Lookism: King's Ascension

They had sent someone in to untie him.

The man's movements were rough, hands working quickly but without care. 

Each tug on the rope sent sharp jolts of pain through Taeyang's arms, but he didn't flinch. The bindings had left deep red marks on his skin, raw and inflamed from all the chafing and struggling. 

His limbs felt numb, disconnected, like they weren't his own.

His gaze flickered to the side, landing on the man who had been muttering about Circles earlier. 

He lay slumped against the cold concrete, his face slack, eyes closed. But something about the unnatural stillness of his body made Taeyang pause.

Was he asleep, or was he dead?

He didn't care enough to check.

There was no connection between them, no reason to waste time on someone who might already be gone. 

The only thing that mattered was that he was still breathing.

The man who had untied him grunted, shoving him toward the exit with little patience. "Get moving," he muttered, voice rough and tired. "You're not our problem anymore."

Taeyang's legs were unsteady, like they hadn't been used in years. 

His body felt foreign, stiff from being tied up for so long. 

But he forced himself forward, following the sound of footsteps as they echoed through the empty corridor.

The hallway was poorly lit, with cracks lining the floor like veins in brittle stone. Shadows clung to the walls, stretching long and eerie beneath the dim fluorescent lights. Everything about this place felt abandoned… silent except for the occasional hum of distant machinery.

A warehouse.

An old, forgotten warehouse, the kind that smelled of rust and dust, soaked with the kind of memories that never really faded. There was barely anything left inside. Empty shelves, overturned crates. It had served a purpose once, but whatever that was, it was long over.

The harsh lighting made his head throb. 

His mind was still hazy from everything that had happened—the threats, the blows, the choices that weren't really choices at all. 

He had no plan, no idea where he was supposed to go. But his body moved forward regardless, guided by instinct alone.

The door ahead swung open with a screech, and Taeyang stepped out into the night.

Cold air hit him like a slap, biting through the thin fabric of his clothes. He shivered instinctively, his body aching from more than just the cold.

The street in front of him was nearly deserted, bathed in the weak glow of flickering street lights. 

The distant hum of traffic and muffled voices drifted from somewhere far away, but here, in this quiet stretch of road, he felt completely alone.

Then something flew toward him.

Reflex took over. He caught it… barely. The plastic casing was cold in his fingers.

His phone.

The man who had thrown it didn't even bother to stop, his footsteps already fading into the dark.

"Take what's yours and get the hell out of here," he barked over his shoulder.

Then he was gone.

Taeyang stared down at the phone in his hand, its screen smudged and slightly cracked. It was the only thing that felt remotely familiar. 

The only link between himself and whatever life he had before this.

His gaze dropped lower, taking in the rough, ill-fitting clothes clinging to his body. This… this wasn't him. He had never owned anything like this.

Except he had. 

Taeyang had.

He moved, more of an instinct guiding his direction than actual thoughts and more of a limp than an actual walk. 

His thoughts wandered. Memories reconciled. He inhaled.

Buzz.

A notification from his phone.

His parents. It was a photo.

His mum and dad stood in front of their small chicken shop, his dad grinning behind the counter while his mum held up a peace sign. The place was packed. Customers crowded the tiny space, eating, laughing, filling the tables.

[Mum]: Busy today 😊

Taeyang stared at the message for a moment.

A year ago, the shop had barely scraped by. He knew because he had been there… watching his parents struggle to make ends meet, their stress hidden behind tired smiles.

That was why he left when he turned 17. Not because he wanted to, but because one less mouth to feed meant one less thing for them to worry about.

He had told them it was because of school. That Anyang had better opportunities. That he wanted to live independently. But the truth was, he couldn't stand seeing them struggle anymore.

Taeyang had left to make it easier on them.

But in turn, things had become harder on him. 

He'd been fired from his part time job after the store shut down and other jobs were hard to find. 

It'd been a spur of the moment decision to steal some money from the nearby gang. Not much, just three hundred thousand won from one of their safes that they'd left outside.

Stupid in hindsight but emergencies make people stupid.

And Taeyang hadn't even bothered finding out what type of gang it was.

If he'd known it was a Circle… he wouldn't have even tried.

He couldn't ask his parents for money. Not when they were possibly struggling as much as he was. Just because they had a busy night now, didn't mean it'd happen every time.

He'd been there when there was maybe 1 customer per night, when they'd had to scrape together won for 3 square meals a day in case a customer came to their cart.

And then they'd paid to turn the cart into a shop.

It was a ridiculous expense and ultimately what forced him to make the decision to leave.

His parents… Taeyang smiled. They were good people.

Eventually home came into sight, an old crusty looking apartment.

The stairs creaked under his weight as he climbed to his one room place. I

Taeyang dug into his pockets, fumbling twice before pulling out the key. The keyhole was strangely dented, possibly from years of use.

He let himself in.

Darkness.

A single press of the light switch bathed the tiny space in a dull, yellow glow. His futon sat against the wall, his desk cluttered with books and crumpled convenience store receipts. An empty cup of instant coffee from last week sat by his laptop.

His laptop.

He remembered using it previously for school, at least before school became a fucking battleground for Circles recruiting new members.

It hadn't always been like this.

The new Taeyang was completely lost but the old Taeyang's memories came naturally. Not quite memories but… feelings, instincts.

Things that should've been common sense or common knowledge to him but now were unnaturally far.

The First Generation Kings… they weren't a thing yet.

Right now? The Pre-Generation followers of Gapryong Kim… they were the ones running everything.

They were the ones to recruit students and send them to fight against the other followers. They were still here, still alive… and still fighting.

Meaning that when the tall guy had talked about Jeondu's squad being destroyed… he meant that that entire team had most likely either died or got sent to the ICU.

A team that got into situations like that… that was what he'd been forced into joining.

His forearm shook until he held onto it.

Couldn't he just… couldn't he just not turn up? It's not like they knew where he lived… except…

… he'd been at home before he'd woken up in that room.

His mind went back to the dented keyhole.

"Fuck."

The memory clicked.

They'd fucking kidnapped him from his own fucking apartment.

Well there goes escaping.

Taeyang pressed his back against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the cold floor. His fingers curled into his palms, his nails digging into his skin.

He had no choice but to join the squad.

But if he had to fight… 

He couldn't die.

That was the only rule.

This world was throwing him straight into the deep end… not even the second gen where he actually vaguely knew the plot and had time to find out how to survive in the middle of everything. Which meant one thing.

He needed to train.

Taeyang's fingers flexed against his palm. Training. The word sounded simple. Obvious. But what did it actually mean?

What was he supposed to do? Lift weights? Shadowbox? Run laps until his legs gave out?

He didn't know how to fight. Not really. The old Taeyang had never been in a proper brawl. He wasn't one of those kids who got into scraps every other week. 

He had taken punches before, but those had been desperate, uncoordinated swings… flailing attempts from a loser.

He wasn't a fighter.

But none of that mattered anymore.

Because if he didn't train now, he was going to die.

His gaze flickered to the corner of his tiny apartment.

There. Dusty. Half-forgotten. A sandbag.

Something the old Taeyang had bought in a moment of resolve, only to let it rot in the corner, untouched. A symbol of good intentions with no follow-through.

But he wasn't the old Taeyang.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, his body still aching from the beating earlier. His legs protested as he dragged the sandbag to the center of the room, its weight heavy against his sore muscles.

He didn't know how to fight.

A flicker of a memory about a webtoon came to his mind.

But he did know how to throw a low kick.

He inhaled.

And then…

Slam!

His shin crashed against the bag. The impact sent a dull shock up his leg, a reminder of how weak he was.

Again.

Slam!

The bag barely budged. His balance was off. His weight distribution, terrible. His form… probably shit.

But he didn't stop.

Slam!

Slam!