The Strongest Man and a New Brother's Chaos
The strongest man in the world. In the end, Dad hit 60 million won in sales for the first month. Of course, that's not pure profit—plenty of expenses to deduct. Even so, pulling in eight-figure annual pay from a PC bang in this era was a massive jackpot. Since it was Dad who had to make it happen, he planned to close the jiu-jitsu dojo for a while and focus on the PC bang. He'd even hired night-shift part-timers, but aside from playing around at the dojo after school with me, he'd keep things going strong. Looked like he'd gotten a real taste for making money.
Winter came, the new year dawned, and January rolled in. That's when an unplanned little brother burst into the world. Harin was bitterly disappointed it was a boy. Dad and I did our best to console her. She hated how wrinkly and ugly he looked—what could we do? Beom-jun started life despised by our Harin. I was six years older than her, and she was four years ahead of Beom-jun, making him a whopping ten years my junior—a true latecomer.
Time passed, and Mom came home from the postpartum center with Beom-jun. While our parents doted on him, I kept a slightly sulky Harin entertained with gusto. I wheedled some pocket money out of Dad and distracted her with all sorts of toys. These days, she was obsessed with drawing, so I showed off my own mediocre skills. For my age, it wasn't half bad. Not bragging or anything.
Time flew by again, and I reached sixth grade. Beom-jun's doljanchi—his first birthday party—came around. More of Dad's acquaintances showed up than expected, and our family even spent a month in America. Summer faded, winter approached, and soon the house echoed with Beom-jun tearing around like a maniac. He couldn't contain his energy—it was like he was literally flying. He'd sprint through the house all day, play with a ball until he crashed and cried, wail if something didn't go his way, or throw a fit if I got too tired to give him airplane rides. No wonder Harin grew to hate him more and more.
Shocked by his stamina, Mom said with a serious face, "Reminds me of you when you were little, Beom-ho."
"...Was I like that?"
"Worse."
Dad's voice chimed in agreement, and suddenly I felt a surge of respect for my parents. How the hell did they raise us? If Beom-jun had been the firstborn, I could've understood skipping the second kid entirely. Still, after I wore him out with airplane rides, he'd play nicely with Harin.
"No way! Mimi has to sit!"
"Nuh-uh!"
Their bickering voices drifted over. Sounded like Beom-jun was building up to a cry, so I hurried to intervene. There he was, yanking on Harin's beloved fairy doll—Mimi. The poor thing's head snapped off with a crack under their tug-of-war. But Harin's face as she clutched the broken upper half was downright terrifying—like she was ready to throttle him. I jumped in quick to soothe her.
"B-Beom-jun's still just a baby, you know~"
"He's not..."
"He is. Has your big bro ever hit you?"
She flinched, glancing at me. She was still too young to know how to express anger properly. Dad would've straightened me out back then, but as the girl of the house, Harin probably got off easy. My words hit home; her big round eyes welled up. I reached to stroke her hair, but she dodged my hand.
"Does... big bro like Beom-jun more?"
"You're the only one for me."
"Really...?"
"Of course~"
My instant reply seemed to stir some grievance, and Harin burst into tears.
"Oppa!"
I comforted her as she clung to me, then took her hand and headed out. I bought her a shiny new toy, and on the way back, we stopped at a street food stall for slushies and tteokbokki. She wasn't smiling yet—still bummed about her doll.
"Beom-jun can't eat this stuff yet, so it's just for us?"
"Yeah!"
Before regression, I'd never noticed Harin's aggressive side. The age gap meant she always treated me with such respect.
Back home, another tteokbokki ghost had joined us—Mom, naturally. I blocked her from grabbing any; if I let that slide, Harin might flip out over everything. With Mom's hands off-limits too, Harin seemed to relax a bit. With this unplanned brother around, her jealousy was no joke. Guess I'd have to stick closer to Harin for a while.
Winter deepened, and elementary graduation loomed. We were set to move as planned. I'd thought Dad's earnings killed that idea, but I floated it to Mom anyway—why not test the waters? UN Village land prices were skyrocketing, and she'd been a little stressed about it. No matter how much Dad made, this was the golden age for the area. When folks started offering premiums to buy our house outright, Mom seriously considered it.
In the end, we decided to move to the same kind of place. One of Dad's contacts recommended Seongsu-dong, and with the school district set to boom, Mom was swayed. A big corp snapped up our house at a premium—nearly 1.5 times the surging market value. We dumped the proceeds into paying off Grandpa's loan and moved on. The rest went into Dad's PC bang, sprucing up the third floor in style.
The third floor was members-only—no counter, elevator blocked, just an emergency exit. Perfect for die-hards who wanted to grind hard. Kiosks would've been ideal, but labor was cheaper back then. Minimum wage was 3,100 won an hour; better to hire two extra staff for a year than blow it on machines. Dad strutted home like a victorious hunter, shoulders back. Mom just found it adorable.
Turning Korean age 14, I started middle school. I trained jiu-jitsu daily with Dad and taekwondo with Mom. I caught Mom in her dobok one day. Still in her early thirties, she looked plenty young.
"Mom."
"Yeah?"
"Don't you have any family?"
She smiled. "Nope."
"Grandma, Grandpa? Siblings?"
"Gone~"
No hint of longing—just that smile.
"Don't you miss 'em?"
"Hmm... Never really felt loved as a daughter, so nah."
"Oh."
"Why? Curious about Mom's family?"
"Everyone's got uncles or aunts. Thought you were an only child."
"Had seven siblings."
Whoa—eight kids total? Grandpa must've been a patriot in the baby-making sense.
"Not close?"
"Not really. They all had rotten personalities. Worse than strangers, honestly."
I nodded. Plenty of "families" were less than friends. Sounded like Mom's clan. She didn't seem thrilled, so I dropped it. If she'd cut ties, best for me to forget too. No run-ins in my pre-regression life anyway.
Back then, I fought as Human Press. But Whittaker always said my talent lay in striking. He saw my strike defense and pushed me to learn it young, but in WFC MMA, there was no time to grind striking. I doubled down on my grappling specialty instead, honing jiu-jitsu deeper and sticking to familiar wrestling drills daily. Jiu-jitsu differed hugely from wrestling, after all. I never knew my striking gift until proving my defense late in the game. Whittaker's constant boxing pitches haunted me. Grappling was old news pre-regression; time to drill striking now.
Dad wouldn't let me part-time at the PC bang. After school, I hit the boxing gym; weekends were taekwondo. Before middle school proper, I headed back to America. I'd built basics and physique so far. Now, for the skills I'd skipped.
Arrived, spent time with family, then to Whittaker's. He was MIA, so I warmed up solo. Wrapped my hands, threw punches to my rhythm.
Thwack! Thwack!
The heavy bag turned into fighters from old footage, eating my fists. Weaves, ducks, guards—pure speed punches.
Thwap!
Ramping speed on the speed bag, a Hispanic guy whistled. "All flash, no substance?"
"...?"
His interruption broke my focus; I turned to a smirking dude with his slacker buddies lounging nearby. Gyms worldwide were testosterone pits—pecking orders inevitable.
"New face. Who taught you that crap?"
"The coach."
"Bullshit. That old-school basics nut told a noob like you to do that?"
Whittaker taught more than basics—to total beginners, maybe. His gym was hardcore; only serious boxers joined. This guy? Not so much. Too much fat for an aspiring pro.
"Yep."
"Fine. Show me whatcha got—spar?"
Random beef, but full sparring suited me. Folks who hadn't eaten leather lately sharpened my edge. Body felt loose anyway.
"Sure."
Gloves on, into the ring. He grinned like he owned the place. Slackers didn't fit here—stick to neighborhood gyms. Adult-sized opponent, but I was pre-teen. Still, I could handle him.