Taeyang woke in the afternoon to the thud of laundry machines spinning beneath his floorboards. His tiny one-room apartment smelled like detergent from the coin laundry downstairs — a stale, soapy reminder that other people's clothes were getting cleaned while his life stayed dirty.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The sun cut through the half-broken blinds, striping the walls in gold and shadow.
The old man's words wouldn't leave him alone.
"Do you want to be strong?"
It sounded so stupid in daylight.
He reached for his phone. A new notification blinked from the Hunter Association app. Jobs for E-ranks. Just scrolling made his stomach knot — low pay, high risk, no real fighting. Just carrying crates behind real hunters while they posed for the news.
Do you want to be strong? At this point it felt like the voice won't leave him alone even in death.it felt like the old man was in his head asking the same thing again and again .
Taeyang set the phone down and swung his legs off the bed. His uniform still reeked of instant ramen and cheap cologne from last night's drunks. He balled it up and stuffed it in a plastic bag for the coin laundry later. If he kept thinking about the old man, he'd lose his mind.
He slipped on a hoodie, shoved his wallet in his pocket, and headed out.
The store manager barked at him the second he walked in.
"You late again, Choi! You think you're special now, huh? Just because' the system says you're a hunter?"
Taeyang bowed his head. "Sorry, manager-nim. This won't happen again."
The old man's question scratched at the back of his mind. What's special about you? He kept it there, locked behind clenched teeth.
He stocked shelves. Ran the register. Mopped the floor twice. The same drunk students from last night came in again, still wearing that cheap guild cap.
One of them noticed him, elbowed his friend, and stage-whispered, "Hey, it's the E-rank. Hey! Show us your skill, hunter!"
They laughed like it was the funniest joke in the world. Taeyang didn't look up. Didn't answer. The scanner beeped steadily as if nothing happened.
By the time his shift ended, it was past midnight. Seoul's lights turned the sky purple, but behind the mountain the darkness stayed black and heavy.
He stood at the edge of the old park trail. The asphalt gave way to packed dirt and gnarled roots that rose like ribs from the earth.
Taeyang pulled his hood up. His breath smoked out in thin clouds. One step, then another, the city's glow dying behind him with each crunch of gravel under his sneakers.
It was stupid. It was insane. Maybe it was just some senile old man waiting to mug him in the bushes. Or worse — some unranked rogue hunter who'd lost his mind to mana poisoning.
But he kept walking.
The trail narrowed into a deer path. Branches scraped at his arms. Shrubs rustled with tiny night creatures that wanted nothing to do with him. The city was only a few hundred meters behind him, but it might as well have been another country.
Halfway up the slope, he saw a flicker of orange - a small fire, tucked behind a ring of stones. The old man sat cross-legged beside it, exactly where he'd said he'd be. No phone. No flashlight. Just him and the cold and the stars.
Taeyang hesitated at the edge of the clearing.
"You came," the old man said without looking up. His voice rolled like dry paper over stone — calm but heavy enough to make Taeyang's chest tighten.
Taeyang stuffed his hands in his pockets. "What is this? Some cult thing? You gonna sell me magic herbs or something?"
The old man snorted. "Sit."
Taeyang stayed standing.
The old man finally looked up. In the flickering firelight, his eyes were sharp enough to carve the night open. "Sit. Or go home and stay weak. Makes no difference to me."
Taeyang's throat felt dry. He dropped onto the cold ground, cross-legged like the old man. Pebbles dug into his knees through his jeans.
For a moment, the old man said nothing. Just poked the fire with a stick. Sparks drifted up into the branches.
"You have no skill," the old man said at last. Not a question — a statement.
Taeyang's jaw tightened. "Thanks for reminding me."
"You have no rank worth speaking of."
"I know."
"No mana signature to build from."
Taeyang flinched. He hadn't told anyone that part. The Awakening Center nurse had winced when she read it aloud — Zero mana affinity detected. The lowest of the low.
"You know what that makes you?" the old man asked.
Taeyang glared at the fire. "A porter. A mop boy."
The old man's laugh came out like dry leaves. "No. It makes you free."
Taeyang looked at him then — really looked. The man's back was straight despite the cold, the years. His breath misted steady and slow, like he had all the time in the world.
"Free to do what?" Taeyang asked, voice low.
"To build from nothing," the old man said. "No rank. No system. No shackles. You are empty. And empty things can be filled however they wish."
Taeyang opened his mouth. Closed it. No words came out that didn't sound stupid, so he said nothing.
The old man's gaze settled on him — steady as the mountain behind them. "Tell me, boy. Do you want to be strong?"
The question from yesterday. It sounded different here, in the cold dirt, with the trees whispering around them.
Taeyang's throat worked. He hated how small his voice sounded when it came out.
"Yes."
The old man's lips curled — not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. "Good."
He tossed the stick aside and rose in one smooth motion that made Taeyang's knees ache just to watch.
"Stand," the old man said.
Taeyang did. His legs felt like damp paper.
"Strike me," the old man said.
Taeyang blinked. "What?"
"Hit me. With everything you have."
Taeyang stared. "I— Look, I'm not—"
The old man's hand shot out, faster than thought, and tapped him in the center of the chest. The push wasn't hard — just enough to make him stumble back a step. Shame prickled his neck.
"Strike me," the old man repeated. "Or turn around and crawl back to your city, boy."
Taeyang clenched his fists. The chill stung his knuckles raw. He stepped forward and swung — a clumsy punch, born from too many fights behind dumpsters and not enough training.
The old man sidestepped like smoke. Taeyang's momentum carried him forward. He caught himself on a tree trunk, bark scraping his palms.
"Again."
Taeyang spun, lunged — missed. A hand flicked his ear, made him hiss.
"Again."
He swung wild. Again. And again. His breath turned ragged. His arms burned. He might as well have been punching the wind.
Finally he stumbled, hands on his knees, gasping.
The old man's voice slid through the sound of Taeyang's heartbeat in his ears. "Good. Come back tomorrow."
Taeyang lifted his head, sweat freezing on his brow. "That's it?"
The old man's eyes glowed in the firelight — ageless, merciless. "That is the first test. The will to swing. You have it. Keep it."
Taeyang's legs trembled as he stood straight. He wanted to say something sharp, something clever — but all that came out was a hoarse, "Fine."
He turned to go. The fire popped behind him, the old man's silhouette unmoving.
"Behind the mountain, same time tomorrow," the old man called after him. "Or stay weak."
Back on the city side of the mountain, the streetlights looked harsh and cheap. Taeyang's knuckles were raw and his hoodie smelled like smoke. He jammed his hands in his pockets to keep them warm.
No skill. No mana. No rank.
Free.
He laughed under his breath — quiet enough that only the cold night heard him.