Episode 1

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.

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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.

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