The Strange Boy
Kang Ji-won flinched.
“N-no, I didn’t?”
“I’m not blaming you. Just be honest with me.”
“······I honestly didn’t think you’d win. I only filmed it in case it turned into evidence.”
Fortunately, no one was seriously hurt. Park Ho-jin had taken a hit to the leg and Woo Gi-beom had landed on his back. The only one with a visible injury was Choi Woo-seok — a bloodshot eye and a small cut on his eyelid, nothing more.
“I see.”
I stared the bastards down, gave a perfunctory reply, and asked again.
“Do you have a YouTube channel?”
“Huh? No? Why?”
Kang Ji-won’s eyes went round. I looked down into those big eyes of hers and said,
“Then let’s upload one video.”
“Hey, that’s illegal, you know.”
Park Ho-jin snapped.
“Don’t you know this country is a nation of laws?”
Woo Gi-beom pushed back too. Where did they even pick that up from?
“I know.”
I said.
“That’s the only reason you three are still alive.”
That one offhand remark carried more weight than I intended — even Choi Woo-seok, whose eyeball was still stinging, flinched. Still, he offered the most sensible-sounding advice of the three.
“That’s a violation of portrait rights.”
“What you did was a violation of human rights.”
I added, enunciating each word carefully.
“Long-term, habitual, infringement of fundamental rights.”
And then I asked,
“Surely the evidence is piling up by now, wouldn’t you say?”
At that, Choi Woo-seok, Park Ho-jin, and Woo Gi-beom all swallowed dryly. They wore the faces of prey caught in a spider’s web. It was Choi Woo-seok who spoke first.
“We’ll apologize.”
A careful tone I hadn’t heard from him since the start of the semester. Whether he meant it or not was none of my business.
“Which would you rather have go viral — a fight video, or a school bullying video?”
“······.”
Forced to answer, Choi Woo-seok seemed to briefly consider pushing back, but clearly couldn’t stomach the thought. Coming back for more after getting flattened three-on-one would make him either a mad dog or an idiot. He was neither.
“······The fight one.”
I nodded.
“Think of it as karma.”
I rather liked the idea of collecting on all the debts these boys had racked up until now. Men who’d amused themselves by grinding shame into others were about to taste humiliation that would be preserved on the internet forever.
Under a title that was childish but perfectly intuitive: [Real 3-on-1 Fight Against School Bullies].
“But will anyone even watch this······?”
Kang Ji-won asked as she uploaded the video.
“They will.”
I was certain.
“A lot of them.”
She nodded with an unconvinced face, then blurted out suddenly,
“Then why aren’t you uploading it yourself? Why make me do it? If this blows up, aren’t you just letting me make the money······?”
“So that was why you agreed so readily?”
When I asked teasingly, Kang Ji-won flushed red.
“What—no! What do you take me for? I’m uploading it because I feel bad for just standing by and watching all this time, that’s all.”
“Just kidding.”
I said it breezily.
“Though honestly, violent content like this has a decent chance of getting taken down, no matter how popular it is.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
Kang Ji-won furrowed her brow, but I paid it no mind.
“Even so, the content itself will have an impact. Your subscriber count won’t grow, but the view count will keep climbing. And when that happens, public curiosity will pull the algorithm toward the star of the video — me.”
“Okay, that gave me actual chills!”
Kang Ji-won thrust out her pale forearm.
“See this? Goosebumps.”
I pushed the arm aside and rested a hand on her slender shoulder.
“Counting on you. Friend.”
Kang Ji-won sighed a long, stiff sigh.
During class, a teacher noticed the wound at the corner of Choi Woo-seok’s eye and asked, ‘What happened to your face?’ — but he brushed it off with a short, ‘We were messing around, sir.’
Having made Kang Ji-won create a YouTube channel, I opened one of my own as well. My dream had been to become a creator in the first place, so it wasn’t exactly an impulsive decision.
That said, the reason I finally put a long-held idea into action was this: unlike before, when I’d never worked up the nerve because I had no decent content, I was now a living witness to history, personally in possession of content that existed nowhere else in the world.
“There’s so much I could do.”
My heart had been pounding all day at school. Even just sitting in a corner rambling about my past life, I could tell stories more vivid than any history YouTuber. And if I occasionally demonstrated javelin throwing or horseback riding? Bonus points.
But with my past life restored, my interests no longer stopped at content alone. A lifetime lived as a warrior was steeped into my very DNA, and my body itched for action. After dispatching three idiots who might as well have been scarecrows, the thirst had only grown stronger.
Barely days ago I’d had zero interest in combat sports, yet the moment school let out, I found myself walking into a gym on the way home. The moment I descended into the building’s basement, a stale, sweaty smell was sucked into my nostrils right at the entrance.
Hoo.
Heart fluttering, I pushed the door open, and every head turned toward me. Among them, the man sitting at the counter asked,
“Hello. What brings you in?”
Just like my own face in my past life, his ugly, cauliflower ears caught my eye first. His nose was crooked, and several scars were visible on his skin. Yes — that’s a fighter’s face. My current one was far too pretty, like a baby’s.
“Here to sign up? You’re a middle schooler?”
······Well, technically a baby too.
“Yes. Ninth grade.”
“Didn’t come with a parent?”
“I wanted to try a one-day trial first, then talk it over.”
“Oh, sure.”
The head coach nodded.
“Ever done any combat sports? Doesn’t have to be MMA — boxing or······.”
“Nope.”
Ancient boxing and Pankration didn’t count, I figured — those were effectively bare-knuckle, no-weight-class, rules-optional death matches.
Even the fundamentals were completely different from the modern era, so pretending I knew what I was doing felt wrong. Everything I knew about modern fighting came from videos I’d watched after regaining my past life, plus the leg kicks and takedown I’d imitated in today’s brawl.
In a sense, I was a veteran and a beginner at once. A max-level newbie, so to speak. In a word—
“Complete beginner.”
“I see.”
“Okay. Come over here and stand in front of the mirror.”
I faced the mirror.
“Feet shoulder-width apart — right, like that. You’re right-handed?”
“Yes.”
“Step your right foot back. Keep that rear right hand lightly rolled into a fist and tucked under your chin, and raise your lead left hand up to eye level. Chin down······ there you go.”
The head coach had been demonstrating at an angle, facing me rather than the mirror, when he suddenly stepped in front of me and spread both palms at eye level.
“······?”
“The left hand in front — we call it the lead hand. Just extend it straight out and hit the center of my palm. Go!”
“Won’t that hurt you?”
The coach snorted.
“You’ll be fine, so hit it hard. Keep your shoulder loose and put your weight on that front foot.”
Striking with a relaxed arm and driving your weight through — that was true in the ancient world and the modern one alike. My stance felt awkward from unfamiliarity, but these truths were engraved into my body through countless bouts, so I extended my lead hand without a second thought. My weight naturally shifted to the front foot, and my hips rotated with it. The fist that drove forward landed dead center on the coach’s palm.
Crack!
And then—
“Ughk!”
The coach’s eyes went wide as he stumbled back a step, yanking his hand away. Clutching it with the other hand, he twisted at the waist, crying out in pain.
“Ssss—”
He shouted.
“Damn it, what the hell? That’s freakishly strong!”
“Wahaha!”
Laughter erupted all around the gym. I laughed awkwardly too. I’d assumed he was hamming it up as a joke—
“Ahh, that hurts. You really did put your weight into it.”
Well, of course.
“You told me to.”
“I did, but still.”
The coach looked at me, apparently recovered now, and made a face of pure disbelief.
“If a beginner could actually put his weight into a punch on command, he wouldn’t be a beginner, would he? Same with staying loose — where exactly did you train for years before coming here to play the rookie?”
His eyes narrowed into slits, brimming with suspicion.
“It’s not that I’ve never thrown a punch.”
“Ohh~.”
Intrigued murmurs rippled through the members.
“Is he like, the fight king or something?”
“Back in my day, everyone was the fight king, kid.”
“Such a pretty face, but what a fighting spirit!”
“Coach, is that for real? You’re not just milking it to spare the kid’s feelings, right? Feels like way overacting.”
“Seriously.”
“It’s not.”
The coach shook his head, protesting to the members.
“God, I’m being slandered here! Come hit my palm yourself if you don’t believe me. This kid’s no joke. Maybe it’s that big butt of his giving him the leverage — that was a proper hard punch.”
“Aish······.”
One middle-aged man, who’d been particularly loud, stepped forward.
“Let me take a hit too. How bad can it be? Way I see it, the coach’s just exaggerating to drum up memberships. Mind throwing one at me?”
He stood maybe 170 centimeters tall, but looked like a solid 80 kilograms of bulk — a thickset man who planted himself in front of me. Late thirties, early forties? Belly on him, but the kind who clearly had muscle underneath.
“You’re serious?”
“Don’t stop at jabs — really load up that right hand and land the full cross.”
The coach said it with relish, like he wanted me to show off. The man matched him, grinning and waving me in.
“Alright, then. One! — jab, right here. Then the opposite hand — two! Just swing it from the right.”
I nodded.
“Here I go.”
“Bring it······.”
Crack— lead hand and rear hand crossed in succession, burying themselves in the center of both his palms — and the man’s face warped in slow motion as he crumpled right there on the spot. In truth, I’d tracked the cross all the way through, chasing the target downward, from the moment the jab landed mid-cross.
“AAAAAH! HOOOOLY that hurts! Freaking strong! Damn it!”
“······.”
Meanwhile, I felt a shiver run down my spine. That crisp, satisfying impact — stress melting away with every thudding strike.
“Wow.”
The coach clicked his tongue.
“You chased the target down and buried that cross on a downward angle. You okay, boss?”
“Not okay. Sss—ahh.”
Still half-lying on the floor, the man spoke in that enormous voice of his.
“He really is strong. Coach wasn’t overacting after all. Wow······ no way that was his first time. Seriously, first time ever? I felt like electricity went through me.”
I nodded.
“Today was the first time I learned the one-two.”
“That’s just cheating. So this is what talent looks like? Coach, I think he’s outpacing you already.”
The coach shook his head.
“I’ve never seen a kid like him either.”
I hadn’t expected this much while my body was still immature — but at the amateur level, innate talent and natural aptitude really are ninety percent of the game. And so, with confidence, I asked:
“Could I try sparring today too? They say sparring is the flower of combat sports, and since I’m already here, I’d love to get a taste.”
“Sparring?”
The man I’d flattened with my palm-cushioned punches lit up. I could feel the other members leaning in with interest as well.
“Sparring is the perfect hook for getting someone hooked. And I’ve got plenty of questions myself.”
The coach — banmal somehow having slipped into his mouth without my noticing — said readily,
“I’ll give you a mouthguard. You can use the shared gear. Can’t have you getting hurt, so we’ll keep it light — you mostly receiving.”