Rain slicked streets. Neon signs flickered like distant stars, their reflections broken in the puddles. Every droplet that hit my face felt heavier than the last, carrying the weight of a thousand lonely days. I shivered under my thin jacket, wet and stiff, hands trembling—not entirely from the cold.
My name is Minjae Omoyogi, though lately it's felt more like a label than a person. A name to call in the void, hoping someone—anyone—would answer. But the streets answer with silence. The city doesn't care about me. The people don't care about me. Even myself, I wondered, if I truly cared about me.
I crouched behind a trash bin, stomach growling, eyes darting to the alley mouth. Three men lurked there, shadows melting with the rain. I didn't recognize them, but their eyes recognized me. They smelled weakness, desperation.
"You there! Little mouse!" one barked. "Hand over what you've got."
I shook my head. "I… I don't have anything," I whispered. My voice was barely audible, a ghostly squeak in the endless noise of the city.
"Don't lie," another sneered. His fists clenched, trembling with anticipation—or maybe the thrill of hurting someone smaller, weaker.
And in that moment, I realized something. I wasn't entirely small. I wasn't entirely weak. Something inside me stirred, and it was unlike anything I had ever felt.
A warmth in my chest, like embers glowing in darkness, spread through my veins. My body seemed to hum, alive in a way that had nothing to do with hunger, fear, or the cold. The world slowed. Every heartbeat of the thugs, every drop of rain, every echo in the alley became clear. I could see before they moved. Hear before they breathed.
"What…" I muttered, my own voice strange to my ears. A low, vibrating hum filled my chest. The alley itself seemed to pulse, responding to me.
The leader lunged.
I didn't think. My hands moved before I could. A push, a touch—whatever force I didn't understand surged through me. The thug slammed against the wall with a heavy crack, bricks shivering under his impact. He coughed, staggering backward, eyes wide with disbelief.
The others froze. "W-What… what are you?" one stammered.
"I… I don't know," I admitted, voice trembling. Truth was, I didn't know. I didn't understand what had just happened, but I knew it was mine. Mine alone. Something ancient, waiting in my blood, had awakened.
The thugs bolted.
I sank to the ground, knees trembling, heart hammering. My fingers traced the wet pavement as if searching for answers in the cracks and grime. And then I heard it: a faint pulse, a vibration beneath the earth, like a heartbeat not my own. It whispered to me—not in words, but in feeling. In resonance.
I pressed my palms to the ground. The pulse grew stronger, intertwining with the rhythm of my own heart. Images flashed across my mind: faces I had never seen, places I had never been, battles I had never fought. Knowledge—memories—that were not my own.
I gasped.
This was the Omoyogi bloodline.
The ancestor. My first ancestor. He had crossed worlds, fought battles, survived centuries, and left something behind. A seed. And I… I was the first to awaken it in the living world.
I felt tears prick my eyes—not from fear, not from pain, but from understanding. A life of nothingness, of struggle, of loneliness, had led me here. And yet, it was only the beginning.
Hours later—or maybe minutes; time felt strange—I found myself at the edge of an abandoned street. Steam rose from drains, curling into the neon glow, masking the city in a foggy haze. And there, standing like a statue in the mist, was a figure. Tall, cloaked, radiating a presence that pressed against my chest, making breathing suddenly heavy.
"You…" The figure's voice was gravel and shadow, each word a weight. "You have awakened. Not fully, but enough. I felt it from miles away."
I swallowed hard. "Awakened? I… I don't know what you mean."
"You are of the Omoyogi bloodline," it said. "Centuries of preparation, and you… you are the first to awaken while alive. Without dying, without passing. This is… unprecedented."
My mind spun. "Bloodline? Passing? First? What are you talking about?"
The figure studied me, silent. A chill ran down my spine. And then it spoke again: "You have power. Not ordinary. Not something a man born into this world should ever hold. And soon… the world will notice you."
I looked down at my hands, trembling. "I… I just want to survive. I don't even know what I can do."
"You misunderstand," the figure said. "Survival is only the first step. You were chosen before you were born. The Omoyogi Clan was meant to rise through blood, through trials, through reincarnation. You are the beginning."
I swallowed hard. My mind reeled. I had dreamed of power, of a family, of a life where I belonged. And now… this figure, this voice in the shadows, told me that the dreams were real. That the path before me was mine to walk—but it would be nothing like the street life I knew.
I exhaled slowly, feeling the pulse in my chest intensify. My fingers tingled. My body, my mind, even the rain-soaked air around me seemed alive. Something ancient, eternal, and terrible had chosen me.
And I… accepted it.
For the first time, I felt the stirrings of purpose.
"I will survive. I will rise. I will forge a family, a clan, and a legacy that will never be broken."
The city hummed around me, indifferent, vast, alive. And I felt a strange sense of peace amidst the chaos. The streets were still harsh, the nights still long, the world still cruel. But I… I was no longer just another face in the crowd.
I was Minjae Omoyogi. The first of my bloodline. The awakening had begun.
And in that awakening… I glimpsed the world I would change.