The word left Jin-woo's mouth like a shard of glass: "Yes."
Kim did not smile. He showed no relief. It was as if he had expected this answer, or perhaps had wished he wouldn't say it. "Good. It starts now. First rule: Never trust me."
Ten minutes later, Jin-woo found himself in an underground garage in a derelict industrial district. The air smelled of burnt oil, dampness, and rust. The only light came from a flickering neon lamp, casting trembling shadows on the concrete walls.
"This is your new classroom," Kim said, removing his jacket to reveal a lean torso covered in scars and strange tattoos that resembled combat symbols. "You are not learning here for show. You are learning to survive. And survival begins by understanding your enemy not with your mind, but with your body."
He pointed to a heavy sandbag hanging in the corner. "Seung-hoon's kick. The one you 'knew.' Show me."
Jin-woo performed the movement. It was technically accurate in form, but weak, devoid of essential power.
Thwack!
A light wooden cane struck the back of his thigh, making him yelp.
"Stop thinking about the shape!" Kim's voice was a low growl. "You're not copying a picture. You're copying the effect. Feel the kick again in your mind. Not how it looked. How it felt on your ribs."
Jin-woo closed his eyes. The ghost of pain flared in his side. Yes. The torque of the hip. The shift of weight. The point of impact meant to rupture.
"Now, do it as if you want to shatter someone else's ribs."
Jin-woo rose. This time, he didn't just visualize the movement; he felt it from both ends—the attacker and the victim. He executed the kick. It was sharper. More vicious.
"Adequate," Kim said, his voice flat. "Now, repeat it. Two hundred times. On each leg."
Two hundred times. This was the price. Jin-woo knew repetition was his path, but this intensity? He began. Once. Twice. Ten times. After thirty repetitions, his leg was on fire. After seventy, sweat poured from him and his muscles screamed. His mind kept count: 71... 72... 73...
Kim watched in silence, occasionally correcting the angle of his foot with a tap of the cane. No encouragement. No empathy. Only the relentless metronome of repetition.
Around the 120th repetition, something shifted. Jin-woo stopped thinking. The movement became a reaction. It was no longer a copied file; it was becoming his own code. His ability was working—the intense, pressured repetition was compressing months of normal practice into hours.
"Enough," Kim said abruptly. "Now, the defense against it."
Kim faced him. "I will attack you with the same kick. Your task is not to block it. Your task is to avoid it, and to understand it more deeply. Then, after you've felt it a thousand times from every angle, you will know how to break it."
Kim's kick was lightning. Faster and crisper than Seung-hoon's. Jin-woo wasn't ready.
THUD!
It landed on the exact same spot on his ribs. He crumpled to the floor, gasping for air.
"The clock is running. Get up. I will repeat it. You will avoid it. Or you will receive it."
This wasn't training. It was orchestrated torture. Days bled together in the garage. Jin-woo slept on a thin mat. Ate the bland meals Kim provided. And trained. Kim didn't "teach" in the traditional sense. He forced comprehension through exposure.
He would demonstrate a technique—a Muay Thai elbow, a Judo throw, a Wing Chun chain punch—only once or twice. Then, he would attack Jin-woo with it. Over and over. Dozens, then hundreds of times. Until Jin-woo's body learned to predict it, to remember the kinetic pattern, and ultimately, to absorb it.
The ability was growing, but at a painfully slow, brutal rate. To fully copy a single technique, he needed those hundreds of exposures. His body was becoming a living archive of pain and movement.
One evening, as Jin-woo tended to a cut on his forearm, he finally asked, "Why are you doing this? Why do you want someone who can just... remember styles?"
Kim looked at him, his eyes reflecting the sickly neon light. "There are organizations in this world, Jin-woo. Groups that collect, steal, and hoard fighting arts. They are like toxic collectors. They hunt for rare styles to weaponize. You... you are a perfect surveillance camera. You record everything you see. But cameras can be smashed."
"Are you from one of those groups?" Jin-woo asked, his heart thudding.
"I am a ghost they created. They call our kind 'Faulty Memory.' Because we remember what the world is supposed to forget. You are now becoming my new memory. And a last line of defense."
A new weight settled on Jin-woo's shoulders. He wasn't just learning to defend himself. He was becoming a living archive. A secret weapon.
A month in, the real test came. Two men entered the garage without warning. They wore dark, practical clothing, their faces all hard lines and silent threat. Kim's posture shifted instantly, becoming a coiled spring.
"They found you at last, Kim. Time to come back."
"The boy comes too. He'll be valuable to the Collection. Raw memory."
Kim didn't speak. He glanced at Jin-woo. "Remember. Everything you've seen. Everything you've felt. Use it now. This is not a drill."
The first man lunged, using a brutal, efficient style Jin-woo recognized as Krav Maga—straight to crippling points. Jin-woo saw the finishing blow coming: a simulated knife-hand strike to the neck. He'd only seen a similar move in one clip... not enough to copy. But he had seen hundreds of defensive maneuvers from Kim.
His body moved before thought. Not copying an attack, but replicating a reaction he had been forced to practice a thousand times: a subtle head slip followed by a short, sharp elbow to the floating ribs—a Muay Thai move Kim had drilled into him the week before.
Oof!
The man grunted in surprise at the unexpected angle and speed, stumbling back.
But the second man was faster. His style was alien—fluid, circular motions like Tai Chi, yet carrying lethal intent. He launched a palm strike toward Jin-woo's chest. Jin-woo had no data on this style. His mind blanked. He froze.
Before the strike could land, Kim was there. He moved like a phantom between them, shoving Jin-woo aside. Then he turned to face the two men, his entire stance transforming into something fluid and unrecognizable.
"Go!" Kim barked at Jin-woo, his eyes never leaving the intruders. "The back exit! Remember every move I make! Every single one!"
Staggering towards the rusted rear door, Jin-woo saw Kim unleash a blizzard of techniques—a Taekwondo kick flowed into an Aikido wrist lock, which morphed into a strike from a Chinese style Jin-woo couldn't name. Kim was fighting a library, and he was showing Jin-woo every book.
Jin-woo's mind, despite the terror, opened wide. He was recording. Every shift, every transition, every subtle weight change. He couldn't copy them now... but he was storing them. For the day when he would have the thousands of repetitions needed to understand.
He burst out into a dark alley, the cold night air hitting his sweat-soaked skin, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was alone. Kim had stayed behind as a distraction, a sacrifice.
In the gloomy silence, Jin-woo leaned against a wet wall, trembling from adrenaline and pain. But in his eyes, a new fire was lit—the fire of stolen knowledge, and the chilling fear of what it meant.
He had survived. But Kim was likely captured or worse. And now, Jin-woo was alone. A walking memory bank filled with forbidden martial secrets, hunted by a dangerous organization he didn't understand.
Huddled in the shadows, he had to decide his next move. Not as a student, but as a keeper of shadows.