The roar of the Seoul Olympic Arena was a physical entity, a tidal wave of sound that crashed against Kang Min-jae's eardrums. It was a symphony of adoration, a testament to years of sweat, discipline, and an almost inhuman dedication to the art of Taekwondo. Under the blinding glare of the arena lights, his body moved with a fluid, lethal grace. Each snap of his leg, each precise block, was met with an explosion of cheers. His black uniform, emblazoned with the national crest, seemed to ripple with the energy of the crowd, a blur of motion against the vibrant blue mat.
He was a storm contained, a force of nature honed to perfection. The final opponent, a hulking figure whose face was a mask of grim determination, lunged. Min-jae sidestepped, the air hissing with the displaced force. Then, with a guttural cry that was swallowed by the arena's cacophony, he unleashed his signature spinning heel kick. The impact was sharp, decisive, a thunderclap that resonated through the hall. The opponent crumpled.
Silence descended for a fraction of a second, an impossible void before the arena erupted once more. This time, it was a primal scream of victory, a tidal wave of pure elation that washed over Min-jae. He raised his arms, his chest heaving, his gaze sweeping across the sea of ecstatic faces. The championship belt, heavy and gleaming, was placed around his waist. He was untouchable. He was invincible.
Backstage, the adulation continued, though in a more intimate form. His parents, their faces etched with pride and unshed tears, enveloped him in embraces that spoke volumes of their unwavering support. His mother, her eyes shining, dabbed at the corner of his eye with a tissue. "My champion," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
His father, a broad-shouldered man with kind eyes, clapped him firmly on the back. "We're so proud of you, son. You've made us all proud."
Min-jae grinned, the exhaustion of the match melting away under the warmth of their love. "Just wait," he promised, his voice still breathless. "This is just the beginning. I'll make sure we celebrate properly. I'll be back before you know it." He envisioned the quiet family dinner, the shared laughter, the simple contentment of being with the people who mattered most. He kissed his mother's cheek, squeezed his father's arm, and turned towards the exit, the promise of normalcy a sweet, comforting balm.
The world outside the immediate backstage area was a whirlwind of congratulations, interviews, and flashing cameras. He navigated it with practiced ease, a seasoned performer on his own stage. He was heading towards the designated exit, anticipating the drive home, when a low thrumming began to vibrate through the floor. It was subtle at first, a disquieting tremor beneath the lingering roar of the crowd.
Then, the world exploded.
It wasn't a gradual unfolding of disaster, but an instantaneous obliteration of reality. A searing white light, hotter than any sun, consumed everything. A concussive force slammed into Min-jae, ripping the air from his lungs and sending him hurtling through a maelstrom of heat, noise, and splintering debris. The cheers of victory were replaced by the deafening shriek of tearing metal, the explosive pop of shattering glass, and the primal, terrified screams of hundreds. The smell of ozone and burning flesh choked him, a putrid perfume of devastation. He felt a searing agony bloom across his skin, a pain so profound it threatened to extinguish his very consciousness. Then, there was only darkness.
He awoke to a sterile, muted world. The air was cool, tinged with the sharp, medicinal scent of antiseptic. A low, rhythmic beeping punctuated the silence, a monotonous heartbeat in the stillness. His eyelids felt heavy, glued shut by some unseen force. When he finally managed to pry them open, a blurry, white ceiling swam into focus. Pain, a dull, insistent throb, radiated from multiple points across his body. He tried to move, a simple flex of his fingers, and a fresh wave of agony washed over him.
A figure in a pale blue scrub suit materialized at the edge of his vision. Their face was kind, professional, but devoid of any personal warmth. "Welcome back, Mr. Kang," the voice said, smooth and practiced. "You've been through quite an ordeal."
Min-jae's throat was raw, his voice a raspy whisper. "What… what happened?"
The doctor's expression softened, a flicker of practiced sympathy. "There was an explosion at the arena. A… tragic accident. You sustained severe burns and multiple injuries. You're lucky to be alive."
Lucky? The word felt like a cruel joke. He remembered the arena, the cheers, his family. "My parents?" he croaked, his heart lurching with a sudden, chilling dread.
The doctor's gaze fell, a subtle evasion that spoke volumes. "They were… not as fortunate, Mr. Kang. I'm so sorry."
The words struck him like a physical blow, stealing the little breath he had managed to regain. His parents. Gone. The vibrant tapestry of his life, so recently woven with triumph and love, was now ripped to shreds, leaving behind only gaping holes of grief and disbelief. Tears pricked at his eyes, a foreign sensation in his current state of pain.
"You've undergone extensive treatment," the doctor continued, his voice a low drone, pulling Min-jae back from the precipice of despair. "The burns are significant, but we believe they will heal. However, there's something else we need to discuss."
He paused, a somber weight settling in the room. "The head trauma you sustained, combined with the shock and the extent of your injuries, has resulted in a severe form of anterograde amnesia."
Min-jae stared, his mind struggling to grasp the foreign medical jargon. "Amnesia?"
"Yes," the doctor confirmed, his gaze steady. "Your ability to form new memories has been severely compromised. Essentially, every five days, your memory resets. You will forget everything that has happened in the preceding period and begin anew."
The words were a death knell to his already shattered world. Five days? He wouldn't even remember his parents' death, the championship, the very fabric of his existence, for more than a fleeting moment. The concept was so alien, so terrifying, that it momentarily eclipsed even the searing pain and the crushing grief.
"But… how?" he managed to stammer out.
"It's a complex neurological condition, Mr. Kang. We've done all we can medically. The key to managing it will be consistency and… external aids. We've gathered your personal belongings. They've been processed and are ready for you."
A nurse entered, carrying a small plastic bag. Inside, nestled amongst some personal effects, were two items that caught Min-jae's attention: a thick, leather-bound journal, its cover worn smooth with age, and a smaller, chained leather notebook, its pages appearing thin and well-used.
The doctor gestured towards them. "Your father's belongings. He was a man of… meticulous habits, it seems. He kept detailed records."
Min-jae's fingers, clumsy and numb, fumbled for the journal. The scent of old paper and leather filled his nostrils, a strangely grounding aroma amidst the sterile chaos. He flipped through the pages, his vision blurring with pain and unshed tears. The handwriting was his father's, neat and precise, but filled with what appeared to be coded entries, a complex web of numbers and symbols. It was a language he didn't understand, a puzzle he couldn't begin to solve.
Then, his gaze fell upon the smaller notebook. A thin, silver chain was attached to its cover, a loop designed to be secured. A primal instinct, a desperate whisper from the shattered remnants of his mind, urged him to grasp it. He carefully fastened the chain around his wrist, the cool metal a stark contrast to the burning pain of his bandages.
He opened the notebook. The first page was blank, save for a single, hastily scrawled sentence: *Remember this. You are Kang Min-jae. They took everything.*
A tremor ran through him, a spark of something beyond grief and pain. *They took everything.* The words resonated with a deep, guttural anger that clawed its way to the surface. Fragmented images flashed through his mind: a fleeting glimpse of his father's face, contorted in a silent scream; the searing heat of the explosion, a primal terror he couldn't quite place.
He returned to the journal, his fingers tracing the unfamiliar symbols. With a desperate surge of will, he focused, trying to decipher the cryptic messages. His father, a man of law and order, wouldn't have filled pages with nonsensical scribbles. There had to be a reason. He scanned through entries, his eyes catching on recurring phrases, on patterns that hinted at something sinister.
One entry, heavily underlined, stood out: "Choi Industries. The façade crumbles. They are the rot beneath the city."
Choi Industries. The name was unfamiliar, yet it pulsed with a dark energy, a phantom echo of the destruction he had just experienced. His father's journal, his father's coded warnings – they were the only tangible link to a past that was rapidly slipping away.
He forced himself to write in the chained notebook, his hand shaking, the pen scratching against the paper. *Day 1. Arena explosion. Parents gone. Amnesia. Five-day reset. Father's journal. Choi Industries.* The words were stark, a desperate anchor in the churning sea of his fractured consciousness.
He repeated the phrase aloud, a low growl in his raw throat. "Choi Industries." The name was a bitter taste, a nascent flame of vengeance igniting in the desolation. He didn't know why, he didn't know how, but a cold, hard certainty settled in his gut. They were responsible. They had taken his family, his career, his memory.
The hospital room felt suffocating, the beeping of the machines a constant reminder of his fragility. But within that fragility, something hard and unyielding was beginning to form. He was a broken man, scarred physically and mentally, but not entirely defeated.
Weeks later, the bandages still thick, his body aching with a dull, persistent throb, Min-jae stood outside the hospital. The Seoul sky was a muted grey, mirroring the turmoil within him. He caught his reflection in a shop window, a gaunt stranger with scarred skin and haunted eyes staring back. The face was a ghost of the champion he once was, a testament to the fire that had consumed his life.
He clutched his father's journal, its weight a comforting presence, and the chained notebook, a lifeline to his own fading existence. The first five-day cycle was a blur of pain, confusion, and the terrifying realization of his condition. But the anger, the raw, burning need for answers, had persisted. It was the only constant in his fractured reality.
His gaze hardened, the reflection in the glass no longer just a victim, but a hunter. The melancholy of his loss was being steadily replaced by a fierce, burning resolve. He whispered the name, the words laced with a chilling promise.
"Choi Industries," Kang Min-jae vowed, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. "I'll find you." The first five days were over. The real journey, the one etched in pain and fueled by vengeance, was just beginning.