Back when I was Kim Gil, a young man fresh out of college.
I'd experienced failure dozens of times.
I couldn't land a job.
Resumes went unanswered more often than not, and even when I made it to interviews, it was the same story.
The first few times, I bombed from nerves and poor delivery, but later, even when I nailed the talking, I still got rejected.
Now, I couldn't even guess why I kept getting turned down.
I applied to fields outside my major, even studied for civil service exams for about two years, but nothing changed.
While living as a jobless bum, playing games or posting nonsense online became my full-time gig—or non-gig, really.
By then, job hunting felt like an excuse to beg for pocket money or prop up my unemployed pride.
Looking back, I was still pretty blessed, all things considered.
At least I had parents willing to feed their overgrown kangaroo kid.
But even that started wearing thin as I hit my late twenties.
Family gatherings turned into "When are you getting married? Want me to set you up?" sessions.
I got so fed up that I flat-out said I was turning down offers because I had no job and was a total loser.
That must've really hurt my mom's feelings.
That night, for the first time in my life, I shared a drink with my dad.
Strangely, I'd been scolded by him plenty, but I'd never really opened up or gotten advice.
To me, he was someone I could rely on but never truly confide in.
We awkwardly passed the glass back and forth, chatting about this and that, when Dad said something like this.
"You're not bad, and you're not weird.It's not your fault you don't have a job.It's the country's fault. Society's fault.Kim Gil, you're my son! You're not a failure!It's a shitty country that doesn't give young people a chance!"We drank in silence for so long that by the time our tongues started slurring, both Dad and I were pretty wasted.
But I remember those words crystal clear.
Right or wrong, that was the first time I felt how much Dad cared about me.
I made up my mind. If I was gonna try something, I'd chase what I actually wanted.
As an unemployed slacker, I'd been messing around with game development for fun.
So I shelled out big bucks for a game academy, got certified, and sent out my first resume.
Predictably, rejected.
Still, leveraging my gaming experience and online ramblings, I applied everywhere for planning roles. A small company finally sent an acceptance letter.
I learned later it wasn't my skills—they got government subsidies to exploit young grads for free labor for a few months.
But hey, a foot in the door's a foot in the door.
At least this country tossed young people a bone now and then. I was grateful.
Now I could make my parents proud on my own dime.
And.
Man, did I suffer.
Small companies overload you regardless of title—too few people, too many tasks.
Game planners wrote docs, copy, entered data. At first, I thought it was all part of the job, so I learned everything, pulled all-nighters without complaint.
Looking back, it was straight-up slavery.
More work means more responsibility.
More to juggle means more mistakes.
More screw-ups means more scoldings and abuse.
After grinding like that for over two years, my body and mind were wrecked.
I lost track of whether I was making games or just kissing ass—then the company tanked.
Well, as it was sinking, they axed the "unprofitable" hires like me.
Screw that place. It went under for good later anyway.
But those experiences landed me a better gig at a new company...
Then Dad got diagnosed with stage 3 colon cancer.
He quit his barely-paying office job, and I bailed on my new one soon after.
Couldn't leave Mom handling caregiving alone.
Maybe because of that, we spent more family time together, which seemed to lift Dad's spirits.
For stage 3, he stayed pretty active, and surgery went well.
Post-discharge, we fed him healthy foods and hung out as a family.
We even took our first family vacation since college—a real one.
Staying on a little island.
The three of us were happier than ever, laughter nonstop.
Things seemed on track; Dad would beat the cancer.
He talked about flying overseas next if he recovered—world's so big, gotta see new places before kicking the bucket.
With hopes for the future, people to lean on, sharing life.
I wished moments like that could stretch on forever.
That's happiness, I thought.
The problem hit right after the trip.
I didn't know raw seafood was poison for cancer patients.
Didn't realize overexertion in pure joy could be fatal.
Next day back, Dad spiked a fever and got rushed to the ER.
Tests showed terminal cancer.
Doc said it had spread a lot. Eat what you crave, take it easy.
To me, that sounded like "give up on treatment, make him comfortable."
Then they pitched an experimental drug not covered by insurance—wanna try?
Facing death, that's a scam.
Who wouldn't grasp at straws? Patient or family, you'd say yes to anything.
It was pointless. Just blew our deposit money.
Like hell it improved things.
I got a taste of a world without universal coverage.
Dad kept declining, but not catastrophically.
Terminal cancer's cruel because you don't drop dead quick.
Your body doesn't improve; it fades bit by bit.
Pain builds gradually.
Slowly.
Slowly.
The longer it drags, the worse for patient and family.
They say caregivers die first in drawn-out cases. Mom, after two-plus years, looked like she might.
Eventually, Dad needed painkillers nonstop.
They wrecked his mind; he couldn't stay lucid.
Mom and I checked him into hospice—the endgame for cancer.
A month later, we watched him pass.
Weirdly, no tears at the funeral home.
Body and soul totally spent.
But afterward, random waves of choking sobs hit out of nowhere.
That PTSD kept me from holding a new job.
Mom, with her longer caregiving stint, had it worse.
Three, four months later.
Before I could even recover.
Mom didn't wake up one morning.
I don't remember calling 119 or what I did in that haze.
Diabetes. Heart failure. Someone explained, but it didn't stick.
Came to in another funeral home.
Sent both off together. Settled affairs.
Back in my now-rent apartment, I lay like a corpse for days.
Wake up morning or noon, hit with the gut-punch: they're gone.
Stuff it down till sleep took over again.
Sleep, wake. Sleep, wake.
Didn't know if I was sleeping or not.
Couldn't do anything.
Didn't even want to die.
But...
Hunger doesn't care.
Stomach screaming, I finally cracked the fridge after days.
A memo stuck to the side dish containers.
Heat this up in the microwave and eat.
Kimchi and rice in the fridge too.
Mom's handwriting.
Maybe she sensed her end was near.
Reading each note, tears flooded out.
I wailed like a banshee, unleashing all the pent-up grief.
Finally, I thought: eat and live.
Finish Mom's meals, take the trips Dad never could.
But.
The world wasn't kind to a lone survivor.
Career gap from caregiving? Tough to rehire. I scraped by on grueling part-time gigs.
Pushing too hard to survive, I tumbled down some stairs pointlessly.
Body unresponsive, consciousness fading.
Past memories flashed by.
Everything dissolving one by one.
Last thought: that family trip.
The happiest moment of my life.
"If only time had stopped right then..."
⚡ HAPPY MOMENT ⚡— If time had stopped then...
Just like that.
Just like...
Everything froze.
Katona mid-swing.
The wolf riders encircling us.
All still.
Only I charged forward.
Finally, I understood my blessing.
What Happy Moment meant.
The desperate wish from my dying breath.
⚡ HAPPY MOMENT ⚡— Understood —
THUD!!!
And so.
Katona's blade struck empty earth where Reshi had vanished.
"What!?"
I was heading toward the white wolf, cradling the fainted Reshi, dodging the attack.
Casual as if no threat, no tension existed.
"Hey, you. What magic was that?"
Katona looked baffled by the sudden turn. Figures.
But I wasn't in the mood to chat.
Memories flooding back stirred a storm of emotions.
The gut-wrenching loss of my parents in my past life...
It surged again.
Still, relieved Reshi was just out cold and safe, I reined it in and spoke flatly.
"Katona, right? Hold on a sec.
I'll give you all the time in the world... soon."
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