Chapter 1

Arc 1: The Protagonist

His body felt as if it might shatter. A crushing weight bore down on him, and a raw fire raged in his throat. Every muscle, every joint, throbbed with a deep, percussive ache, as though he’d been brutally beaten. He was utterly drained, a profound exhaustion that left him with no strength. A violent, feverish tremor seized his frame, electricity and ice coursing through him in punishing waves, the unmistakable signature of a severe illness.

“Ugh… why does it hurt so much…?” he mumbled, the words a pained groan as he surfaced from a sea of agony. “Did I catch the flu? I need a fever reducer…” His voice trailed off. “Huh?”

With immense effort, he forced his eyes open. There’s an old saying among doctors: Listen to your physician, and you’ll live a long life. Live like your physician, and you’ll die young. The public might praise the profession, holding it in high esteem, but the reality was a grueling physical toll. After decades of pushing his body to its limits, there wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t ache.

Jin Cheon-hee, a general surgery professor at a university hospital, groaned as his vision cleared.

“Wha—what the…?”

A bewildered gasp escaped his lips.

He saw tree branches, stark against a brilliant blue sky. The air that brushed against his skin was pleasantly warm. It felt like a forest in late spring or early summer.

Was there a forest like this near our camp? I thought it was all desert…

He pressed a hand to his forehead, his brow furrowing in confusion. His memory was a chaotic haze, the moments before he lost consciousness shrouded in fog.

Sabbatical. He remembered that much. He’d gone to a remote region for a medical volunteer mission. A colleague had been so insistent, so passionate, that he’d let himself be dragged along.

Did someone move me? No… I’m certain there wasn’t a forest like this anywhere near the relief camp.

The country he had traveled to was a land ravaged by both drought and civil war. He remembered the exhausting, relentless work of treating the endless stream of injured and sick children. As he pieced together the past, his vision sharpened slightly. The events of the previous night remained a complete blank, but at least his mind felt a little clearer.

Don’t panic.

He took a deep breath, and with it, a sliver of strength began to return to his limbs. The crushing pain that had immobilized him slowly receded. He turned his head to survey his surroundings, and despite the strength flowing back into him, his legs refused to move.

“Ha… haha. Is this a dream?”

The sun broke free from behind a cloud, bathing the area in stark light. The sight that greeted him stole the air from his lungs, leaving him utterly breathless.

He was surrounded by a field of corpses.

The grisly tableau rooted him to the spot, his legs frozen as if encased in ice. He tentatively pinched his cheek.

It hurt.

“This isn’t a dream…”

The pain was sharp, vivid, and undeniable. Thankfully, the shock seemed to have unlocked his limbs, and he could finally move. Jin Cheon-hee took a moment to properly survey the scene, his professional instincts kicking in.

This isn’t a movie set… No, the stench of blood is too thick, too real. It couldn’t possibly be fake.

As a surgeon, a “butcher with a scalpel,” he was more accustomed to the smell of blood than most. Still, his heart hammered against his ribs. This was no operating theater; it was a battlefield.

Looking at their faces, rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet. They’ve been dead for less than two hours. All the wounds are cuts or stabs from a sharp weapon… but why are there no gunshot wounds?

Adding to the mystery was their attire. They were dressed in clothes straight out of the martial arts novels he used to enjoy reading.

As he slowly examined the bodies, he suddenly realized the agonizing pain that had wracked his own body was gone.

Okay. Let’s get this straight. This is not a dream; it’s real. And I am…

He looked down at his own hands.

…small. These are a child’s hands.

His shadow on the ground confirmed it. It was tiny, the silhouette of a boy no older than ten.

If this were a dream about becoming a child in a martial arts world, it would almost make sense.

Jin Cheon-hee clenched his jaw. Having grown up an orphan, starting with nothing and fighting his way through countless hardships, he possessed a formidable mental fortitude. That strength was the bedrock that supported him now.

There were dozens of bodies scattered around him. Three wrecked carriages lay splintered and broken. Some of the dead had been cleaved in two, their upper and lower bodies severed by a single, terrifying blow.

To cut through human bone and muscle so cleanly in one strike… what kind of blade could possibly do that?

He glanced down at his blood-stained hands again. A child’s hands.

The body of a child. This feels exactly like that ‘Soul Transference’² technique you read about in novels. What do they call it… transmigration?³

He shook himself lightly. The sheer absurdity of the situation paradoxically sharpened his focus, lending him a strange, cold clarity.

Judging by the clothes I’m wearing, I wasn’t from a wealthy family. And aside from the corpses, there’s nothing of value left. It looks like they were attacked by bandits or mountain thieves.

He let out a long, heavy sigh.

It really does seem like… transmigration, just like in a novel. Whether it’s time travel or something else, I don’t know. But one thing’s for sure, this isn’t Korea…

And then, a memory pierced through the fog.

Rebel soldiers bursting into the tent, guns firing. He remembered instinctively shielding a small child with his body. He didn’t know why. The child’s scream.

And then?

His world had bled into a crimson haze. The child’s voice, crying out in broken English, “Doctor, Doctor!”

Darkness.

Hah… what a life… Fought tooth and nail to get out of the orphanage, get into medical school, become a doctor, then a professor. Just when I was finally comfortable enough to volunteer my time, I die like that? Seriously, what was it all for?

He stared blankly at the ground for a moment. As a doctor, he was no stranger to death. Perhaps that was why standing in a field of the dead didn’t terrify him as much as it should have. Or maybe, the fresh, visceral memory of his own death had numbed him to everything else.

After a long moment of organizing his thoughts, he let out another deep sigh—a sigh far too weary and world-worn for a ten-year-old boy.

Right. I need to get a grip. I have no idea what’s going on, but standing around here isn’t an option. If those bandits come back, I could be next.

It was then he heard it.

“Guh, ugh… A-Anyone… please…”

There’s a survivor?

He rushed toward the sound and found a middle-aged man with a thick beard, his body convulsing violently. The man’s eyes, wide with shock and pain, found Cheon-hee.

“Kid… son… My wife… T-Take this to… my wife… I can die, but… my wife… she’s still…”

He tried to hand over a blood-soaked pouch.

Jin Cheon-hee didn’t take it. Instead, he reached out and pressed his small hands against the man’s wound. The man stared at him, his eyes filled with disbelief.

The pouch slipped from his weakening grasp and fell to the ground with the soft clink of coins.

Clatter.

But the boy, whose body was that of a ten-year-old, ignored the money and focused on pressing down on the man’s wound.

“I’m applying pressure to stop the bleeding.”

His touch was sure and practiced, his fingers finding the exact pressure point on the vein with a skill born from thousands of repetitions.

“Kaaargh!”

The man screamed as a jolt of excruciating pain shot through him. He has the strength to scream, Cheon-hee thought. That’s a good sign.

Should I call this lucky or unlucky? A laceration this long, and it somehow missed his internal organs. But the wound is too deep, and he’s lost too much blood. If I don’t suture this immediately…

A long, deep gash split the man’s abdomen, wide enough to see the glistening tissues within. Miraculously, the organs themselves seemed untouched.

A way… there must be a way.

His eyes darted around, searching for anything he could use. There was nothing, no tools to close the wound. His gaze fell upon the pouch the man had dropped. He reached for it.

Come on, be something useful.

He opened it to find a few old coins, the kind one might see in a historical Chinese drama, and a tiny silk shoe, smaller than his middle finger. It was a newborn’s slipper. The warmth radiating from it spoke of how dearly the man had cherished it.

And then he saw it: a beautiful sewing kit. It looked far too ornate to be ordinary, but that didn’t matter.

A needle! But… no thread. In that case…

He plucked a long strand of hair from the dying man’s head. In this martial arts-esque era, long hair was the norm. Perfect. With nimble fingers, he threaded the hair through the eye of the needle and tied it off.

“This will hurt, but you must endure it if you want to live.”

There was no reply. The man’s consciousness was fading, his descent into the final darkness beginning.

…Is there no other way?

He had to be bold.

Puk.

The needle pierced flesh. The middle-aged man let out a faint, pained whimper from the depths of his fading awareness.

But Jin Cheon-hee’s hands were steady, his face a mask of calm concentration.

I’d heard stories about using hair for emergency sutures, but I never thought I’d be doing it myself. With no way to sterilize, the risk of infection is high. But there’s no choice. I have to do it now.

In moments, the wound was sealed. As the bleeding stopped, the man’s breathing grew less ragged, his gasps for air turning into shallow pants. As far as Cheon-hee was concerned, the emergency treatment was complete. In truth, there was nothing more he could do. He wanted to find a clean cloth, but there was nothing of the sort nearby. He settled for a scrap of fabric lying on the ground, using it to bandage the wound as best he could.

The man mumbled something. His consciousness was still clouded, but the words sounded like a thank you.

Jin Cheon-hee placed the coin pouch back into the man’s hand.

Live, so you can give this to her yourself.

He didn’t believe in gods. No amount of prayer could save a patient who was meant to die.

But he did believe in the power of the human will. He understood the heart of a husband and father with a pregnant wife waiting at home, and he gently patted the man’s shoulder in a gesture of encouragement.

Only after he had finished did Jin Cheon-hee finally allow himself to collapse, slumping to the ground. The reality of his situation was still unbelievable, and the adrenaline of saving a life had left him utterly drained.

Then, a thought struck him.

There might be others.

He shot back to his feet. Scrutinizing his surroundings more carefully, he saw that, indeed, a few others were still breathing. It wasn’t many, but they were alive.

I can provide first aid, but can I actually save them? Even if I patch them up now, without proper help, they’ll eventually…

He cut the thought short, gritting his teeth.

Think later. Act now. Save who you can.

He pushed his small body into motion.

He had to triage—to separate those he could save from those he couldn’t.

This person… he’s lost too much blood. I can’t save him.

The first person he checked had a partially severed leg. The femoral artery was cut. It was a death sentence without an immediate transfusion and a proper operating room.

With a heavy heart, he turned away. Had he possessed the right medical equipment, this man’s life could have been saved. The powerlessness of his current situation weighed on him, but a doctor must remain detached.

There were other critical patients, and he couldn’t afford to waste a single second.