Lookism: King's Ascension

The truck smelled like iron and sweat.

Taeyang stared at Munseong's hand… mangled, barely recognizable, fingers shattered beyond repair. The bandages around it were already soaked through. He hadn't woken up once since the fight.

Not even when they put him in the truck.

Not even when Jungseok, who'd gained consciousness, barely holding himself together, whispered, "Is he gonna make it?"

No one answered.

Minho drove fast. Dongwoo sat in the back, knuckles tense against his knees, silent for once. The other three didn't speak.

The hospital was the first stop. It had to be.

They pulled up to the emergency entrance and barely had time to park before the doors were flying open, nurses and doctors rushing out at the sight of Munseong's state. 

Minho stepped out first, his voice flat and detached as he spoke.

"He needs surgery. Now."

One of the nurses hesitated. "Are you—"

Minho's stare shut her up instantly.

A stretcher was pulled out. Munseong was lifted onto it, his body limp, his breath so shallow it was barely noticeable.

Taeyang watched as they wheeled him inside, his hand clenching.

"Should we stay?" Dongwoo asked.

"No." Minho turned back to the van. "There's nothing we can do here. We go back."

Taeyang didn't like it. But he didn't argue.

Because Minho was right.

They had work to do.

By the time they got back, the exhaustion was creeping in. Bodies sore. Knuckles bruised. Blood still drying on their skin.

But there was no time to rest.

They gathered around a long metal table inside one of the warehouses, the only light coming from multiple lights scattered throughout the ceiling. Minho liked his light. 

Maps were spread out across the surface… detailed layouts of Anyang, Suwon, Gunpo, and the surrounding areas. Places where power still shifted. 

Areas where they could expand.

Minho tapped a finger against a section of the map. The northeast border.

"We need to push here next," he said. "Seoul's going to be too focused on Suwon to notice us moving in."

Dongwoo grunted. "How many do we send?"

"Just enough to hold the territory. We don't want to overextend."

Taeyang leaned back against the wall, listening. He wasn't the strategist… that was Minho's job. But he knew one thing. Seoul was going to notice them soon.

"We should be careful," he muttered. "Suwon and Seoul are distracted, but Gwacheon isn't."

Minho nodded. "We'll send a small team, keep a low profile. No unnecessary fights."

They kept talking, debating who would go where, who would guard the warehouse, who needed to check in on Munseong when he woke up…

And then the alert came.

Buzz.

A single text. A lookout stationed near the entrance of the warehouse district.

Lookout: Unknown vehicle and motorbike approaching. Fast.

The tension snapped into place instantly.

Minho cursed. Dongwoo's hand went straight to his brick. Taeyang cracked his fingers, already shifting toward the door.

"Enemy?" someone muttered.

"Could be," Minho said. "No one comes here alone unless they're either stupid or strong."

Taeyang didn't wait for orders. He was already moving, stepping out of the warehouse, eyes scanning the darkened street outside.

And then—

The roar of an engine.

It cut through the night like a battle cry, furious and thundering. At first, there were only headlights—erratic, weaving through the dark like a pair of wild eyes. 

They carved a reckless path across the asphalt, their frantic movement betraying the desperation behind the wheel. A car.

No. 

A car being hunted.

And behind it, closing the distance with terrifying speed, was a motorbike.

The rider was relentless, a hunter on two wheels, his approach measured and steady as if he were something inevitable. 

The car swerved hard, tires screeching, rubber burning against pavement as the driver fought to shake him off. But it was useless. 

The bike wasn't just keeping up… it was closing in, a missile locked onto its target

Then—

The rider did the unthinkable.

He didn't weave away. Didn't flinch. Didn't slow.

He accelerated.

Straight toward the back of the car.

Taeyang barely had time to process what he was seeing before it happened. 

A brutal collision—metal against metal. The bike slammed into the rear bumper at full force. The impact was deafening. 

Glass shattered in a spray of lethal glitter. The trunk crumpled like paper. The car spun out of control, its momentum turning into chaos.

It veered sideways, slamming into the concrete barrier with a deafening, bone-rattling CRUNCH!

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Then the doors burst open.

Four men stumbled out, punks, battered, bleeding, but still standing. They coughed, groaned, shook off the impact, their faces a mix of pain and rage.

And the rider?

He was already off the bike.

Not a limp. Not a scratch.

Like physics itself refused to touch him.

He tilted his head, rolling his shoulders, fingers flexing like a pianist preparing to play. The guys barely had time to react before he was on them.

The first one made a move—desperate. A wild swing. The rider caught his wrist mid-air, his grip like steel. A second later—

CRACK!

The man's arm twisted at an unnatural angle.

He didn't even have time to scream before a knee drove into his ribs with sickening force. The impact folded him inward like a snapped book spine. Then came the punch, not to the head, but to the stomach.

It didn't just knock him back.

It sent him flying.

His body slammed into the wrecked car door with enough force to cave the metal inward.

The second punk barely had time to blink before the rider was in front of him. He turned to run. 

A mistake.

A hand snatched the back of his neck.

CRASH!

His skull met the hood of the car. Not just a dent… nearly a crater. The sheer force of it left the metal twisted inward. The third guy let out a horrified yell, only to be silenced by a kick to the chest.

Another sickening crack.

He crashed through the already-shattered windshield, disappearing inside the wreckage.

The last one?

He didn't even try to fight.

He was already backing away, hands trembling, words spilling from his mouth in frantic stammers.

"Wait—wait, listen, I—I—"

Too late.

The rider took a single step forward.

That was all it took.

The punk flinched so hard he lost his balance, tripping over his own feet. He hit the ground, scrambling, trying to crawl backward—

A boot pressed down on his chest.

Pinning him.

The rider crouched down, eyes unseen behind his helmet. But his actions weren't wild. Weren't reckless. 

It was controlled. Targeted. The kind of predator that didn't just kill… it made a point.

"You tell whoever's left in Gunpo—" His voice was muffled but steady. Cold. Final. 

He pressed down just a little harder, enough to hear the man wheeze. "You lost."

Then, just as easily as he had come down, he stood up.

The last punk gasped for air, choking on his own fear.

And finally… finally, the rider turned toward Taeyang and the others.

The first thing they noticed was the jacket.

Worn leather, scuffed and patched, bearing the weight of time and battles fought. But it wasn't just any jacket. It was covered in badges.

Anyang school badges.

Some stitched in. Some pinned on. Some fresh, some so faded they were barely recognizable. A history book written in fabric. A legacy woven into every thread.

Slowly, he pulled off his helmet.

Dark hair, messy and windswept. A sharp jawline, rounding out into a hard but smooth chin. And that grin… easy, effortless, like he hadn't just dismantled four men in under ten seconds.

"Took you guys long enough to cause some fucking chaos," he muttered, rolling his shoulders. "I was starting to think you didn't need me anymore."

Taeyang exhaled.

Dongwoo let out a low whistle.

Minho smirked. "Welcome back," he said. "You look like shit."

The man flexed his fingers, glancing over his handiwork… the wreckage, the bodies, the sheer destruction left in his wake.

"Yeah, well," he said, cracking his neck. "Gunpo's been keeping me real busy."

And then, for the first time, he turned to Taeyang.

His gaze swept over him… taking in the bloodied knuckles, the fresh wounds, the way he stood. Sizing him up.

"You must be the new guy," he said, voice unreadable. "I've heard some things."

Taeyang didn't respond.

Didn't need to.

He just met the man's gaze… steady, unyielding.

Taeyang had heard Minho's and Jeongdu's story too many times. 

How they'd driven off the dregs of a Pre-generation Fist gang from their city. And in every single one of their stories, they'd mentioned him.

Minho and Jeongdu had been strong… no doubt about that. Together with the others, they had fought tooth and nail to push back the gang's remains, taking down the stragglers and the remnants of its power. 

But even with all their strength, they hadn't been the ones to truly end it.

That had been him.

The one who toppled the head.

The one who stood against a disgraced gang boss who had once been part of Gapryong Kim's Fist Gang… an era-defining monster in his own right. 

The kind of man that ordinary fighters wouldn't dare to challenge, the kind that lesser gangs feared, even in his downfall.

And yet, he had been brought down by this man.

The man tilted his head slightly, that easy grin still playing at his lips.

"Let's hope you live up to the hype," he said, voice calm, almost amused.

Then he cracked his neck.

"Because I'm not carrying dead weight."

The First Head of Anyang

The Boy of Liberation

Baek Daehyun

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The amount of times I rewrote this chapter to give this man the most aura I could is ridiculous. I hope it paid off. The Sinu Han inspiration should be obvious with the nickname.

And don't worry, Taeyang will get at least this much aura by the time I'm done with him.

Power stoneeesss

And I would ask y'all to leave a review but I don't think enough story has been written for a review to actually be worthwhile yet... maybe when I reach 20/25 chaps