The Lingering Bruise
Lee Jinwoo spent the rest of the day in a numb, silent haze. The bruise on his forearm was a vibrant, angry blue, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the frantic, electrical buzzing in his head.
When he got home, he locked himself in his room. He lifted his trembling arm, staring at the patch of purple skin. The perfect block—the one that had saved Han Sora—was still burned into his muscle memory, a foreign echo vibrating beneath his own thin skin.
He flexed his arm, then tried to replicate the motion. It came out stiff, slow, and clumsy. It was an accident, he told himself. A fluke born of pure adrenaline.
But the truth was immediate and visceral: he knew how to do it. He knew the precise angle of the wrist, the specific tensing of the tricep, and the slight rotation of the shoulder that made the block an immovable barrier. His body was just too weak and untrained to execute it with Minjun's flawless speed and power.
He closed his eyes and vividly recalled the alley. He didn't just see the punch; he saw Kang Minjun's counter-punch. The weight transfer. The pivot of the hips. The snap of the glove.
Suddenly, a strange sensation washed over him—a fleeting muscle memory download. It was like a brief, dizzying moment where the perfect movement was imprinted directly onto his nerves, accompanied by a sharp, splitting headache.
He opened his eyes and threw a punch at the air. It was still weak, still slow, but the form was perfect. The knuckle alignment, the rotational force, the follow-through—it wasn't Jinwoo's sloppy punch; it was a perfect, miniature copy of Minjun's strike.
"Reflective Mimicry," he whispered, finally giving the terrifying phenomenon a name. I can copy movements, but my body is the limitation.
This wasn't a system that granted him stats; it was a blueprint that demanded sweat. To truly use the perfect technique, he would have to train his useless muscles to catch up.
The Unwilling Ally
The next morning, the halls of Seoyeon High weren't invisible anymore. Jinwoo felt exposed, and worse, he had drawn the wrong kind of attention.
He found Kang Minjun leaning against his locker. Minjun's expression was a study in confusion and respect.
"Jinwoo, right?" Minjun asked, his tone measured. "You're usually... not around."
Jinwoo nodded stiffly.
"Look, I don't know where you learned that block, but it was fast. Too fast for a guy like you. You saved the new girl's face. Why are you hiding that talent?" Minjun leaned closer. "You're a fast learner, right? Have you ever trained before?"
Jinwoo seized the opening. "No. But... I want to. I need to get stronger."
Minjun studied him for a long moment, then smiled—a genuine, fighter's smile. "Good. The technique was there, man, but your arm is going to fall off if you use it again without conditioning. Meet me at the gym after school. We'll work on the basics. Just shadowboxing. No sparring."
Jinwoo's heart soared, but for a dark, self-serving reason. He had found his immediate source material. Minjun wasn't just offering help; he was offering a front-row seat to perfection.
The First Intentional Copy
That afternoon, Jinwoo found a secluded, overgrown corner of the school rooftop. He didn't trust the gymnasium yet. He needed a controlled experiment.
He thought of the King, Han Tae-seong. He replayed the memory of the bully effortlessly hoisting Tae-seong's impossibly heavy duffel bag and Tae-seong's casual, dismissive stride.
Jinwoo focused on Tae-seong's walking motion—the economical use of his powerful leg muscles, the efficient distribution of weight, the almost lazy grace of true strength.
Focus. Observe. Feel the intent.
The buzzing returned to his head, sharper this time. He mentally peeled away Minjun's boxing form and overlaid Tae-seong's walking form. It wasn't a fighting technique, but a physical skill—the skill of moving with effortless power.
The headache was instant and nauseating, but the result was clearer. Jinwoo started walking. His steps felt lighter, more grounded, and less awkward. The clumsy gait was replaced by a smooth, powerful stride. He was moving like a bigger, stronger person.
He picked up a loose brick lying on the rooftop. He threw it, using his copied stride's momentum. The brick flew farther and faster than he could have managed before.
"It works," he murmured, his voice tight. "It's not just fighting."
But the headache lingered, a severe warning. The more complex the skill, the greater the cost.
The Price of Visibility
As Jinwoo walked home that evening, practicing the powerful stride he had copied from Tae-seong, he felt a strange mix of exhilaration and dread. He was stronger, but he was also different.
He was no longer invisible.
As he turned down a familiar side street, he found his path blocked by two senior students he vaguely recognized as friends of Han Tae-seong's clique—the ones who had scattered yesterday.
"Well, well," sneered the taller one, flexing his shoulders. "Look at the little shrimp. Seems like saving the new girl gave you some confidence, huh? Think you're a hero now?"
Jinwoo felt his new stride falter. He was back to being afraid, but the Echoes were there now, screaming in his mind. He saw the senior's lazy, confident posture—another sloppy, open target.
Block them, the Echo urged. Minjun's technique. Perfect form.
But Jinwoo knew one thing: he couldn't beat them with just defense. Not yet. He had to make them stop, and for that, he needed their respect.
He focused on the taller senior's open chin. He remembered the perfect counter-punch he'd copied from Minjun, the one meant to drop a man. He took a single, small, copied step, channeling the borrowed power, and threw his weak, scrawny fist.
The form was flawless. The punch landed perfectly on the senior's jawline, snapping his head back with a sharp, wet crack that echoed down the empty street.
The senior collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The second senior froze, his eyes wide in shock. He wasn't stunned by the power—the punch was obviously weak—but by the unnatural perfection of the movement.
Jinwoo stood over the fallen body, his lungs burning, his hand throbbing, and his mind racing. He hadn't just copied a move; he had copied the intent to end a fight.
He had won his first intentional fight, but his heart felt heavier than Tae-seong's duffel bag. He was strong now, but he was also terrified. He was now a target.
The game had started.