Hero's Chronicle: Blood and Tears at Home
Dinner was over. I mixed the last of the stew broth with rice, shoveled it down, and set my spoon aside. Wiping my mouth with a napkin.
A wave of fullness hit, leaving my body heavy and languid. As I stood from my chair, I muttered dryly.
"Thanks for the meal. I'm heading to my room."
The moment I pushed in my chair and turned, my sister sprang up like a coiled spring and grabbed the nape of my neck.
"Where do you think you're going! Family meeting in the living room tonight—no exceptions! Confiscating the remote!"
"Ugh, why. I'm tired. I just ate, so I'm crashing."
"No way! Tonight's the night that show's finally airing! They've been hyping it for a week with previews—what if the star misses it!"
She started dragging me by the collar of my training clothes. I had more than enough strength to resist, but I couldn't use mana on family. I let her haul me to the living room sofa without a fight.
"Come here, my little pup. Sit next to Mommy. We'll watch together while eating fruit."
Mom patted the center cushion of the sofa, pulling me down beside her. My body sank into the plush leather.
Thanks to my 140cm frame, my toes didn't touch the floor. They just dangled in the air. Dad was already gripping the remote, staring intently at the TV with a grave expression.
No escape from the encirclement. A deep sigh escaped me.
Majestic BGM swelled through the living room.
My face filled the screen—silver hair whipping as I slashed a monster's neck. The emotionless shot of me firing mana was overdone with camera flashes for dramatic effect.
This is insane. Shame burned through me; I wanted to summon mana and fold the TV in half.
"Whoa! Our Tae-ho looks so handsome! No, pretty! Anyway, stunning! Like a movie star!"
Dad slapped his knee, making a fuss. The family was all set to watch my dark history documentary together. I yanked over a blanket nearby and pulled it up to my chin. Glaring at the screen.
The footage rewound to three years ago. The day red cracks split the sky. The start of the Gate Shock.
Archival footage flashed in black-and-white and color, showing the horrors. Early military responses: tank barrels blazing, fighter jets dumping bombs. Asphalt upheaved, flames roaring skyward.
Modern weapons were woefully inadequate against the endless monster waves. Beasts shrugged off bullets. Colossal brutes smashed buildings as they charged.
Defensive lines shredded; city centers engulfed in fire in seconds. Screams from civilians trapped in gridlocked traffic pierced through the screen. Hell on earth.
I watched impassively. I remembered—the acrid gunpowder stench, the metallic tang of blood clogging my nose.
Global devastation montage: New York's Statue of Liberty ablaze. Chinese coastal cities vaporized by monster tsunamis. EU capitals paralyzed, reduced to ruins.
Massive military losses and casualties from the first waves snowballed into ongoing weakness three years later.
Satellite map graphic filled the screen. North of the DMZ dyed red. Monster waves swallowed the border, surging south. Simulation of millions charging in despair.
"Aigoo, horrific. Back then watching the news, I really thought we were all done for..."
Mom clutched her chest, murmuring. Amid the despair, a beam of light pierced the screen.
Grainy CCTV footage aired. Gangnam streets, collapsed building rubble. A familiar back—my past self at 29, over 180cm tall.
Blue light flashed. When it cleared, a 140cm girl in frilly clothes stood there.
Having to relive my absurd transformation on national TV. I pinched my forehead. Hae-eun beside me nearly burst out laughing but shut up after Mom's backhand smack.
Nice packaging. I tsked dryly.
My mind and gender ignored, just a shell mod for mana efficiency. Earth's survival trumped my dignity—a violent call. No time to complain back then.
Scene shift: Torrential rain at the frontline trench. Tens of thousands of monsters roaring in charge.
Against overwhelming numbers, just blood-soaked me. Fists clenched—no fancy techniques.
I wrapped my body in crudely summoned mana and dove into the monster wave.
—KABOOOM!
Mana erupted from my outstretched hands like a waterfall. The bombardment pulverized monsters for hundreds of meters. Pure desperation, relying on my massive mana pool with zero efficiency.
Today's refined style came later—from experience and anime inspirations. Back then, I didn't even know mana control.
Exploded corpses, guts, bone piles formed mountains. Blood-drenched, gasping, I kept blasting. Stamina bottomed out from crap efficiency; joints screamed like tearing. When bodies mounded into hills, I'd climb and fire again. Standing amid a blood lake of floating corpses, my eyes were dead as I scanned around.
Onscreen me was shredding apart. Leaning on a corpse pile, beef jerky in mouth, passing out. Two hours later, siren wakes me—eyes barely open, blasting mana again.
Sleep deprivation, extreme fatigue. Joints ripping agony, yet plugging the line silently. While global powers collapsed that month.
Symphony crescendoed into scene change. Peaceful Seoul daily life contrasted the bloodied battlefield: office workers laughing over coffee, kids backpacked to school. Fruits of blood and bone.
The living room fell silent. Only TV sound filled the air. I glanced sideways.
Mom dabbed her eyes with her sleeve, weeping quietly. Dad, who'd been hamming it up, furrowed his brow with fake coughs. Even Hae-eun, usually bossing me like a cab driver, bit her lip and bowed her head.
This is why I hated watching together. The family endured hell watching my live bloodbath. Two years of terror—not knowing when the death notice would hit.
Chest grew heavy. Why I lounged listlessly here. Why I humored my sister's games and dolls.
Proof the world's safe enough I don't need the frontlines. A peace ritual, therapy for family. Time to break the silence. I forced a dry tone.
"Ugh, seriously. Gotta hand it to the broadcasters—masters at wringing out fake tears."
Yawning, I snatched the remote.
"Mom. Cut me some fruit. Apple. Rabbit-shaped if possible."
Mom startled from her sniffles, then laughed through wet eyes, wiping them.
"Oh my, yes! My baby girl wants apple? Mom'll slice a honey-sweet one right now!"
"Don't forget rabbit shape."
"Got it, got it. Gotta suit our hero's tastes."
Mom bustled to the kitchen, nose sniffling. Dad ruffled my silver hair with rough hands.
"Good job. My kid. You really suffered."
"Hey, messes my hair. Hands off."
I swatted his hand away irritably but didn't move. Hae-eun leaned on my shoulder, sniffling. Normally I'd shove her, but tonight I let her.
Chopping sounds from the kitchen. I eyed the screen. Ads over; documentary back half primed.
One year ago. The disaster that razed China and North Korea, heading south. Next: footage of slaying the 2km reptile behemoth, like an inflated serpent-dragon.
Where it spawned or why—who knew then. Just rage-fueled rampage straight for Korea. Scales impervious; I nearly died shredding it.
I curled deep into the sofa, eyes half-lidded. Grateful for this peace.
"Here, my baby girl. Your ordered rabbit apple, served."
Mom set the fruit plate on the glass table. I speared a piece with a fork, crunched the crisp sweetness. TV resumed—the back half.
With the narrator, scenery shattered. China-North Korea border. 2-3km reptile beast crawling the land.
Legendary serpent-dragon bloated. Black scales like a moving mountain range. No clue its gate origin—just pure fury, a natural disaster rending the continent.
Dozens of jets' missiles scratched its black scales not a bit. Flames bloomed; red eyes gleamed as it roared skyward. Bone-rattling sound shook the speakers. Family on the sofa gulped dryly, frozen.
Shift: Storm-lashed plain. Tiny back gazing up at mountain-sized serpent-dragon. Silver hair whipping in gale. Blood-stink memory from a year ago sharpened.
Then, I'd hit the limit of brute-force mana blasts. Pointless against scale armor—dissipated on surface.
Onscreen me took a tail smash dead-on. Tiny body cannonballed through air, slammed into cliff. Rocks crumbled. Pain radiated through the monitor, bones crunching.
"Aigoo... Tae-ho-ya..."
Mom clapped hands over mouth. Dad's jaw clenched tight. Hae-eun hugged a cushion, head down, eyes squeezed shut.
TV me coughed blood from rubble, wiped mouth roughly, rocketed up. That's when it hit: compress mana to a point, pierce deep—not scatter outside.
Onscreen, I packed blue mana to limit in my fist. Air warped like heat haze. Dove straight into the serpent's maw.
Military drone cam shook. Agonized monster screech quaked heaven and earth.
Moments later: spine exploded from within. Compressed mana detonated deep inside. Crude, but flipped from the core—solid destruction.
Dark red blood cascaded. Head-to-back bisected corpse slammed earth with quake.
Massive flesh chunks, blood, building-sized bones blanketed territory. From the gore fountain's center, a small figure tumbled: me. Rolling, blood-soaked, motionless.
Nope, didn't die. Just passed out from maxing mana. But narration dirged like a funeral march.
Room mood differed. Like the nation a year ago—pale-faced, sobbing at the live feed. Hae-eun bawled openly, blowing her nose.
I quietly chewed remaining apple. Gritty in my mouth—like sand.
Two years. Daily blood reek on battlefields. Flesh-burst feel, ally screams. Even now, eyes closed brings gunpowder and blood.
War trauma. Brutal PTSD.
But worse for those rear-guard. Endless dread of breaking news obituary. Two years watching kid/bro bleed on TV daily.
I saved the country, drove nails into family's hearts.
Why I insist on freeloading. Why no rage/escape from sister's dress-up dolls. My atonement, proof of peace ritual.
Me harmless and small, nagged beside them—only then they feel I'm off frontlines, safe. Can't deny my shattered mind heals in this noisy family warmth.
Documentary ended. Credits rolled to symphony. Heavy silence flowed. Parents' and sister's teary gazes locked on me.
Insane. Hated cloying vibes. Set fork down, hopped off sofa.
"Watched it all. Tired, bedtime."
Marched to room without looking back.
Hae-eun pounced, grabbing training collar.
"Where ya fleeing!"
Choked, I halted with a gag. Frowned back. Her tear-streaked eyes gleamed maniacally. One hand wet tissue, other: hidden clothes hanger.
"Our bro bled like that! Can't let him mope in drab gray sweats on this monumental day!"
"Hey, let go. Choking. Drop it."
"Mom! Dress-up time! That new pink lace dress from the department store last time!"
Hanger shook with garish pink dress—frills and ribbons festooning the hem. Horrid.
"Oh! Yes! Our Tae-ho suffered so—pretty dress for healing!"
"Right, right. Gotta cheer up our hero proper!"
Tear-flooded room turned circus. Mom laughed wiping tears; Dad stood clapping cheers.
"Why heal in that? Crazy? Let go. Not letting?"
"No chit-chat—arms out! No escape tonight!"
Hae-eun shoved my back, dragging to room. Could mana-blast the living room and bolt. But no.
"So annoying..."
Sighed. Resistance futile—Mom's back-smack guaranteed. Gave in, led by Hae-eun to my room. Parents' jolly laughs echoed from living room.
This noisy family's warmth. Guarding this pesky peace made those two hellish years worthwhile.