The sly Celestial's gaze drifted.
For a single, fleeting second, its eyes found Hyun-Jae.
Across smoke, fire, and ruined streets, across fear and despair, it looked directly at him.
And it grinned.
Not wide. Not exaggerated. Just enough to be unmistakable.
As if it remembered.
Before Hyun-Jae could react, light bent inward on itself. Space folded. The two Celestials vanished as suddenly as they had appeared, leaving behind nothing but shattered cities and words that would never fade.
Then,
The world erupted.
People screamed. Governments collapsed into chaos. Emergency broadcasts looped endlessly. Faith, science, and order all cracked under the same impossible truth.
Humanity panicked.
—
Hyun-Jae's eyes snapped open.
He sucked in a sharp breath and bolted upright, heart pounding violently against his ribs. White light flooded his vision, and the smell of disinfectant replaced smoke and ash.
"…Hah-!"
"Easy," a calm voice said. "You're awake."
Hyun-Jae blinked rapidly, his breathing slowing as the room came into focus. Pale curtains. A small bed. Cabinets filled with medical supplies.
The nurse's office.
His body felt heavy, every muscle sore, drained, aching like he'd been wrung dry. He lifted a hand and pressed it to his face, warm skin confirming what his eyes already told him.
School.
Not ruins.
"…Right," he muttered.
He must've collapsed during Special Period again.
The nurse watched him carefully. "You pushed yourself too hard. Again. You were out for several minutes this time."
"Sorry," Hyun-Jae said automatically.
She sighed, clearly unconvinced he meant it. "This isn't the first time. You know that, right?"
He nodded.
It wasn't new.
Passing out from exhaustion had happened more than once over the years, training too hard, ignoring limits, refusing to stop even when his body screamed at him to rest. Teachers had scolded him. Doctors had warned him.
None of it had changed anything.
Hyun-Jae swung his legs off the bed slowly, the lingering images from his dream still clinging stubbornly to his thoughts.
The grin.
The words.
Ten years.
"…I'm fine," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.
The nurse studied him for a moment, then shook her head. "Sit for a bit longer. I'll write you a note."
Hyun-Jae leaned back against the bed, staring at the ceiling.
It had been a dream.
He knew that.
And yet, his heart refused to calm, and his fists clenched on their own.
Because some dreams didn't feel like dreams at all.
They felt like memories.
Something smacked into the side of Hyun-Jae's head.
"Ow-!"
A crinkling sound followed.
He turned around just in time to see a familiar bag of snacks bounce off the bed and land in his lap.
"…You're really unbelievable."
Hyun-Jae looked up.
Standing behind him, arms crossed and brows tightly knit, was Soo-Min.
For a second, his brain stalled.
Then his face heated up instantly. "S-Soo-Min?"
She leaned closer, peering at his face like she was inspecting a patient. "I heard you collapsed again," she said, worry clear in her voice. "Do you have any idea how many times I've told you to stop overdoing it?"
"…A lot," Hyun-Jae admitted quietly.
She sighed, rubbing her temples. "Seriously. One day you're going to scare everyone for real."
He looked down and awkwardly opened the snacks she had brought, munching on them as if that alone might make things better. "Sorry," he mumbled through a bite. "I'll be more careful."
She shot him a look that clearly said she didn't believe that for a second.
Soo-Min was the complete opposite of him.
She was smart, top of the class without even trying. Popular, too. People naturally gravitated toward her, drawn in by her bright smile and easy confidence. Even standing still, she somehow commanded attention. And on top of that, she was physically gifted, fast, strong, coordinated. During Special Period, instructors praised her without hesitation.
Hyun-Jae… was none of those things.
And yet, here she was.
He didn't really understand why she still talked to him. The only reason he could come up with was that they'd been childhood friends, back before everything changed. Back when things were simpler.
"Well," Soo-Min said after a moment, glancing around the nurse's office, "I guess this counts as more experience."
He blinked. "Experience?"
She nodded matter-of-factly. "I help the nurse out sometimes. I want to become a doctor, remember?" She gestured vaguely at him. "You're basically a regular here, so… thanks for contributing."
"…Glad I could help," Hyun-Jae said dryly.
She smiled faintly at that, though the worry in her eyes didn't fully fade. "Just… don't break yourself, okay?"
Hyun-Jae paused, fingers tightening around the snack wrapper.
"Yeah," he said. "I'll try."
Soo-Min sat down on the chair beside the bed, watching him quietly as he ate, while outside the nurse's office the school day continued like nothing in the world was wrong.
Hyun-Jae stared ahead, the echo of a grin that didn't belong to this world flickering through his mind.
Ten years.
And he still felt just as weak.
Soo-Min broke the silence first.
"…Are you going to participate?"
Hyun-Jae stiffened.
He knew exactly what she meant.
The Celestials' tournament had been all anyone talked about for years. After endless debates and global unrest, the governments of the world had finally made their decision: participation would be optional. Voluntary, for civilians.
The military, of course, had no such choice.
It wasn't optimism that led to that decision. It was resignation. Most leaders doubted humanity could meaningfully change the outcome anyway.
Hyun-Jae looked down at his hands.
"I want to," he said quietly. "But…" He shook his head. "My parents would never allow it."
That was the truth.
He could already imagine his mother's face. His father's silence. There was no universe where they would let their son throw himself into something that was practically a death sentence.
"So I'm not," he finished. "I'm just… training for myself."
Soo-Min studied him for a moment, then let out a small breath she seemed to have been holding.
"…That's good," she said softly.
She stood up just as the nurse returned, holding a small slip of paper.
"Here," the nurse said, handing Hyun-Jae the note. Then, with a glance toward Soo-Min and a knowing smile, she leaned in slightly and added in a whisper, "And try not to ogle while you're at it."
Hyun-Jae's face turned red instantly. "I, I wasn't!"
Soo-Min covered her mouth, shoulders shaking as she laughed.
"I really wasn't," he muttered, scrambling off the bed and grabbing his bag. He bowed slightly out of habit. "Th-Thank you."
"Get back to class," the nurse said, amused.
Hyun-Jae nodded rapidly and hurried out of the nurse's office, flustered and embarrassed, the echo of Soo-Min's laughter following him down the hallway.
As he walked, gripping his bag strap tightly, his thoughts churned.
There were only five days left until the Celestials returned.
Hyun-Jae didn't need a countdown to feel it. The number pressed itself into his thoughts no matter what he did. And deep down, beneath the resolve, beneath the training, he knew the real reason he hadn't signed up.
He didn't want to die.
Not yet.
That truth sat uncomfortably in his chest as he returned to class. The rest of the school day passed in a haze. Teachers spoke. Students moved. Bells rang. Hyun-Jae followed along on autopilot, his body present while his mind drifted elsewhere.
When the day ended, he went home.
He ate dinner with his family. Listened to his sisters talk. Nodded when spoken to. Then he went to bed.
Everything was painfully normal.
—
The next morning, Hyun-Jae woke up on his own.
That alone was enough to make him frown.
No knock on the door. No Yumi yelling at him. No Harin bouncing onto his bed. The house was silent in a way that felt… off.
He got up and stepped into the hallway.
The living room lights were on.
His parents sat on the couch, shoulders stiff, eyes fixed forward. Yumi stood nearby, arms folded tightly. Harin sat cross-legged on the floor, unusually quiet.
The television glowed in front of them.
"What's going on?" Hyun-Jae asked.
No one answered at first.
Yumi glanced back at him, her expression tense. "Just… sit down," she said. "Watch."
Unease settled in his stomach as he did.
On the screen, a news anchor spoke in a clipped, urgent tone.
"early this morning, the United Nations held an emergency meeting regarding participation in the Celestials' tournament"
Hyun-Jae's brow furrowed.
Emergency meeting?
Hadn't this already been decided? Military forces and volunteers only. That was what everyone had agreed on.
The broadcast cut abruptly.
The screen shifted to a live conference room.
A familiar figure stepped up to the podium.
The President.
His face was drawn, eyes heavy, jaw set in a way that made it clear this wasn't a speech meant to reassure anyone. Cameras flashed as he adjusted the microphone, then looked straight ahead.
Hyun-Jae felt his chest tighten.
Whatever was about to be said,
It wasn't going to be good.
The President took a slow breath before speaking.
"Earlier projections assumed a significantly higher number of volunteers," he said, voice steady but strained. "That assumption was… incorrect."
The room behind him was silent. So was the living room Hyun-Jae sat in.
"The number of registered participants is nowhere near what is required," the President continued. "After extensive discussion with world leaders, we have reached a unanimous conclusion."
Hyun-Jae felt a bad feeling coil in his stomach.
"It is not fair," the President said, "for a very small percentage of the population to shoulder the burden of representing humanity while the rest remain behind."
Hyun-Jae's father clenched his jaw.
"Therefore," the President went on, "a new policy will take effect immediately."
The words that followed hit like a hammer.
"At least one individual from each household must participate in the tournament."
The room went dead silent.
"If a household is unable or unwilling to send a member," the President added, "they may designate another individual to take their place… or pay a fee of hundred million in USD."
His sister's fingers curled into her shirt.
"The collected funds will be allocated toward planetary defense, recovery efforts, and long-term survival initiatives."
Hyun-Jae barely heard that part.
One per household.
He felt his pulse spike.
His father suddenly stood up. "This is insane," he snapped. "They give us five days and then pull something like this?"
His mother's face had gone pale.
The President's expression hardened further.
"Failure to comply," he said, "will result in federal charges."
The words echoed.
"There will be no exceptions."
The broadcast ended shortly after, the screen fading back to the news anchor's stunned expression, but no one in the living room paid attention anymore.
Silence stretched.
Hyun-Jae stared at the blank television screen, his thoughts racing.
One person.
From this household.
His parents were too old.Yumi had almost completed her degree.Harin was just a child.
Hyun-Jae swallowed.
Deep down, he already knew the answer.
Hyun-Jae's dad didn't hesitate.
He stood up abruptly and went straight to the bedroom, pulling out an old duffel bag from the closet. Zippers rasped loudly in the tense silence as he began stuffing clothes inside.
"What are you doing?!" his mother rushed after him, panic flashing across her face. "Stop, are you crazy?"
"We don't have a choice," his dad snapped without looking at her. "I won't let this fall on the kids."
"You can't," she said, grabbing his arm. "Your heart, if they find out-"
"They won't," he shot back. "I'll pass whatever check they throw at me."
Hyun-Jae clenched his fists.
He knew better.
His father's heart condition wasn't mild. It was the reason he'd left physically demanding work years ago. Even if he tried, even if he lied, there was no way he'd be allowed to enlist. And if he was… he wouldn't last.
Yumi knelt beside Harin, pulling her into a tight hug as the argument escalated. Harin buried her face into Yumi's shoulder, trembling, confused and scared.
Hyun-Jae couldn't stand it anymore.
"I'm going out," he muttered.
No one heard him.
He slipped on his shoes and stepped outside, the door closing softly behind him.
The air felt heavier than usual.
As he walked, he noticed them everywhere, fresh posters slapped onto walls, bus stops, storefront windows.
TOURNAMENT ENLISTMENT CENTERREPORT WITHIN 5 DAYSFAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN LEGAL ACTION
His jaw tightened.
Five days.
How were people supposed to accept this? Prepare for it? Decide who would throw their life away?
His pace quickened, irritation boiling beneath his skin.
It should be him.
He knew that.
He was the oldest son. The one who trained every day. The one without responsibilities tying him down. But even thinking it felt absurd.
He still looked like a kid.
No matter how hard he pushed himself, no matter how much pain he endured, his body never changed the way it should have. Others trained casually and surpassed him. He trained obsessively and stayed… average.
How could his dad ever accept him going?
Hyun-Jae stopped at a convenience store and went inside, grabbing a few snacks without really looking at them. As he stood in line, voices drifted in from behind him.
"…You heard, right? Military's gonna send the older volunteers first."
"Of course they will. Burn through them, then force the rest later."
"I'm not letting myself get dragged in until the last possible moment."
"Same. Let the soldiers die first."
Hyun-Jae's grip tightened around the snack bags.
Their words settled uncomfortably in his chest, feeding the doubt already gnawing at him.
Was this really about saving humanity?
Or just buying time for the people at the top?
He paid and stepped back outside, the sky dimming as clouds slowly rolled in overhead.
Five days.
And no choice that didn't end in regret.
Hyun-Jae's phone buzzed in his hand.
He glanced at the screen—and froze.
Mom.
He answered immediately. "Mom?"
Her voice came through shaky and breathless. "Hyun-Jae, your dad-he-he got angry and then he just, his chest-" She choked on the words. "We're at the hospital. Please, come quickly."
His blood ran cold.
"I'm on my way," he said, already moving.
The hospital lights were too bright.
Hyun-Jae ran down the hallway, heart pounding harder with every step. He spotted them immediately, his mother standing rigid near the wall, Yumi sitting beside Harin, holding her close.
"What happened?" Hyun-Jae asked, breathless.
Yumi looked up, eyes red. "He collapsed. They said it was a cardiac episode."
Before Hyun-Jae could say anything else, a doctor approached them.
"He's stable," the doctor said calmly. "The attack wasn't severe, and we treated it quickly. He'll be fine."
Relief hit Hyun-Jae like a wave.
"But," the doctor continued, his tone firm, "he absolutely must not push himself. Stress, exertion, anything like that could trigger another episode. He needs rest."
Hyun-Jae nodded silently.
I knew this would happen, he thought bitterly.
After some time passed and visiting hours quieted, Hyun-Jae found himself sitting alone beside his father's hospital bed. The machines hummed softly in the background. His dad looked tired, older than Hyun-Jae remembered.
"…You shouldn't scare us like that," Hyun-Jae said quietly.
His dad gave a weak chuckle. "You sound like your mother."
There was a long pause.
Then Hyun-Jae spoke again.
"Dad… you shouldn't panic anymore."
His father turned his head slightly to look at him.
"I'm going to the tournament."
Silence fell between them.
"No," his dad said immediately, pushing himself up slightly. "Absolutely not."
"I've already decided," Hyun-Jae replied, voice steady.
"You're still a kid," his dad snapped. "You don't know what you're walking into."
"I know," Hyun-Jae said. "That's why it has to be me."
His father opened his mouth to argue again, but stopped.
He saw it then.
The eyes.
They were calm. Focused. Unmoving. The same look Hyun-Jae always had when he refused to give up his way, no matter how pointless, how painful, how impossible things seemed.
His dad exhaled slowly and sank back into the bed.
"…Sometimes," he said quietly, "I wonder if you're really my son."
Hyun-Jae blinked.
"Because you're stubborn," his dad continued. "You keep pushing forward even when there's nothing to gain. No talent. No shortcuts. Just effort."
He smiled faintly.
"That's exactly how I was back then."
Hyun-Jae swallowed.
Then his dad's voice softened.
"Your uncle's death… wasn't your fault."
Hyun-Jae's hands trembled slightly.
"You were just a child," his dad said. "Don't carry that weight anymore."
The machines beeped steadily as his father closed his eyes.
"I won't stop you," he said quietly. "Not anymore."
Soon after, his breathing evened out as he fell asleep.
Hyun-Jae stood.
He didn't say goodbye.
He stepped out of the room, past the curtains, down the hallway. His mother stood near the corner, eyes wet. She had heard everything.
Their gazes met.
Hyun-Jae bowed his head once.
Then he turned away and left the hospital,and his childhood, with nothing but resolve carrying him forward.