"Power isn't given. It's taken. And once it's yours—never let it go."
Busan's winter wasn't cold. It was cruel.
The sky above the docks was a bruised shade of gray, thick with the stink of salt, rust, and old blood. Dogsung High loomed like a forgotten fortress on the southern end of the city—a decaying building wrapped in graffiti and gang tags, guarded by boys too young to bleed but already marked by violence.
The school bell had rung. But the real world—the one behind the walls—never stopped.
A new student stood outside the rusted gates.
No one saw him arrive. No introduction. No transfer letter. Just a shadow in the cold, sharp eyes under black bangs, a lean silhouette beneath a thrift store uniform.
He looked like nothing.
And that's what scared people the most.
Eli Nam.
No background. No guardians. No past on file.
But in the streets, rumors moved faster than official records. Whispers of a ghost who walked across cities, leaving behind broken gangs and burned dens. A boy with a stare that made knives feel dull.
Today, Dogsung High would learn the name.
Eli Nam.
No background. No guardians. No past on file.
But in the streets, rumors moved faster than official records. Whispers of a ghost who walked across cities, leaving behind broken gangs and burned dens. A boy with a stare that made knives feel dull.
Today, Dogsung High would learn the name.
Inside, the school pulsed with raw, juvenile tension—the kind born not from books but from blood.
The Pit Dogs ruled the first floor, snarling and swaggering like they owned the concrete. Bomber jackets zipped halfway, gold chains clinking, sneakers squeaking across grime-streaked tiles. Their turf wasn't official, but it was respected: vending machines lined their pockets, lockers stored contraband, and green freshmen paid tribute in silence or bruises.
Gwansik—sharp jaw, bleach-blond undercut, dead eyes—sat like a street prince in the middle of it all, legs kicked over a desk, cigarette lazily dangling between his lips. Around him, the rest of the mutts barked, hollered, harassed.
"Yo! Who's the twig at the gate?" one of them asked, squinting toward the distant entrance.
Gwansik didn't look. He exhaled smoke shaped like a sneer. "New meat. He'll learn."
But they were already too late.
Eli Nam had stepped inside ten minutes ago.
He'd already memorized every face.
Every weak chin, twitchy eye, lazy stance. They were loud but brittle.
He stood just beyond their gaze now, moving between shadows and blind spots like a whisper.
The Devil had entered the kennel.
And the dogs didn't even bark.
Lunch break. A commotion in the lower hallway.
Eli stood by a vending machine. Silent. One hand resting casually in his pocket, the other tapping a coin on the machine's edge.
Three Pit Dogs prowled up like hyenas who smelled weakness. They circled.
"Hey new kid. That's our turf," one said, his voice a fake growl layered with nervous swagger.
Eli didn't move. His gaze remained fixed on the machine.
"You deaf?" another asked, stepping in, puffing out his chest.
Stillness.
The third, boldest of them, stepped forward and grabbed Eli's collar with a smirk.
In the next heartbeat, his world inverted.
Eli twisted his wrist, broke the grip, and rotated into the boy's space. A crack rang out—the Pit Dog screamed, his shoulder yanked from its socket. He hit the ground, howling.
Eli's hand fell back to his side, relaxed.
The two others flinched. One moved to flank, creeping sideways like a street brawler. The other rushed head-on with a haymaker.
Eli ducked under the punch, pivoted his foot behind the attacker's ankle, and used the boy's momentum to slam him down hard. His knee drove into the ribs. A breathless gasp, then a distinct, wet crack.
Before the last one could bolt, Eli blurred forward.
He caught the arm mid-swing, bent it at an unnatural angle, spun the Pit Dog like a ragdoll, and slammed his face into a locker.
Bang. Blood painted cold steel like graffiti. The impact echoed down the hallway.
The boy slumped. Breathing. Barely.
Eli stood over them—composed. Controlled. No anger. Just clinical efficiency.
His shoes hadn't made a sound.
The hallway held its breath.
Word spread like a virus, infecting every hallway, classroom, and whispering corner of Dogsung High.
By day's end, the name Eli Nam wasn't just known—it was feared. Rowan Yu, who'd once ruled the Pit Dogs like a smug little prince, sat silent. His jaw clenched, his laughter long gone.
No one had ever laid a hand on the Pit Dogs before—not inside the school. And now three of their top fighters were out cold, wheeled into clinics with shattered joints and blurred memories. No one even saw the fight happen.
The details were vague. But what people described didn't sound like a high school scuffle. It sounded like a professional execution. Not a single wasted move. No yelling. No showboating. Just clean, brutal, mechanical violence. As if Eli had studied them like prey, moved like a ghost, and struck like a machine.
It wasn't just strength that frightened them. It was how calculated it was. Like he'd done it a thousand times before.
They started calling him the Devil—not just because of what he did, but because of how he did it. Silent. Unfeeling. Inevitable.
Eli Nam had arrived at Dogsung High. Alone. But now, even alone, he was the most dangerous presence in the school.
But Eli hadn't come to fight. Not yet.
That night, the roof of Dogsung High became his throne.
Cold wind whipped his coat, the city sprawled beneath him like a kingdom in waiting. The port cranes moved like skeletal titans in the dark, loading cargo, unloading secrets. Neon lights flickered across rooftops where street kids whispered of turf wars, and alleyways below buzzed with the undercurrent of violence—real gangs, real blood.
He stood still, his figure a silhouette against the moon.
In his hand, a folded page. Worn. Handwritten.
A map of Dogsung High's power structure. Names of students. Classrooms marked like enemy camps. Nicknames. Threat levels. Beside it, in red ink, another list—business fronts, street-level thugs, laundromats with illegal books, warehouse operators, back-alley fighting dens. Some crossed out. Most underlined.
He read it like scripture.
"Fear," he murmured. "Then control. Then empire."
A gust of wind lifted his bangs. The sea air stung his eyes.
Behind him, faint voices echoed from windows below—rumors blooming. Pit Dogs beaten. No teacher dared interfere. Rowan Yu, silent for once.
It was working.
He closed his eyes.
From a distance, the hum of an engine drifted through the night. Down near the port, two rival crews met in secret. He knew their leaders by name. He knew which one would survive the night. He had placed a bet on it.
Not in money. In favor.
He would collect later.
His phone buzzed. A message from a burner number:
"You made your move. They're watching now."
He stared at it for a moment. Then deleted it.
Eli Nam didn't need allies. Not yet.
Only witnesses.
He turned away from the edge, coat flaring with the wind.
In the shadows of Dogsung High, the Devil didn't sleep.
He plotted.
He hunted.
Tomorrow, blood would spill. But tonight? Tonight, he just watched the city and imagined what it would look like kneeling before him.
TO BE CONTINUED...