The rain hammered against the dojo's roof in a relentless rhythm, a war chant drumming through the night.
Inside, the scent of sweat clung to the air, mingling with the faint tang of metal from the shinai gripped tightly in Lee Joon-ho's hands.
He was 19—lean, sharp-eyed, and restless—with black hair matted to his forehead from hours of sparring. Tomorrow was the nationals—his second title defense—and he felt invincible.
Thud. Swoosh. Crack.
His opponent, a wiry kid from Busan, lunged forward, his strike clumsy and overeager.
Joon-ho sidestepped with fluid precision, his blade snapping up in a blistering counterstrike. The shinai smacked against the boy's helmet with a sharp crack.
The referee's whistle cut through the din.
Tweet!
Point. Match.
"Too slow," Joon-ho muttered under his breath, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He tugged off his mask, raking his damp hair back with a gloved hand.
The crowd—mostly parents and local enthusiasts—offered polite applause, but their approval meant nothing.
His eyes scanned the stands until they found her—Soo-jin. Arms crossed, lips twitching into a reluctant grin. She'd lost to him in the semifinals earlier, and he knew she was already plotting her revenge.
"Show-off," she called out as he stepped off the mat.
"Champion," he shot back with a playful grin, tossing her a water bottle.
Plop.
She caught it one-handed, rolling her eyes.
His coach, Master Kim, clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring.
"Save that fire for tomorrow, Joon-ho. You're untouchable when you're focused."
"I'm always focused," he replied without hesitation. And he meant it. Kendo wasn't just a sport—it was his pulse, his breath, the rhythm in his bones.
Every stance, every strike, was second nature, carved into him through years of dedication.
That night, he lingered at the dojo longer than usual, letting the tension from the day settle. By the time he left, the rain was still coming down hard, slamming against the pavement in furious sheets.
Soo-jin had offered him a ride, but he waved her off.
"I'll walk, it's fine," he said, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder.
The streets were slick with rainwater, the orange glow of Seoul's streetlights reflected in the puddles.
His gym bag swung at his side, the shinai strapped to it—a quiet companion on the familiar route home. The rain plastered his hair to his face, dripping down his collar. He barely noticed.
His thoughts were already on tomorrow—on victory.
He was halfway home when he heard the tires.
Screech.
Headlights flashed. Too close. Too fast.
Blare.
Splash.
Thud.
A delivery truck, hydroplaning through a turn. Reflexes kicked in—his body twisting instinctively—but it wasn't enough.
The impact hit like a freight train, throwing him like a rag doll. His body slammed into the pavement with a sickening crunch.
Crack.
Thump.
Pain tore through him—white-hot and blinding—before numbing into a dull roar. He lay sprawled on the cold asphalt, rain pounding against his face.
His breath came in short, ragged gasps. Somewhere in the distance, the truck's driver stumbled out, shouting into his phone.
Joon-ho tried to move.
His arms twitched.
His fingers scraped at the asphalt.
But his legs—nothing.
No sensation.
No strength. Just a void.
Panic surged in his chest.
He tried to scream, but his voice caught, swallowed by the storm and the wailing sirens drawing closer.
Wail.
Flash.
Clatter.
The hospital was a blur. Bright white lights. The steady beep of machines. Doctors with grim expressions.
"Spinal fracture, T12-L1. Severe nerve damage," one of them said, but the words didn't register. Words like "paralysis" and "rehabilitation" circled around him, hollow and distant.
It wasn't real—not yet. Not until Soo-jin came. Her eyes were red, puffy from crying, but she clung to his hand with a grip so tight it hurt.
"You'll get through this," she whispered, voice trembling.
He didn't answer. He couldn't. He couldn't even look at her.
Days blurred into weeks, then months. The medals on his shelf gathered dust. His shinai remained sealed in its bag, forgotten.
Physical therapy helped him sit up, taught him how to use a wheelchair. But the blade dancer—the warrior who had once moved like the wind—was gone.
At 19, Lee Joon-ho's world didn't end in a dojo, with a sword in hand. It ended on a rain-slick street, beneath the weight of a truck he never saw coming.