The sun scorched Jang-Hun's skin as he stood before the two children. His breath was slow, his face set like stone. He didn't speak a word. He just nodded, then turned and left the village—with the children silently trailing behind.
**
Two days passed.
Their feet barely moved. The only thing they'd eaten was a handful of bitter, dry herbs Jang-Hun had found by the roadside—their taste lingering in the mouth for hours. As for water? It existed only in dreams. The nights were freezing, and the days far crueler than they had any right to be.
On the evening of the third day, as the sun leaned westward, Jang-Hun spotted thin smoke curling up in the distance. Beneath it, three wooden wagons trudged along slowly. A small caravan, led by five men who looked filthy, their clothes stained, their eyes gleaming with more greed than caution.
From behind the trees, he watched them. His gaze fixated on the sacks of food and the water flasks dangling from the last wagon. There was no choice anymore. If they didn't eat tonight… they would die.
He ordered the children to hide behind a rock, then crept silently toward the cart.
**
He moved like a shadow. His hand reached out—grabbed a sack and two water flasks—and began to retreat.
But a faint crunch of gravel was enough.
—"Who's there?!"
The shout tore through the air.
He froze. One man approached… then another… then a third. Three against one. And he could barely stand.
For the first time… he didn't run.
**
He closed his eyes and unleashed the Pulse.
It wasn't visible. It wasn't loud. It was suffocating silence.
The first man slowed. His eyes trembled as he looked at Jang-Hun and whispered,
—"He's a monster. If I go near him, I'll die."
The second man gasped, voice shaking:
—"No… this isn't normal… it's like a beast wearing human skin…"
The third took two steps back.
There was nothing there. Just… dread. An abyss of dread.
**
Then, a man stepped down from the lead wagon. Different from the rest.
Cleaner. Steadier. His eyes didn't waver. He had the air of a prison warden.
He stood before Jang-Hun and looked down at him with contempt.
—"All this... over a beggar like you?"
He grabbed Jang-Hun's arm and yanked his frail body like it weighed nothing.
Pain shot through his bones. A tear slipped out, uninvited.
The man laughed, raised his hand, and struck him.
Jang-Hun's face hit the ground. His lips split on gravel. His ear rang. The world spun.
Somewhere behind him, one of the men chuckled and muttered,
—"Even pity's wasted on him."
Silence.
Powerless. Sprawled like a dog.
"I… can't do anything."
"I can't even defend myself."
"How can I avenge my family… if I can't even stand?"
He hated himself.
Hated this broken body, this shattered soul, this relentless helplessness.
He was supposed to be strong.
That's what he had promised himself in the dark—whispering to the void, reciting their names every night so he wouldn't forget.
But now… in this humiliation? In this moment?
The slap didn't hurt most.
It wasn't the hand that threw him down.
It was him.
He was what hurt most.
He lay there, cheek pressed to dirt, breathing dust like a stray dog.
Smelling his own sweat… his own fear…
And he didn't move.
"I'm weak."
The words cut through him like a blade.
"I'm nothing."
His heart screamed, slamming against his ribs as if trying to escape.
"You promised, Jang-Hun… you promised you'd make them pay."
"And here you are… panting, crying, begging a broken bone not to snap."
He wasn't crying from the eyes… but from somewhere deeper.
Something inside him was collapsing.
It was like his own voice… had spat in his face.
And in that moment…
He felt something.
Like his soul rose out of him for a second… and looked down.
And saw… a pitiful creature.
He saw his mother's smile in his memory…
Then it faded.
He saw his father calling to him in nightmares…
Then disappear.
There was nothing left.
"Die."
He said it to himself, deep inside.
But… he lifted his head.
He didn't know why. Didn't know how.
Only rage moved him.
A rage without strength.
The rage of the weak, who had only their eyes left to burn with.
He looked at the man who struck him.
And the man… felt something.
The air behind him turned strange.
Like the shadows were silently burning.
A silence no one could hear… but that choked those who felt it.
The man turned quickly.
Nothing.
But it felt like his heart dropped into his stomach.
—"What… is this?"
The danger wasn't in front of him.
It was behind.
But he saw no one.
It was like he was being watched… by a monster no eye could see. A monster that could pounce at any moment.
"Damn it… I don't like this feeling."
He took a step back. Then another.
Then shouted to his men:
—"Pack up! We're leaving! Now!"
Jang-Hun didn't move.
Inside him, a volcano boiled.
He wanted to stand. To rip the man's throat with his bare hands. To make them scream like he did… when he saw his family slaughtered.
But reality was crueler than rage.
"If I move… I'll die."
He knew it. Like a second slap.
His heartbeat quickened—not from fear… but from his body's betrayal.
He had no strength. Not now. Not after all that hunger and thirst.
His eyes locked onto the weapons the men carried.
On the tight muscles in their arms.
"One hit… and I'm gone. One hit… and the children will be alone."
The idea of dying wasn't terrifying.
But dying without doing anything? That… was unbearable.
He crawled back slowly, hands digging into the dirt.
Every movement was humiliation.
But he remembered one thing:
"The children are waiting."
He glanced back. The man had returned to his wagon.
The others were busy packing up, avoiding his eyes, as if they sensed… something unexplainable.
"Now… or nothing."
He lunged with his broken body toward the sack of bread and the fallen flasks.
Grabbed the bread. Clutched the water with trembling arms.
He didn't look back. Didn't stop.
He ran.
It wasn't running… more like desperate leaps between his wounds.
He ran until blood spilled from his foot, torn open by a stone.
He ran until his lungs burned like fire.