fingers twitched. Even though this body's memories suggested lessons he'd never taken, the chords felt familiar in his mind. Like he could play like he already knew how.
His stomach growled suddenly, shattering the quiet. Hunger, raw and insistent. The memories supplied another detail: the housekeeper, Mrs. Kang, usually prepared breakfast when his parents were away. But she wouldn't arrive for another hour.
Guess I'm on my own, he thought, lips twitching into a faint smile.
Good. He needed time to think.
Moving on instinct, Seojin padded down the wide hallway. His reflection followed him in polished wooden panels and family portraits he didn't recognize. Each step felt both foreign and strangely natural, the rhythm of a life he hadn't lived but somehow understood.
The kitchen was a polished masterpiece of stainless steel and warm wood. He opened the fridge and found it well-stocked: fresh vegetables, eggs, neatly labeled containers. His past self might have fumbled, but this body knew what to do. Muscle memory guided his hands as he cracked eggs, diced scallions, and whisked everything into a golden omelet.
The smell of butter and sizzling eggs filled the air. For a moment, the simple act of cooking grounded him.
At least hunger still works the same way, he thought dryly.
As he plated the omelet, the flip phone buzzed against the countertop. Seojin flinched. He hadn't even heard it ring. A name flashed on the tiny screen: Mother.
He hesitated before answering. "Hello?"
"Seojin?" A woman's voice, elegant and slightly distant, came through the line. "It's Mom. I just wanted to check in before our flight to Paris."
Paris. Right. The memories supplied an image of Han Jiwon, his mother a world-renowned art curator currently hopping between continents for exhibitions.
"I'm fine, Mom," he said carefully, testing the word Mom on his tongue. "Everything's good."
"That's wonderful. Mrs. Kang will be over later. Don't skip breakfast."
"I won't," he lied, glancing at his half-eaten omelet.
There was a pause, a faint sigh on the other end. "Take care of yourself, Seojin. We'll call again soon."
The line clicked off.
Seojin set the phone down, staring at its dimming screen. The call had been polite, almost scripted. No warmth, no lingering questions. Just a checkmark in a list of parental obligations.
"Right," he murmured. "So that part hasn't changed."
His gaze drifted to the window. Outside, morning light spilled over a quiet neighborhood of manicured lawns and expensive cars. Somewhere beyond those streets lay the rest of this new world one he'd read about obsessively but never imagined he'd live in.
If the memories were correct, school started tomorrow.
Sanji High.
The same school that served as the heart of Star Ginseng Store.
A slow grin tugged at his lips.
"Guess I'll get my update after all."