The next day, Taeyang's bones ached before he even left his bed. His knuckles were raw and pink. He'd barely slept — every time he closed his eyes, he saw the old man's eyes staring through him like he was made of glass.
When his alarm buzzed, he turned it off with numb fingers.
He called the convenience store manager and lied about being sick. The manager yelled at him for a full minute before hanging up.
Taeyang didn't care.
He spent the afternoon watching online clips of hunters. A-class, S-class, clearing gates with lightning bolts and summoned beasts. He watched their highlight reels until his data ran out. Not once did he see someone like him — no skill, no aura, no magic system screens popping up with fancy stats.
When the sun dipped behind the apartments across the street, he packed a cheap bottle of water, slipped on a hoodie, and left his room.
The city's lights bled away as he crossed the park trail again. Same branches. Same biting wind. Same hush that swallowed all the neon noise behind him.
He found the fire before he saw it — the smell of dry wood smoke guiding him through the shrubs and the dark. The clearing looked exactly the same as last night, like time didn't dare move without the old man's permission.
Gramps sat cross-legged by the dying fire, eyes closed. He didn't open them when Taeyang arrived.
"Sit."
Taeyang dropped onto the dirt, mirroring him.
Minutes passed. The old man didn't speak. Didn't even look at him. The wind rustled the branches overhead, stirring the faint smell of pine sap and cold earth.
Finally, the old man's eyes cracked open — sharp and black, like twin blades catching moonlight.
"You came again."
Taeyang didn't answer. He couldn't trust his throat to work.
The old man rose in one smooth motion. "Stand up."
Taeyang obeyed.
"Hold out your arms."
Taeyang hesitated — then extended them, palms out. His knuckles still throbbed from last night.
Without warning, the old man swung his cane. It cracked across Taeyang's forearm like a whip.
Pain lit up his nerves — sharp, bright. He hissed through clenched teeth but didn't drop his arms.
Another strike. Then another. The old man circled him slowly, cane tapping bone, muscle, bone again. Each strike stung like fire — not enough to break him, but enough to burn.
"Pain is the gate," the old man said, voice flat. Crack. The cane hit his ribs. "Your body is a locked door." Crack. His shoulder. "Strength is what waits on the other side."
Taeyang's arms shook. He wanted to drop them. Curl into a ball. Run back to the neon city and hide behind his mop.
But he didn't move.
Crack. His forearm again. Crack. His thigh. He bit his tongue until he tasted iron.
When the cane finally stopped, Taeyang's arms fell to his sides, numb and useless.
The old man tossed the cane into the fire. It sparked, hissed, turned to embers.
"Good," the old man said, as if he hadn't just beaten him like a rug.
Taeyang's breath came in ragged puffs. "This is… training?" he rasped.
The old man tilted his head. "Pain reminds you that weakness is real. That it lives in your flesh. If you hate it enough, you will kill it."
He bent, scooped a handful of cold dirt, and pressed it against Taeyang's shoulder. The chill bit deeper than the cane had.
"You have no mana," the old man said. "No skill. So your body must become your weapon. There is no shortcut. No rank to hide behind. Do you understand?"
Taeyang's vision blurred. He blinked hard, forcing the tears back. "Yeah," he croaked.
"Do you accept it?" the old man asked.
Taeyang's breath rattled in his chest. Every part of him screamed to say no. To go home. To sleep and forget this insane old man in the shrubs.
But his father's face floated behind his eyes. His mother's soft voice. The cold stone of their graves.
"I accept it," Taeyang whispered.
The old man's mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close enough to show a row of old, sharp teeth.
"Then we begin," he said.
The rest of the night blurred into pain.
Push-ups until his arms failed. Squats until his legs trembled. Breathless sprints up and down the short trail behind the clearing until his vision tunneled and the night spun around him.
Every time he fell, the old man barked at him to stand. Every time he gasped that he couldn't, a boot nudged his ribs until he rolled over and tried again.
Once, he lay flat on his back, stars pinwheeling overhead. His chest heaved like a dying engine. The old man stood over him, a silhouette against the cold moon.
"Do you know why hunters rely on the system?" the old man asked. His voice felt like it came from a dream.
Taeyang forced his tongue to work. "Because… they're strong…"
The old man snorted. "Because they are lazy. Because they fear pain. The system gives them skills so they do not have to earn them. It gives them mana so they do not have to bleed for power. But you — you will earn every ounce. Do you understand?"
Taeyang's eyes burned. He just nodded quietly he had no strength to speak.
Near dawn, the old man let him collapse for good.
Taeyang curled by the dying fire, cheek pressed to the frozen dirt. His clothes were damp with sweat, torn at the sleeves where branches had clawed him. His breath fogged and drifted toward the sleeping city lights beyond the trees.
Above him, the old man squatted down, close enough that Taeyang could feel the warmth of his breath.
"You will come back tomorrow," the old man said softly. "And the day after. And the day after that. If you run, I will find you and drag you back. If you quit, you will regret it every day you breathe. Are you willing to accept this?"
Taeyang's cracked lips pulled into something like a grin. "I accept," he rasped.
The old man's eyes glimmered in the dying glow of the fire — ancient and hungry.
"Good," he murmured. "Sleep now, boy. Tomorrow, we break you properly."
Taeyang didn't remember how he got home.
He woke past noon in his tiny apartment, every muscle screaming, his knuckles swollen and raw. The ceiling was the same. The coin laundry thudded below like always. But something felt different — deep in his bones, in the way his fists still curled even in sleep.
Rankless.
Skillless.
Free.
He forced himself to sit up. The sunrise could wait. He had to survive tonight first.