Eventually after years or seconds, I couldn't tell the cycles stopped.
I lay on the floor of my officetel. The needles were gone. My tongue was sore but whole. My stomach felt empty but not hollow.
The faceless woman stood over me.
"Cleansing complete," she said. "You have been processed."
I laughed. It came out as a rasp.
"That's it? I just… suffer until I'm clean?"
"That's the deal. No one told you life was fair. Or death, for that matter."
She helped me up. Her hand was cold but not cruel.
"Come. The Gate is waiting. You have a choice to make."
I followed her. I didn't look back at the officetel.
I never wanted to see another convenience store kimbap again.
I followed her.
We walked through nothing. Not darkness. Not light. Just… absence. The kind of space between thoughts.
Then we arrived.
It was somewhere. But it wasn't somewhere. There was no ground, no sky, no walls. Yet I was standing. She was standing. And in front of us—
Two gates.
One looked like clouds and hymns and rest. The other looked like… nothing. A simple wooden frame with no door, no light, no sound. Just an opening into grey.
The faceless woman turned to me.
"Cleansing complete. You have two choices."
Her voice was flat. Routine.
"First gate: Heaven. Eternal peace. No memory of this place. No memory of your sins. You simply… exist. Comfortably."
She pointed to the second gate.
"Second gate: Reincarnation. You leave this world behind. You will never return to Earth. But before you go, you may make one wish. Any wish. It will be granted."
I looked at the wooden frame.
"And if I choose reincarnation?"
"Then you will be born again. In a new world. With your memories intact. And your wish."
She waited.
"You have until you speak to decide."
I thought for a moment. My finger tapped my jaw.
"Is it the same world? Or can I choose?"
"You can choose," she said.
I smiled.
"Murim world. The martial arts world. And…" I paused. Searched for the right words. "A power that scales. A power that grows with me."
She nodded. Her faceless head tilted slightly.
"There is something similar. A power called Titan's Mantle. It will suit your wish."
She gestured toward the second gate—the wooden frame into grey.
"Go. Move to this gate."
I walked forward.
***
"Uwahhh! Uwahhh!"
I became a baby.
I couldn't speak. I couldn't lift my head. Everything was blurry and too bright and cold.
But I could hear.
Voices. A man and a woman. Their accent was familiar but wrong like my mother's Korean but older. Rougher. No modern smoothness.
"He has strong lungs," the man said.
"He's small," the woman said. "But healthy."
I tried to turn my head. My neck wouldn't obey.
I was born to normal-looking parents. A normal home. Wooden beams. Paper windows. No electricity. No plastic.
I looked around as much as a newborn could.
This is it, I thought.
The murim world.
I grew.
First steps came at ten months. I fell more than I walked. My parents laughed. I didn't. I was too busy thinking, This body is ordinary. I can feel it.
By age three, I could read. Not well the characters were old Chinese script mixed with something else. But I recognized patterns. My father was a minor clerk. He had books. Ledgers, histories, a few martial manuals he'd collected from flea markets.
I read them all.
By five, I could write. My handwriting was terrible. But I understood the basics of internal energy, meridian pathways, and the difference between hard and soft styles.
I tried to train.
I punched a wooden post. My knuckles bled. I tried to meditate and "feel my ki." Nothing. Just my own heartbeat and the ache in my knees.
By seven, I accepted it. My body was weak. My muscles grew slowly. My bones were ordinary. I could run, jump, and lift like any healthy child. But not like the other kids in the village who trained in the local martial school.
They could break bricks at eight. I broke my hand trying.
By nine, I stopped trying to force it. Instead, I read more. Strategy books. History. Poison lore. The biographies of famous sect leaders. I memorized formations, battlefield tactics, the political webs of the murim alliance.
My parents thought I was a prodigy. "So smart," they said. "He'll be a scholar."
I didn't correct them.
The day when I was ten, I felt something. I didn't know why, but my body would sometimes change. Was it the power I asked from that girl finally appearing?
It was late at night. My mother was in the living room, still reading a book under the oil lamp. My father was asleep.
I walked to her and asked, "Mother, do you have any power? If yes, how did you know at first? And how can you feel it?"
She looked up from her book. Her eyes were tired but soft.
"Power?" She set the book down. "You mean martial arts?"
I nodded.
She shook her head. "No, my son. I have no power. Your father has none either. We are ordinary people."
"But I feel something," I said. "Sometimes my body gets… heavy. Strong. Then it goes away."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she reached out and touched my cheek.
"That is not from me or your father," she said. "Maybe it's from somewhere else. Someone else."
She didn't ask more. She just smiled.
"If you feel it, don't force it. Let it come to you. That's what I've heard about gifts. They don't like being chased."
I didn't understand then. But I nodded and went back to bed and sat on the edge of my bed.
She was probably lying. Or at least hiding the truth. Because that's what adults did when a child asked serious questions. They smiled. They touched your cheek. They said something soft and vague so you would go to sleep.
Let it come to you. Don't force it.
That sounded like something you tell a kid who wants dessert before dinner. Not an answer about power.
I clenched my fist. My knuckles were still small. Still weak.
She didn't take me seriously. Neither of my parents did. To them, I was just a boy having strange dreams. Not someone who died. Not someone who chose this world with a wish.
I lay back on my bed.
Fine, I thought. I'll figure it out myself.
***
The next morning came with grey light through the paper window.
Dressed and out the door before mother could ask where. But she called from the kitchen before he reached the gate.
"Yeon Gaon. Eat something before you run off."
Paused. Turned back. She handed a piece of steamed sweet potato. Took it. Ate it in three bites while walking.
The streets of Hwagok were already busy merchants unloading carts, children chasing a stray dog, an old woman sweeping dust from her doorstep.
Hwagok was a small city. Not a village, but not a walled capital either. A trading stop between three larger territories. The land was protected by the Crimson Bamboo Sect, a minor martial clan known more for their medicine than their swords. Their disciples patrolled once a week. No one caused trouble. No one needed to.
Walking down the main road, a fish seller called out. "Young Gaon! Your father's ledger still missing a page?" Laughter followed.
Gave a small bow. Kept walking.
The tofu maker's wife waved from her stall. "Eat something! Too skinny for a growing boy." Waved back. Didn't stop.
Everyone knew everyone in Hwagok. The clerk's son who read too many books. The quiet one.
The library was a single stone building at the edge of the market. Small. Dusty. Run by an old man named Scholar Hwang, who had once been a low-ranking officer in the Crimson Bamboo Sect before his knees gave out.
Approached the door.
Scholar Hwang sat at his usual table just inside. A book open in his hands. His head was low, eyes tracing lines of text. The table was tall—built for standing—but he sat behind it. The wooden top blocked the view of anyone short.
Like an eleven-year-old.
Stood there. Waited.
He didn't look up.
"Excuse me."
Scholar Hwang jolted. The book slipped from his fingers and hit the table. He stood up—slowly, knees cracking and peered over the wooden top.
"Ah. A child." He blinked, then smiled. "Welcome. What do you need? Need a comic? I have some illustrated tales in the back."
"No," Gaon said. "I need to know something."
The old man tilted his head.
"How can I feel power? How do I know if I have it or not? My mother said I won't have any. But I don't believe her."
Scholar Hwang's eyes widened. The lazy smile faded.
He stepped around the table. His robes were stained with ink. His beard was grey and thin.
"No," he said quietly. "That's not true. Everyone has a chance to be anything. Including you."
He crouched down wincing at his knees until his face was level with Gaon's.
"Why do you ask, boy? What have you felt?"
Gaon did not blink.
"I am destined to have a power called Titan's Mantle."
Scholar Hwang's smile turned awkward. His eyes darted left, then right, as if checking if anyone else had heard.
"Um. Wow. That's… great." He scratched his beard. "But how did you know? If you might have that power? I've never heard of such a thing. Titan's Mantle. Sounds like a folk tale."
Gaon stared at him.
"I just know."
The old man laughed a dry, uncomfortable sound.
"Right. Of course. Children know many things." He stood up, knees popping. "Well, young master, if you feel something strange in your body, maybe it's energy. Maybe it's just growing pains. Come back when you can actually do something. Then we'll talk."
He picked up his book and sat back down.
The table blocked Gaon from view again.
To Be Continued.