Kang Haneul always thought his life would collapse quietly—like a building no one noticed until the dust settled. Not with some dramatic prophecy. Not with galaxies tearing open under his feet. Just one small failure stacked on top of another until the whole thing leaned too far and tipped.
The weird part was that he wasn't some miserable loser. He wasn't happy, but he wasn't pathetic either. He was…fine. Surviving. Going through the checklist of a Korean twenty-something who had dreams once and now mostly had bills.
Every morning he woke up in a shoebox room behind a fried-chicken joint. The air always smelled like stale oil, and the landlady yelled if he opened the window too wide because "the cold escapes." His job at the delivery warehouse paid enough to keep him fed, not enough to keep him hopeful. His parents called every Sunday, arguing first about whether he ate enough, then about why he still didn't have a girlfriend.
Fine. Just…fine.
But maybe "fine" can kill a person faster than disaster. At least disasters feel alive.
Tonight wasn't a disaster. But it was the closest he'd come in a while.
Haneul kicked his shoes off and collapsed onto his mattress, still in uniform. Winter seeped through the thin walls. His breath fogged slightly in the air. His back ached from carrying boxes all day—heavy stuff, dumb stuff, stuff people bought online when they were bored. He used to laugh at it. Now he was the bored one, except he didn't have money to buy anything.
His phone buzzed. A Kakao message from his only "friend," Minjae, who had basically stopped hanging out after getting a girlfriend.
Minjae:Bro come for drinks? I got new people joining.
New people. Meaning Haneul would be the extra body to fill a chair at the table. Someone to laugh at the right times so Minjae looked more popular.
He stared at the message. Thought about ignoring it. Thought about going. Thought about how pathetic it was that this decision even mattered.
He typed back:Haneul:I'll come.
He regretted it instantly.
The neon signs in Hongdae were bright enough to make night feel like a suggestion. Bars stacked on bars. Clubs blasting music too loud for the street. Drunk university students stumbling around like lost baby deer.
Minjae was impossible to miss—loud, fashionable, hair freshly permed like he owned the sidewalk. Two girls and another guy stood beside him. All strangers.
"Haneul! You made it!" Minjae slung an arm around him. "Guys, this is Haneul. He works in delivery. Strongest guy I know."
The way he said it felt like someone patting a dog and calling it "useful."
They went inside the bar, ordered food, laughed at jokes Haneul didn't understand. He smiled anyway. He drank because it was easier to swallow than the loneliness. The table blurred a bit, noise vibrating in his skull.
The girl across from him asked, "So, you do deliveries? Isn't that exhausting?"
He shrugged. "Everything's exhausting."
She laughed lightly, but her eyes said Oh.That kind of Oh. Pity disguised as politeness.
Midnight crept in. Haneul's head throbbed. Minjae was deep into flirting mode, leaning into another girl. The other guy had stopped pretending to include Haneul in the conversation. Nobody at the table noticed when he stood up.
He stepped out into the cold street, letting the air clear his head. Snowflakes drifted down, barely visible under the neon lights.
He didn't know if he was sad, angry, or just tired.
Probably all three.
He walked with no destination, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Shoes slipping occasionally on the icy sidewalk. The streets were still loud, but somehow the world felt emptier out here.
He thought about his life.About how he'd once wanted to be a physical therapist. About how his father had told him it was unrealistic. About how that dream got shoved into a drawer he never opened again. About how, moment by moment, he had become this version of himself—tired, invisible, drifting.
Was this really all life had for him?
A takeout box of convenience-store kimbap.An apartment the size of a coffin.A friend who didn't treat him like one.A job that broke his back for minimum wage.And the constant, nagging thought that he'd wasted everything he could have been.
He stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change.
The snow fell heavier now, gathering on his sleeves. His head buzzed with alcohol and regret.
He whispered to himself, "I can't keep living like this."
The universe didn't answer. It didn't care. Why would it?
The light turned green.
He stepped onto the street.
A truck sped around the corner.
He heard the engine before he saw the vehicle—a deep, violent growl. Tires skidding on wet pavement. A horn blaring too late to matter.
People on the sidewalk gasped.
Haneul froze.
He didn't think. His body didn't move. It wasn't fear—it was resignation. A stillness so deep it felt like acceptance.
Maybe this is it.Maybe this is finally where everything stops.
The headlights swallowed him.
Impact—No pain.Just a bursting white.
Then darkness.
The darkness wasn't empty.
It pulsed, almost like breathing. Rippled like water touched by invisible wind. Haneul couldn't feel his body. Couldn't hear anything except a low, continuous hum that vibrated through whatever he was now.
He didn't know if he was dead.He wasn't sure he cared.
But something was wrong. Something tugged at him, drawing him forward—or downward—or upward. Direction didn't exist here.
His thoughts floated, disjointed.
Is this death?Why is it warm?Why… why does it feel like I'm being pulled? Like someone's hooking strings into me?
The darkness flickered.
A faint blue glow appeared in the void—distant, tiny, but growing. Like a candle flame in a room full of night. It expanded, swirling into lines… shapes… patterns.
Symbols.
Circular, geometric, intricate symbols, spinning slowly in the void like giant gears made of light.
"—…oul…""—…summ…"Fragments of voices. Dozens. Hundreds. Overlapping, echoing, layered.
A sudden pressure gripped him. Not painful—just undeniable. A force closing around his existence.
More symbols bloomed like constellations. Spirals. Runes. Threads of blue light connecting them.
Something was calling him.
Pulling him.
Demanding him.
He tried to speak, but he had no mouth. Tried to move, but he had no limbs. He was a thought drifting helplessly toward a vortex of glowing runes.
The voices sharpened, still distant but more coherent.
"…contract…""…respond…""…chosen vessel…"
Chosen? Vessel?
No way. No. Don't tell me this is one of those—
A massive ring of light ignited beneath him—if "beneath" was even a word here. The symbols rushed together, syncing, rotating, locking into place with a sound like thunder muffled underwater.
Then a final voice—singular, clear, powerful—echoed through the void:
"Respond, summoned soul. Step forth."
And the world shattered.
Colors slammed into him. Light burned across his vision. Cold air punched his lungs. He gasped—
He had lungs.He had a body.He was kneeling on stone.
The ground was rough beneath his palms. The scent of incense and old wood filled the air. The world spun as his senses snapped into existence.
A massive circular sigil glowed under him, carved into the stone floor and filled with brilliant azure light. The symbols from the void—same shapes, same patterns.
Around the circle stood robed figures—six? Eight? He couldn't count. Their hoods shadowed their faces, their silhouettes trembling with exhaustion.
One of them whispered hoarsely, "It… it worked…"
Another gasped, "He actually responded…"
Haneul tried to lift his head, but dizziness crashed through him.
Responded?Responded to WHAT?
He forced his eyes open fully.
The robed figures weren't Korean. The architecture wasn't Korean. The torches flickering on the stone walls weren't Korean. Everything looked ancient, arcane, foreign.
Panic surged through him.
"What…" His voice cracked. "…what is this? Where am I?"
The head priest—or at least, the one standing closest—stepped forward, lowering his hood. He was middle-aged, stern-eyed, and dressed in embroidered robes that shimmered faintly with magic.
He placed a hand over his chest and bowed.
"Summoned soul," the man said, with reverence dripping from every syllable, "welcome to the Kingdom of Aerilon."
Summoned.Soul.Kingdom of what?
Haneul stared at him, numb.
The priest continued, "You were chosen by the Rite of Resonance. A ritual that calls upon a distant soul to aid our realm in its time of greatest peril."
Aid.Realm.Peril.
Haneul's heartbeat pounded in his ears.
"…wrong person," he whispered.
The priest shook his head. "The ritual chooses without error. You are the one selected."
"No," Haneul said louder, voice trembling. "No, I'm— I'm just some guy. I'm not chosen for anything."
His hands shook. His breath quickened. His chest tightened.
He wasn't a hero. He wasn't special. He wasn't brave. He'd barely been living.
He didn't belong here.
He didn't belong anywhere.
The priest stepped closer. "Calm yourself. Your arrival marks the turning of fate. You carry a purpose, even if you do not yet see it."
Haneul clenched his teeth. "I didn't ask for this."
"You were called."
"I didn't want to be called!"
His voice echoed through the chamber. The robed figures flinched. The sigil beneath him dimmed slowly, fading.
Haneul's vision blurred. Not from magic—from tears.
He whispered, barely audible, "I just wanted… my life to mean something."
Silence.
For a moment, the priest's expression softened—not pity, but understanding.
"Then perhaps," he said quietly, "this world will give you the chance your own did not."
Haneul didn't respond.
He couldn't.
The chamber doors opened slowly. A gust of foreign wind swept in—fresh, crisp, carrying scents he'd never smelled before. A whole world waited beyond that doorway.
And Kang Haneul realized something terrifying:
He wasn't dead.He wasn't dreaming.He wasn't going back.
Everything in his old life—every regret, pain, failure—had been cut away by blinding light and ancient magic.
He had been taken.
And now?
Now he stood on the edge of a destiny he didn't ask for.