Overtime Death, Reborn as Joseon's Xiang Yu
He was utterly fed up.
What year was it now? He rummaged through his memories. Sinmyo year. 1591 AD. The Imjin War would erupt next year.
The entire country would become a sea of fire, the people slaughtered, and the king would flee to Uiju—that hellscape was just one year away.
And he was fated to become a war hero, only to be suspected by that fleeing king, tortured until his shinbones shattered, and die.
"No thanks."
He spat it out firmly.
Kim Deok-hong widened his eyes and asked,
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, brother. Just some nonsense slipped out."
To defuse the situation for now, he bowed his head. Twenty years of office life had honed his survival instincts.
Kim Deok-hong seemed somewhat mollified by the respectful attitude.
"Tch. All brawn and no brains. Hurry up and wash your face, then come out."
The moment Kim Deok-hong left, he sprang to his feet.
His head nearly brushed the ceiling. He looked to be pushing 190 cm tall. In Joseon times, that wasn't just giant—it was monstrous.
He picked up the bronze mirror from the corner of the room. The dimly reflected face was both unfamiliar and familiar: fierce eyes, thick brows. The perfect visage of a tiger-like general.
"Not bad-looking. Just too brutish."
As he set the mirror down, he clenched and unclenched his fist.
The air compressed in his grip felt like it might burst. Power surged through his entire body—not just overflowing, but roiling like molten iron in a furnace.
Was this the divine strength of Kim Deok-ryeong recorded in the histories?
According to the annals, Kim Deok-ryeong had beaten a tiger barehanded and, in a wrestling match, lifted a bull and hurled it over a fence. He'd dismissed it as exaggerated folklore, but feeling this body now, it might just be true.
"Need to test it."
He threw open the door and stepped outside.
Warm spring sunlight bathed the courtyard. A peaceful rural scene: chickens pecking at feed, distant dog barks. But to him, this tranquility felt like a ticking clock. In a year, Japanese invaders would trample it all.
Memories of his past life flashed—working himself to death for his family, only to collapse from overwork. All that toil left nothing behind. The company would replace him with spare parts in no time, and his family...
"Damn it."
His chest ached. This life had to be different. One dog-like death was enough. An unjust frame-up ending? Hard pass.
He eyed the whetstone in the corner of the yard—a hefty granite block easily weighing two sacks of rice.
Should he lift it? No, lifting wouldn't cut it.
He approached the stone and took a deep breath. Hot energy rose from his danjeon.
"Hup!"
With a shout, he drove his fist forward.
Thud!
A dull impact rang in his ears. White stone dust exploded like fireworks. He stared at his fist, then the stone.
The center of the whetstone was deeply cratered, a perfect imprint like he'd punched wet clay. His fist? Pristine.
Not a scratch, not even flushed. Pain? Less than a mosquito bite. Refreshing, even.
Geumgang Bulgoe.
The term from wuxia novels flashed in his mind.
This body was the real deal. Not just strong—his skin and bones transcended human limits. With this durability, he might even shrug off matchlock bullets.
A feral grin tugged at his lips. Past-life Kang Cheol-min was a powerless wage slave, but this Kim Deok-ryeong was Joseon's ultimate physical monster. Plus, his head was packed with every historical detail to come.
This was a game worth playing.
"Hold tight, Admiral Yi Sun-sin."
He clenched his fist at the empty air.
"You guard the seas. I'll clean up the trash on land."
Gurgle.
No sooner had he made his vow than thunder rumbled from his gut. Ravenous hunger. Maintaining this massive frame would guzzle fuel like a beast.
"Food first. Gotta fuel up to rewrite history."
He strode toward the kitchen, each step cratering the dirt yard.
Opening the door released a rich soybean paste aroma.
"Awake already?"
His sister-in-law was stoking the hearth. She startled at the sight of him, slamming the pot lid shut. Her eyes held wary caution—clearly, original Kim Deok-ryeong was a troublemaker.
"I'm starving, sister-in-law."
He spoke as politely as possible, channeling 21st-century office manners.
Her eyes bulged. The usual brute who bellowed "Feed me!" was suddenly polite? She looked flustered.
"Uh, sure... I'll set the table."
The meal was simple: one bowl of barley-mixed rice, radish-leaf soybean soup, a few wild greens. Appetizer tier, honestly. Pathetic compared to what this muscle mountain demanded. But he wasn't in a position to complain. He picked up the spoon.
Crack.
Before it reached his mouth, the brass spoon bent like taffy as he scooped rice.
"......"
Strength control fail. He stared awkwardly at the twisted utensil. Just a light grip from his fingertips.
This grip strength had zero finesse.
His sister-in-law fetched a new spoon in a panic. This time, he held it like a fragile newborn and shoveled in the rice.
Delicious.
No MSG, pure natural umami coating his tongue. Or rather, his body craved nutrients like a madman. He grabbed the soup bowl and gulped—the swallow like a waterfall.
Two bowls vanished in seconds. Still hungry, but decorum won; he set down the spoon.
"Thanks for the meal."
He bowed and headed out. The whetstone's wreckage still scarred the yard. He sat on the porch and analyzed his specs properly.
First: Geumgang Bulgoe. Confirmed on the stone. Pain nullified, infinite durability. The annals' record of torturers exhausting themselves because his shinbone wouldn't break? Fact.
Second: Yeokbalsan Gi-gae-se. Raw power. He eyed a thick log in the corner, probably firewood prep—thigh-thick diameter. He grabbed it one-handed.
Hup.
Light as a foam stick. He swung it casually.
Whoosh—whoosh!
The air screamed. No need for swords on the battlefield; one club like this would pulp armored samurai into mincemeat.
Third: Agility. Don't judge by the bulk. He leaped straight up.
Thump.
He rocketed into the air, clearing the wall with a clear view beyond. Landing shock? Minimal. Muscles like high-tension springs.
"How the hell did he die with these stats?"
Puzzling. This firepower could've broken through officials during his framed rebellion or stormed the palace to shake King Seonjo by the collar.
Memory-Kim Deok-ryeong was too naive, steeped in loyalty and filial piety, even pretending to die on royal orders. A tragic icon who just wept his innocence until beaten to death.
But not him.
He was Kang Cheol-min. Efficiency-obsessed, results-driven, the modern man who swallowed curses but never endured injustice quietly.
Goal: Survival. Family safety.
Prep for war. 1591— one year left. Can't fight empty-handed. Even Yi Sun-sin poured fortunes into turtle ships and panokseons. He needed startup capital.
"Gotta make money." Sangpyeong Tongbo notes weren't issued yet. Stockpile valuables equivalent to currency, or silver/gold from Ming or Japan.
What money-makers for this physique? Strongman shows? Mercenary? Tiger hunting?
Tigers were risky. But doable here. Sell the pelt for big bucks, seed money for bigger plays.
But his head held more than brawn: knowledge.
Annals of the Joseon Dynasty, Jingbirok, Nanjung Ilgi... Every tome he'd devoured bloomed in his mind like a panorama. Upcoming events, key figures' moves, hidden treasures and resources.
Cheat code. Not just a brute general—a prophet who knew the future.
He stood.
Body first. Peak condition for deployment in a year. Concrete plan for capital.
He approached the woodpile and grabbed the axe.
Thwack! Split!
One swing cleaved a full log.
Crack! Crunch!
Axe work was rote labor—like past-life office drudgery. But here, each chop built him stronger, a euphoric feedback loop pulsing through his fingertips, muscles cheering with every flex.
In an hour, the yard's logs were all kindling.
"Hoo..."
White breath steamed out.
Cool night wind chilled his sweat-soaked back. Refreshing beyond any sauna.
Stars glittered in the clear sky—impossible over 2025 Seoul. He set down the axe and gazed up.
Missed them. Past-life wife, daughter. Not perfect harmony, but... family.
His heart twinged. No time for sentiment. Survive, rewrite history—maybe give those distant futures a better world.
Clutching that absurd hope, he gripped the axe again.
"Hey, Deok-ryeong! You in there?"
Rowdy voices from beyond the gate.
Cocky tone, kicking at the door. Midnight home invaders? Obvious culprits.
Memories confirmed: Choi Ga's gang.
Damyang's local thugs, jealous of Kim Deok-ryeong's strength, always picking fights. They'd swarm his brother for "protection" grain.
Probably here to harass him again.
He set down the axe and sauntered to the gate.
"Walking right into my fist."
Perfect timing. Body itching for a workout anyway.
A chill smile spread. Sandbags delivering themselves. Light warm-up before tomorrow's market?
He laid a hand on the gate's bolt.
Bang! Bang!
"Hey! Open up? You know it's us!"
Choi Ga bellowed outside. He slowly unbolted it.
Creeeak.
The old wooden gate groaned open.
Moonlight flooded the yard. Torch-bearing men muttered. One shouldered a club, another belted a sickle, and the boss Choi Ga picked his yellow teeth arrogantly.
"Well, if it isn't our young master Deok-ryeong."
Choi Ga sneered, flashing stained teeth.
"Where's your brother? Come to play hide-and-seek?"
His goons snickered. Reeking of booze. Crashing homes at night for chaos—1591's lawless vibe, felt in the flesh.
He crossed his arms, looming over them.
190 cm shadow engulfed them. Choi Ga craned his neck to meet his gaze, eyes flickering.
"It's late. Go home."
Low growl, resonant like a beast's rumble.
Choi Ga coughed, feigning calm.
"Heh, look at this punk glaring. Think we'd leave empty-handed? Your brother's school fees—call it taxes. Hand 'em over."
"Taxes go to the magistrate, not street mutts."
"What? Mutts?!"
Choi Ga flushed crimson. Ego bruised, he gripped his club tighter.
"Think you're tough? Boys, teach him!"
Two thugs lunged.
"Wanna die?!"
The right one swung hard—fierce whoosh that'd stagger most.
But to him? Yawn-slow.
He didn't dodge.
Now, Joseon's Xiang Yu would roar.