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Griffin Scans
Translator – Sleepyhead
Proofreader – Hero of death
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Chapter 8 - Victory
—-------Lee Junghoon’s P.O.V—------
“Hey, did you hear? The guy who came in dead last is fighting Park Jongpal.”
“For real? Why?”
“I heard he snapped after watching Jongpal beat him up.”
“Whoa. What is he, a hero now?”
“Damn, lucky him. Got himself a strong backer, too.”
I could hear all of it.
They didn’t even bother to lower their voices—didn’t care if I heard, didn’t care how I felt.
I recognized a few of them. Middle school grads I used to sit next to. Now whispering like I was some zoo exhibit.
“How’d he build that kind of bond already?”
“That’s insane. He’s doing way better than any of us.”
Better than us? They said it like we weren’t the same. Like they’d been born above me.
I clenched my teeth.
Cowards. Not one of them had the spine to even look Jongpal in the eyes, but when it came to me? Suddenly, they had courage. Smirking. Whispering. Acting superior.
They weren’t any different from me.
But still—they sneered like they were.
Strength. Power. Wealth. When those things bore down on them, they folded just like I did. But now they ran their mouths like they were above it all.
That’s why I resented Jihoon Yoo.
Because he wasn’t like them. Or me.
All the things I had accepted as fate—being weak, being stepped on
But he was proving they weren’t inevitable.
And not with talk but with action.
So yeah…
I wanted him to lose.
I needed him to.
To break, to get crushed, to fall—so I could tell myself, See? It was never a choice. It was always going to be this way.
The training arena felt the same. No one believed he had a chance.
When Jongpal knocked him down the first time, the laughter was instant, vicious.
But something changed.
He kept getting back up.
Again.
And again.
And again.
At some point, it stopped being funny. It became expected.
It became… real.
He’d rise.
He would rise again.
And seeing him like that—wobbling, barely able to stand, yet still gripping his sword like he meant it—
People stopped laughing.
Even me.
Something deep inside me cracked.
A belief I’d held for as long as I could remember—splitting open like old wood. That fracture had Jihoon’s name carved right into it.
My fists trembled. Something was stirring inside me.
Maybe it was regret.
Regret that I’d never tried. That not even once had I stood up the way he was standing now.
And buried under that regret was something I didn’t expect — Admiration.
Pure and honest.
Jihoon stood there, bloodied and broken, leaning on his sword like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
He looked like he’d lost.
But to me… He looked unbelievably cool.
—--- P.O.V End—--------
[You’re doing great. Just hang on a little longer! Your chance is coming!]
Samchil’s voice rang in my ears.
My swollen eyes and blurred vision made everything hazy.
“Huff… huff…”
My breathing hung on a thread, wheezing shallowly. The fight had gone on too long.
I was covered in blood. Metal pooled in my mouth—tasting sharp, bitter, like I was chewing on nails.
But Park Jongpal wasn’t unscathed either. Jihoon had left shallow cuts on him here and there.
“This bastard’s still struggling, huh?”
“Even with a goddamn coach, your punches are weak.”
They traded barbs to catch their breath.
Then, they charged again.
[Watch your left!]
I stepped back, blocking his punch as Samchil instructed.
For the past two days, the training I focused on most was learning how to move in response to Samchil’s voice.
His words didn’t come through my ears. They reached me directly—like my own thoughts—straight into my head.
Because of that, I could react to him even in actual combat.
Thanks to the hellish beatings I received from Park Jong-pal, I had become fully accustomed to following Samchil’s coaching.
Considering his insight in analyzing opponents and directing my movements, Samchil was far beyond not only me but even someone like Park Jong-pal.
It made no sense that someone like him was living in a shabby goshiwon.
Whoosh!
Dragging my heavy legs, I narrowly avoided his fist.
Another black blur came flying.
As I ducked, a sharp burst of air blew past, tossing my hair.
[Left hook incoming!]
“Hap!”
I exhaled and quickly stepped back, moving with all the strength I had left.
My stamina had already hit its limit.
I had no guarantee how much longer I could hold out.
But I wasn’t worried about losing.
Because the moment I had waited so long for was finally here.
[Now!!]
The voice echoed in my mind like a thunderclap.
“Haaaah!!”
I shouted as I swung my sword reflexively.
My rotating body led the blade into a smooth arc.
Park Jong-pal’s pupils widened in shock.
He had lunged right into the path of my blade.
Anyone watching would’ve thought Park Jong-pal had run straight into my attack.
To put it simply: it was like throwing yourself in front of a speeding car.
This happened because I had completely predicted his movement and placed my sword where he was going to be.
I was able to predict his action so perfectly because…
…Park Jong-pal had a habit.
It was a pattern.
When he missed a left hook aimed at his opponent’s ribs while low on stamina, he always followed up by turning right and throwing an uppercut with his right hand.
A pattern that could be fatal if exposed.
Later, during an interview, he even admitted this flaw himself and thanked someone named Lee Mujin for helping him fix it.
He probably just wanted to brag about being connected to the top-ranked fighter.
Back then, he probably never imagined he’d lose because of that careless remark.
But this was, in fact, the only way I could win this duel.
And thanks to the three factors I mentioned earlier, I had reached this very moment.
Slash!
With a roar, my sword completed its arc.
It slashed across his body from his right side to his left collarbone.
Splatter!
A spray of blood followed the path of my blade.
Thud.
He collapsed.
“Haa… haa…”
The training ground was dead silent. Only my ragged breathing echoed faintly.
But it wasn’t over yet.
“Y-you bastard!!”
Staggering to his feet, he swung another punch.
But it was nothing like before. It was slow and sloppy.
The cut was deep. He was seriously wounded.
His huge fist filled my vision.
BOOM!
I deflected his punch with my sword and spun my body.
His balance wavered, and my left elbow struck his face squarely.
CRACK!
I felt the satisfying impact run down my arm.
A clean counter.
His pupils lost focus, and he collapsed helplessly.
But it still wasn’t over.
It was time for punishment.
Wham! Wham! Wham!
The sound of fists and kicks echoed through the silent arena.
I beat him mercilessly.
With every punch and every kick, the resentment I held inside melted away.
Only after pouring out all those emotions did I finally call the instructor.
“Huff… huff… it’s over.”
“Is that so?”
The instructor, who had been sitting to the side reading a book, closed it and stood up.
He walked over, checked on the bloodied man, helped him up, and declared,
“Victory goes to Yu Ji-hoon.”
At his indifferent declaration, a light smattering of applause came from the spectators.
I didn’t expect cheers.
They’d probably just say I got lucky.
I let myself fall to the ground. I was at my limit too.
As my consciousness slowly faded, I heard the system message.
At first, I thought I misheard it. It was that unbelievable.
【You have won a duel fought for pride.】
【Your residence is downgraded to the streets.】
【Your future has changed dramatically.】
【Your occupation is now: Unemployed.】
Sure, here’s the scene rewritten in POV (Point of View) from Park Jong-pal’s perspective, drawing deeper into his inner thoughts and emotions:
—--
—--------
[At the Infirmary]
—--------Park Jong-pal’s P.O.V—----
I heard the door open before I saw him.
“You okay?”
My body tensed. That voice—it was unmistakable. Cold, steady, indifferent.
“…Huh? Yeah. I’m… fine…”
I turned my head slowly, already knowing who it was. Kim Woo-tae. His eyes, void of expression, locked onto mine.
My breath caught.
Damn it.
I could barely meet his gaze. I wanted to run—no, disappear. Right there, right then. I had known he’d come. I just didn’t expect him so soon.
Revenge? Losing? None of that mattered at this moment.
What I truly feared… was him. His disappointment. His fury.
Kim Woo-tae hated disorder. He hated it when things strayed from the path he laid out. And failure? He never tolerated it.
I knew that better than anyone.
“You like comics?”
The question came out of nowhere. My heart raced. Was this some kind of trick?
I scrambled to think, but my mind was blank. Still—I had to answer. Fast.
“Yeah. I used to like them as a kid.”
His lips curled into a smirk. I didn’t like that smile. It wasn’t friendly.
“When I was little,” he said, “I always found something strange when watching superhero stuff. I always thought I was more like the villain than the hero.”
I swallowed hard. Where was this going?
“You know why?” he continued. “Because I had everything.”
He said it so simply, like it was obvious. Like it was fact.
“The hero… he has nothing. No power. No money. No authority. Not a damn thing. But there’s one reason those guys become the hero.”
He tapped his chest.
“That sense of justice. That stubborn belief that they can make things right, even when the world is beating them down. That’s what makes people root for them.”
Then came that grin again—wider, crueler.
“But for the hero’s journey to be entertaining, there has to be a villain. And the stronger the villain is—the more powerful, the more privileged—the better. Why? Because that kind of thing doesn’t happen in real life.”
His voice tightened, the warmth draining out.
“What Yoo Ji-hoon did… that was classic hero stuff. A guy with nothing, daring to challenge us—the ones with everything. All for some stupid sense of justice.”
I stayed quiet. There was nothing I could say. Nothing that wouldn’t make this worse.
“But comics and real life? They’re not the same.”
His eyes were like ice now.
“You weren’t supposed to lose. You were supposed to crush that bastard and show him how things really work.”
My stomach twisted.
“But you didn’t.” He leaned in closer, voice low.
“You made him the protagonist.”
I felt it then—madness. Pure and dangerous, leaking from every word he spoke. I’d seen him furious before, but never like this. This wasn’t rage. This was controlled. Calculated. And that terrified me more.
“When you lost… can you even imagine what the others felt? Watching that? Their hearts probably started burning. That kind of hope? That kind of delusion? It ruins people.”
He shook his head.
“That’s why stuff like that only works in comics. Because in real life, people like us win. People with power.”
His eyes locked onto mine, sharp as a blade.
“So now, you take responsibility.”
I froze.
“…H-how?”
“Break that bastard,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Make him a cripple. Then drop out.”
He smiled again. That same gentle, haunting smile.
“We’re in the same cohort, remember? Let’s teach him what reality really is.”
And in that moment, I realized—there was no saying no.
Not to Kim Woo-tae.
—---------P.O.V End—------------
~~~~~~~~~~~Chapter End~~~~~~~~~
