Kang Joon-Ho stared at the glowing mark on his wrist.

Rank: 1.

A single digit that defined his entire existence.

It wasn’t just a number—it was a prison. In this world, Rank determined everything: your place in school, your future job, how others treated you, and sometimes even whether you survived the night. A rank of 1 was the lowest possible. Worthless. Disposable. Trash.

He tugged down the sleeve of his faded school uniform to cover it, but it didn’t matter. Everyone already knew who he was. In Seoul’s Seonghwa High School, reputation spread faster than wildfire, and Joon-Ho’s was already burned into everyone’s mind.

The bell rang. Lunchtime.

Joon-Ho slipped out of the classroom quickly, head down, trying not to meet anyone’s gaze. If he could just get to the cafeteria corner, eat quietly, and leave, maybe today wouldn’t be as bad. Maybe.

But the world never made things easy for someone ranked 1.

“Hey, trash!”

The voice came from behind, sharp and mocking. Joon-Ho froze. His stomach sank as laughter erupted from a group of boys.

Lee Min-Suk.

Joon-Ho didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. Min-Suk, ranked 72, towered over most of their classmates in both height and arrogance. His rank wasn’t the highest in school, but compared to Joon-Ho, it was like heaven against earth.

Min-Suk sauntered over, his entourage of mid-ranked lackeys trailing behind him. Each of them wore their ranks like crowns, marks glowing faintly on their necks and wrists. Numbers in the forties, fifties, sixties—nobility compared to Joon-Ho’s cursed 1.

“Covering your wrist again?” Min-Suk smirked, yanking Joon-Ho’s sleeve up. The glowing 1 stared back at everyone like a scarlet letter. Gasps and snickers echoed through the hallway.

“Wow, still at the bottom. I almost feel sorry for you,” one of Min-Suk’s friends jeered. “Almost.”

Min-Suk leaned closer, his breath hot with the smell of cafeteria noodles. “Do you know what it’s like to be so low? No, of course you don’t. You’ve always been trash. Even dogs are ranked higher.”

The laughter grew louder. Joon-Ho clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to scream, to fight back, to wipe the smug grin off Min-Suk’s face. But he couldn’t. His rank didn’t just mark him weak socially—it also made him physically weaker. In this twisted world, your rank was tied to your strength, stamina, reflexes, even intelligence.

Rank 1 couldn’t win against Rank 72. It was impossible.

Joon-Ho bit his lip and forced the words out, low and trembling. “Leave me alone, Min-Suk.”

The laughter died down, replaced with a sharp silence. Min-Suk’s smirk faded into something colder. He hated when low-ranks talked back.

“What did you just say?” His voice dropped, venomous.

Before Joon-Ho could react, Min-Suk slammed him against the lockers. Pain shot through his back as the metal rattled. His books scattered across the floor. Students gathered around, whispering, recording on their phones.

“Let me teach you something, Rank 1,” Min-Suk hissed, his hand tightening on Joon-Ho’s collar. “The world doesn’t care about your feelings. Your words are as worthless as your number.”

He raised his fist. Joon-Ho braced for the blow—

“Stop it, Min-Suk!”

The voice rang out, cutting through the tension. Han Soo-Jin, her long black hair swaying as she stepped forward, her eyes blazing with anger.

Soo-Jin was one of the few people who treated Joon-Ho like a human being. She was kind, gentle, and brave enough to speak up even when it meant putting herself in danger.

Min-Suk glanced at her and scoffed. “Stay out of this, Soo-Jin. Unless you want me to remind everyone of your little secret.”

Joon-Ho’s head jerked up. Secret? He glanced at Soo-Jin, but she avoided his gaze, lips pressed tightly together.

The crowd’s whispers grew louder. Soo-Jin clenched her fists, but instead of replying, she stepped back. Min-Suk grinned, satisfied.

“That’s what I thought.” He turned back to Joon-Ho. “You’re lucky she distracted me. But remember this—low-ranks like you should never open their mouths.”

With a final shove, Min-Suk released him. Joon-Ho stumbled, coughing, his chest burning. Laughter rippled through the crowd as Min-Suk and his lackeys walked away, triumphant.

Joon-Ho stayed on the floor, head bowed. His fists trembled, but not from fear—from rage.

He hated it. He hated the system. He hated the glowing number on his wrist. He hated how people worshipped it, how they decided who mattered and who didn’t.

Most of all, he hated himself—for being powerless to change it.

---

That night, Joon-Ho sat on the rooftop of his family’s crumbling apartment building. The neon lights of Seoul flickered below, painting the city in shades of red and blue. He stared at his wrist again, the faint glow of 1 mocking him in the dark.

“Why me?” he whispered. “Why was I born like this?”

His mother’s voice drifted from memory, warm and gentle. “No matter your rank, Joon-Ho, you are my precious son. Remember that.”

But her words couldn’t shield him from reality. His mother worked two jobs, struggling to put food on the table. His father had left years ago, unable to bear the shame of raising a Rank 1 child. In this world, family doesn’t matter. Only rank did.

Joon-Ho closed his eyes, fighting back tears. He wanted to escape. To disappear. To be anyone else but himself.

A sudden noise startled him. From the alley below, shouts and cheers echoed. He leaned over the edge, curious.

A crowd had gathered in the shadows. Dozens of people circled a makeshift ring, their faces lit by the glow of their ranks. Two figures stood inside, fists raised. They clashed, the sound of blows and roars filling the night.

It was a Rank Battle.

Illegal, underground, dangerous—but thrilling. Fighters wagered their ranks, gambling everything in brutal combat. The winner’s rank rose, the loser fell.

Joon-Ho’s heart pounded. He’d heard rumors about these battles, but seeing one with his own eyes was different. The energy, the desperation, the raw hunger to climb higher—it was intoxicating.

One fighter, Rank 34, went down hard. Blood splattered the pavement. The victor, Rank 36, let out a triumphant roar as his number flickered, climbing to 37. The crowd erupted in cheers.

Joon-Ho’s breath caught. His mind raced.

If… even if he could fight—if he could somehow win… his rank would rise. His life would change.

But he was Rank 1. Weak. Pathetic.

Yet, deep inside, a tiny spark flickered. A whisper of defiance.

What if I tried?

He clenched his fists, staring at the ring below. For the first time in years, he felt something other than despair.

Not hope. Not yet.

But the beginning of it.

The night air was cold, but inside Kang Joon-Ho, something warmer stirred—a fire that would one day challenge the world.

The next day at school, Kang Joon-Ho’s body ached from where Min-Suk had slammed him against the lockers. His uniform was wrinkled, his books scuffed, and the faint glow of Rank 1 on his wrist felt brighter than ever, as if mocking him in front of everyone.

Every step through the crowded hallway reminded him of where he stood in this world—beneath everyone else. Students with glowing ranks in the thirties and forties passed by without even glancing at him. Those in the sixties and seventies strutted with arrogance, their laughter sharp as knives.

Joon-Ho kept his head low. He wanted to disappear.

But inside, the fire from the night before hadn’t gone out.

The memory of the underground Rank Battle clung to him like a dream he couldn’t shake. The roar of the crowd, the way the victor’s rank had climbed, the desperation in the eyes of those who fought—stirred something dangerous in him.

What if I entered? The thought wouldn’t leave. What if I fought? What if I won?

It was ridiculous. He was Rank 1. Even a Rank 5 could probably crush him in seconds. Still, the temptation lingered. For someone who had spent his whole life powerless, the idea of controlling his fate—even for a moment—was intoxicating.

---

During lunch, he sat in the far corner of the cafeteria, picking at cold rice. Across the room, Min-Suk laughed loudly with his crew, slapping the table as if the whole world belonged to him. Students gathered around, desperate for his attention.

Soo-Jin entered quietly, her tray balanced in her hands. She scanned the room once before heading toward Joon-Ho’s table.

“Can I sit here?” she asked softly.

Joon-Ho nodded, though shame burned in his chest. He hated that she was seen with him—Rank 1. He hated the whispers that followed her whenever she sat down beside him.

“Are you okay?” she asked, lowering her voice. Her eyes lingered on the bruise near his collarbone.

“I’m fine,” Joon-Ho muttered, not meeting her gaze.

“You’re not fine,” Soo-Jin said firmly. “You shouldn’t let Min-Suk treat you like that.”

Joon-Ho laughed bitterly. “And what am I supposed to do? I’m Rank 1, Soo-Jin. I can’t fight him. I can’t fight anyone.”

She hesitated, then whispered, “That’s not true.”

He looked at her, startled. But before he could ask what she meant, Min-Suk’s voice cut across the cafeteria.

“Look at this—our favorite low-rank trash and his babysitter.”

Laughter followed. Joon-Ho’s fists clenched under the table. He wanted to shout, strike, to do something—anything. But he stayed silent, his jaw tight.

Soo-Jin’s expression darkened, but she said nothing. The secret Min-Suk had hinted at still hung between them, unspoken.

After school, Joon-Ho avoided going straight home. Instead, his feet carried him back to the alley he’d discovered the night before.

The crowd was smaller this time, but the energy was the same—charged, hungry, violent. Two fighters clashed in the ring, their movements quick and brutal. One was Rank 28, the other Rank 31. Every punch, every strike, every gasp of the audience was a reminder of what Joon-Ho didn’t have.

Strength. Courage. Freedom.

He lingered at the edge, unnoticed among the shadows. His heart pounded as the fight ended with a knockout, the victor’s rank flickering upward by one point. The loser groaned on the pavement, his number dropping.

“Another win for me,” the victor shouted, arms raised. The crowd roared. Money changed hands. The atmosphere was electric.

A man in a dark leather jacket moved through the crowd, collecting bets and announcing the next fighters. His voice was loud, commanding.

“Next up—Rank 40 versus Rank 42! Place your bets now!”

Joon-Ho couldn’t look away. He felt trapped, like the ring itself had pulled him into its orbit.

He imagined himself inside, fists raised, fighting not for glory but for survival. The image was absurd, but it refused to leave.

“Thinking about joining?”

The voice startled him. Joon-Ho turned to see a man leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He was tall, muscular, with sharp eyes that seemed to see straight through him. A faint glow on his neck revealed his rank: 53.

“I—I’m just watching,” Joon-Ho stammered.

The man smirked. “That’s how it starts. Everyone here is ‘just watching’ at first. Then they realize watching doesn’t change anything. Fighting does.”

Joon-Ho swallowed hard. “I can’t fight. I’m… Rank 1.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Rank 1, huh? That’s rare. Usually, people like you don’t last long out here.”

Shame burned in Joon-Ho’s chest. He wanted to walk away, but the man’s gaze pinned him in place.

“You’ve got fire in your eyes,” the man continued. “That’s good. But fire without strength burns out fast. If you’re serious about climbing, you’ll need more than anger.”

Joon-Ho’s heart pounded. “Climbing… Do you think I can?”

The man chuckled. “Everyone can. Most don’t. The question is—how much are you willing to risk?”

Before Joon-Ho could answer, the crowd erupted again as the next fight began. The man gave him one last look before melting back into the shadows.

Joon-Ho stayed until the final match ended, his mind spinning. The temptation was stronger now, gnawing at him with every passing second.

---

That night, lying in his small room, Joon-Ho couldn’t sleep. His mother had left early for her night shift, leaving him alone with the hum of the refrigerator and the distant noise of traffic outside.

He stared at the ceiling, the glow of 1 faintly illuminating the darkness.

What if I tried?

The thought was louder now. Dangerous.

What if I fought? Even just once?

He imagined Min-Suk’s mocking face, Soo-Jin’s worried eyes, the smirks of every student who had ever looked down on him. Rage bubbled in his chest.

He sat up, fists clenched.

“No… I can’t live like this forever,” he whispered.

For the first time, Kang Joon-Ho wasn’t just dreaming of change. He was considering action.

---

The next day after school, he returned to the alley. The crowd was smaller, the fights less intense, but the ring still pulsed with energy.

As he watched, the man from before appeared beside him again, as if waiting.

“Back so soon?” the man asked with a smirk.

Joon-Ho hesitated, then forced the words out. “I… I want to try.”

The man studied him for a long moment, then laughed. “You’re serious. Alright, Rank 1. But remember this—once you step into the ring, there’s no going back. Win, and you climb. Lose, and you fall even lower. For someone like you, that could mean… nothing left.”

Joon-Ho’s throat went dry. He thought of his mother, of Soo-Jin, of the years of humiliation he had endured. He thought of Min-Suk’s voice calling him trash.

“I’m not afraid,” Joon-Ho lied.

The man’s smirk widened. “Good. Then welcome to the world of Rank Battles.”

The crowd stirred as the man announced the next fight. Joon-Ho’s heart hammered in his chest as all eyes turned toward him.

“New challenger!” the man bellowed. “Rank 1 against Rank 5!”

Gasps and laughter rippled through the crowd. Some jeered, others shouted encouragement, but most shook their heads. Rank 1 had no chance.

Joon-Ho stepped into the ring, his legs trembling. The glow of his 1 felt brighter than ever under the harsh lights. His opponent, Rank 5, sneered at him, already smelling victory.

The crowd roared.

And for the first time in his life, Kang Joon-Ho raised his fists.

The circle of spectators pressed in, their voices a storm of laughter, jeers, and shouts. The stench of sweat and cheap alcohol hung heavy in the air.

Kang Joon-Ho stood at the center of the makeshift ring, his legs trembling so badly he could barely keep his balance. The faint glow of Rank 1 on his wrist felt like a target, pulsing against his skin.

Across from him, his opponent cracked his knuckles, smirking. A tall boy with short-cropped hair and broad shoulders, his rank—5—burned proudly on his neck. Not high by most standards, but compared to Joon-Ho, he might as well have been a giant.

“Are you serious?” the Rank 5 scoffed. “They’re letting a Rank 1 fight? This is going to be quick.”

The crowd howled with laughter. Money exchanged hands, the majority betting on the obvious winner.

Joon-Ho’s mouth was dry. His heart pounded so hard it drowned out the noise around him. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to escape before it was too late.

But his feet stayed planted.

Because if he ran now, nothing would ever change.

The man in the leather jacket—apparently the organizer—stepped forward, raising his hand. His voice cut through the chaos.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen! Tonight we’ve got a special treat! A Rank 1 challenger, risking it all against Rank 5! Will he surprise us, or will this be over in seconds?”

The crowd erupted again.

“Fight!”

The signal rang out, and before Joon-Ho could react, the Rank 5 lunged.

A fist slammed into Joon-Ho’s stomach like a hammer. Air exploded from his lungs. He stumbled backward, clutching his gut, gasping for breath. The world spun around him.

The crowd roared with laughter.

“Is that all you’ve got, trash?” the Rank 5 sneered, striding forward. He swung again, this time a hook aimed for Joon-Ho’s head.

Instinct took over. Joon-Ho ducked, the fist whistling past his ear. His knees buckled, but he managed to stay upright.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. He had dodged.

But he couldn’t celebrate. The Rank 5 recovered instantly, driving a knee into Joon-Ho’s ribs. Pain exploded through his side. He cried out, collapsing to one knee.

The crowd jeered louder. “Pathetic!” “End it already!”

Joon-Ho’s vision blurred. He tasted blood in his mouth. Every breath was agony. He could end this—he could surrender, crawl away, and go back to his miserable life.

But then Min-Suk’s face flashed in his mind. The laughter. The humiliation. The way everyone looked at him like he wasn’t human.

Something inside him snapped.

Not courage. Not yet. But defiance.

As the Rank 5 raised his fist to finish him, Joon-Ho lunged forward, ramming his shoulder into his opponent’s stomach. The impact wasn’t strong, but it caught the Rank 5 off guard. He staggered back a step, surprised.

The crowd gasped again.

Joon-Ho didn’t hesitate. He swung wildly, his fist connecting with the side of the Rank 5’s jaw. Pain shot up his arm—it felt like punching a brick wall—but the shock of the blow was enough to make his opponent stumble.

A spark of hope flared in Joon-Ho’s chest.

The Rank 5’s expression darkened. He spat blood and grinned. “So the trash bites back, huh? Fine. I’ll make you regret that.”

He came at Joon-Ho with a flurry of punches. Joon-Ho tried to dodge, but he wasn’t fast enough. Fists pounded into his chest, his shoulder, his cheek. Each hit rattled his bones, driving him closer to collapse.

But with each blow, Joon-Ho forced himself back up.

He couldn’t win. Not with strength. Not with speed. But maybe… maybe with desperation.

The Rank 5 grew careless, overconfident. His punches became wider and sloppier. Joon-Ho’s blurry vision caught the opening—just a fraction of a second, but enough.

He ducked under a hook and drove his fist upward into the boy’s chin.

The crack echoed through the alley. The Rank 5’s head snapped back.

The crowd roared.

Joon-Ho panted, his body screaming in pain, but inside—inside he felt something he hadn’t in years. Power. Control.

For a brief moment, he wasn’t Rank 1. He was a fighter.

The Rank 5 staggered, then snarled, wiping blood from his lip. His eyes burned with fury now. “You’re dead.”

He charged. Joon-Ho tried to move, but his body was too slow, too broken.

The fist connected with his jaw, and the world went white.

He crashed to the ground, vision spinning, ears ringing. The glow of his 1 pulsed faintly, as if mocking him.

“Stay down, trash,” the Rank 5 growled.

The crowd shouted, some cheering for more, others calling for the fight to end. Joon-Ho’s consciousness wavered. He could give up. He could surrender and crawl away, humiliated but alive.

But then he remembered his mother, working herself to exhaustion for him. He remembered Soo-Jin’s worried eyes. He remembered every insult, every shove, every punch he had taken without fighting back.

His hand twitched. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up.

The crowd gasped.

Rank 1 was standing again.

The Rank 5 stared in disbelief. “What the hell is wrong with you? Stay down!”

Joon-Ho’s voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “No.”

He staggered forward, fists trembling. His body was broken, but his spirit refused to yield.

The Rank 5 roared in fury and swung. Joon-Ho didn’t dodge—he couldn’t. The fist smashed into his face. Pain exploded, but he didn’t fall.

He swung back, his fist crashing into the boy’s cheek.

The crowd went wild.

Back and forth they traded blows—sloppy, desperate, brutal. Joon-Ho’s vision blurred, his body screamed, but he refused to fall.

Finally, the Rank 5 reared back for one last strike. Joon-Ho saw the opening.

With the last of his strength, he drove his head forward.

The headbutt connected with a sickening crack.

The Rank 5 stumbled, eyes wide, then collapsed to the ground.

Silence fell.

Then the alley erupted in chaos.

“Did he just—?”

“No way! A Rank 1 won?!”

“Unbelievable!”

Joon-Ho swayed on his feet, his body barely holding together. His vision dimmed. But before darkness took him, he saw it—his rank, glowing faintly on his wrist.

1 → 2

The crowd roared.

And Kang Joon-Ho collapsed to the ground, unconscious.