Chapter 1: The End of a World, The Beginning of Another
The world bled. Not in metaphor, but in a grotesque, tangible crimson that stained the very air. For years, the sky had been a bruised purple, torn open by the gaping maw of warp holes that vomited forth a never-ending tide of obsidian-skinned demons. He, with his silver hair stark against the encroaching darkness, had fought. He had lived to fight. His fists, sheathed in sharp gauntlets, had crushed bone and shattered armor, but when the need arose, his twin blades were extensions of his very will, carving paths through the demonic hordes.
He had been a hero, once. In a world that now resembled a fractured nightmare, that title felt like a cruel jest. Four others had stood beside him: the fiery spellcaster whose magic incinerated swathes of lesser demons; the mountain of a man who wielded a warhammer like a feather; the nimble, silent shadow who struck with lethal precision; and the youngest, a beacon of naive hope in the encroaching despair.
They had been a unit, a desperate, defiant last stand against the inevitable. They had fought for years, their laughter slowly replaced by grim determination, their youthful faces etched with the scars of a dying world. He had seen millions of demons fall to his might, his experience a horrifying tally of death. But with each victory, a piece of him eroded, leaving behind a cold, sharpened edge.
And then, one by one, they fell. The spellcaster, her last power a blinding nova that took down a legion, her scream echoing as she was overwhelmed. The giant of a man, crushed beneath the heel of a colossal demon, his defiant roar silencing only as his bones turned to dust. The youngest, bleeding out in his arms, her innocent eyes reflecting the terror of their defeat. The silent one, vanished into a horde, his last, desperate strike aimed at the demon lord's throat.
It was just him. The world was a wasteland, a graveyard of forgotten hopes and pulverized cities. Most of humanity was gone, their screams swallowed by the insatiable maw of the warp.
He stood, alone, facing a monstrosity that blotted out the already dim sun – a titan of black muscle, twenty-five feet of horned, fanged terror, flanked by a hundred lesser demons, all gnashing and snarling. He was tired, bone-weary in a way that sleep could never fix, but the rage still burned, a cold, diamond-hard fury that propelled him forward.
He moved like a phantom, his gauntlets tearing through lesser demons, their black blood painting the ruined earth. His swords flashed, a crimson blur, severing limbs, piercing hearts. The giant demon roared, its voice a guttural thunder, and its massive fist slammed down, shattering the ground where he had been moments before. He ducked and weaved, a dance of death, the lesser demons snapping at his heels. He plunged a sword into the titan's leg, the demon howling in pain, and then, with a primal scream, he lunged, his gauntlet-clad fist smashing into its armored knee, cracking the bone.
Victory was within his grasp. He could feel it, the bitter taste of a final triumph.
Then, a searing, emerald beam of light, impossibly bright, lanced out from the swirling chaos behind the giant demon. It struck him with the force of a battering ram, ripping through his pelvis, a gaping, burning void where his core had been. His vision blurred, the world tilting precariously.
He saw her. Amidst the swirling demonic tide, her hair, once a vibrant red, now a dull, lifeless grey. Her eyes, once bright with magic, now cold, devoid of all warmth. The spellcaster.
"Why?" he rasped, the word a bubbling cough of blood.
Her lips curled into a macabre smile, devoid of any recognition. "The ritual… demanded a sacrifice."
Then, the world went black.
The sound of blaring horns, the cacophony of a thousand chattering voices, and the dizzying aroma of unfamiliar foods assaulted his senses. His eyes snapped open. He was lying on a soft, somewhat uncomfortable surface. Above him, a stark white ceiling. Around him, a room filled with strange, box-like contraptions that hummed and glowed.
He sat up abruptly, his hand instinctively going to his pelvis. Nothing. No gaping hole, no searing pain. His body felt… different. Lighter. Younger. He looked down at his hands. They were smooth, uncalloused, with no hint of the battle-hardened warrior he had been.
He stumbled out of the room, into a hallway that smelled faintly of antiseptic. A large, rectangular window offered a view of a city unlike anything he had ever seen. Towering structures of glass and metal pierced the sky, a river of gleaming, horseless carriages flowed below, and the air was thick with a strange, constant hum.
"Where in the hells am I?" he muttered, his voice a surprising baritone.
A woman in a white coat walked past, glancing at him with a dismissive eye. "You're in Seoul National Hospital, young man. You had a minor concussion from that car accident yesterday."
Car accident? He felt no pain, no residual aches. He looked down at himself. He was wearing loose, comfortable clothes, not his battle-scarred leather and armor. He felt a sudden, intense surge of confusion, a primal fear of the unknown. He was from a world of steel and magic, not… whatever this was.
A nurse, a kind-faced woman with a gentle smile, approached his bed. "Choi Hyun-woo, you're awake! How are you feeling? The doctor said you might be a little disoriented."
Choi Hyun-woo. The name felt alien on his tongue. He nodded, trying to process the strange sounds and sights. A small, flat screen on the wall across from him flickered with moving images – people talking, colorful graphics, all without a visible source of light or projection. He stared at it, utterly bewildered.
"What… what is that?" he asked, pointing a trembling finger at the screen.
The nurse chuckled softly. "That's the television, dear. Do you want me to turn on a drama for you?"
Television. Drama. The words were meaningless. He shook his head. "No. What… what year is it?"
The nurse's smile faltered slightly. "It's 2025, Hyun-woo. Are you sure you're alright? The doctor said some memory loss was possible with the concussion."
He didn't even know what that meant. His world counted years by the reign of kings and the cycles of the moons. This was… entirely different. He felt a cold dread creep into his stomach. He was truly lost.
Over the next few days in the hospital, he tried to absorb everything. The nurses and doctors, mistaking his confusion for post-concussion amnesia, patiently explained things. He learned about "smartphones," small rectangular devices that glowed with light and allowed people to communicate across vast distances, access information, and even play games. He watched, fascinated and unnerved, as people touched the smooth surfaces, and images and words appeared as if by magic. He learned about "cars," the horseless carriages that moved with incredible speed and emitted strange, rhythmic hums. He saw "computers," powerful machines that seemed to contain all the knowledge of this world.
He spent hours flipping through magazines left by his bedside, staring at the glossy pictures of cities, technology, and people. The sheer scale of advancement was mind-boggling. His world, for all its magic, had been primitive compared to this. He saw images of towering skyscrapers, sleek vehicles, and people dressed in fabrics that felt impossibly soft and light.
Then, his family arrived. A woman with a worried, kind face, who introduced herself as his mother, Mrs. Park. A tall, quiet man, his father, Mr. Choi. And a younger sister, Choi Su-min, who looked at him with a mix of concern and childish curiosity. They spoke to him with a warmth he hadn't felt in years, their voices filled with genuine affection. He had no memory of them, but their presence was a strange, comforting anchor in this bewildering new reality.
"Oh, Hyun-woo-ya, my son," his mother cried, embracing him tightly. He stiffened at first, unused to such open displays of emotion, then slowly relaxed into the unfamiliar warmth. This was his new family. A family that believed he was their son, suffering from amnesia.
When he was discharged, they took him to their home. It wasn't a castle, or a stone cottage, or even a tent. It was an apartment, a sterile, modern space filled with more strange contraptions. The lights turned on with a flick of a switch, the water flowed from a metal tap, hot or cold at will. He stared at the refrigerator, a giant white box that kept food cold, and the microwave, a device that heated food in seconds.
"This is… incredible," he murmured, touching the smooth surface of the kitchen counter.
His father chuckled. "It's just a normal apartment, Hyun-woo. Are you sure your memory isn't coming back?"
He just shook his head, a practiced gesture now. He couldn't tell them the truth. They wouldn't believe him. They would think him mad.
He retreated to his new room, a space filled with books he didn't recognize and posters of strange, brightly colored figures. He picked up a textbook, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar Hangul characters. He found a dictionary, a thick book that explained the meaning of words. Slowly, painstakingly, he began to read.
He devoured books on history, science, and the current state of this world. He learned about the "Korean War," a conflict that seemed to have reshaped this peninsula. He learned about "electricity," a force that powered this entire civilization. He learned about "the internet," a vast, interconnected network of information that dwarfed any library he had ever known. He was amazed, baffled, and at times, utterly overwhelmed.
And then, he found the sections on "gates" and "awakeners." Portals that appeared spontaneously, spewing out magical creatures. People who developed supernatural abilities after exposure to these gates. He read about the monsters – goblins, ogres, even demons. He felt a familiar, bitter taste in his mouth. These weren't the demons he knew, the ones that had consumed his world. These were… lesser. Weak. But still, they were creatures. And a deep-seated, almost instinctual racism flared within him. "Fucking beasts," he thought, "still trying to ruin everything."
He also learned about Sungjin High School, a prestigious institution known for its specialized "gate classes" – training programs for young awakeners. His new self, Choi Hyun-woo, was apparently enrolled there.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror again. The handsome, black-haired Korean boy stared back. This perfect, lean body. This was his new reality. His old world was gone, devoured by the very beings he had sworn to destroy. But here, in this strange, advanced world, there were still monsters to kill. And a new life, however unwanted, to live. He still yearned for vengeance, for the spellcaster's blood, but for now, he had to understand this new battlefield. And perhaps, just perhaps, find a way to get strong enough to return, or at least, to make sure this world didn't suffer the same fate as his last.