Pain was the first thing Park Jin-woo registered. A sharp ache in his ribs, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He opened his eyes to the weak blue glow of a neon light in a neglected corner of his high school's yard in Seoul. He was lying on cold asphalt.
"Ugh. Even your blood is pathetic, Jin-woo."
Three students stood over him. Their leader, Lee Seung-hoon, was the son of a famous Taekwondo coach in the district. Seung-hoon wasn't your average bully; he was a real fighter, trained since he was three. His kicks were fast, precise, and painful.
"Next time, watch where you put your bag, you failure," Seung-hoon said with quiet contempt before he and his lackeys walked away.
Jin-woo (19 years old) sat up slowly, a groan trapped in his throat. This was his usual fate. An oddball student, scrawny build, spending his free time watching endless clips of MMA championships and ancient martial arts on his phone, dreaming of something he could never achieve. His only defenses were silence and endurance.
But today, something cracked open inside him.
As he watched Seung-hoon walk away, the moment froze in his mind. His brain replayed the final moment: the roundhouse kick that had hit his ribs. Not once. Hundreds of times, from every angle, in slow motion and real-time, as if his mind had advanced video editing software. It was familiar! It was the same feeling he got when he watched a specific fighting move over and over until he understood it completely. But this time, the experience was a thousand times more intense. Because he had witnessed it on his own body. He had seen the move executed on him, and felt its consequences.
The Limitation: Jin-woo cannot copy a martial arts technique by seeing it just once. He needs to observe the specific move and watch it repeated hundreds, even thousands of times, whether via video or in reality, before his mind can fully "download" it. Physical injuries he sustains from a technique greatly accelerate the process of understanding and copying it, as they provide direct physical data.
The bigger problem? This simple kick from Seung-hoon... Jin-woo had already seen it. He'd seen it in dozens of Taekwondo clips he'd watched. And seeing it executed on him just now, feeling it in his shattered bones, was the thousandth copy he needed. Now, it was etched into his muscle memory.
He got up, leaning against the wall. The muscles in his legs, without being told, remembered the precise angle of the pivot, the tension in the core, the point of balance. But his scrawny, untrained body wasn't capable of executing it with enough power. He had the software, but he lacked the processing power and the energy.
That night, in his small room in his family's modest apartment, the pain was unbearable, but the excitement was stronger. He opened his secret YouTube channel where he hoarded thousands of fight clips. He chose a clip of a spinning back kick in Muay Thai. He watched it. Then replayed it. Again. And again.
1... 50... 200...
His eyes burned from the concentration. This was the price. Exhausting, mind-numbing repetition. The ability wasn't magical. It was a laborious process of rote memorization through repetition. Like learning a language by hearing one sentence a million times. After 300 views, he began to feel a strange sensation in his leg. After 700 views, he could replay the movement in his imagination in full detail. But he needed more. He needed the thousand. He needed the repetition that made it automatic.
He fell asleep on his keyboard, watching the clip for the 841st time.
A week later, on his way back from the store, he passed through an abandoned industrial park. He heard the sound of breaking glass, then real fighting. From behind a dumpster, he saw a scene: two men brawling. Not a sporting fight. It was dirty street fighting, but one of them used swift, direct Wing Chun movements to control the physically stronger opponent.
Jin-woo froze in place. His brain hungered. This was rare data! Real combat! He focused. The chain punches. The entry footwork. He saw the move once, twice, three times during the scuffle... but he needed hundreds! It was frustrating. The ability swelled inside him like a muscle he couldn't use.
Suddenly, the fight ended. The Wing Chun man left quickly. The other man was unconscious. And then, the Wing Chun man turned and looked directly at Jin-woo's hiding spot. His eyes were cold and clear.
"How many times did you watch?" the man asked, his voice quiet and dangerous.
Jin-woo panicked. How did he know? "W...what do you mean?"
"Your breathing. It was synced with my movements. You were counting the strikes. You weren't scared. You were... calculating." The man approached. He looked to be in his forties, with hawk-like features. "I'm Kim. Most people either run or freeze. You were studying. That's a dangerous instinct. Or an even more dangerous talent."
"I... I was just watching," Jin-woo said.
"Don't lie. There's hunger in your eyes. A hunger for something you can't get by just watching. You need to feel it." Kim paused. "You know what the worst thing is for a learner like you?"
Jin-woo was silent.
"To have all the knowledge, and not have the strength to use a speck of it. To be a burning library." Kim looked at him. "I know what you're going through. Because I was like you. I know that feeling when you see a move and you know you'll know it, but only after a very long time, and after far too many viewings."
Jin-woo felt his heart stop. This man understood! He understood the limitation!
"I have an offer. Not a nice one. I will show you movements. I will show you styles. But I won't teach them to you. I will force you to earn them. Viewing after viewing. Repetition after repetition. And I will push you to the edge so you memorize them with your body and not just your mind. It might break you. It will definitely hurt you. But it might make you able to protect yourself."
"Why?" Jin-woo whispered.
"Because the world is full of fighting styles, and I'm looking for someone who can remember them all. Ten seconds to decide. Yes, come with me and you won't return to your old life. No, walk away and I'll forget your face."
Kim's offer was like an addiction. It promised the thing Jin-woo needed more than anything: Time. Time condensed through intense repetition under guidance. But the price was his body and his safety.
Ten seconds.
His heart told him to run.
His mind screamed that this was his only chance.
His ability... was starving.