Chapter 2- The Shack of Shadows

Ryu's vision blurred as the world around him spun. The old man's voice seemed distant, as though coming from the depths of a tunnel. His body, already weak and battered, could no longer withstand the strain. The last thing Ryu saw before succumbing to unconsciousness was the concerned furrow of the old man's brow and the whisper of trees swaying ominously in the wind.

Hours, maybe days passed. Ryu awoke to the sound of a creaking door and the chill of damp air on his skin. He found himself lying on a makeshift bed of straw inside a decrepit shack. The wood of the walls was old, warped, and weathered, with deep cracks running through it like veins. A cold draft slipped through the openings, carrying with it the smell of damp earth and rot.

The ceiling sagged dangerously low, and patches of mold clung to the corners. The floor was made of uneven stone, cold and cracked, covered in a thin layer of dirt. In one corner, a pile of discarded wood and debris leaned precariously, while the other side of the room held a lone wooden table, its surface scarred from years of use. The single window, barely hanging on its rusty hinges, was covered in a layer of grime so thick that barely any light filtered through. Every part of the shack spoke of decay, as if the building itself had long since given up hope of standing against time's relentless march.

Ryu attempted to move, but his body refused to obey. A sharp pain shot through him, and he realized that he couldn't even lift his arm. His limbs felt like lead, as though they were weighed down by an invisible force. His body throbbed with pain—pain that was far too real for this to be a dream.

He stared at the wooden beams above, trying to piece together the events that led him here. He remembered Seoul, his tormentors, the cave, the strange world he had awakened in. It all felt like a bizarre nightmare, yet the throbbing in his body told him otherwise.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the shack, Ryu's mind raced. "This can't be real... this has to be some kind of sick dream," he muttered, his voice hoarse.

But the pain was undeniable. His bruises ached with every shallow breath, and his stomach twisted in hunger. As if on cue, the door creaked open again. The old man from the previous day entered, his presence commanding yet silent, like a shadow. He carried a bowl filled with some sort of thick, murky liquid.

The old man approached Ryu with a quiet intensity, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he sat beside Ryu's straw bed, raising the bowl to Ryu's lips. The liquid inside was dark, almost black, and its pungent smell hit Ryu's nostrils, making him wince.

"Drink," the old man said, his voice gravelly but firm.

Ryu hesitated. The liquid smelled bitter, rancid even. But his hunger gnawed at him with such force that he had no choice but to drink. The taste was even worse than the smell—bitter, earthy, and with a metallic aftertaste that made Ryu gag. But he was too weak to care. He swallowed the entire bowl's contents in one go.

The old man watched him intently, as though waiting for a reaction. Ryu coughed and grimaced, but the liquid seemed to bring a strange warmth to his insides, dulling the edge of his pain.

"Good," the old man muttered, standing up. He rummaged through a pile of rags in the corner of the shack, pulling out a set of oversized, tattered clothes. "Your clothes were torn. These are the only ones I have. They'll have to do for now."

The clothes were far too big for Ryu's frail frame, hanging loosely off his shoulders and dragging along the floor as he struggled to sit up. The cold fabric brushed against his bruised skin, making him wince.

As he sat there, adjusting to the oversized garments, Ryu felt an overwhelming sense of unease. The atmosphere in the shack was heavy, suffocating. Everything felt foreign— the air, the ground beneath him, the sounds of the wind outside. It was as if the world itself was watching him, waiting for something.

The old man sat down on a small stool across from Ryu, his dark eyes studying him carefully.

"Your body," the old man began, "is a mess."

Ryu tensed. The old man's words hung in the air, heavy with concern and something darker—pity.

"You've been beaten down... inside and out. I've never seen someone with so little qi," the old man continued. "It's almost as if your energy was drained from you, leaving you with nothing."

Ryu blinked. Qi? What was this old man talking about? Energy? Drained? None of this made sense.

"You have no qi," the old man repeated, his voice low. "No life force. That's why you're so weak. That's why you can barely move."

Ryu's head spun. He had no idea what the old man meant, but he could tell from his tone that this was serious—more serious than he could comprehend.

"What… what does that mean?" Ryu croaked, his throat dry and his mind clouded with confusion.

The old man's face softened slightly, though his eyes remained hard. "It means you have a long road ahead of you, boy. If you stay like this, you'll never survive in this world."

Ryu's heart sank. The old man's words were like a death sentence. Survive? In this world? He didn't even know where he was.

But the old man leaned forward, a glint of something—perhaps hope—in his eyes. "But don't worry. I can teach you the ways of Murim."

"Murim?" Ryu echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. The word was foreign to him, like everything else in this strange place.

The old man nodded slowly. "The world of martial arts, of power, of qi. The strong thrive here, while the weak are trampled underfoot. If you want to survive, if you want to live in this world... you'll have to learn."

Ryu's mind was still trying to process everything. This world of Murim… martial arts, qi, power? It sounded like something out of a fantasy story. But the pain in his body, the coldness of the shack, the weight of the old man's words—everything felt far too real.

The old man stood up, moving toward the door. He stopped, looking back at Ryu one last time. "Rest for now. Tomorrow, we begin. And remember, boy—this world doesn't care about your past or who you think you are. You're nothing here, but that can change... if you're willing to fight for it."

With that, the door creaked shut, leaving Ryu alone in the dim shack. The wind howled outside, its mournful wail a haunting reminder that he was no longer in Seoul. No longer the fragile, bullied boy he once was.

But in this new world, he was something else entirely. What, exactly, he didn't know yet. But one thing was certain—the old man's words had struck a chord deep within him.