Remake Begins: Into Uncle's Invincible Fist King
My maternal uncle, a martial arts novelist, had passed away. Age 42. Even though it was too early for him to go, it was death from overwork—a heart attack.
Uncle always said he wrote with his ass, not his head or hands, stubbornly sticking to his chair. True to his word, he'd died slumped over his desk.
I don't know how much I cried at the funeral home. Uncle, who'd spent his life writing martial arts novels that never sold, had fewer than fifty people show up for his rites.
As a kid, constant school transfers left me friendless, so Uncle was my only companion. As time passed and I made friends, I left his side—but he was alone again.
"Sob!" I wept endlessly for his tragic fate.
The funeral blurred by. Days turned to weeks, then a month, then three. Visiting my parents' home, Mom suddenly remembered something.
"Oh, right. He said to give this to you."
She handed me a USB drive. It was Uncle's work.
"Your uncle clung to that until the end."
I knew exactly what it was.
Seven Falls, Eight Rises: The Invincible Fist King.
An outdated title that didn't fit modern tastes. Sorry to say, but it screamed Uncle's naming sense. Everyone hated or rejected it. Publishers he'd worked with all turned it down; even online serialization flopped.
Frankly, a hit with that title would've been weirder.
"Still... I liked it."
The saga of the Fist King who rises eight times after seven falls, overcoming trials to become the world's greatest. Modern readers would've bailed early, calling it frustrating—no one else liked it. But I did.
It was the story Uncle and I brainstormed together. Friendless and fantasy-obsessed, I loved plotting it with him.
We kids dreamed up the settings and plot for Seven Falls, Eight Rises: The Invincible Fist King.
And more: the protagonist mirrored Uncle's own late-bloomer dreams. Hard to hate watching him.
I could picture Uncle booming, "I'm a late bloomer, destined for greatness!"
"Wait. Isn't this finished?"
Fiddling with the USB, it hit me. Seven Falls, Eight Rises was complete—Uncle's debut, our collaboration, his only published work.
Why cling to it?
"He said he was rewriting it. Re... re-something?"
"Remake?"
"Yeah, a remake."
It clicked. Uncle must've foreseen his end, wanting to remake his cherished story—the one he'd made with his only nephew.
"He said he'd tweak it like modern novels: protagonist gets strong fast, monopolizes martial arts and elixirs."
Mom's sad tone spurred me to my computer.
How much had he changed?
Uncle hated instant power fantasies without trials—old-school wuxia. I was dying to see, plugging in the USB.
Plunk!
A blackout engulfed my room—the world. Déjà vu hit, and I blacked out like falling asleep.
That day, everything changed.
* * *
I awoke in a strange place. A rundown shack like a stable. What happened since the blackout?
This pattern—we designed it together!
Ceiling flags bore the motif I'd drawn as a kid. Its ugly design stuck in my memory—no one copied it.
We were setting nerds: clan crests, sect symbols, timelines by the emperor's reign. Easy recall.
"Right, the emblem for Cheonmu Academy from Seven Falls, Eight Rises."
Seeing martial world vibes, it hit me.
Am I... inside Seven Falls, Eight Rises: The Invincible Fist King?!
I loved wuxia and webnovels like Uncle—easy deduction. No other explanation.
"This is insane."
Novels aren't reality. I slapped and pinched myself—this was real. Another reality.
"No way!"
Unable to believe, I yelled.
Right then—
"Cheon Myeong! You noisy rookie shit, what's with the racket?!"
Bam!
The door flew open. A harsh voice boomed.
A hulking brute with fierce eyes. Meeting him unlocked memories—not my real self, but Cheon Myeong, the novel's protagonist.
Like a game's tutorial.
"Ja, Jang Sam!"
The bully barking orders: Jang Sam. Servant boss and thug at Cheonmu Academy.
Now I knew my place: orphan Cheon Myeong, beggar turned academy servant chasing martial dreams.
"Call me boss, you shit? Jang Sam?"
Thwack!
Still dazed, Jang Sam unleashed merciless blows. His pot-lid hands battered my cheeks and head.
First time beaten like this.
This stinging pain—definitely real, no illusion.
After a bit—
"Huh?!"
Mid-beating, it clicked. Per Uncle's story, Jang Sam was an early minor villain. Cheon Myeong strives for instructors' notice but gets crippled by him.
A lame leg blocks peak mastery. Poor protagonist can't afford top doctors.
His fine bones wasted; no one picks him for a decade-plus, until world's best healer.
Beaten by Jang Sam? Years of sweet-potato frustration.
"Pretty boy like a girl—easy target?"
I interrupted accidentally; he pummeled longer, then panted out.
I guarded my legs through it.
"Huff... just wait. Proper welcome soon."
Right—leg injury was at the welcome ceremony, not today. Beaten by Jang Sam and goons there.
We plotted most of the novel; faint memories surfaced.
"Week till academy holiday—big welcome awaits. Should be... fun, heh."
Late hour; he left after threats.
One week till Cheon Myeong's leg breaks.
"What now? Why am I in Uncle's novel?!"
Time short, shock faded to immersion and rage.
Why?
Uncle planned a remake: from late-bloomer to fortuitous monopolizer. Died unfinished.
His favorite—me, his confidant—possessing it...?
"Wants me to remake it his way?"
Mad idea; I checked a mirror. Protagonist Cheon Myeong resembled real me—handsome, novel-boosted to jade-faced saint.
Coincidence?
No causeless effects. Possessed for a reason: Uncle couldn't finish, so I must. Not slow-burn humiliation to midlife success—modern trend: early dominance, monopolize fortunes.
"Got it."
I knew my role as Cheon Myeong.
Ditch frustrating arcs; monopolize fortunes and arts. Possessed to remake personally.
Time to reshape the future Uncle wanted.
"How?"
First sweet potato: leg injury. Change it.
But how? One week left.
No elixirs or manuals now.
Cheon Myeong: sturdy commoner, fine bones. Heavenly elixir? Body rejects, twists limbs. No arts? Can't master manual in a week.
Can't flee—official servant; warriors hunt escapees as thieves.
Plus, academy full of known info/people—regret leaving.
"Yes! That's it."
Long thought yielded genius idea: protect legs, gain arts.
I know all lore, futures, characters' traits/weaknesses.
Info edge shortens woes. Remake Uncle's way assured.
Leg-safe strength method: one way.
"Gabul was temporary advisor at Cheonmu Academy."
The answer: Shaolin's eccentric external arts master, the bizarre Buddha Gabul.