Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Samuel managed to stand up. His knees were trembling, his breathing ragged, but even on his battered face a defiant smile persisted, more a gesture of pride than of strength.
"Is that all?" he spat, his voice broken and blood dripping from his lips.
"I don't think you should be very proud of yourselves. Maybe you should consider a career change… The world of bullying doesn't seem to be for you."
It was an empty challenge, a spark of resistance that barely managed to ignite before fading out. Samuel knew it, and so did they. That's why, instead of intimidating them, his words only sparked more laughter. A chorus of harsh, cruel laughter that tore through the air.
"Look at him, still trying to act tough. How pathetic."
"Did you think you were going to change something with your little words? This is real life, idiot."
"You're just a loudmouth who thinks he's special. We're going to teach you your place."
"Does it hurt? Well, get used to it. The world has no place for the weak."
The laughter cut deeper than the blows. What had once been a shield made of mockery now became a cage that crushed him. Every insult was a cruel reminder of his helplessness, of how useless it was to resist.
Samuel tried to keep his composure, but his voice trembled when he declared they wouldn't break him. His words, fragile like crystal about to shatter, were met with more cruelty than he had imagined. The four surrounded him, and that laughter, which at first had been his defense, turned into the mocking echo of his loneliness.
When he finally fell again, it wasn't just the result of a blow. It was the brutal realization that courage wasn't enough, that injustice didn't bend to clever phrases or defiant smiles. It was the world, relentless and merciless, slamming into his face that resistance could also end in defeat.
Samuel's body ached in every fiber, his bones felt on the verge of breaking, yet he still tried to rise once more. His eyes wandered around, maybe searching for a look of support, someone daring to stop it. He found nothing but indifference. The emptiness of that absence weighed more than any kick.
Then came the next strike. A brutal, sharp kick sent him flying through the air. His body, too weak to resist, spun like a broken doll before crashing onto the pavement. The sound was atrocious, a dull thud that echoed in the alley's gloom. Samuel's head bounced against the ground, leaving behind a dark stain slowly spreading.
"Look at him fly!" one shouted, laughing.
"Almost looks funny."
"Is he still breathing? What a tough little idiot…" another murmured, approaching with a crooked smile.
The pain multiplied in waves. Samuel brought his trembling hands to his forehead and pulled them back covered in thick blood. The red liquid ran down his face, mixing with grime and sweat, tracing a humiliating mark that burned on his skin. The metallic taste pooled on his tongue, and every breath was a stab pulling him closer to the brink of collapse.
The leader crouched in front of him, watching like a hunter enjoying the suffering of its prey.
"What happened to your bravery, champ?" he whispered with disdain. "No more witty comebacks?"
Samuel could barely hear him. Sounds faded into distant murmurs, his vision blurred as if submerged in dark water. The world melted away, reduced to distant laughter and the unbearable pounding of pain in his skull.
"That's it, he's going out," one said indifferently. "He wasn't that strong after all."
With one last effort, Samuel tried to get up, but his body wouldn't respond. Exhaustion and pain dragged him mercilessly toward the abyss. His breathing grew weak, his heartbeat slower, fainter with each passing moment. The resistance, that pride that had kept him standing, crumbled along with him.
And then, inevitably, the end came. Fainting caught him like a bottomless pit, stealing what little he had left. His consciousness faded in silence, like a whisper carried away by the wind.
The bullies remained there, watching the motionless body, satisfied with their work. To them, it had only been a game. To Samuel, however, it had been the cruelest lesson: that sometimes courage isn't enough, and reality can crush even the most stubborn spirit.
Unconsciously, Samuel's mind didn't go completely dark. He found himself submerged in a dark lake of memories and fantasies, but this lake wasn't water. It was a red sea, thick and hot like spilled blood. As he stood up, he discovered everything around him was that same color. The sky, the infinite surface, the nonexistent horizon. He walked and walked, but the scenery never changed; always the same red, stifling, absolute.
Despair began to seep in. Loneliness, fear, rage—all of it hit him at once. In the middle of that ocean of emotions, Samuel realized an inescapable truth. He had stopped being who he was. The life he had known was gone. Now he was Jihyeon, and he had to live again.
With tears in his eyes and his face hardened by determination, he shouted at that oppressive sky.
"Damn it…! I want to be strong. I want to win. I won't be a loser!"
The echo of his voice dissolved into nothingness. And then, fragmented images began flashing through his mind, memories that weren't memories, scraps of a past life. Among them, one stood out: the manhwa Lookism, which had inspired him so much in his other life. He remembered characters who fought against broken pasts, who rebuilt themselves through pain, and especially remembered Jichang Kwak, a regional king in that fictional world. Why was he so good? he thought. Because he represented what he had always wanted to be: someone worthy of respect.
The darkness shifted. From the depths, an impossible figure emerged. A man with black, spiky hair combed to the side. His face long, cheekbones sharp, and monochromatic eyes hidden behind round glasses that glimmered like dim moons. He dressed with elegance: a cinnamon-colored Chinese suit, a brown tie adorned with yellow circles, and gleaming shoes.
The figure advanced in silence, facing invisible enemies. He didn't strike with fists or kicks. He used the edges of his palms, slicing the air like invisible blades. Every movement was exact, clean, and meticulously calculated.
Jihyeon watched him with bated breath, feeling that energy seep into him, crossing the border of the dream. Every time the figure took a hit, he didn't weaken. He sharpened, becoming more dangerous. He was like a patient predator that measures, waits, and strikes at the perfect moment.
"He always knows what's going to happen," Jihyeon murmured, and the thought hit him like lightning. It wasn't about brute strength. It was about strategy. About intelligence.
The physical pain of his wounded body didn't vanish, but suddenly it made sense. If his body was weak right now, he could forge another weapon: his mind. He couldn't keep being an impulsive fool doomed to lose. He had to become something more.
The words etched themselves as a vow. If I want to be strong like that figure, I must rebuild myself from within.
The vision reached its climax as the man in the suit struck down his opponents with devastating precision, each movement as clean as it was lethal. Samuel… no, now Jihyeon… felt that power wrap around him like a cloak, claiming a place deep within his being. It wasn't just another's triumph. It was his too.
Then, with a violent gasp, Jihyeon opened his eyes. Air rushed into his lungs like a sharp blow, and his heart pounded like a war drum. With an almost inhuman effort, he stood up.
The four bullies, satisfied and ready to leave, stopped when they saw him. The mockery returned to their faces. They advanced again, closing the circle. The leader, tall, muscular, and arrogant, looked at him like a stubborn insect refusing to die.
"Another beating, little rat?" he said with a crooked smile, crossing his arms.
Jihyeon straightened. His body was pain and blood, but his eyes burned with a new, different fire. The voice that came from him was not trembling, but sharp, like a knife.
"I'm not a rat… you damn idiot."