Hyun-Jae woke with a start, blinking at the pale morning light filtering through his curtains. For a moment, his heart leapt in panic, had he overslept? But then the silence settled in. No hurried footsteps in the hallway. No voice calling his name from the kitchen.
After all it was the weekend.
The house was unusually still, though. Normally, weekends were filled with the noise of his younger sister running about or his father trying and failing to fix something around the house while his mother scolded him playfully. But this morning, the quiet had weight to it.
Pulling on a shirt, Hyun-Jae padded out into the living room. That's when he saw them.
His father sat stiffly on the couch, hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles had gone pale. His mother was beside him, her gaze fixed on the television, lips pressed into a thin line. Yumi, his older sister, leaned against the armrest, arms folded, while their youngest sat curled up against their mother's side.
All of them, silent. All of them, staring at the screen.
The news anchor's voice was calm, but there was a tension under it that Hyun-Jae couldn't ignore.
"…a global summit has been confirmed to be taking place currently. Leaders from every nation will convene to discuss preparations for the upcoming event declared by the so-called Celestials ten years ago. While officials continue to assure the public that volunteer participation is the path forward, reports suggest increasing pressure from certain factions to enforce mandatory enlistment…"
Hyun-Jae froze in the doorway. His throat felt dry. The drills at school, the collapse in training, the memories of that day long ago they all pressed down on him in an instant.
He realized this wasn't just going to be a story in the background anymore. It was here, in his living room, sitting with his family in silence.
Hyun-Jae quietly sank onto the couch beside his younger sister, the cushion dipping under his weight. No one said a word to him, not even a glance. Their eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
The broadcast cut from the news anchor to shaky footage of the summit hall. A blur of suits, flags, and cameras filled the display. Then, the breaking headline scrolled across the bottom in bold red:
"Global Leaders Reach Agreement: One Member from each Family Must Participate."
The room felt smaller all at once.
Hyun-Jae's chest tightened as the anchor's voice continued.
"After hours of debate, representatives have agreed that to ensure equal responsibility across the population, each household will be required to provide at least one member for the upcoming Universal Tournament. Officials cited policies already established by other nations as precedent for this decision…"
The footage shifted again, now showing the Prime Minister of their country standing at a podium. His hair was neatly combed, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes betrayed the weight of what he was about to say.
"As you are aware," the Prime Minister began, his voice steady, "several of our neighboring countries have already instituted family-based drafts. To remain unified in this effort, and to demonstrate that our people will not shirk responsibility, we must follow suit. This is not a burden that should fall on volunteers alone. Every family must share equally in the trials to come."
He paused, scanning the cameras, then added with cold finality:
"It is the only fair path forward."
Hyun-Jae's mother drew in a sharp breath, her hand clutching the fabric of her skirt. His father's jaw flexed, the muscles twitching as he exhaled slowly through his nose. Yumi muttered something under her breath, but the sound was drowned out by the Prime Minister's closing remarks:
"We understand the weight of this decision. But fairness demands sacrifice. The survival of humanity demands nothing less."
The screen faded back to the anchor, who launched into analysis but Hyun-Jae barely heard it. His mind buzzed, words ringing like a drumbeat.
One member from every family.
His family.
The room stayed still for several long seconds, the only sound the low murmur of the television. No one wanted to speak first.
Then, Hyun-Jae's father pushed himself to his feet, his face unreadable. Without a word, he turned and started down the hall toward his room. His mother blinked, then quickly rose after him.
"Min-Joon," she called sharply, her voice tight. "Wait... what do you think you're doing?"
The door down the hall creaked open, then slammed shut halfway before her hand caught it. The sound of raised voices bled into the living room, muffled but clear enough.
"You can't just decide this on your own!" his mother snapped.
"Why not?" his father shot back, his voice rough with conviction. "I served before. I know what it means to fight. This is no different."
"No different?" Her voice cracked with disbelief. "You're talking about throwing your life away! This isn't a battlefield you understand, it's something else entirely! You think your training makes you ready for monsters from other worlds? and with your heart condition"
"It makes me more ready than you. More ready than the kids," he barked.
Silence, then the thud of something maybe his father's hand slamming against the wall. "It's better me than them."
Back in the living room, Yumi shifted closer to Harin, gently pulling the younger girl into her side. Harin's wide eyes glistened, her small fingers twisting into her sister's sleeve. Yumi stroked her hair, whispering something soft, though her own face was pale.
Hyun-Jae sat frozen, staring blankly at the television though he wasn't seeing it anymore. His thoughts churned too loud for him to catch the words of the anchor.
His father's voice echoed in his head: Better me than them.
His stomach tightened.
He wanted to agree, to let that be the end of it but part of him knew it wasn't so simple. No matter who went, the family would still be broken. And if every family across the country was doing the same, what kind of future did that leave?
Hyun-Jae lowered his gaze to his hands in his lap, fingers curling slowly into fists.
Hyun-Jae pushed himself up from the couch, his legs moving before his mind caught up.
"I'm… going for a walk," he muttered, not waiting for anyone to respond.
The front door clicked shut behind him, cutting off the muffled argument, the soft hum of the TV, and the uneasy quiet of his sisters. The evening air was cooler than he expected, carrying with it the faint scent of asphalt still wet from the morning rain.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Maybe leaving so quickly had been wrong. His mother's voice had cracked with strain, and Harin's small shoulders were trembling against Yumi. He should've stayed. Should've said something.
But right now, the walls of that house felt too close, the weight of his father's words pressing against his chest. He needed space to think.
The streets were busier than usual for a weekend morning. Clusters of people stood in uneasy groups, all facing the same direction, murmuring under their breath. Hyun-Jae slowed as he followed their gazes.
On the side of the convenience store near his school, two workers were pressing bright red posters onto the wall, smoothing them out with their palms. The bold letters stood out even from across the street:
MANDATORY FAMILY DRAFT REGISTRATIONOne member from each household must report to the designated center listed below.
Beneath the headline were rows of instructions, addresses, and deadlines. The ink was still wet in places, glinting under the sunlight.
Hyun-Jae's stomach turned. He stepped closer, his shoes crunching against loose gravel. The workers moved on to the next wall, leaving behind a glaring reminder of what was now unavoidable.
He stared at the poster until the words blurred. The ink might as well have been carved in stone. it was official with it's authority undeniable.
This wasn't a discussion. It was law.
He swallowed hard, the noise of the street fading behind the rush of his own thoughts.
One from each family.
His father's voice echoed again: Better me than them.
But the image of his father walking into some unknown battlefield, facing monsters Hyun-Jae couldn't even imagine, twisted something deep in his chest.
He clenched his fists. He wasn't ready. He knew that much. But neither was his anybody else.
And yet, the world didn't seem to care.
Hyun-Jae pushed open the door of the convenience store, the bell jingling softly above him. He grabbed a pack of soda and a few snacks, instinctively choosing the things that would keep his mind alert. Eating always helped him think better or at least that's what he told himself.
He paid, tucked the items into his bag, and stepped back into the street. The sun was dipping lower now, casting long shadows across the sidewalks. With each crunch of gravel under his shoes, his thoughts churned faster.
Halfway home, voices carried from a small group of students gathered near the corner. They were laughing, but the words that reached him weren't jokes instead they were strategy, and it made his stomach twist.
"Yeah, we'll send the older ones in first," one said, voice sharp. "Let them test the waters. The weaker ones can learn from their mistakes."
Hyun-Jae froze, his eyes narrowing. He immediately recognized one of them the son of a high ranking military officer, tall and confident, already giving orders like he owned the street.
Test the waters…
The words hit him like a blow. His father. His father would probably be among the first sent forward. The thought clenched at his chest, tight and unrelenting.
Hyun-Jae's steps faltered as he approached his front gate. The house was quiet, the dim glow of the evening spilling from the living room window. He should have stayed there but his legs carried him forward anyway.
With a shaking hand, he turned the doorknob and stepped inside. The familiar scent of home filled his senses, but it brought no comfort.
He set his bag down, the cans of soda rattling slightly. The muffled voices of his parents' argument were gone now, replaced by a tense silence that made the walls feel smaller, suffocating.
Hyun-Jae sank onto the couch, pulling a soda from his bag and twisting off the cap. The fizz hissed like a warning in the quiet room. He took a small sip, then nibbled at a snack, trying to steady the storm of thoughts in his mind.
His father. His family. And in a few days or maybe sooner they would be forced into a game he couldn't yet imagine.
And Hyun-Jae felt the weight of it all pressing down, not on him, but on the people he loved most.
Hyun-Jae hadn't even had time to finish his soda when a sudden, sharp noise came from the hallway.
"Ugh" his father's voice cracked, strained. A low, strangled cough followed.
Hyun-Jae froze, eyes darting toward the hall. His father was clutching his chest, staggering as if the very air had been sucked from his lungs. His legs wobbled, and he collapsed halfway to the floor.
"Dad!" Hyun-Jae shouted, leaping to his feet.
His mother rushed from the kitchen, eyes wide with terror. "Min-Joon!" she screamed, grabbing at him, but her hands barely steadied him as he crumpled completely.
Hyun-Jae dropped to his knees beside his father, pressing his hands against his chest, panic flooding through him. "Dad! Stay with me! Don't… don't do this!"
His father's breathing was shallow, ragged, and sweat slicked his pale face. He tried to speak, but only a strained whisper escaped:"Hyun… Ja…e… take care…"
Hyun-Jae shook his head violently. "No! don't you dare leave me!"
His mother's sobs tore through the quiet room as she dialed emergency services, her hands trembling uncontrollably. Yumi and Harin pressed close, eyes wide, frozen in shock.
Hyun-Jae gritted his teeth, refusing to let the tears fall. He could feel the weight of the draft, the rumors from the street, the news about families being forced to send one member and it all slammed into him at once.
The sirens in the distance grew louder, but in that moment, all Hyun-Jae could focus on was his father's shallow breathing and the helplessness that clawed at him.
He gripped his father's hand, silently willing him to fight, to survive not for the draft, not for the tournament but for him, for the family he couldn't bear to lose.