The next morning, the sunlight slipping through the curtains pulled Hyunwoo from sleep. For a few seconds, he half-expected to hear the hum of his old apartment fridge or the faint traffic outside. Instead, there was only birdsong and the smell of wood..
Reality returned in pieces — the wooden hut, the family photo, the broken moon, the memories of a boy whose life had been cut in half. And the book.
He sat at the table, the leather-bound manual open in front of him. His photographic memory — the one he'd honed over years as a writer, observing and storing details without realizing — had already burned the pages into his mind. He could see the diagrams in perfect clarity even with his eyes closed.
Didn't mean he could actually do them.
Taking the spear from the wall, Hyunwoo stepped outside. The yard was small but open enough for practice. He flipped through the images in his head, planted his feet, and tried the first stance.
"Okay... right foot forward, weight balanced, spear angled just above the shoulder—"
The tip dipped. He readjusted. His grip felt wrong.
"Alright... maybe like this—"
The spear slipped in his hands, smacking the ground with a loud thunk.
"...Off to a great start."
He tried again, this time moving into the first thrust combination. His memory gave him the exact sequence: a sharp step forward, spear tip aimed at the target, twist to redirect momentum, and follow-up strike.
On paper, perfect. In reality...
Thwack!
The butt of the spear bounced off the ground, jarring his wrists and nearly making him drop it.
Hyunwoo stared at the weapon, deadpan. "Wow. I can remember every detail of a battle technique, but my body moves like a drunk scarecrow."
Still, he kept going. Hour after hour, stance after stance, repeating the movements until his arms ached and his shoulders burned. By the time the sun was high, sweat was dripping down his back, and his strikes — while still sloppy — were at least hitting in the right direction.
He leaned on the spear, catching his breath.
"Alright, Dad... if you're watching, try not to laugh too hard. I'll get there."
Hyunwoo didn't stop.
The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching across the yard, but he kept swinging, thrusting, and stepping through the sequences burned into his mind. His body complained with every movement — wrists sore, shoulders tight, legs aching — but he pushed on.
Again.
Right foot forward, spear angled above the shoulder. Step, thrust, twist, follow-up strike. Reset. Repeat.
The mistakes got smaller. The tip stopped dipping as much. His stance felt less like he was about to fall over. But perfection? He was still far from it.
By the time the moon — fractured and eerie — hung high in the sky, Hyunwoo was drenched in sweat. His breathing was ragged, but his grip on the spear was steady.
He looked up at the broken moon and let out a dry chuckle. "If I don't die from Grimm, I'll die from muscle failure."
Finally, he stumbled back inside, leaned the spear against the wall, and collapsed onto the bed. Sleep hit him almost instantly.
_________
The next day Hyunwoo woke with a groan, his back and shoulders protesting every attempt to move. Last night's stubborn training had left him sore from head to toe, but he didn't care. Pain meant progress — at least, that's what he told himself as he dragged his legs off the bed.
Today wasn't just about swinging a spear until his arms gave out.
Today, he wanted to confirm something bigger.
Aura. Semblance.
In the fragmented memories he'd inherited from this body, he remembered how aura felt — a subtle hum under the skin, like a faint second heartbeat. He stepped outside into the crisp morning air, the grass wet and cool beneath his bare feet. Closing his eyes, he slowed his breathing and reached inward.
There. A quiet warmth at his core, steady and patient, as if it had been waiting for him to acknowledge it. Aura.
But semblance... that was personal. It wasn't something anyone could teach him — it was an extension of who he was.
And who was he?
In his old life, Hyunwoo had been an observer. Not in a poetic, "I see the beauty in the world" way, but in a cold, calculating way. He noticed everything — the way a person's shoulders tensed before they swung, the half-step they took before committing to a strike, the tiny rhythm in their breathing. He could store those details in his mind and recall them perfectly.
That was photographic memory — a habit, a skill, sharpened by years of obsessive observation.
But semblance?
Semblance wasn't just memory. It was the soul doing something with it.
He focused harder, aura pulsing through him. For a moment, nothing happened. Then — click.
Something shifted inside his mind, like a lens snapping into place.
The world sharpened.
The swaying of leaves slowed just enough for him to count each movement. The way sunlight shimmered along the edge of his spear became almost painfully clear. Even the faint shift in the air when he adjusted his grip felt different — recorded in perfect detail, then translated straight into action.
Without thinking, his body slid into a stance he had only seen once — a flash from his father's old hunts. His muscles remembered nothing, but his soul made them move as if they did.
He thrust the spear forward — clean, precise, powerful. No hesitation.
Hyunwoo froze, heart pounding.
"...No way."
He tried again, this time recalling a technique from the book his father had left. His body flowed through it without a single mistake. Then another — something from a sparring memory with one of his father's friends. Again, perfect.
A slow grin crept onto his face.
"My semblance... lets me perfectly copy anything I see."
Excitement surged through him. This was it. The kind of edge people dreamed of.
He looked around, spotting a low-hanging branch. In his memory, he'd seen a huntsman vault up a tree with a single kick. Easy.
He charged, planting a foot against the trunk and launching upward.
—And barely got halfway before his leg buckled, and he landed flat on his back.
"...Ow."
Lying there, staring at the sky, the realization hit him.
The movement was perfect. The result? Not even close.
He could mimic the form of the huntsman's leap, but without the raw strength and explosiveness in his legs, the jump was pathetic. If his body wasn't at the level to execute the move, his semblance wouldn't magically fill the gap.
He sat up, rubbing his back, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
"Alright... so I still have to train like hell. Good. Would've been boring if it was too easy."
He picked up the spear, eyes on the morning horizon.
One step at a time — but every step, perfect.
Hyunwoo didn't stop after the embarrassing tree incident.
If anything, it lit a fire in him.
The rest of the morning was spent in relentless repetition — spear sweeps, lunges, thrusts, and footwork patterns pulled straight from the worn pages of For My Son. His semblance allowed him to remember every motion perfectly, but that didn't mean his muscles could execute them flawlessly. Every time his arms trembled or his stance faltered, he started the sequence over.
By noon, sweat streamed down his face, his breathing heavy but steady. His father's style was deceptively simple on the surface — wide, deliberate arcs and precise thrusts — but every movement carried intent, weight, and timing. It wasn't about flash; it was about ending a fight before it began.
When the sun started to dip westward, Hyunwoo finally lowered the spear and rolled his shoulders. His stomach growled in protest.
The nearby village wasn't far, so he made the trip down the dirt path, boots crunching against scattered gravel. Vale was quiet this time of day, its small market humming with casual chatter. He passed stalls of fresh produce, baked bread, and dried meats, stopping here and there to pick up what he needed.
Thanks to his father's career as a hunter, money wasn't an issue — for now. Hyunwoo knew the pouch of lien wouldn't refill itself, but it would last him until he found his footing.
That was when something on the notice board caught his eye.
A poster.
Entrance to Beacon Academy — 2 Months Later
The bold lettering seemed almost to stare back at him. Hyunwoo stood still for a moment, letting the thought settle. Two months wasn't much time — not to master every skill, not to become invincible — but for his father's spear technique? For that, it was enough.
"...Two months," he murmured, almost to himself. His grip on the bag tightened. "That's all I need."
He turned away, the decision already made. For the next sixty days, he would live and breathe that spear style until it was carved into his bones.