The first thing Kang Minjun learned about Baek Seongho was that he hated losing.
The second was that he hated being reminded of it even more.
"Again."
Minjun glanced at the clock above the boxing ring.
"That's your sixth round."
"Seven."
"Even worse."
Seongho wiped sweat from his chin. His breathing was heavy, and a reddish bruise had begun forming beneath his left eye.
They were alone in a boxing gym near Hongdae. It was nearly nine in the evening, and the owner had agreed to let Seongho use the facilities after closing.
Minjun had accepted his invitation out of curiosity.
That curiosity had been rewarded.
Seongho was good.
Not exceptionally talented by Lookism standards, but genuinely skilled. His footwork was disciplined, his combinations were sharp, and he possessed the patience to probe an opponent's defense rather than blindly throwing punches.
Against an ordinary teenager, he would have been formidable.
Unfortunately, his opponent was anything but ordinary.
"You're not even sweating," Seongho complained.
"I have excellent hygiene."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
Seongho raised his gloves.
"One more round."
Minjun studied him.
"Why?"
"Because I haven't landed a clean punch."
"And you think the eighth round will change that?"
Seongho's jaw tightened.
For a moment, Minjun thought he might become angry.
Instead, the boy lowered his gloves.
"No."
Minjun raised an eyebrow.
Seongho sat against the ropes.
"Not unless you tell me what I'm doing wrong."
Now that was interesting.
Minjun stepped closer.
"Your problem isn't your technique."
"Then what is it?"
"You're fighting the person you want me to be."
Seongho frowned.
"What?"
"Every time you throw your jab, you're already preparing the combination that follows. You assume I'll respond the way your previous opponents did."
"That's how combinations work."
"Only if the other person cooperates."
Minjun raised his hands.
"Throw your jab."
Seongho complied.
Minjun moved his head a few centimeters.
"Again."
Another jab.
This time, Minjun stepped inside its range.
"See?"
Seongho stared at him.
"You're reading my movements."
"Exactly. You're giving me information before you attack."
Minjun demonstrated how Seongho's lead shoulder shifted before each punch.
"Your technique is decent. Your habits aren't."
Seongho remained quiet.
Then he stood.
"Show me how to fix it."
Minjun smiled.
For the next twenty minutes, they worked on feints, changes of rhythm, and disguising combinations.
Minjun deliberately restricted himself to techniques he'd learned during his previous life.
His supernatural comprehension made identifying mistakes effortless, but teaching another person required patience.
He couldn't simply transfer his understanding into Seongho's head.
That was a useful reminder.
Talent and knowledge weren't the same as experience.
And neither could replace hard work.
By the time they finished, Seongho was exhausted.
But he was smiling.
"You're a monster."
"You're improving."
"Don't change the subject."
Minjun laughed.
Seongho removed his gloves.
"Seriously, though. Where did you learn all this?"
"An old coach."
"What's his name?"
Minjun paused.
He remembered the old boxing instructor from Busan.
The cigarette smoke.
The terrible coffee.
The countless insults disguised as advice.
"Someone who's no longer around."
Seongho's expression softened.
"Sorry."
"Don't be. He lived a good life."
Minjun wasn't entirely certain that was true.
But he'd like to believe it.
They left the gym shortly after ten.
Seongho suggested a nearby convenience store, and the two purchased drinks before settling at an outdoor table.
For several minutes, they talked about boxing.
Then Seongho asked an unexpected question.
"Do you know anything about the Four Major Crews?"
Minjun lowered his drink.
"A little."
"Ever met anyone from them?"
"No."
Seongho looked disappointed.
"Figures."
"Why?"
Seongho hesitated.
Then pulled out his phone.
He showed Minjun a photograph of three teenagers standing outside a small restaurant.
One had a swollen cheek.
Another wore a cast around his wrist.
The third was looking away from the camera.
"Recognize them?"
Minjun examined the picture.
"No."
"They're friends of mine."
"What happened?"
"Got beaten up in Gangbuk."
Minjun glanced at him.
"By God Dog?"
Seongho nodded.
"Apparently."
"Why?"
"They were collecting money from students around the neighborhood. Someone told them to stop. They didn't listen."
Minjun stared at him.
"And you're upset they got beaten?"
Seongho frowned.
"Of course I am."
"Even though they were extorting people?"
"That's not—"
He stopped.
Minjun waited.
Seongho rubbed his forehead.
"Yeah. I know how it sounds."
"Then why are you telling me?"
Seongho looked toward the street.
"Because they're idiots, but they're still my friends."
That answer interested Minjun more than the photograph.
Loyalty was rarely convenient.
It became meaningful precisely when someone made a mistake.
But loyalty without judgment could also become dangerous.
"Do they deserve your help?" Minjun asked.
Seongho considered the question.
"Probably not."
"Then what do you intend to do?"
"Make sure they don't get themselves killed."
Minjun nodded.
"That's a better answer."
Seongho looked at him.
"You're pretty cold, you know."
"Occasionally."
"If your friends got beaten up, wouldn't you want revenge?"
Minjun thought about Lee Taesung.
About the men who'd followed him through two decades of bloodshed.
About the funerals he'd attended.
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Whether revenge would actually help them."
Seongho went quiet.
Minjun continued.
"If someone hurts a friend of mine, I don't forget it. But getting myself killed because I'm angry doesn't protect anyone."
He took another drink.
"And if my friend started the trouble, I'd make sure he understood that before doing anything else."
Seongho stared at him for a moment.
Then laughed.
"You talk like an old man."
Minjun nearly choked on his drink.
"That's insulting."
"You're seventeen, right?"
"Unfortunately."
"See? Old man."
Minjun shook his head.
Perhaps spending twenty years running a criminal organization had affected his conversational habits more than he'd realized.
The conversation shifted toward school.
Seongho attended a vocational high school in Mapo and worked part-time at his uncle's repair shop.
His father had disappeared when he was twelve.
His mother worked night shifts at a hospital.
He had started boxing after getting beaten up repeatedly in middle school.
"At first, I just wanted people to leave me alone," Seongho admitted.
"And now?"
Seongho looked down at his hands.
"I want to be strong enough that nobody can tell me what to do."
Minjun recognized the sentiment.
He'd once felt exactly the same.
"And what happens when you become strong?" he asked.
Seongho shrugged.
"I haven't thought that far."
"You should."
"Why?"
"Because strength is a tool. If you don't know what you're using it for, you'll eventually end up using it for someone else's benefit."
Seongho considered that.
Then smiled.
"You really should become a teacher."
"Absolutely not."
"Why?"
"I dislike children."
"We're children."
"Exactly."
Seongho laughed so loudly that a passing pedestrian turned to stare.
Minjun smiled.
He liked the boy.
Seongho wasn't particularly sophisticated, but he possessed courage, loyalty, and the willingness to acknowledge his mistakes.
Those qualities were valuable.
Whether they would eventually make him a suitable subordinate remained to be seen.
For now, Minjun was content to know him.
When Minjun arrived home, the restaurant lights were still on.
His mother was sitting behind the counter, examining a stack of papers.
She looked up.
"You're late."
"Sorry. I lost track of time."
"Have you eaten?"
"Yes."
"Properly?"
"Mom."
"That's not an answer."
Minjun sighed.
"A rice bowl and two sandwiches."
She nodded, apparently satisfied.
He noticed the papers.
"What's that?"
"Nothing important."
Minjun approached.
An invoice lay on top.
Then another.
And another.
He recognized the format immediately.
Supplier payments.
Utility bills.
Rent.
His mother attempted to gather them.
"Don't worry about it."
Minjun gently placed his hand on the stack.
"Are we having financial problems?"
Hyejin hesitated.
"The restaurant's been slow lately."
"How slow?"
"Nothing we can't manage."
He looked at the figures.
His expression remained neutral.
But his mind was already calculating.
Revenue had declined for three consecutive months.
Food costs were increasing.
The rent was manageable, but barely.
There were no immediate signs of bankruptcy.
Still, the business was operating with almost no margin for unexpected expenses.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Hyejin smiled tiredly.
"Because you're seventeen."
"And?"
"And you should be worrying about school, not restaurant bills."
Minjun looked at her.
In his previous life, he'd controlled companies worth millions.
He'd negotiated shipping contracts, managed investment portfolios, and supervised businesses employing thousands.
Now his mother was struggling to keep an eight-table restaurant profitable.
The contrast was almost absurd.
But he didn't laugh.
Instead, he pulled out a chair.
"Can I look at the accounts?"
Hyejin blinked.
"What?"
"The accounts."
"Why?"
"Because I might have some ideas."
She examined him suspiciously.
"Since when do you know anything about business?"
Minjun smiled.
"I've been reading."
"Reading what?"
"Business books."
"Since when?"
"Recently."
Hyejin stared at him.
Then sighed.
"Fine. But don't expect to understand everything."
Minjun pulled the papers toward himself.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
An hour later, Hyejin was looking at her son as though he'd grown a second head.
"Say that again."
Minjun pointed toward the monthly expenses.
"You're purchasing ingredients from three different suppliers. Two charge significantly more than the average wholesale rate."
"They've supplied us for years."
"Which is probably why they think they can get away with it."
Hyejin frowned.
Minjun continued.
"And you're preparing too many dishes that barely sell. You're losing money through waste."
"But customers like having options."
"Some options. Not all twenty-seven."
He turned another page.
"Your most profitable dishes are also your most popular. We should build the menu around those."
"We?"
Minjun paused.
Then smiled.
"If you'll let me help."
Hyejin studied him.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she laughed softly.
"When did my son become so clever?"
"Good genetics."
"Definitely not from your father's side."
Minjun laughed.
She smiled, but her eyes were slightly wet.
He pretended not to notice.
They spent another half hour discussing practical changes.
Nothing dramatic.
No miraculous overnight fortune.
Just better purchasing decisions, a smaller menu, and a few ideas for attracting customers.
When they finished, Hyejin gathered the papers.
"Thank you."
Minjun nodded.
"Anytime."
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
"Your father would have been proud of you."
For a moment, Minjun couldn't speak.
He looked toward the photograph hanging near the counter.
A man he'd never met.
A father whose memories he'd inherited.
He wondered what Kang Donghyun had been like.
Then he looked back at Hyejin.
"I hope so."
Later that night, Minjun lay awake.
His phone rested beside him.
Two messages had arrived.
One from Seongho.
Seongho: Same time next week? I want another round.
The other from Jisoo.
Jisoo: Are you free Saturday? Just us this time.
Minjun smiled at the second message.
Then set the phone aside.
For the first time since his reincarnation, he was beginning to understand the weight of his new life.
He had arrived expecting a world of extraordinary fighters and criminal organizations.
And those things certainly existed.
But so did overdue bills.
Old friendships.
A mother's quiet worries.
And people whose lives had nothing to do with the Four Major Crews.
He could still become the strongest.
He could still build an empire.
Those ambitions hadn't changed.
But perhaps there was something worth learning before he began.
In his previous life, he'd become so consumed with building power that he'd forgotten what ordinary happiness felt like.
This time, he intended to do things differently.
Not more gently.
Not less ambitiously.
Simply more deliberately.
He picked up his phone and answered both messages.
Then opened the restaurant's financial records once more.
Tomorrow, he had some suppliers to investigate.
And if his calculations were correct, he could save his mother a considerable amount of money before the month ended.
For now, that seemed like a worthwhile victory.