“The Devil Walks Alone”
"Power isn't given. It's taken. And once it's yours—never let it go."
Busan's winter wasn't cold. It was cruel.
The sky above the docks was a bruised shade of gray, thick with the stench of salt, rust, and something more... primal. Dogsung High loomed on the southern end of the city like a broken monument—a decaying fortress marked by graffiti and gang tags, its walls as scarred as the boys who walked its halls.
The school bell rang, but the real world—the one outside these iron gates—never stopped.
A new student stood outside, watching.
No one saw him arrive. No introduction. No transfer letter. Just a shadow beneath the steel-gray sky, black bangs hiding a gaze sharp enough to cut. A lean silhouette under a thrift-store uniform—simple, quiet, forgettable.
But that's what scared people most.
Eli Nam.
No background. No guardians. No file.
Just rumors.
In the streets, whispers moved faster than ink on paper. They called him a ghost. A boy who had burned through cities, leaving behind shattered gangs and broken men. A stare so cold, it made knives look soft.
Today, Dogsung High would learn his name.
Inside, the school pulsed with a tension born not from books, but from blood.
The Pit Dogs ruled the first floor. They swaggered like they owned the place, bomber jackets half-zipped, gold chains clinking, sneakers squeaking against grime-streaked tiles. Their turf wasn't official, but it didn't need to be—vending machines in their pockets, lockers filled with contraband, freshmen too scared to do anything but pay tribute in silence... or bruises.
Gwansik—sharp jaw, bleach-blond undercut, dead eyes—sat like a street prince in the middle of it all. Legs kicked up on a desk, a cigarette dangling between his lips, exhaling lazily like the world was his to burn. Around him, the mutts barked, harassed, and hooted.
"Yo! Who's the twig at the gate?" one of them asked, squinting at the distant entrance.
Gwansik didn't bother looking up. He blew out smoke, twisted it into a sneer. "New meat. He'll learn."
They were already too late.
Eli Nam had stepped inside ten minutes ago.
He'd already cataloged every face. Every weak chin. Every twitchy eye. Every lazy stance. They were loud, but brittle.
The Devil had entered the kennel.
And not a single bark was heard.
LUNCHTIME
A commotion echoed through the lower hallway.
Eli stood by a vending machine. Silent. One hand resting casually in his pocket, the other tapping a coin against the machine's edge.
Three Pit Dogs moved in, circling him like vultures sensing weakness.
"Hey, new kid. This is our turf," one said, voice a fake growl laced with nervous swagger.
Eli didn't move. His eyes stayed fixed on the machine. Focused. Detached.
"You deaf?" another asked, stepping in closer, puffing his chest out.
Stillness.
The third, the bravest—or the dumbest—stepped forward and grabbed Eli's collar with a cocky grin.
In the blink of an eye, the world flipped upside down.
Eli twisted his wrist, broke the grip with surgical precision, and moved into the boy's space. A loud crack. A scream. The Pit Dog's shoulder was ripped from its socket, and he crashed to the ground, howling.
Eli's hand fell back to his side, relaxed. No emotion. Just cold, effortless control.
The other two flinched.
One tried to flank him, creeping like a street brawler. The other charged head-on, throwing a haymaker.
Eli ducked under the punch, pivoted, and swept the first Pit Dog's legs from under him. He slammed his knee into the boy's ribs, and there was a sickening crack.
Before the last one could bolt, Eli blurred forward. He caught the boy's arm mid-swing, bent it at an unnatural angle, and spun him like a ragdoll. He slammed the Pit Dog's face into a locker.
Bang. Blood splattered cold steel. The impact rattled the hallway like thunder.
The boy slumped, gasping, barely breathing.
Eli stood over them—composed, controlled. No anger. No emotion. Just the ghostly presence of someone who had done this before... a thousand times.
His shoes hadn't made a sound.
The hallway held its breath.
By the end of the day, the name Eli Nam wasn't just known—it was feared.
Rowan Yu, who had ruled the Pit Dogs like a smug little prince, sat in silence. His jaw clenched. His usual cocky smirk was long gone.
No one had ever dared lay hands on the Pit Dogs inside the school—not until today. Now three of their top fighters were out cold, wheeled off to the clinic with shattered joints and blurry memories. And no one had seen the fight. Not one move.
The details were hazy. But the word on the street painted a picture. This wasn't a scuffle. This wasn't a brawl. This was a cold, professional execution. No wasted moves. No shouting. Just clean, calculated violence. Like Eli had studied them, moved like a ghost, and struck like a machine.
It wasn't just his strength that scared them. It was how precise it was. How controlled.
They started calling him the Devil—not just because of what he did, but how he did it. Silent. Unfeeling. Inevitable.
Eli Nam had arrived at Dogsung High. Alone.
But even alone, he was the most dangerous presence in the school.
That night, the roof of Dogsung High became his throne.
Cold wind whipped his coat, the city sprawled beneath him like a kingdom waiting to fall. Port cranes moved like skeletal titans in the dark, unloading secrets, loading cargo. Neon lights flickered over rooftops where street kids whispered of turf wars and alleyways buzzed with the pulse of violence—real gangs, real blood.
He stood still, a dark silhouette against the moon. The wind tugged at his bangs. His eyes remained focused, calculating. A predator.
In his hand, a crumpled page. Worn, handwritten.
A map of Dogsung High's power structure. Names, classrooms marked like enemy camps. Threat levels. Beside it, another list—business fronts, laundromats, thugs, illegal back-alley dens. Some crossed out. Most underlined.
He studied it like scripture.
"Fear," he whispered. "Then control. Then empire."
A gust of wind lifted his bangs. The city buzzed beneath him.
From below, faint voices echoed, rumors blooming. Pit Dogs beaten. Rowan Yu silent for the first time.
It was working.
He closed his eyes. Then his phone buzzed. A burner message:
"You made your move. They're watching now."
He stared at it, then deleted it.
Eli Nam didn't need allies. Not yet.
Only witnesses.
He turned away from the edge, coat flaring with the wind.
The Devil didn't sleep.
He plotted.
He hunted.
Tomorrow, blood would spill. But tonight? Tonight, he simply watched the city, imagining how it would look kneeling before him.
TO BE CONTINUED..