The midday sunlight slipped through the open window, spreading warmth across the small room.
On the bed, a young boy was completely absorbed in reading a comic. His eyes eagerly followed each panel, while his black hair swayed gently with the breeze coming from outside.
"******! Come here! Lunch is ready!" his mother's voice called out from the kitchen.
"Yeah, just a minute! I'm at a good part!" the boy replied without taking his eyes off the pages.
"Come eat now, before the fried chicken I made gets cold!" her voice grew more insistent.
"...Fried chicken," the boy muttered under his breath. In an instant, he dropped his comic and dashed out of the room. The book lay open on the bed, showing a panel of a bat-like man fighting a foolish-looking clown.
"I want ten chicken thighs!" he shouted excitedly as he sat down at the dining table.
His mother chuckled softly.
"Hehe... sure. Take as many as you like, as long as you can finish them."
While they ate, his mother asked, "So, have you decided what class you want to take next week?"
The boy nodded enthusiastically.
"I… want to learn martial arts!" he said, his words muffled by the food in his mouth.
"Martial arts?" His mother raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't piano lessons be better?"
He swallowed his food, then replied firmly, "No, Mom. Piano's boring. Martial arts are way cooler!"
His mother smiled warmly.
"Hehe… alright then. I'll trust ******'s choice."
*****
Ten years passed.
The small room had long been replaced by the bustling atmosphere of a large university campus.
The hallways buzzed with students hurrying to their classes.
The little boy who once loved comics had grown up.
His body was strong, well-built, and athletic — like someone who had trained with serious discipline.
He walked casually into the classroom, greeting a few friends who had already taken their seats. The day felt just like any other — calm and ordinary.
The next morning, he woke up early for a morning run.
The sun had only just begun to peek over the buildings, while the air remained cool and still — like the surface of a lake untouched by wind.
His footsteps echoed rhythmically along the sidewalk. He was the only one out that morning.
Thirty minutes later, he returned to his rented apartment. His body was drenched in sweat, but his face remained calm — used to it. He went straight to the shower, then prepared a simple breakfast.
Sitting at the dining table, he watched a replay of last night's football match.
"Ugh… doesn't taste right. I should ask Mom to teach me how to cook again," he muttered softly.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed.
A new message popped up — a photo. It showed a black-haired girl in a high school uniform, smiling brightly at the dining table. Beside her were a woman whose face had begun to show wrinkles, and a calm-looking man sipping coffee.
His younger sister, and their parents.
He stared at the photo for a moment before replying with one of his own — his simple breakfast on a quiet table.
The sun climbed higher. A few hours later, he was back at campus as usual. Nothing special — just the same repeating routine.
Classes, reading at the library, a brief chat with a lecturer, then heading home.
In the late afternoon, he went to taekwondo practice.
Martial arts had been part of his life since childhood — not just a hobby, but a habit deeply ingrained in him.
That night, once he returned to his apartment, he cleaned himself up right away.
The room was neat, almost sterile, except for one striking corner: a shelf lined with gleaming trophies.
There were trophies from silat, boxing, karate, and taekwondo tournaments — all neatly arranged, silent proof of how long he had lived with discipline.
In another corner, a small pile of comic books sat covered in dust.
He hadn't touched them in a long time.
*****
The classroom was quiet. The lecturer was writing formulas on the board, some students were taking notes, while others were busy staring at their phone screens.
'This is going to be just another ordinary day,' he thought.
Suddenly, a chair in the back row scraped loudly. A black-haired student stood up, his voice cracking through the silence.
"You… you think I can keep holding this in every day?" His voice was dry.
Some people turned to look; a few chuckled, thinking it was just some kind of act.
"Hey, is there a problem? Sit down first, son. We'll sort this out after class—" said the lecturer, trying to calm things down.
The lecturer's words were cut off.
"Problem?!" He pounded his chest, his voice rising. "The problem is I never get what I deserve!"
The room went dead silent. A student in the front row whispered, "Who's that? Is he even from this class?"
"Maybe… I barely ever see him around," another replied.
The lecturer took a few steps closer. "Calm down first, okay? If there's something you want to say, we can—"
"Can what, sir? You don't even know my name!" A bitter laugh escaped his lips. He grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked it down, revealing skin covered in bruises and scratches.
The class froze. No one dared to speak.
"Every day, they hit. Push. Throw things. And everyone just pretends not to see." His voice was flat, but each word felt like a needle. His eyes swept over the faces lowered before him. "Funny, isn't it? A world that laughs when someone falls, but never tries to help."
In the middle row, one of the bullies swallowed hard. His face turned pale. "Hey… chill out, man. Don't make a scene—" his voice caught in his throat.
"A scene?" His voice cracked again. "You think this is a scene?"
He reached into his bag—his movement was quick, but not panicked; it was enough to make several students step back from their seats. Some stood up, others froze.
"Put the bag down, son. Please… we can talk this through," pleaded the lecturer.
He stared straight ahead, his eyes empty. For a moment, everything went silent, then a faint digital sound began to echo—soft at first, then clearer, sharper.
'What is that?' he thought, glancing toward the bag.
His eyes widened. A small screen inside the bag showed a countdown.
10 seconds...
Instinctively, he stood and dashed toward the classroom door, ignoring everything else.
"I just want all this to stop. If I have to go… you're all coming with me. For the first time, you'll know what it feels like to be afraid—just like I was." His voice was calm, almost flat, as if stating a simple truth.
3...
"Don't do something you'll regret…" shouted the lecturer, his voice hoarse.
2...
1...
'Damn it!' he screamed in his mind, realizing he wouldn't make it to the door.
0...
—Explosion—
Then—white light swallowed everything. A deafening blast roared, echoing throughout the entire campus.
Everyone inside the classroom died instantly. Including ******.
The body he had trained every day was powerless against that force; his discipline and strength meant nothing in the face of an explosion that happened so fast.
And with that, his story on Earth came to an end.