Prologue
C-rank.
By the Association rank chart, that was all he amounted to—a villain only a step above a street thug with a little strength piled on.
Cheolgon's fist crumpled my ribs like paper. Even as the breath went out of me, my thoughts stayed strangely clear.
Ah. So I really was that weak.
Physical Enhancement, F-. An ability the Association records had summed up in a single line.
No meaningful difference from an ordinary person.
Eight years of life as a hero had earned me one certificate of appreciation and a single room in a Goshiwon with the rent long overdue. No fans. No colleagues. A life that, even in death, would have been adequately covered by one line along the bottom of the news.
Darkness flooded my vision. The last thought that came was neither the sting of injustice nor anger.
…Just one more time. I want to do it properly.
When I opened my eyes, a white ceiling filled them. A machine beeped in a steady rhythm. An IV needle was set in my arm, and the air smelled of disinfectant.
The sensation of my ribs being crushed was still vivid, yet my chest felt nothing at all.
"Patient Han Seorin? Are you with us?"
A nurse leaned in until her face filled my view. Han Seorin. A name I had never heard.
"You woke after three days. We're truly glad."
I opened my mouth to answer, and a clear, high voice came out. It was not mine.
In the hand mirror they passed me was a girl with silver hair to the nape of her neck and blue eyes. The curves of a woman's body showed through the patient gown, and the face was one anyone would have called beautiful. Her eyes, though, were dead—the eyes of someone with no will left to live.
"…You tried to take your own life. They found you quickly. That was a mercy."
At the nurse's careful words, I froze with the mirror still in my hand.
At the same moment, on the same threshold, one of us had wanted to live and the other had wanted to die. Something had slipped between those two wishes, and I alone was left in this body.
Deep beneath my heart, something cold stirred without a sound—a sensation I had never once felt in the twenty-eight years of my previous life.
A faint white frost spread from my fingertips. I stared at that hand, blank, then slowly closed it into a fist.
The life of Han Doyun, the weakling who had died, was over. And the life this girl had let go of remained with me.
This time, I would live it. Properly. No matter what.
And I was sorry—sorry for living on in this body in her place.