Bustling sounds of kids around his age along with their parents can be heard near the elementary school he's heading at. Small stalls and apartment complex surrounded it, which made the area busier compared to other places.
Yoo Minjae walked them like a ghost—present, but untouched.
He answered when called on, though rarely volunteered. He made no trouble. His grades were consistent. To the teachers, he was polite and distant, a model student who never quite smiled.
"Minjae seems... mature for his age," one teacher told his mother during a parent-teacher conference. Her voice held a polite caution, as if uncertain whether this was praise or concern. "He listens. He understands. But sometimes I feel like he's not really here."
His mother nodded slowly. "He's always been like that."
She didn't say more. There wasn't more to say.
—
Minjae didn't dislike school. He simply moved through it. The structure was easy—memorize, recite, repeat. The rote mechanics reminded him of early training, though with less urgency. But the true challenge lay in the spaces between: the rhythms of children, the unspoken rules of interaction, the emotions that bloomed from trivial events.
A broken pencil led to tears.
A shared snack forged a bond.
A missed turn in a game became a quiet exile for the rest of the day.
It was foreign terrain. A battlefield not of fire and steel, but of glances, tones, and invisible lines of allegiance.
He observed them like a scholar. Not detached—just cautious. Learning this world required patience.
Patience was a muscle he had not needed in his former life. Back then, instincts burned bright and fast. But here, instincts could mislead. Here, a poorly timed word could shatter weeks of delicate social construction.
He learned that silence was safer than speech. That listening was often more valuable than acting.
And so, he listened.
—
There was one boy, Seo Jinhwan, who always sat beside him during lunch. He didn't speak much either. Thin, with large glasses and an expression that always seemed two steps behind the conversation, Jinhwan had a quiet way of occupying space that mirrored Minjae's own.
One day, Jinhwan offered half of his kimbap without a word. No ceremony, no explanation.
Minjae looked at him, then down at the food. He took it, nodded once, and ate slowly.
The next day, Minjae returned half of his boiled egg. Placed it gently on the tray between them.
No words. Just a quiet exchange.
From that day forward, they ate lunch together in silence.
Minjae never asked Jinhwan about his family, his likes, his favorite color. He didn't know if that was something children were supposed to do. He only knew that their arrangement was comfortable, and that in its own quiet way, it made the days easier.
—
At home, the world remained small, but steady.
His mother worked part-time at a nearby café. Her apron always carried the faint scent of coffee and cream. She would return just before sunset, brush her hair back with one hand, and ask about his day with a tired smile.
His father came home even later, smelling faintly of machine oil and factory dust. He never missed dinner. Always made time to ask the same things.
"Did you eat well?"
"Yes."
"Make any friends?"
"One."
"That's good."
That was the extent of it. They never asked him to elaborate. They didn't push him to join clubs or go outside more. They accepted his answers for what they were.
In their silence, he felt understood, even if they didn't truly understand him.
—
He spent evenings with books borrowed from the library—science encyclopedias, storybooks, old atlases with torn corners and outdated maps. His curiosity had no pattern. He didn't think of what to find, but rather looked for something that would help him understand this world.
Sometimes, he traced the subway map with his finger and tried to imagine ley lines running beneath the concrete.
Where would they have formed, if this world held mana?
Would the mountains breathe heat? Would the ocean remember names?
But there was nothing. No hum beneath his feet. No pulse in the air.
Only stillness.
And yet, rules still governed everything. Gravity. Pressure. Thermodynamics. Equations and systems, as intricate as any spell.
It was not magic, but it had its own elegance.
—
In fourth grade, his homeroom teacher announced an after-school robotics club.
Minjae didn't volunteer immediately. He waited three weeks. Watched from the hallway as older students huddled around soldering kits and breadboards. Then, one day, he stepped inside without speaking and sat in the corner.
No one questioned him.
By the end of the week, one of the older students handed him a spare kit.
"You can try with this," she said. "It's just a simple arm."
He nodded. "Thank you."
The first time the bot arm moved under his control, something flickered inside him. A small, precise thrill—not quite magic, but not far off.
Energy channeled through understanding. Motion directed by thought.
He spent hours after school fine-tuning the angle of servo motors and debugging loops. Watching plastic limbs twitch to life filled him with a quiet satisfaction.
In another life, his breath alone could ignite a valley. Here, he wielded solder and syntax.
It wasn't flight.
But it was motion.
—
Sometimes, he still dreamed of skies.
He would see vast clouds torn by wings, feel heat pouring through his ribs like molten sun. Hear the roar of ancient storms in his ears. Wake with a sharp inhale, chest tight and hollow.
The ceiling above him was blank. The stars were too far.
He would lie there, unmoving, until the knock came.
"Minjae," his mother would call gently, "breakfast is ready."
And he would rise.
Feet to the floor. One step, then another.
Not a dragon. Not a king.
Just a boy, learning how to live.
—
The days passed like water slipping through narrow channels—slow, quiet, inevitable.
No fire. No prophecy. No war to win or curse to break.
Just textbooks, shared lunches, blinking LEDs, and the soft, invisible current of growing up.
And for now, that was enough.