The dummy is judging me again.
That damn, blank wooden face.
Expressionless.
Silent.
Still.
But I can feel it.
The contempt.
The cosmic-level disappointment.
The kind of spiritual sigh that doesn’t need to be heard.
Every time my sword glances off its side like I’m nervously poking a vending machine instead of trying to kill something… I swear it winces.
This is supposed to be training.
Life-or-death stuff.
Protagonist-tier development.
One step closer to becoming the kind of person who survives in a world where arguments are settled not with passive-aggressive texts but steel to the throat.
And yet… I look more like someone politely attempting to disassemble a mannequin without breaking a sweat.
Sword lowered.
Arms limp.
Eyes dead.
I look up at the sky and mutter with all the energy of a depressed shrimp.
“This is so damn lame…”
You know those scenes in fantasy novels where the hero slices through a hundred enemies with one elegant slash, wind swirling, cape fluttering, OST playing in the background?
Yeah.
This ain’t that story.
My name is Lucien now.
But that’s not who I am.
Not really.
Back in my old world—back in Korea—I was Kim Jihoon.
Once a model student.
The family’s pride and joy.
A walking GPA with glasses and no social life.
At least, that’s what my parents always told their friends.
“Our Jihoon never wastes time at all. He studies even during the holidays.”
“He’s not like those other kids. He’s going to be a doctor. Or maybe a professor. Or both!”
They’d beam like they won the lottery every time I brought home an award.
But when I told them what I actually wanted…
I’ll never forget the silence.
***
“I want to major in literature,” I said.
The chopsticks in my mother’s hand stopped mid-air.
My father looked up from his tablet like I’d just told him I wanted to marry a toaster.
“…Literature?”
My father said slowly.
“Are you insane?”
My mother whispered, eyes narrowing.
“You think books are going to feed you?”
“I don’t want to be a writer to make money,” I said, forcing the words out.
“I just… I love stories. I want to create them.”
“Tch.”
Dad scoffed, loud and sharp.
“Do that in your free time. What are you, some starving artist wannabe now?”
“You’re going to university to study something useful,” Mom added, tapping her chopsticks against her plate like it was already settled.
“Something that won’t make us the laughingstock of the neighborhood.”
They didn’t yell.
That would’ve been easier.
They dismissed me.
Like my dreams were just a passing tantrum from a child who didn’t understand the value of money.
So I got pushed into mechanical engineering.
Why?
Because “you’re smart,” and “smart kids all go here,” and “you’ll thank us later.”
Spoiler: I never did.
***
Four semesters.
That’s how long I lasted.
Four miserable, gray, mind-numbing semesters of equations I couldn’t follow, projects I didn’t care about, classmates I couldn’t relate to.
And when I finally said I was done—
“You ungrateful little punk,” my father roared, red-faced and trembling.
“Do you know how many sacrifices we made for you?!”
“You’re a disgrace,” my mother spat.
“Dropping out? Throwing away your future just because you’re too lazy to study?!”
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t cry.
I just packed my things and locked myself in my room.
And that was the beginning of the end.
***
No lectures.
No deadlines.
No expectations.
Just me, my room, and the crushing weight of being a disappointment.
I did whatever jobs I could online.
Tested sketchy mobile games.
Reviewed counterfeit power banks.
Pretended to be an American teen in a chatroom for English learners.
“Yo bro, no cap frfr 💀💯,” I typed with dead eyes and an empty soul.
Meanwhile, every time I stepped out of my room to eat or use the bathroom—
“Still mooching off us?”
My dad would mutter, not looking up from the TV.
“At least shower once in a while,” my mom would say, wrinkling her nose as she passed.
Eventually, they stopped speaking altogether.
Just sneers.
Sighs.
That one disappointed glance that says, “Where did we go wrong?”
So I wore headphones.
And disappeared.
But then… there was her.
My sister.
Kim Areum.
Two years younger.
A lifetime braver.
And somehow, still kind.
If I was the family disappointment, she was the redemption arc.
The daughter they clung to like a second chance at respectability.
“Don’t end up like your brother,” they’d say, whenever she showed the slightest hint of exhaustion.
“He wasted his potential. You’re all we have left.”
And she took it.
All of it.
The pressure.
The comparisons.
The suffocating weight of perfection.
But she never once blamed me.
Not once.
She still knocked on my door late at night.
“Oppa… Are you awake?”
“Can I come in?”
She’d sneak in with her oversized hoodie and puffy eyes, sit cross-legged on the floor, and whisper:
“I hate it. I hate school. I hate pretending everything’s fine. I hate always having to smile when I just want to scream.”
And I’d listen.
That was all I could do.
As a failure of an older brother that I was.
Inside my room, we made our own world.
No parents.
No pressure.
No ‘You are wasting your time’ stares.
No disappointment.
Just us.
She loved visual novels.
Romance ones.
You know the type.
Every guy’s got a six-pack, a dark past, and a tragic death flag.
“This one’s my favorite,” she said, eyes sparkling.
“It has a villainess who’s not really evil. She’s just misunderstood.”
I didn’t get it.
But she was happy.
So I bought her games with the money I scraped together.
Downloaded demos.
Hid them in a folder called “Math Homework.”
I watched her play.
Watched her smile.
Sometimes, after a particularly dramatic scene, she’d turn to me with tears in her eyes and whisper,
“If life were a visual novel… you’d totally be the misunderstood love interest.”
“Pfft. Sureee. Definitely,” I’d say.
“You are dramatic,” she’d laugh.
“Takes one to know one.”
It was stupid.
But it mattered.
A few hours of peace from the nonsense that was our lives.
Not failures.
Not expectations.
Just… us.
***
It happened fast.
Too fast.
The screams.
The crash.
The balcony.
The fall.
And then—
Light.
Rage.
Chasing him into the afterlife.
And when I opened my eyes…
I wasn’t Jihoon anymore.
I was Lucien.
The secret boyfriend of the villainess.
The side character who might die in Chapter 15.
(Depending on the route taken.)
And as if that wasn’t enough.
Now I’ve got a wooden dummy silently judging my every move.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
***
Author’s Note:
Hi everyone! ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/
This is my very first time writing a web novel, so I’m both excited and a little nervous. I’m still learning as I go, so there might be some rough edges here and there, whether it’s pacing, structure, or character development.
If you notice anything that feels off, like if the chapters are moving too slowly or too quickly, please don’t hesitate to let me know! ヽ(O_O )ﾉ
I truly appreciate any feedback or guidance you’re willing to share. Your thoughts will help me grow as a writer and make this story the best it can be.
(*ˊᗜˋ*)/ᵗᑋᵃᐢᵏ ᵞᵒᵘ*