Thud!
The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed sharply through the dim alley, punctuated by a soft groan. Fang Ming crumpled to the ground like a shrimp, his body shaking violently as though wracked with pain. His trembling was exaggerated, each movement calculated to appear weak, broken—pitiful.
It worked.
The young Chinese boy who led the gang took a step back, his fists lowering, uncertain. To the gang, it looked as though they had nearly beaten Jin to death.
"Pah!" the leader spat on the ground. "You're nothing but a handful! If you come back here again, I'll break every limb you've got. This is your last warning!"
His voice was loud and authoritative, projecting dominance, but his gang's uneasy glances betrayed their discomfort. Satisfied with their supposed victory, the boys turned and strutted out of the alley, heads held high, chests puffed out with triumph.
Jin waited.
He lay motionless until their footsteps faded, his breathing slow and deliberate. Then, with an almost eerie calm, he rolled onto his side and rose to his feet, dusting off his worn clothes. There were no winces of pain, no trembling in his hands. He straightened his posture and smoothed his shirt with meticulous precision, his face a mask of neutrality.
It wasn't that he couldn't fight back. If it came to it, Jin could have held his own against the gang, perhaps even driven them off. But to what end? A fight would waste energy, attract attention, and escalate tensions he didn't need. Victory was only worth pursuing if it meant lasting control, and these boys were not worth the effort.
He crouched to gather his scattered shoeshine tools, his movements unhurried. The scuffle was already a distant memory.
Jin's journey home was long. Leaving the shadowed alleys, he stepped into the chaos of the bustling marketplace. Vendors shouted over each other, hawking their goods with practiced fervor. The scent of spices, sweat, and roasting meat filled the air, clinging to the humidity. Jin moved through it all like a ghost, unnoticed and unbothered, until the marketplace gave way to quieter streets.
The outskirts of the city were a stark contrast to the vibrant market. Here, the streets grew narrow, and the buildings sagged under the weight of years and neglect. Jin's house, a small and shabby structure barely holding itself together, stood at the end of a dirt path.
It wasn't much.
But it was home.
"I'm home," Jin called softly as he pushed open the creaking wooden door.
"Brother!"
The response was immediate, her voice bright and filled with unrestrained joy. Jin's younger sister came bounding into the room, her small frame a blur of energy. Her face was radiant, her smile wide enough to light the dim space.
For a moment, Jin forgot the weight of the day. His stoic demeanor cracked, replaced by a genuine, unguarded smile. She was his light, his reminder that the world wasn't entirely cruel.
"Aw, did you miss your brother?" he teased, his voice playful.
"No!" she shot back, her arms crossing in mock defiance.
"Gasp! Brother is so sad…" Jin clutched at his chest dramatically, pretending to stagger.
His sister giggled but quickly regained her composure, her expression turning sharp. "But you promised candy! Did you bring it?"
Jin froze, his eyes widening in feigned panic. "Ah! I forgot!"
Her gaze hardened instantly. She looked like a miniature loan shark, her eyes narrow and her lips pressed into a thin line.
"So… you lied?"
Her voice was cold, the authority in her tone sending a genuine chill down Jin's spine. He raised his hands in surrender, pulling a small package from his pocket with exaggerated flair.
"Tada! Of course I brought it!"
Her transformation was immediate. The icy glare melted into an expression of pure delight, and she snatched the candy from his hands.
"Wow! I love you, brother!"
Jin chuckled, though he couldn't shake the feeling that the room had grown momentarily colder. Shaking his head, he ruffled her hair affectionately before retreating to his room.
The moment the door closed behind him, Jin's playful demeanor vanished. His face hardened, his eyes sharp and calculating.
Sitting at a small desk, he opened his journal and began to write. Fang Ming, the first line read, a Korean man who remembers his past life.
Despite living as a lower-class citizen in Qing China, Jin clung fiercely to his identity. He was a man of the Gwangju Ming clan, a proud Korean heritage that defined him.
His thoughts turned to his father, a sailor who navigated the trade routes between Korean and Qing China. It was honest work, but it had cost them dearly. Jin's mother, left alone for months at a time, had fallen ill. Despite his father's desperate attempts to save her, no doctor in Korean could even name her ailment.
She had died when Jin was only ten.
Jin's pen paused as the memory surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome. His father had called it God's will, a testament to her kindness. But even Jin's young sister, then just five years old, had understood the truth.
As if the pain of her death wasn't enough, the family's tragedy deepened. At her funeral, Jin's father's rosary ring was discovered—a mark of his conversion to Catholicism. In Korea, where Catholics were persecuted with brutal fervor, this revelation left the family with no choice but to flee.