The first light of morning filtered through the thin curtains in Jiwoo's bedroom, casting pale rays of sunshine across the floor. It was a soundless start to another day, the type of morning where everything was calm, predictable, and devoid of the unpredictable. As his eyes fluttered open, Jiwoo was greeted with the same view he had seen countless mornings before—his simple, modest room that remained untouched by the chaos that plagued the world outside. His alarm clock buzzed in the background, a dull, monotonous sound that marked the beginning of his routine, and he reached over to silence it without a second thought. He didn't need to look at the time; he had memorized the schedule of his life.
Sitting up slowly, he swung his legs off the bed, his feet meeting the cold wooden floor with the same quiet thud that had become his morning greeting. The chill in the air didn't faze him. It was a part of the routine, an unavoidable element of his daily life. He stretched his arms above his head, the muscles of his back pulling taut, the joints cracking with a satisfying pop. It was the type of discomfort he had come to accept, a small price to pay for the calm that followed. His body was well-acquainted with these minor aches, and in a way, he had grown to appreciate them—proof that his body was working, functioning, moving.
Rising from the bed, Jiwoo made his way to the bathroom, the faint smell of toothpaste and soap already filling the air as he prepared for his shower. The water, as always, was lukewarm, not too hot to cause discomfort, but not cold enough to rattle his senses. As he stood under the stream, letting the water cascade over him, Jiwoo's mind wandered, though he never let it stray far from the task at hand. The shower was a moment of clarity, a ritual that helped him prepare for the day ahead. The routine of scrubbing away the remnants of sleep from his body was calming, almost meditative. The water smoothed over his skin, washing away the remnants of the night, leaving only the fresh sensation of cleanliness and readiness.
He turned the shower off after what felt like an eternity of tranquility, his hand instinctively reaching for the towel hanging on the hook beside the sink. He dried himself quickly, the fabric rough against his skin, and without wasting a moment, he began his routine of getting dressed. His school uniform was always laid out neatly on the chair by his desk, crisp and immaculate, as if it had been prepared by someone other than himself. He didn't care much for how it looked—his only goal was to wear it with the precision and care that he had come to expect from himself. His shirt, tucked neatly into his pants, felt like a uniform for the daily performance he was about to put on. Everything was always exactly in its place.
Once dressed, he sat down at the desk to eat breakfast, though his stomach was never truly empty enough to require much food. A simple bowl of cereal, the milk lukewarm from the time it had sat on the counter, was enough. He took each spoonful with mechanical precision, his mind already turning over the events of the day that awaited him. It wasn't that he dreaded school—it was simply that it didn't matter. Everything that happened there, every class, every interaction, every routine, was just another part of the machine that kept the world turning. His classmates, the teachers, the noise—it was all background noise, irrelevant to the larger pattern of his life.
The ride to school was uneventful. Jiwoo caught the bus, as usual, sitting at the farthest end, away from the clamor of his peers. He glanced out the window, watching the city blur by in the early morning haze. It was always the same—nothing ever changed. Gwanju, the city he called home, seemed stagnant, like a photograph stuck in time. The trees along the road swayed lazily in the breeze, and the buildings towered above, indifferent to the small, insignificant lives passing by below. Jiwoo didn't mind the monotony; in fact, he preferred it.
Arriving at school, he didn't expect much more than the usual. The bell rang, signaling the beginning of the day, and Jiwoo made his way through the crowded hallways, his footsteps steady and measured. His classmates, loud and boisterous, moved around him like an ocean of noise, but he remained unfazed, his mind focused on the singular goal of surviving the day. He wasn't particularly popular, but he wasn't a target either. Most of the students at school ignored him, and he preferred it that way. He had no need for friends, no desire for the attention of others. He was content to exist in the background, a shadow among the living.
However, as Jiwoo walked into his first class of the day, his gaze fell on a familiar sight—one that had become a fixture of his school routine. In the far corner of the room sat Lee Doo-ho, a notorious bully whose reputation stretched across the school like an overhanging cloud. Lee Doo-ho was the kind of person who thrived on dominating those around him, and his favorite target seemed to be the weaker students—those too afraid to stand up for themselves. Jiwoo had seen it all before—Doo-ho would push, taunt, and belittle the quiet students, and they would take it without protest, cowering under his intimidating presence. For some reason, however, Jiwoo had never been the subject of Doo-ho's torment. Perhaps it was because Jiwoo didn't look like an easy target. Perhaps it was because, to Doo-ho, Jiwoo was just another quiet student with no worth to exploit.
Today, however, something was different. As Jiwoo took his seat near the back, he noticed a few of his classmates looking at him, whispering behind their hands. He didn't need to hear the words to know what was being said—today, it was his turn. It was strange, in a way, how the dynamics of high school could shift so suddenly, as if the air had changed, thickening with the anticipation of something inevitable.
The bell rang, signaling the start of class, but Jiwoo's attention remained fixed on Lee Doo-ho. It was like a slow-motion inevitability, watching the bully rise from his seat and start walking toward him. Jiwoo didn't move, his posture as stiff as the desk before him, though he could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He knew that this confrontation would be different. This time, there would be no quiet retreat, no unnoticed escape. Doo-ho had chosen him, and there was no avoiding it.
"Hey, Jiwoo," Doo-ho said, his voice dripping with condescension, "What's up? You looking to be my next victim today?"
Jiwoo's heart rate didn't spike. His body didn't tense. He didn't feel the familiar rush of adrenaline that usually accompanied a confrontation. He had trained himself not to feel, not to react. But there was something different about this. The tone in Doo-ho's voice was more than just playful teasing—it was a challenge. A challenge that Jiwoo hadn't anticipated.
Without a word, Jiwoo stood up, his body moving as if on its own. It was almost automatic, like the next step in a sequence of events he had no control over. His fists clenched, but not in anger—just in readiness. This was an opportunity. An opportunity to test himself. To prove something to himself.
The classroom fell silent, and for a brief moment, Jiwoo's mind flashed back to the countless hours he had spent studying human behavior, analyzing the triggers that led to fear and anger. He had prepared for this. He knew exactly what to do. He knew that emotions were the enemy, that they clouded judgment, weakened the body, and caused hesitation. And yet, as he faced Lee Doo-ho, he felt a slight flutter in his chest. Not fear, but something else—something unfamiliar.
The fight was brutal, and despite Jiwoo's calm demeanor and precise movements, it quickly became clear that he wasn't as prepared as he thought. Doo-ho, fueled by his raw emotions, fought with an intensity that Jiwoo couldn't predict. His blows were wild but powerful, driven by years of unchecked rage and a desire to assert dominance. Jiwoo, for the first time, felt a flicker of panic, not because of the pain, but because he realized he had underestimated the role of emotion in a fight. Despite his physical prowess, he was outmatched in this battle. Doo-ho landed a heavy blow to his stomach, knocking the wind out of Jiwoo and sending him stumbling back.
As Jiwoo fell to the floor, he realized something crucial—no matter how much he suppressed his own emotions, they were still there, lingering beneath the surface. His calmness didn't make him invincible; it just made him numb.
When the fight ended, Jiwoo was on the ground, bruised but not broken. Doo-ho, breathing heavily, stood over him, a victorious smirk on his face. But the victory felt hollow. The students who had been watching, expecting to see Jiwoo humiliated, were instead silent, their faces a mix of confusion and respect. They had expected Jiwoo to fall apart, but instead, he had stood up, ready to face the consequences of his actions. In the end, Jiwoo hadn't won the fight, but he had won something more important—respect.
As Jiwoo stood up, brushing the dirt from his uniform, he glanced around the room. The students, who had once seen him as an invisible figure, were now looking at him differently. The respect wasn't for his physical strength—it was for his willingness to fight, even when the odds were against him. In a way, Jiwoo had proven his point: the human limit wasn't about avoiding emotions—it was about facing them head-on.
***
'although I was brave to stand up for myself... I was still weak'
That thought, however simple, however quietly it passed his lips in the emptiness of his room, echoed through Jiwoo's mind with such heaviness that it weighed down even his breaths, sitting on his chest like a silent truth he could no longer ignore, for while courage had pushed him forward, it had not protected him, it had not delivered victory, and most of all, it had not kept him from tasting the helpless shame of being outmatched—and so, as the house outside dipped into the soft hum of evening and the world prepared for another quiet night, Jiwoo sat beneath the pale glow of his desk lamp, flipping through the pages of a thick book on fighting techniques, not out of casual interest or a fleeting teenage dream, but with the burning, focused gaze of someone who had seen his own limits and refused to be defined by them.
'What makes a punch strong?' he asked himself, not aloud, but within that inner space where thoughts build quietly, layering themselves like bricks in a wall of new resolve, and the answer, as he began to read and understand, was far more intricate than merely swinging one's arm with anger or desperation—for a powerful punch, as described by the words before him, did not come solely from the arm itself, but from a full-body movement, beginning with the feet, which must press against the ground like roots pulling strength from the earth, then through the rotation of the hips and the twisting of the core, all culminating in the release through the shoulders and finally the tightened fist, meaning that in truth, the knuckles were just the endpoint of a chain reaction, the final messenger of the body's gathered momentum.
Jiwoo ran his eyes over a diagram of muscle groups, seeing how the calves and thighs, particularly the quadriceps and hamstrings, played a vital role in generating upward and rotational force, while the glutes and lower back provided stability and strength during the pivot, and how the obliques, positioned like powerful ropes around the torso, twisted the upper body to align with the strike, making it clear that a punch was not a flick of the wrist or an arm thrown in desperation, but a coordinated symphony of muscle, bone, and balance, and that true strength required understanding, training, and time.
'So if I want to hit hard… I need to learn to move as one,' he thought, his fingers tracing the lines of kinetic force shown by arrows in the book, and he began to imagine himself not as the boy who had been pushed to the ground and stomped on, but as someone who moved with precision and intent, a person who could control his body down to every breath, for even the act of breathing, the text explained, mattered—exhaling during the punch helped stabilize the core, added speed, and prevented unnecessary tension from building in the shoulders, while holding the breath, especially during panic, weakened power and slowed reaction.
As he turned the page, the topic shifted to defense, and Jiwoo leaned closer, absorbing the philosophy and mechanics of dodging—not by retreating with fear, but by understanding angles, balance, and timing, where dodging wasn't just moving back, but moving out of the line of fire while remaining close enough to counter, utilizing footwork like side-stepping, pivoting, and weaving, all of which required awareness of one's center of gravity, and control over the ankle and knee joints to shift body weight efficiently without falling off balance, and Jiwoo began to understand why some fighters looked calm even in chaos—because their body obeyed their intent, and their training allowed them to make movements that looked effortless but were honed through endless repetition.
'It's like… fighting is a language, and every punch is a sentence, every movement a word,' he mused, his eyes narrowing as he read on, now more enthralled with the idea that strength wasn't some mystical force or innate gift, but something built, carved into the body with sweat and pain, using the knowledge of physiology as its blueprint—for when the book described the importance of fast-twitch muscle fibers in delivering speed and explosive power, it also detailed how those fibers could be trained through exercises like sprints, jump squats, and high-intensity drills, and how slow-twitch fibers helped maintain posture and endurance during longer fights, and suddenly Jiwoo saw his thin body not as a curse, but as a canvas that had yet to be drawn on properly.
He flipped back to the section on striking, now studying the alignment of bones during impact, how a poorly thrown punch could cause injury to the wrist or fingers if the elbow wasn't aligned behind the fist, and how proper punching form ensured that force traveled in a straight line from the ground, through the body, into the target, and not out sideways or upwards where it would be wasted—and more importantly, how a fighter must always protect his chin, must keep the hands high, the elbows tucked in, for even the strongest puncher would fall in a second if hit cleanly at the right angle.
Jiwoo thought about that bully again—the way he moved, how his feet were wide apart, planted heavily, almost untrained yet dominant, and Jiwoo realized that if he had only known how to read his opponent's stance, he could have predicted the swing, dodged earlier, countered faster, or even avoided the fight altogether—but that was the past, and what mattered now was the path ahead, the discipline he would build, the knowledge he would gather, and the power he would earn not from some fantasy shortcut but from understanding the machine that was his body and learning to operate it at its peak.
'This is how I begin,' he thought, closing the book for the night but not the thoughts that swirled around in his mind, thoughts of muscle groups and neural impulses, of pivoting on the ball of the foot and exhaling with every strike, of learning how to fall without injury and rise without fear—thoughts not of revenge, but of preparation, for Jiwoo now understood that true strength was not just about fighting, but about having the ability to choose when to fight, how to fight, and when to walk away, unshaken, not because you ran, but because you were never afraid in the first place.