He woke up with a hollow pain stabbing his stomach. The night on the bench had been cold and uncomfortable, his body ached all over. He reached into his backpack and searched with clumsy fingers, only finding a couple of energy bars that the previous owner of the body had left there. He looked at them and forced himself to say quietly,
"This is enough."
He forced himself to finish one and then the other, chewing slowly to make the little food he had last longer. While eating, his mind kept racing. Where could he train? He didn't have money for a gym. If he wanted to change this body, he would have to do it with the little he had: running, push-ups, just the basics.
But that wasn't the only problem, he had another one: what about money? How could he get it to survive, for better food, for something that looked like a beginning? The questions gnawed at his throat like hungry dogs.
Without realizing where he was walking, he kept going through the still-sleepy streets. Then, a sharp laugh came from a nearby alley, it was the kind of mocking, cruel laughter that froze the air. He stopped in his tracks. The closer he got, the clearer the murmurs became.
"What happened to that pig from yesterday?"
"Hahaha, he probably died."
"Why do losers like that even exist?"
The recognition was instant and icy. They were the same voices of those who had attacked the body before. His chest tightened, his fists clenched instinctively. Rage and a paralyzing sense of helplessness mixed inside him. He could hear their laughter.
He bent down to a loose stone and picked it up in one motion, hiding it in the palm of his hand. His knees trembled; he didn't know if it was from fear or anger, and the drops of sweat made him clench his teeth.
"If I were in shape…" he thought, and that made him even angrier. He wasn't sure what to do now, fight those guys? After all, they were murderous bastards. Did his body feel fury? He couldn't describe the feeling, but it made him more anxious. After all, he had never fought before, how could he face them?
He took a deep breath and, for a second, what had been doubt began to turn into something else. Why should he always back down? Especially now that he had been given another chance. Why should they get away with it? He clenched his teeth and made his decision, slipping into the alley.
The guys were relaxed, smoking and tossing out meaningless comments. The same one who had hit him with the bat the night before looked up and frowned.
"Eh… weren't you the pig from yesterday?" he said. "Wait, now that I think about it, how are you alive?"
He stared at him in surprise, but when he turned his head to confirm his doubts with the others, the scene changed in a blink. They didn't expect what came next.
Byeoto, with the stone in his hand, smashed it into the guy's face with a dry thud. The hit left him staggering, blood pouring from his nose.
But Byeoto didn't stop. With desperate strikes, he threw another punch, and another, and another, until the first one fell to the ground, crying and covered in blood.
The other two reacted as anyone would, with surprise and anger. One took the bat that was on the ground. The other lunged without thinking.
Byeoto threw the blood-covered stone straight at the one charging him. The rock hit its mark. He tried to attack now that the man was vulnerable, but couldn't continue.
The one with the bat struck him with a blow that sent him rolling.
Byeoto tried to cover himself, but he was slow, inexperienced, clumsy.
"Without your cheap tricks, you're nothing," spat the one who had been hit by the rock, right before punching him in the face and slamming him against the wall.
Hot blood filled his mouth, the world spun for a few seconds.
But he didn't give up.
When his enemy grabbed him by the hair to force him to look up, a growl escaped his throat. Hatred tightened around it.
They punched his face over and over, but Byeoto kept his gaze steady, defiant. In that moment, he felt more rage than pain.
With a desperate move, he grabbed a brick from the ground and smashed it against the head of the one holding him.
The guy fell, dazed. But Byeoto, full of fury, got up and attacked, punching his face with pure violence, stopping only when the man stopped moving.
The one with the bat, now enraged by everything that was happening and seeing the state of his companions, charged forward in fury. Byeoto picked up the brick and tried to block the bat with it, and though his fingers suffered, he managed to absorb part of the blow.
But the man with the bat didn't stop. He swung it like a madman. A hit landed square in Byeoto's stomach, making him double over in pain. He had to move fast as the bat came for his face in a deadly arc.
Byeoto ducked just in time, barely dodging the blow by inches. He struck back with the brick, aiming for the man's foot and pressing hard. The hit landed clean. The guy let out a high-pitched scream.
Now losing his advantage, he began swinging the bat wildly, stepping back and yelling for Byeoto not to come closer.
Byeoto didn't hesitate. He hurled the brick with everything he had left, hitting the last thug right in the nose. The strike was solid. The guy dropped the bat immediately, clutching his face as blood gushed out.
Seeing his chance, Byeoto tackled him straight into the wall, slamming his body to the ground.
Then Byeoto showed no mercy. He fell on him and unleashed punches with his fists and even his head, until the rage burned out and his knuckles throbbed, blood flowing freely, his face red.
When he finally stopped, he was breathing through his mouth, panting. Blood dripped from him. The darkness of the alley smelled like iron and smoke. The blood on his shirt had half dried, his ribs hurt, his legs trembled. He leaned against the wall.
He looked at the fallen men, searched their pockets with trembling hands, and found crumpled bills and some coins. It wasn't much, but it was enough, for a decent meal. He stuffed the money into his backpack.
Then he looked at them. He thought that men like them were dangerous, human trash, for what they'd done to him before. Although he couldn't kill them, that didn't mean he couldn't do something to them.
With that fixed idea, he grabbed the bat lying on the ground.
He approached the first one. He broke his legs, his arms, his fingers. Each hit was a burst of rage. The man screamed, but Byeoto didn't stop until every bone cracked.
The second tried to crawl away, but Byeoto caught up. He started by breaking his knees, then his elbows, then his wrists. The bat came down like a hammer, without pause, without mercy.
The last one received the slowest punishment. Byeoto broke his ankles, then his shoulders, finally his arms.
When he was done, the three were lying there, writhing, their bodies destroyed, their limbs bent at impossible angles. Byeoto breathed heavily, his hands shaking, fury still alive in his chest.
He walked out of the alley with short steps, leaving behind the noise of the city. His face hurt, his left eye was swollen and his vision blurred. He had a split lip, a sore nose, and his hands were swollen and cut. But he kept walking. He had tested his strength, imperfect, brutal, and he had won.
As the lights of the avenue opened before him, it came to his mind that if he wanted to survive here, if he wanted to grow strong and change, he would have to keep fighting like this.
He left into the night, limping a little, with his backpack on his shoulder and dried blood on his clothes, hurt, exhausted.
At least this had taught him that he was no longer willing to lose. And that there was a huge margin for improvement, a very large one. He had a long road ahead.