In a quiet hospital room, a young man lay on a stiff hospital bed, his arms entirely wrapped in thick, white bandages that covered them from shoulder to fingertip. An intravenous drip was connected directly to his right arm, slowly delivering fluids and medication into his weakened veins. The frail and heavily injured young man reclined against the inclined bed, his gaze fixed blankly on the plain white ceiling above him. His striking blue eyes, filled with a mixture of exhaustion and resignation, stood out sharply against his short, neatly trimmed brown hair. A steady, rhythmic "beep-beep" sound from the heart monitor echoed softly throughout the room, audible to anyone who stepped inside.
Just a few years earlier, this young man had been an utterly ordinary person, living a normal life without any extraordinary burdens. However, everything had drastically changed exactly four years ago when doctors discovered a completely new and unknown disease afflicting him. Because of this, he was immediately placed in strict quarantine, becoming the very first confirmed case—Patient Zero. The symptoms of this mysterious illness did not fully manifest until he reached the age of fourteen: relentless, throbbing headaches that never seemed to cease, frequent mild heart attacks that left him gasping for breath, the gradual deterioration of his external cells which caused painful wounds and lesions to form across his skin, and ultimately, his entire body becoming extraordinarily fragile, almost as delicate and breakable as fine porcelain that could shatter at the slightest touch.
When his parents first learned of his condition, they simply could not come to terms with the heartbreaking reality that their beloved son would never be able to live a normal life like other children his age. In their desperation, they clung to the faint hope of some divine miracle that might one day save him, pouring all their resources into expensive treatments just to keep him alive a little longer. Yet, as time passed, they slowly realized that these efforts were merely prolonging his immense suffering rather than offering any true cure. Still, it was completely understandable—after all, what loving father or mother wouldn't desperately wish for the very best for their child, even if it meant holding on through endless pain?
But——
Suddenly, the heart monitor's steady beeps accelerated wildly before shifting into one long, unbroken "Beeeeeeeeep" that filled the room with an ominous tone.
A nurse burst into the room in a frantic rush, her eyes wide with clear and unmistakable desperation. It was obvious from her panicked reactions and hesitant movements that she was a complete novice, still inexperienced in handling such critical emergencies.
In her overwhelming hopelessness, she shouted urgently for the doctor to come immediately…
Meanwhile, the young man's vision began to blur rapidly, the edges of the room fading into darkness bit by bit in a slow, inexorable descent. In those final moments, all he could do was silently curse God for the cruel fate he had been dealt, or perhaps blame it on some unforgiving karma from a past he couldn't even remember. His thoughts grew increasingly muddled and chaotic as consciousness slipped away…
◇ ◇ ◇
When he opened his eyes once more, he found himself staring up at a breathtaking starry night sky, completely unobstructed by even a single cloud, offering a vast and serene view that instinctively eased the tension in his body and brought a profound sense of comfort to his weary soul.
"What… what happened…?" he murmured softly to himself, but the voice that emerged from his vocal cords sounded utterly foreign—higher-pitched, innocent, and childlike. Glancing down at his hands in confusion, he realized they were tiny and delicate, clearly belonging to a child of perhaps around six years old. Slowly, he sat up, taking in his surroundings. He had been lying on the cool, damp grass in an open courtyard. Low, weathered buildings surrounded the area, forming a rough square enclosure. The windows were all dark, with no lights shining from within, giving the place an abandoned feel in the nighttime hush. A rusted sign creaked gently as it swayed in the cool night breeze:
Sunrise Orphanage – Incheon, South Korea
He blinked several times in disbelief, then reached up to touch his own face. Short brown hair, just as before. His eyes… catching his reflection in a nearby puddle illuminated by moonlight, he saw intense blue eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light, almost luminous against the shadows. This was not the face from his previous life, yet it felt oddly familiar, not entirely alien to him. Closing his eyes tightly, he allowed a sudden flood of memories to rush into his mind like a powerful river flowing unchecked.
These were not just memories of this new, young body he now inhabited. No—they included fragments of his entire past life as that fragile, disease-ridden boy, and something far more profound beyond that: the experiences of a nameless swordsman who had single-handedly defeated the ancient elder Yushin, Han, the revered Leader of the Clan of Heroes…
Letting out a deep, weary sigh, he picked up a nearby twig from the grass and began to handle it as if it were a genuine sword. He swung the "blade" in extravagant, flowing motions that seemed almost theatrical at first glance, yet——
Even to the untrained eye of any complete layperson, it was immediately evident that this was no mere childish play. It was a true art form, as graceful and divine as if an angel had descended from the heavens specifically to instruct mortals in the sacred ways of wielding a sword.
The thin branch traced flawless, precise trajectories through the air, seamlessly blending overwhelming brute force with lightning-fast speed, incorporating rapid multiple strikes, unpredictable curving arcs, and even bursts of invisible energy that seemed to ripple outward. The small child's body moved in perfect, absolute harmony with each motion, and for the first time across both of his lifetimes, he felt the pure, authentic flow of power coursing through him once again.
The movements halted abruptly, as though an unseen blade had sliced through the rhythm of the elegant dance. The twig hung suspended in the air for a brief moment before dropping softly onto the damp grass below. The blue-eyed boy stood perfectly still, his chest rising and falling in a calm, steady rhythm, though deep inside him, a fierce determination was beginning to boil and surge.
"I need to be careful from now on… and rebuild the Clan of Heroes."
The words slipped out aloud in a low, resolute voice that carried a profound maturity far beyond what should belong to such a young child's body. This was not the whimsical dream of a kid fantasizing about fame and glory; it was the ironclad resolve of someone who had already shouldered the immense burden of an entire legacy, who had witnessed clans rise and fall on blood-soaked battlefields throughout history.
He tucked the twig carefully into the pocket of his worn-out pajamas—tomorrow, it would serve as his very first training weapon—and began walking barefoot across the courtyard. His small feet sank slightly into the wet earth, leaving faint footprints that the gentle night breeze would soon erase entirely. He skirted around the main building, carefully avoiding the few illuminated windows where the nuns were conducting their final evening rounds, and made his way toward the back section of the orphanage.
There, concealed among cracked walls and stacks of old, forgotten crates, stood a small abandoned shed that had once been used for storing firewood. The wooden door creaked loudly as he pushed it open, revealing a dark interior that smelled heavily of mold and rust. A single beam of moonlight filtered in through a gap in the broken roof, casting a soft glow on swirling particles of dust in the air.
Han stepped inside without any hesitation. His eyes quickly adjusted to the low light. In the corner, he spotted exactly what he was looking for: a broken broom with a sturdy, long wooden handle that felt just right in his small hands. He picked it up, testing its balance with a swift twirl of his wrist. It was far from a legendary sacred sword, but for now, it would more than suffice.
He settled down on the cold, dusty floor, leaning his back against the rough wall, and allowed his mind to race with plans. In this new world, supernatural abilities were known as Quirks. They were widely celebrated by society, strictly regulated by laws, and often turned into grand public spectacles. Heroes became branded celebrities, with agencies profiting immensely from televised rescues and endorsements. But deep down, drawing from echoes of ancient memories and an instinct that spanned across lifetimes, he knew the truth: real power did not emerge from spotlights or fame. It was born from unbreakable bonds. From a clan united by a purpose far greater than personal glory or wealth.
Here, in this rundown orphanage on the outskirts of Incheon's seaside, lay the very first seeds of potential. The children living there were often rejected by society precisely because their Quirks were unusual, deemed too weak, or considered far too dangerous. They were exactly like the original members of the ancient Clan of Heroes had been: orphans, outcasts, and resilient survivors scraping by in a harsh world.
He knew he had to proceed cautiously and patiently. Observe everyone closely. Select only those truly worthy of inheriting and carrying on the flow. Teach them gradually without frightening them away. Protect them subtly without revealing his full intentions too soon.
A faint, subtle smile curved the corners of his childish lips.
"One step at a time," he whispered into the surrounding darkness. "First, we survive. Then, we grow stronger together. And finally… we will change this entire world."
Outside, the salty sea breeze picked up in intensity, causing the rusted sign of the Sunrise Orphanage to sway more vigorously. Inside the dim shed, a brand-new legend was quietly beginning to take shape—silent, unrelenting, and forged under the watchful gaze of the endless stars above.