The world returned to Min-Jun in fragments.
First came the sterile sting of disinfectant in the air. Then, the blinding white glare of fluorescent lights. Finally, the soft, rhythmic beep-beep of a heart monitor keeping time with his pulse.
He groaned, the sound scraping his dry throat, and tried to shift. His body felt stiff, foreign, as if the bones and muscles belonged to someone else. Memories surfaced in jagged flashes — a snarling goblin, the glint of a sharp rock, and a glowing sphere sinking into his chest.
A nightmare… it had to be.
But the sharp smell of antiseptic and the cool press of a hospital mattress told him otherwise.
His hand shot to his chest. No pain. No scar. Not even a bandage. Just skin — warm, unbroken, and yet somehow… different.
The door creaked open. A man in a white coat entered, middle-aged, his black hair threaded with silver. He carried a clipboard, his eyes sharp yet not unkind — the eyes of someone who had been expecting him to wake.
"You're awake," the doctor said, pulling up a chair. His voice was calm, but curiosity lingered beneath it, as though Min-Jun were a puzzle waiting to be solved. "How are you feeling?"
"Confused," Min-Jun croaked. "Where… am I? What happened?"
The doctor sat, folding his hands over the clipboard. "You've been in a coma," he said evenly. "For three years."
The words struck like ice water to the face.
Three years?
Min-Jun's mind reeled. He remembered the goblin. The orb. The pain. Then… nothing. How could all that have been three years ago?
The Changed World
"We don't know what caused your coma," the doctor continued. "But when you arrived, our instruments picked up unusual readings in your body. Energy signatures we've only seen in… awakeners."
"Awakeners?" Min-Jun frowned.
The doctor leaned forward, lowering his voice as if the word itself carried weight. "The world isn't the same as when you closed your eyes. Three years ago, rifts began tearing open in the sky and on the ground — portals to other realms. From them came creatures unlike anything from our history books. Guns, missiles, tanks — useless. The monsters were too strong, too alien."
He paused, letting the silence stretch before continuing. "Then something happened. Ordinary people began… changing. Some awakened powers that could stand against the monsters. We call them awakeners."
Min-Jun swallowed hard. This was insane. Yet the doctor's tone was deadly serious.
"You," the man said, eyes locking onto Min-Jun's, "have that energy."
The Status Window
"You're saying I'm one of them?" Min-Jun asked.
"Yes. And like all awakeners, you have a personal interface — a status window only you can see. It shows your abilities, your growth. To open it, say the words 'status window' aloud."
The absurdity of the request made Min-Jun hesitate. But curiosity outweighed disbelief. He drew a shaky breath.
"…Status window."
In an instant, a glowing blue screen shimmered into existence before him, hanging in the air like a ghostly sheet of glass.
STATUS WINDOW
Name: Min-Jun
Level: 1
Strength: 20
Defense: 18
Agility: 22
HP: 150
MP: 80
Allotted Stat Points: 10
System Synchronization: 15%
His pulse quickened. This was real.
"It will make more sense later," the doctor said. "For now, know this — awakeners are humanity's only line of defense. But raw power means nothing without control. You'll need training. There's an Awakener Academy in Seoul. That's where you'll learn to survive."
The screen vanished as Min-Jun lowered his gaze.
The Missing Pieces
"My family…" His voice cracked. "Did you tell them I'm awake?"
The doctor's expression shifted — a flicker of hesitation, then regret. "We tried. Every number, every address on record. No response. No trace."
A hollow ache opened in Min-Jun's chest. His father had been distant long before the coma, but to vanish completely… The sting of abandonment mixed with a sharper, colder emotion — determination.
He didn't know what this new world demanded of him, but he knew one thing: lying in bed wouldn't give him answers.
Somewhere beyond this hospital, monsters were walking the earth… and his father was out there, somewhere.
The heart monitor's steady beeping suddenly faltered. A faint pulse of warmth spread through Min-Jun's chest — not painful, but alive, humming with hidden power.
[System Synchronization: 16%]
Min-Jun's breath caught. Whatever had entered his body three years ago… it was still there.
And it was waking up.