The neon lights of Seoul's backstreets lit up the night, casting wild shadows in a narrow alley. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and a buzz of excitement. A bunch of students from different schools crowded into a makeshift arena behind an old warehouse, where flickering street mps barely lit the scrappy ground covered in dirt and old blood from earlier fights. This was “The Basement,” an underground fight scene where reputations could be made or shattered, far from the fancy dojos of Hwarang High.

  Yuna Seo squatted behind some crates, her phone fixed on a tripod, focusing on the crowd. With her dark hair tucked under a baseball cap, she kept an eye out for the right shot. A third-year student at Hwarang, Yuna ran a martial arts analysis channel called Seoul Strike, which was gaining traction with thirty thousand subscribers. Her videos showcased techniques and no-nonsense commentary that made her popur among fight fans. Tonight, she was on the lookout for something juicy: rumors of an underground fight that everyone was talking about.

  In the ring, two fighters moved—one a tall judoka from a rival school, the other a stocky Muay Thai kid with taped shins. The judoka lunged for a hip throw, but the Muay Thai fighter smmed a knee into his ribs. The crowd went wild, phones snapping photos everywhere. Yuna adjusted her focus and whispered into her mic, “That’s a cssic mistake. Judo doesn’t work if you can’t close the gap.”

  When the fight ended and the judoka tapped out, Yuna caught snippets of a conversation among a group of fighters nearby. She angled her phone’s mic toward them, pretending to check her footage.

  “I swear it was him,” said one kid with a split lip. “The Ghost Belt took down a Hapkido master st month, no problem.”

  “Yeah, right,” another scoffed, wiping blood from his nose. “An Emperor? Those guys are invincible. Who’s this Ghost Belt anyway?”

  “Don’t know his real name. Wears a dirty white belt and fights like he's got something to prove.”

  Yuna’s heart raced. White belt? Her mind fshed back to a fight at school yesterday—Baek Seung-Ho, the scker who had taken out Lee Min-Suk without even throwing a punch. She had missed filming it, but the buzz afterward was loud: Ghost Belt. Unranked. Untouchable. If this was true, Baek could be her next big story.

  Packing her gear, she threw her backpack over her shoulder. The crowd began to disperse, but her night was just starting. “Time to dig,” she whispered to herself, sliding into the shadows.

  The next morning at the community center, the tatami mats creaked under a group of hustle-busting kids pying around. Sunlight streamed through the windows, catching dust motes floating in the air. The room smelled of aged wood and a hint of incense, a total change from Hwarang High's sterile dojos. Baek Seung-Ho knelt at the edge of the mats, his white belt casually tied, its frayed ends lightly brushing the floor. His usual smirk was repced with focused attention as he watched his students practice.

  “Alright, you little gremlins,” he called out, cpping his hands. “Show me that front stance. Hye-Jin, no wobbling this time!”

  Hye-Jin, the girl with pigtails from yesterday, stuck her tongue out but lined up her hips, her tiny fists ready. The other kids followed, their stances shaky but eager. Baek moved around, making little adjustments here and there, his touch gentle, his voice calm.

  “Nice job, Min-Soo,” he said to a boy who was having trouble keeping his bance. “Pnt your feet like a sturdy tree. Nothing’s knocking you down.”

  Min-Soo smiled, trying again. Baek softened, a rare bit of warmth breaking through his usual demeanor. Teaching these kids was more than just a side gig—it was why he kept the belt and why he shied away from the spotlight.

  He drifted off into memories of the past: a mountain clearing at dawn, the needles of pine crisp in the air. A young Baek stood panting, his dobok soaked in sweat in front of Master Park, an old monk with a weathered face, his white belt mirroring Baek’s down to the slight embroidery.

  “Form is a guide, Seung-Ho,” Master Park had said, his rough voice holding kindness. “But the fight lives here.” He tapped Baek’s chest, then his forehead. “Remember the form, but feel the fight.”

  Baek nodded, gripping the belt Master Park had given him. “Why white?” he asked, gncing at the monk’s own.

  Master Park smiled. “Because it’s honest. No rank, no ego. Just you and the moment.”

  The memory faded with a giggle from Hye-Jin. She had nailed her stance, beaming with pride. Baek ruffled her hair. “Not bad, kid. You’re scarier than me now.”

  Laughter filled the room, and for a moment, Baek felt a simple kind of joy.

  At Hwarang High, the school’s main courtyard buzzed with action. Students were all over the pce, sparring in groups while doboks fluttered in the sunlight. The Taekwondo Club practiced kicks in sync, while the Judo team worked on throws on portable mats. The atmosphere was charged with hard work: everyone knew the Inter-High Emperor Trials were coming up, though few details were shared.

  Yuna sat on a bench with her ptop open, scrolling through forums and fight blogs. Her cap pulled low and earbuds in pce, she still kept an eye out for Baek. She had spent the night tracking down rumors about the Ghost Belt. A blurry video from a year ago showed someone in a white belt taking down a Hapkido star in under a minute. The person's face was blurred, but the belt—dirty and frayed—was unmistakably Baek’s.

  “Gotcha,” she whispered, saving a screenshot. This could be the story that pushed her past fifty thousand subs and maybe even catch the eye of sponsors. But she needed proof, and that meant getting close.

  Her eyes nded on Baek, slouched under a cherry blossom tree, his phone in hand and an anime theme song bring through his earbuds. Yuna smirked—cssic Baek.

  Before she could approach him, a shadow fell over her ptop. Looking up, she saw a woman in a sharp bck suit, her hair in a tight bun. The woman stood stiffly, a thin file tucked under her arm, the bel just out of sight: Baek Seung-Ho: Unranked.

  “Seo Yuna, right?” the woman said in a clipped tone. “I’m Ms. Park from the Martial Arts Committee.”

  Yuna's stomach dropped. The Committee was a heavyweight—they managed rankings, tournaments, and even international events. Poking their interest could go either way. She pulled out her earbuds and forced a smile. “Yeah, that’s me. What’s up?”

  Ms. Park’s lips twitched a little, almost a smile. “Your channel has caught our eye. We want your… take on some fighters.” She gnced at Baek, her face unreadable. “Especially those who stay off the books.”

  Yuna’s heart raced. The Committee knew about Baek? Pying it cool, she shrugged it off. “I just film whatever’s interesting. Heard something about the Ghost Belt. Ring a bell?”

  Ms. Park’s expression tightened a hint. “Watch what you chase, Ms. Seo. Some stories are better left alone.” She slid Yuna a business card with the Committee's seal in gold. “If you find out anything about this… Ghost Belt, let me know.”

  Yuna pocketed the card, heart pounding. “Sure thing,” she replied, but Ms. Park had already turned away, her heels clicking on the pavement. Yuna gnced at Baek, still lost under the tree. “What’s up with you, scker?” she muttered, opening a new tab to look into the Martial Arts Committee.

  Back at the community center, the day’s session was wrapping up. The kids had gone home, leaving echoes of ughter in the empty room. Baek swept the mats slowly, finding comfort in the rhythm of the broom. Staring at his white belt, now dirty, he thought back to Master Park’s st moments, tying it around Baek’s waist. “This is yours now,” he had said, voice weak but steady. “Carry it, but don’t let it carry you.”

  Baek’s jaw tightened. He shook off the memory and kept sweeping. The center was where he could be himself, where he didn’t have to be the Ghost Belt or whatever else people thought he was. But after the courtyard fight, he could feel eyes on him now, and he didn’t like it.

  Locking up for the night, he stepped outside into the gentle quietness. The sky was a deep blue. As he shouldered his backpack and plugged in his earbuds, he felt a chill run down his neck, like someone was watching. He peered across the street and caught a glimpse of someone in a hanbok, the fabric shimmering under the streetlight. The figure’s face was hidden, their posture stiff and respectful.

  “Hey!” he called out, taking a step forward.

  The figure turned but then vanished into the alley. Baek shook his head. “Weird,” he muttered, putting his earbud back in. But as he walked home, he couldn’t shake a heavy feeling, like the words he didn’t hear still hung in the air: “Master Park’s successor lives…”

  That evening, Yuna sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, her ptop surrounded by energy drink cans. Her room was a testament to her hustle—posters of martial arts legends, a whiteboard filled with ideas, and a shelf of camera stuff. She was deep in a thread about the Ghost Belt, fingers flying over the keyboard.

  “Saw him at a Basement fight st year,” one user posted. “White belt, no rank, but he moved like he knew every style. Took out a guy twice his size with a mix of Taekwondo and Aikido.”

  Another comment read: “Heard he’s at Hwarang High now. The Committee has a file on him, but he won’t get registered. Total wild card.”

  Yuna leaned back, biting her lip. Baek was not a typical scker. The Committee’s interest, the rumors from underground, that belt—it all pointed to something huge. But why was he hiding? What was he running from?

  She opened her editing software and pulled up the blurry clip from the Basement. The figure in the white belt moved smoothly, dismantling his opponent like a pro. Yuna paused the video, zoomed in on the belt, and couldn’t ignore the subtle patterns stitched into it.

  “Master Park,” she whispered, typing the name into a search. A few clicks led her to an old article: “Park Ji-Hoon, a reclusive martial arts master, died in an unsanctioned fight. Rumored to have crafted a ‘Unified Style’ that combined all disciplines.”

  Yuna’s eyes widened. “Unified Style?” She quickly texted her contact from the underground. Need info on Park Ji-Hoon. Anything about a student.

  Her phone buzzed back almost instantly. Careful, Yuna. That name's trouble. The Committee buried his legacy for a reason.

  She stared at her screen, her ambition cshing with caution. Baek wasn’t just another story—he was a puzzle, one that could make or break her channel. She saved her files, mind racing with ideas. Tomorrow, she'd get closer. Tomorrow, she'd dig into the Ghost Belt.