Hyunwoo Kim was a writer — and a good one at that. The kind who noticed every detail, every nuance, just to spin it into a story worth remembering.
Last night, he'd finally finished the epilogue of his latest novel. After months of late nights and caffeine abuse, he hit "Save" with a satisfied click.
Feeling oddly victorious, he decided to reward himself with a snack from the convenience store down the street.
It was past midnight. His eyes burned from twelve hours of screen time, his body was running on fumes, and his mind was drifting somewhere between "food" and "bed."
Which was why he didn't notice the blinding headlights until—
BAAAM!
Pain, shock, and the deafening screech of metal on asphalt. The world turned white, then black. No last words. No dramatic farewell. Just... nothing.
Until now.
Hyunwoo's eyes flickered open.
Above him, an unfamiliar ceiling greeted him — not the clean, white plaster of his apartment, but an old wooden roof, its beams warped and darkened with age. The smell of dust and faint pine lingered in the air.
...This isn't my room.
He sat up slowly, scanning the place. The room was small, dimly lit by sunlight leaking through thin curtains. The furniture looked handmade — rough edges, uneven legs, everything creaking if you stared at it too long. There was no hum of electronics, no city noise outside, just silence broken by the occasional creak of wood settling.
His gaze landed on a small table near the door. On it sat a single framed photo.
Three people stood together — a man with a warm smile, a woman with sharp but kind eyes, and between them... a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen. Hyunwoo froze. The boy's face was almost identical to his own.
Printed neatly on the frame's border:
Hyun Kim
Yena Lee
Hyunwoo Kim
"...That's... my name."
He looked away, trying to steady his breathing, when something on the wall caught his attention — a weapon. Not a hunting rifle or a kitchen knife, but a long, polished spear. Its metal gleamed faintly in the dim light.
Below it, half-buried under a stack of papers, lay a sealed envelope. The name on it read:
Graduation Certificate — Hyun Kim
Curiosity prickled at him. He picked it up, tore the seal open, and unfolded the paper.
Beacon Academy.
His mind went blank.
Wait... is it...?
The thought slammed into him like a freight train. Without another word, he dropped the letter and headed straight for the door.
Outside, the air was cool and still. He stepped into the yard, tilting his head back. Only one thing could confirm his suspicion.
There it was.
A broken moon, hanging over the night sky like a shattered ornament.
Hyunwoo's eyes widened, his stomach sinking. "...You've got to be kidding me."
He stood there for a long moment, staring up at the fractured celestial body.
"...Truck-kun, you absolute menace," he muttered, running a hand down his face. "Of all the worlds you could've sent me to... you picked this death trap."
The night air was cold, biting at his skin. He let out a long breath and turned back toward the house — or hut, really. If the outside was anything to go by, this place wasn't built for comfort, just for living.
Stepping inside again, his gaze landed on the letter he had dropped earlier. It lay open on the table, the neat handwriting staring back at him.
Graduation Certificate — Hyun Kim
He picked it up again, his eyes scanning the name.
"...Hyun Kim," he murmured. "Who is that? This body's father?"
The question barely left his lips before a sharp, splitting pain stabbed through his skull.
"Ugh—!"
He stumbled, clutching his head as heat spread behind his eyes. The room seemed to blur, and then—
Images. Voices. Feelings.
A man's laughter, deep and warm. A woman's scolding tone, followed by a gentle touch on the head. Training in a dusty yard, the weight of a spear in his hands. The smell of smoke and the sound of something howling in the distance.
Memories that weren't his, flooding in all at once.
Hyunwoo gasped for air, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.
These aren't... mine.
When the rush finally eased, he slumped into the nearest chair, heart pounding. His mind was spinning, but one thing was now certain — he wasn't just in Remnant. He was living someone else's life.
When the rush finally eased, he slumped into the nearest chair, heart pounding. His mind was spinning, but one thing was now certain — he wasn't just in Remnant. He was living someone else's life.
Bits and pieces of those memories began slotting into place, forming a rough picture.
Hyun Kim — the man from the photo — wasn't just anyone. He had been a Hunter. Not just some rookie graduate, either. The kind of Hunter whose name got mentioned in taverns, on radio chatter, and in whispered stories among trainees. Skilled, respected... maybe even feared.
And then, just as suddenly, gone.
A mission outside the Kingdom. Reports said it was a routine extermination. It should have been easy. But he never came back. No body, no grave. Just an official letter, a few words of "service and sacrifice," and a grieving family left behind, also the spear of his.
Hyunwoo rubbed his temples, the weight of that knowledge pressing down on him.
Great. So I've inherited the body of a dead Hunter's son. In RWBY. Surrounded by Grimm. And my only weapon is... He glanced at the spear on the wall. ...a pointy stick.
He leaned back, letting out a humorless laugh. "Fantastic. Not even twenty-four hours in this world and I've already got 'tragic backstory' checked off the list."
Still, the memories gave him something else — a sense of the life this boy had lived. The training sessions in the yard, the awkward attempts to imitate his father's spear techniques, the stubborn determination that never quite matched the results.
Hyunwoo exhaled slowly.
"Alright... Hyun Kim. Guess I'm your son now. And if I want to survive in this world... I'd better figure out how you did it."
Hyunwoo stayed seated for a moment, letting the quiet of the hut sink in. The air felt heavier now, as if the memories had changed the room itself.
But sitting around wouldn't answer his questions — or keep him alive.
He pushed himself up and started looking around properly. The hut was simple, but it had the kind of organization that spoke of someone who lived with purpose. A small shelf stacked with books — most of them about Huntsman training, Grimm anatomy, and survival tactics. A wooden chest in the corner, its lid slightly ajar, revealing neatly folded clothes and a few pouches of dust crystals.
Then there was the spear on the wall. Up close, it was more than "a pointy stick." The craftsmanship was precise, the shaft reinforced with a metal core, the tip sharpened to a lethal gleam. Hyunwoo could almost feel the weight of experience in it.
On a side table, another stack of papers caught his attention. Some were simple letters, others were folded maps marked with inked trails. One, in particular, had a faint stain across the corner — a mission request form. The date put it just days before Hyun Kim's disappearance.
Hyunwoo narrowed his eyes. "So... not exactly the 'routine extermination' they wrote in the official story."
He kept searching. A small leather-bound notebook sat tucked behind the books. Flipping through it revealed quick sketches of Grimm, notes on their weak points, and a few scattered lines of what looked like personal thoughts. The last page ended abruptly:
If I don't come back, tell Yena and Hyunwoo... I'm sorry.
Hyunwoo's chest tightened. He shut the notebook and set it down gently.
"Alright, Dad... I'll take the hint. You left me homework."
He glanced at the spear again. "And... I guess a training arc."
As the inherited memories settled in his head, more of the boy's life came into focus. His father, Hyun Kim, a respected Hunter... gone without a trace. His mother, Yena Lee, who tried to keep things together after her husband's disappearance... only to fall ill and pass away barely a month later.
Hyunwoo exhaled through his nose. "...Orphaned in two months. Yep. Definitely ticking every tragic backstory box now."
He kept searching, opening drawers and pulling books from shelves. That's when he noticed it — a plain, leather-bound book wedged between heavier tomes. Its cover was worn, but the words on it were clear:
For My Son
Hyunwoo's breath caught for a second. He pulled it out and flipped it open.
Inside were pages filled with neat, precise handwriting, diagrams of stances, footwork patterns, and detailed illustrations of spear techniques. Notes in the margins explained when to strike, when to feint, and when to run.
It wasn't just a training manual. It was a guide — a distillation of years of experience, written for someone Hyun Kim had fully expected to teach himself.
Hyunwoo closed the book slowly, his fingers lingering on the cover.
"...Guess I know what I'm doing tomorrow."
He glanced at the spear hanging on the wall.
"Alright, Dad. Let's see if I can survive long enough to make you proud."