One man.
All it took to end that era—was one man alone .The only one who silenced the violence, broke the gangs, and shattered the crowns.
That era was called The Crimson Generation.
Those who were part of it called themselves Creeds.
A time when schools weren't just schools .They were battlegrounds. Every uniform stood for a banner. Every hallway—enemy territory. And the kings? They were teenage boys who ruled not with grades or charm—but fists, knives, and fear.
The streets of Seoul didn't sleep. They pulsed with sirens, echoed with screams, and buzzed with the static of livestreamed beatdowns. Respect had a price. Status had a body count.
And in the center of it all stood a warzone dressed up like a school.
Broken desks. Shattered windows .Lockers split open like rib cages. Walls tattooed in gang symbols—some in cheap paint. Some in blood.
And then… he sat.
A 19-year-old.Face unreadable. Uniform torn. Hands stained with someone else's pain. He sat atop a heap of bodies—moaning, twitching, defeated.
Dozens of them. Maybe more .Some unconscious. Some barely breathing. None standing.
His eyes? Calm. Cold. Empty like a cigarette butt left burning too long.
He didn't gloat. Didn't flex. Didn't say much at all.
Just pulled out a dented lighter. Flicked it to life. Lit a cigarette and said—
"Is that all?"
And the city heard it. a whisper louder than any war cry.
That was the day the gangs of Seoul shut up .The day every self-proclaimed king realized there was a bigger monster out there. And his name spread like fire through gasoline.
But that was three years ago.
January 2025 — Jung-Hwa Vocational High School
There are different kinds of violence. Not all of them leave bruises.
Some hide behind silence. Behind forced laughter .Behind looks that glance past pain and pretend it isn't there.
The second-floor hallway of Building C was always half-empty during the last period. A dead zone between gym and shop class. And that made it perfect.
Perfect for boys who didn't need reasons—just opportunities.
Five of them stood around a mess .One was filming. One was kicking. The others just laughed like it was Friday night and the world existed for their entertainment.
In the center of their circle: Aryl. On his knees. One shoe missing. Bag dumped across the floor like roadkill.
A bruise bloomed on the side of his face—faded, yellowing .A souvenir from last week. Today's would be fresher.
"Say it again, country boy," said one of them, grabbing Aryl's collar and jerking him upright.
Another shoved him back down.
"Say you're our little mascot."
He didn't move. Didn't talk .Didn't even blink.
Many boys hit puberty in their thirteens. Voices deepen. Muscles grow. Backs straighten. They become men. Or try to. But Aryl? At sixteen, he looked like someone who still got asked if his parents were home. His voice? Soft. Almost too soft. His frame? Thin. Bones like bamboo sticks under a loose uniform. Facial hair? A fantasy. Testosterone? Probably still in shipping.
And because of that, the world saw him a certain way. A joke. A target. A weak, easy, disposable plaything.
They waited.
Aryl just stared at the dirty floor like it held all the answers. Like if he looked long enough, he'd disappear into it.
"You deaf or just dumb?" one laughed. "Maybe we hit him too hard last time."
The phone camera kept rolling. Later, it'd be clipped into a short, edited for cheap laughs and shared in private group chats with stupid names. The kind of video no one publicly admits to watching. But everyone does.
Aryl didn't care. Not because he was brave. Not because he was numb. But because in his head, he wasn't even here.
He was somewhere else. A place with no shouting. No footsteps echoing down tile floors. Somewhere soft. Somewhere quiet.
In that place, he was just a boy with a book and a future. He was invisible by choice—not punishment.
But reality doesn't care about fantasy.
A sudden kick to the ribs brought him back. Not enough to make him scream. Just enough to knock the wind from his lungs.
Still, he stayed on his knees. Still silent. Still still.
"He's so boring now," one said. "Yeah. No fun anymore."
"Let's go. Before Coach comes."
And just like that, they were gone. Still laughing. Still filming. Still monsters.
Aryl stayed there a while longer. His breathing was uneven. His face expressionless. His thoughts—scattered and distant.
He reached for his bag slowly, fingers trembling, and started collecting the spilled notebooks and pens. One pencil snapped in half .His math notes were wet from a juice box someone had stomped.
He wiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. Saw blood. Didn't flinch.
Didn't curse. Didn't cry.
Just packed up, stood quietly, and limped toward the stairwell like nothing happened.
No one helped. No one stopped him. No one even asked if he was okay.
But that was normal. That was just a Tuesday.
He was background noise. And in Jung-Hwa, being invisible wasn't safe.
It was blood in the water.
He didn't expect kindness. He'd stopped expecting a lot of things.
That wasn't the day he became strong. Wasn't the day he fought back. It wasn't a movie moment.
There was no power-up. No spark. No epic music.
Just silence. Pain. And a quiet feeling growing inside him like a crack in concrete.
Not rage. Not revenge.
Just… awareness.
That this couldn't go on forever. That something had to change. Even if it wasn't today.
Even if it wasn't him.
But maybe… someday.
And maybe it wouldn't start with strength. But with endurance. A boy who kept showing up even when he didn't have a reason to.
Because sometimes, stories don't start with heroes.
They start with survivors.
He wasn't strong. Not yet. But there was something in his silence—Something they couldn't quite laugh away.