After that decision, Jihyeon was seen walking through the city. His steps led him to a place few young people his age would visit: a library. It wasn't curiosity that moved him, but necessity. He wanted to know this world thoroughly: to understand how things worked, what its unwritten rules were… and, above all, how to break them in his favor.
He searched for all kinds of books. From basic manuals on martial arts and boxing to darker texts on strategy. He wasn't only looking for strength; he was looking for how to be smarter. Even if he didn't become a super brain, at least he should be able to plan some strategies. He wanted to absorb everything that could turn him into someone capable of surviving, growing, and eventually imposing himself.
Thus the days passed. When he wasn't reading, he trained alone. Without a teacher, without a gym, without money to afford a martial arts dojo or a boxing school. His only resources were books and his battered body, which he forced again and again against the resistance of pain.
He imitated movements described in diagrams, practiced stances in front of the mirror, corrected his breathing, memorized combinations of blows that seemed useful to him. Each page he read was a brick in the construction of his own path.
He still didn't master any martial art, but something had changed in him: now he had more discipline.
Days turned into weeks. Jihyeon devoted himself to studying and practicing without rest. Every dawn he went out running, strengthening his body through constant effort. In the afternoons, he locked himself in the library, devouring any book he could find.
When he wasn't reading, he was training. He turned on the television to watch fights, replicating every movement to exhaustion. With a worn-out tire he improvised a punching bag, which he struck over and over with his hands wrapped. Kicks, punches, basic defenses… nothing complex, but he gave it his all with every repetition.
...…
At school, Jihyeon walked calmly through the hallways. Upon reaching his classroom, he sat down in silence. He opened his notebook, letting his mind pour out the ideas that tormented him. He had made a decision with this new opportunity I have: he would not be a passive spectator in his own life.
He knew, however, that he was in a world where fists could break through walls and where strength didn't belong only to individuals but to organized groups. Fighting alone was suicide.
"I need a group… a real team. I'm not a fighting genius or the brightest, but I can be cunning. And with cunning, you can lead others. The problem is… how?"
His mind worked without rest. He couldn't trust just anyone. He needed people with skills, but also individuals he could control. Loyalty was more important than talent.
"If I want to survive, obviously I must be a leader. And if I'm the leader… I can't be the weakest."
With that thought, he began to draw up a plan. On a page of the notebook, he wrote the most obvious idea: recruit those who had lost against the council of thugs and against Dowan.
This idea may sound a bit cliché, but it's the only option I see as feasible right now; I have nothing to offer.
"Possible option… although they're problematic. Many of them, for obvious reasons, are arrogant, even unstable. I don't want subordinates who challenge my orders."
The pencil stopped over the paper. It was a fragile plan, but a starting point.
Jihyeon looked up, with a barely drawn smile on his face.
"I will form my own group. No matter how long it takes. No matter who I have to subdue. This will be my path."
...
In his apartment, Jihyeon adjusted the black clothes he had chosen for that night. A mask covered his face, and in his hands he clutched a hat of the same color. The air was charged with determination.
He knew what he was going to do. He wasn't looking for glory, not even money. He was looking for experience. Real experience. The kind that books couldn't give him.
He put on the hat, looked at himself one last time in the reflection of the window and murmured softly: "It's time."
He left his apartment and walked to the darkest alleys of the city. The smell of cigarettes and garbage greeted him first. In a corner, two thugs laughed while smoking, unaware of what was coming.
Before entering, Jihyeon stopped. He calmly analyzed the surroundings: bottles lying around, garbage bags, nothing else. Nothing that represented an obstacle, except for the improvised weapons the terrain offered.
He stepped forward and the thugs saw him.
"What do you want, kid?" spat one, laughing.
Jihyeon didn't answer. Instead, he kicked a broken bottle toward their faces. The glass shards flew through the air, forcing them to cover themselves.
"What the hell are you doing, punk!" shouted the other, blinded by the glint of the fragments.
Jihyeon's silence was more terrifying than any insult. He advanced quickly. His first jab hit the nearest thug's nose. A dry crack and a muffled scream confirmed it. Immediately, a kick between the legs doubled him over in pain.
Without wasting time, he grabbed him by the jacket with his left hand, held his head with his right and slammed him against the face of the second thug. The blow was brutal: bone against bone, blood against blood. The first fell to the ground, defeated and bleeding.
The second, staggering, held his nose. Blood ran between his fingers and tears blurred his furious gaze. With a shout, he lunged at Jihyeon.
The young man raised his arm and threw a jab. It didn't have enough force to knock him down, but it shook him. The thug counterattacked clumsily, and Jihyeon dodged, keeping his distance to continue throwing more jabs, quick and disordered, which little by little began to give him rhythm.
The thug lunged with a right hook. Jihyeon ducked, dodging for an instant that was enough for him to counterattack with a punch straight to the jaw. The impact left his opponent dizzy.
It was his chance. Breathing hard, Jihyeon unleashed a flurry of blows, this time more precise, more confident. The thug couldn't withstand it: he fell to his knees and then to the ground, unconscious.
Jihyeon was panting, sweat clinging to his skin. His gaze was cold as he thought:
"When I fight dirty, I have more chances to win… but that only works against weak thugs. I depend too much on the terrain. If I face someone strong, I'm dead. I need real skills, not just tricks."
He remained silent for a few seconds, looking at his own hands. Then he let out a sigh.
"I still have a lot to improve…"
He searched the thugs' pockets and took the money they had. It wasn't much, but it meant more than bills. It was proof that he had survived.
He stashed the loot, adjusted his hat and disappeared into the shadows of the alley.