The Weight of a Single Gaze
The massive front gate of the mansion closed with a heavy thud behind him. Ian stood in the entrance lobby and glanced up at the ceiling once. It had to be at least seven meters high. A crystal chandelier hanging in the center scattered rainbow-colored shards of light in every direction as it caught the sunlight. The floor was covered in Carrara marble that probably cost hundreds of dollars per slab, polished to a mirror-like sheen. On both walls hung authentic Joseon-era landscape paintings in ornate golden frames. It was a space where the bones of a Western mansion had been infused with a Korean soul.
'This is exactly Grandfather's taste.' The memories in this body told him as much. Normally, his grandfather lived at the main family residence in Korea. He only stayed at the American mansion a handful of times a year, at most for a month. Yet the interior was entirely Korean-style. It wasn't decorated like a temporary hotel stay—it felt like a home he could return to at any moment.
"Young Master, perhaps you should change your clothes first," the head of security said respectfully as he followed Ian inside.
Ian looked down at his outfit. A gray hoodie and black pants. His knees were still covered in gray dust from the gym floor, and the cuffs of his hoodie were stained dark with the dried blood from that brown-haired punk's nosebleed.
"...Yeah, I should."
Ian gave a light shrug. Two maids bowed at the waist and guided him forward. As he climbed the central staircase to the second floor, Ian slowly took in his new living space. Closed doors lined both sides of the hallway, each bearing a small brass nameplate. Study. Music room. Game room. And at the very end—'Ian's Room.'
The door opened. It wasn't so much a bedroom as a penthouse suite. The moment the door swung wide, the interior was so vast it couldn't be taken in with a single glance. One entire wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, and beyond it the Los Angeles skyline stretched out beneath him. From the skyscrapers of downtown to the distant Santa Monica coastline, it all lay before him like a painting.
On the right wall was a walk-in closet. Suits, shirts, and casual wear were organized by color. On the left, a desk held a top-of-the-line laptop and two large monitors side by side. The bed was so enormous that even two king-size mattresses combined would have been insufficient. And in one corner sat a barely-used set of dumbbells and a pull-up bar.
'This kid really didn't work out at all.' The corner of Ian's mouth twisted slightly. The original owner of this body had shown zero interest in his own physique. Given that he'd been bullied at school, facing his own body must have been painful. He probably avoided mirrors and had never even attempted to set foot in a gym.
'That's going to change starting now.'
Ian turned to the maids. "I'm going to change. Could you step out for a moment?"
"Yes, Young Master."
The maids bowed and withdrew. Once the door closed, Ian pulled the hoodie off over his head and stood in front of the mirror. This was the first time he was truly facing his new body.
Around 177 centimeters tall. Narrow shoulders and a weak chest. A slender frame where his ribs were faintly visible. His forearms were smooth with not a single callus, and his abs were barely a suggestion. It was the complete opposite of Ji Kanghyuk's body.
Ji Kanghyuk's body had been the pinnacle of light heavyweight—over ninety kilograms of solid muscle, calluses on his shoulders, knots on his shins, and countless scars etched across the backs of his hands. Ian slowly raised both arms above his head in front of the mirror, then pulled his shoulder blades together behind his back. His body moved with fluid ease. The range of motion would have been impossible in Ji Kanghyuk's old body. His scapulae nearly touched his spine. His shoulder joints rotated almost three hundred and sixty degrees.
Next, he bent sideways at the waist. His fingertips slid smoothly down past his knees. Finally, he spread his legs shoulder-width apart and folded forward. His palms lay flat against the floor.
'...This is insane.'
As far as Ji Kanghyuk knew, only a handful of fighters in the world possessed this level of flexibility. In the mirror, an East Asian boy stared back at him. Black hair, black eyes. A slightly sharp jawline. A straight nose and full lips. Without his glasses, his features were surprisingly well-defined.
'The foundation isn't bad. If I just put on some muscle...'
At that moment, the phone on the desk vibrated. Ian walked over and checked the screen.
Several unread messages were stacked beneath it. Ian stared at the screen for a moment, then typed a short reply.
He tossed the phone onto the bed, pulled a pair of black slacks and a white shirt from the closet, and changed. He layered a deep navy cardigan over them and checked himself in the mirror again.
'Yeah, this should be enough for the third-generation chaebol cosplay.'
Before leaving the room, Ian sat at the desk and opened the laptop. The password came to him automatically from the body's memories. He opened a browser and typed in English in the search bar.
Ji Kanghyuk WFC
He hit enter. The search results filled the screen. However—
No results found. Did you mean 'Ji Kanghyun'?
Ian's eyes narrowed. The first page of results was filled with other Korean fighters with similar names. But there was no trace of his own name—Ji Kanghyuk—anywhere.
He tried a different search term.
Ji Kanghyuk light heavyweight champion
Same result. Only similar individuals appeared. He searched in Korean for WFC Light Heavyweight Champion.
Current WFC Light Heavyweight Champion: Shamil Abdulaev
Abdulaev? The Dagestani wrestler Shamil Abdulaev was the champion? Ian's mind spun rapidly. Abdulaev had been the challenger he'd knocked out in one minute and forty-seven seconds of the first round. Back then, the entire fighting world had unanimously predicted that the monstrous wrestler would drag the "Half Champion" whose grappling was unproven down to the ground and win. Yet Ji Kanghyuk had silenced every prediction with a single right hook less than two minutes after the cage door closed.
But in this world, Abdulaev was the champion.
Ian leaned back deeply in his chair.
"...I see."
The fighter named Ji Kanghyuk did not exist in this world. His death hadn't simply been a transfer of consciousness—it had also been the erasure of an entire human being. All that remained were the fighting memories etched into his mind.
"......"
Ian stared up at the ceiling for a moment. Strangely, he felt no sadness. No anger. No fear. Only a peculiar sense of liberation. A blank canvas had been placed before him.
'Starting over from a clean slate, huh.'
Ian closed the laptop. He stood, straightened his clothes, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, opened the door, and stepped out. A maid was waiting at the end of the hallway.
"Dinner will begin shortly, Young Master. I will escort you to the main dining room on the first floor."
The dining room was the heart of the mansion. The dining hall, with its impossibly high ceiling, was as grand as an entire banquet hall transplanted indoors. The space radiated the overwhelming sense of openness unique to great estates.
In the center stood a long mahogany table. White porcelain and silverware were arranged with flawless precision, and in the middle rose a tall vase filled with white lilies. At the head of the table sat an old man.
Lee Hwang-chul. Chairman of the Samhwang Group and Ian's paternal grandfather. His hair was pure white but still thick, neatly combed back. He wore a navy hanbok overcoat with a white silk outer robe. The sight of an elderly man dining in traditional Korean attire inside an American mansion carried an almost surreal dignity.
When Ian entered the dining room, the two people seated on either side of the table turned to look at him simultaneously. On the right sat his father, Lee Jung-hwan. As the president of Samhwang Group's U.S. branch, he wore a black suit with a burgundy tie, and a limited-edition ultra-luxury watch weighed heavily on his wrist. His expression was as businesslike as ever.
On the left sat his mother, Cheon Su-yeon. True to her background as a former announcer and current director of a charity foundation, she wore a beige cashmere dress with a neatly arranged pearl necklace. The moment she saw Ian, her brows furrowed slightly.
"Ian, you're a little late," were her first words. Her tone was gentle, but there were thorns beneath it.
Ian gave a light bow. "I'm sorry, Mother."
He then turned toward the head of the table and bowed once more with deep respect. "Grandfather. It's been a while."
Lee Hwang-chul looked at his grandson through his glasses. For a brief moment, the old man's eyes narrowed. It was a change no one else would have noticed. But Ian caught it clearly. His grandfather had sensed something. The posture, the breathing, the depth of the gaze—something about his grandson was different from usual.
"...Sit down."
A low, heavy voice. A single sentence that filled the entire space. Ian took the seat beside his mother. The maids brought out the first course. It was a Korean course meal. Abalone porridge arrived in white porcelain bowls. The meal began in silence.
Lee Hwang-chul lifted his spoon slowly but without the slightest disorder. Even as he chewed each bite, his gaze occasionally drifted toward his grandson.
"Ian."
When the porridge bowl was about half empty, Lee Jung-hwan spoke.
"Yes, Father."
"Your GPA for this semester is out. How did it turn out?"
Ian's mind automatically pulled up the information. 4.1. In truth, Ian's grades had been in the upper ranks at school. He might not have been athletic, but he had a good head on his shoulders.
"It's 4.1."
"Mm." Lee Jung-hwan gave a small nod. "That's a score that could aim for the Ivy League. Take the SAT again in the fall and use that to target Harvard, Yale, and Princeton. The standard path is to major in business and continue into the Wharton MBA program, but going to Columbia Law School wouldn't be a bad route either. The group's legal department will soon need someone like you."
Ian scooped up a spoonful of porridge and put it in his mouth. The warm, soft flavor spread across his tongue.
"...Do you feel the same way, Mother?" Ian asked, turning to the person beside him.
Cheon Su-yeon lifted her wine glass, took a sip, and answered. "Of course. As your father said, Harvard Business School would be best. Wharton would be next."
There was no doubt in his parents' voices. Ian following that path wasn't up for debate—it was already decided. As natural and unquestionable as the sun rising tomorrow.
Ian slowly set down his porridge bowl. Then he spoke.
"I want to pursue martial arts."
The clear sound of a silver spoon striking white porcelain echoed through the dining room with unnatural length. The air flowing over the table froze. Lee Jung-hwan's spoon stopped in midair. The faint smile at the corner of Cheon Su-yeon's mouth slowly vanished. At the head of the table, Lee Hwang-chul showed no change in expression. He simply stared quietly at his grandson through his glasses.
"...What did you just say, Ian?" For the first time, his mother's voice carried a sharp edge.
"I said I want to pursue martial arts."
Ian spoke each syllable clearly and evenly, without excitement or hesitation.
"What kind of sport are you talking about? Tennis? Golf? Those are obviously necessary. In social settings—"
"No. I'm not talking about that kind of hobby sport."
"...Then?"
"MMA. Fighting."
Somewhere at the table, a fork clattered against a plate. One of the maids nearly dropped the wine bottle she was holding but caught it at the last second. Lee Jung-hwan slowly lowered his spoon.
"Ian." His voice dropped lower. It was no longer his usual businesslike tone. He was suppressing his anger. "I never imagined those words would come out of your mouth. I've heard what happened at school recently. It seems someone has been bullying you. It looks like that planted some kind of delusion in you—"
"It's not a delusion."
Ian cleanly cut off his father's words. The table froze once again. The old Ian would never have interrupted his father. He had always been the child who kept his head down and answered only with Yes, I understand.
Cheon Su-yeon half-rose from her seat. "Ian, have you lost your mind—"
"Su-yeon." Lee Hwang-chul spoke.
It was a short, low sentence, but Cheon Su-yeon immediately straightened her posture. Lee Jung-hwan also closed his mouth. The moment Lee Hwang-chul opened his mouth at this table, every other sound was automatically silenced.
Lee Hwang-chul adjusted his glasses once. Then he stared at his grandson. The old man's eyes behind the lenses met the boy's black eyes directly. That gaze sank deep into the boy's eyes. And within them, the old man saw something that was no longer the grandson he knew.
Hiding the twitch at the corner of his mouth, Lee Hwang-chul spoke.
"Ian."
"Yes, Grandfather."
"Tell me yourself. Why martial arts?"
Lee Jung-hwan and Cheon Su-yeon both opened their mouths at the same time, then closed them again. Their grandfather had just granted his grandson the right to speak.
Ian remained silent for a moment. The gaze from the head of the table, behind those glasses, still rested heavily on his face. The weight of a man who had reached the pinnacle was carried fully in that single look.
Ian did not avoid it. He received it head-on. And slowly, he opened his mouth.