The first chapters will be a bit slow, as they'll show the life of the boy who originally lived in that body before the transmigration. They won't go beyond three chapters, but they're necessary to understand his past and the contrast with what's coming next.
If you have any ideas or suggestions to improve the story, feel free to leave them in the comments! They'll really help me keep the story moving forward.
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The sound of cutlery hitting porcelain filled the dining room, but no one spoke to him.
Han Byeoto, thirteen years old, sat at the end of the table, back straight and eyes down. His older brother, Han Jiwon, was reciting math formulas from memory while their father nodded proudly. Their mother, hands clasped under her chin, smiled as if she were admiring a trophy.
"At the same school, with the same classes…" her voice suddenly turned as cold as a knife. "Why the hell can't you be like your brother? Your grades are a disaster, and you receive quality education. What's your excuse?"
Byeoto swallowed hard, not daring to look up. If he tried to explain, it only made things worse. The indifference weighed more than the scolding. Sometimes he thought that in that house only his brother existed, and he was just a ghost taking up space.
He finished eating quickly, in silence. He went up to his room with the dessert tray no one wanted to share. There, surrounded by faded posters, he turned on the television. Not to escape, but to remember why he hadn't given up yet.
On the screen, a group of Korean idols sang and danced with perfect energy, the spotlights illuminating every smile. Byeoto watched, fascinated. Not just because of the music. He was drawn to that light, that beauty, that feeling that, even if they came from nothing, they could become someone everyone admired.
"I want to be strong and beautiful and someday shine like them," he murmured softly, like a secret only the TV could hear.
Because of that desire to change, he started training every night. Push-ups, sit-ups, squats, routines taken from online videos. He sought to become his best version, someone who could defend himself.
The next day, Byeoto woke up before his brother. He dressed quietly, in his still-wrinkled school uniform, and walked to the bathroom. While brushing his teeth, the mirror reflected an image he tried to avoid.
Black, long, greasy hair. Yellowish eyes. Puffy cheeks with red pimples, dark circles under his eyes, pale skin covered in acne. A soft body, with excess fat. An unpleasant face. For a moment, he stopped brushing. He swallowed hard. He felt that the reflection wasn't him but a cruel mockery of his own existence.
But not everything was hopeless. "Someday I'll change." The thought hit him like a weak but persistent bolt of lightning. After all, his family was attractive. A tall father, with black hair and a serious expression. A mother with straight hair and a flawless smile. An attractive brother, green eyes, impeccable posture.
The genetics were there. He had inherited them, in theory. But his parents' neglect, the processed food they always gave him, the lack of interest in his health, had built that image he now saw in the mirror.
For the first time, he began to see reality. The looks of disgust he received weren't accidental. It was always the same. At home, on the street, at school.
Minutes later, with his backpack over his shoulder, he waited for the bus at the stop. The sky was gray, like a heavy curtain. He sat on a metal bench and looked at his hands. A couple of students passed in front of him; they were girls from his class. They glanced at him, then leaned toward each other, whispering and laughing softly. He didn't need to hear the words to know what they were about.
A beautiful woman, wearing an elegant suit and headphones, approached the bus stop while talking on the phone. For a moment, it seemed she was about to sit beside him, but when she looked up and saw him, she frowned slightly and stepped back. She preferred to stand.
Byeoto clenched his fists. He said nothing. The scene repeated every day, and yet each time it hurt a little differently. The bus arrived. He got on quietly, avoiding eye contact, and looked for a seat at the back. As the vehicle started moving toward the school.
When he arrived, the white walls shone with trophies displayed in glass cases. The smiling faces of outstanding students hung on posters. Among them, a familiar smile. Han Jiwon, his older brother, in photo after photo. Trophies with his name. Debates, athletics, mathematics. The "prince" of the school. Byeoto forced himself to look away.
The hallway to his classroom was almost empty. The bell hadn't rung yet. A group of students chatted animatedly up ahead. In the middle of them, flawless as always, was Seo Minjae—tall, athletic, blue-eyed, inherited from his foreign mother, uniform ironed, tie perfect.
His father was a senator, his mother ran a charitable foundation. At school, Minjae was the face of perfection. Student council president, impeccable grades, kind smile. No one could accuse him of anything. He didn't even raise his voice.
Beside him, like shadows, were Kang Dohoon and Park Taeyang. The ones who did the dirty work.
Byeoto lowered his gaze and tried to walk past, but Dohoon stepped forward, blocking his path.
"Minjae wants to see you," he said with a twisted smile.
Taeyang snatched the water bottle from him and drank without permission.
"Today we've got a new game," he whispered.
Minjae didn't even stop talking to the girl in front of him. He simply lifted his chin slightly, as if giving a silent order. No words, no harsh gestures. It was enough.
Dohoon and Taeyang grabbed him by the arms.
"Come on, don't make him wait."
They dragged him to the boys' bathroom. No one intervened. The smell of disinfectant and dampness filled his nose. The stall at the back waited, toilet lid up. Byeoto struggled, but he was weaker. Laughter bounced off the tiles.
"Baptism," said Taeyang, and together they shoved his head down. The dirty water covered his face, the stench and disgust mixing with his tears. When they let go, he spat and coughed, soaked.
Dohoon wiped his hands with paper.
"You're not even good for this."
They left laughing. Minjae hadn't entered the bathroom at all. He was still in the hallway, talking to a teacher. When he saw his lackeys come out, he gave them a brief smile.
Byeoto collapsed against the wall, breathing unevenly. The bathroom mirror reflected his wet, red face. The door opened—a teacher saw him and wrinkled his nose before leaving without saying a word. In that school, the humiliation of someone like him was routine.
Byeoto clenched his fists until his knuckles hurt. He didn't cry. He washed his face in the sink, straightened up, and looked at himself again.
"Someday…" This time the phrase didn't sound like a whisper. It sounded like a promise.
The bell forced him to move. He walked toward his classroom. His still-wet shirt gave him away. Several chuckles erupted here and there when he entered.
"Look, the stinky pig's late again!" muttered a girl from the back.
Dohoon and Taeyang were already seated, waiting for him. When they saw him come in, they stretched out their feet to trip him. Byeoto stopped just in time, but his notebook slipped from his backpack and fell to the floor. No one helped him pick it up. Not even the teacher, who, upon entering, barely raised an eyebrow before starting to take attendance.
"Late again, Han Byeoto?" the teacher asked in a monotone voice. "Sit down."
The laughter grew louder. Minjae also had an amused smile on his face.
Byeoto sat at the back, feeling the heat of all the stares burning into his neck. On the edge of the desk, someone had scrawled in black marker: "mutant."
He closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. It was becoming clearer that to survive there, he had to be reborn.
He gripped his pencil so tightly that the tip snapped. The sharp crack of graphite breaking sounded like a gunshot. He felt a heat rising from his stomach to his head.
In that instant, something began to fall into place inside him, like a truth that had always been there. It wasn't enough to complain, or study, or wait for someone to defend him. He was weak. More than weak—he was ugly. And in that school, only those who looked perfect lived well.
As he wrote clumsily, an idea began to grow. It was no longer just anger; it was an obsession.
Beauty and strength.
That's what allowed people to live well. He had to change. So that no one would ever look at him with pity again.
If he had to transform, he would. Weakness and misery would never be part of him again.
The rest of the day was as usual—the strong beat the weak. Comments, laughter, physical and psychological abuse. And the teachers turned a blind eye.
When the bell announced the end, he left as always.