The Talents of a MOAB I

The boy lay sprawled on the ground, gasping for air, his entire body drenched in sweat. The dojo around him was a cavernous space, echoing with the dull thuds of fists and feet against mats. The scent of sweat hung in the air, thick and suffocating. The older man standing over him, a muscular figure in taekwondo uniform, looked at him with a perplexed expression, hands on his hips as he shook his head slowly, almost in disbelief.

"Wow..." the man finally muttered, rubbing his chin as if trying to make sense of the absurdity before him. "I've taught thousands of students—hell, maybe even heroes in the making—but you... kid... I've never seen anything quite like this."

The boy, still wheezing on the floor, managed to tilt his head up just enough to glare at the man through the haze of exhaustion. His thoughts raced between confusion, annoyance, and a growing sense of dread. What the hell is this old man going on about?

"Strength? Speed? Endurance? Intelligence? Flexibility?" The man listed off the qualities on his fingers, pausing dramatically after each one. "You have... none. Not even a little bit." He paused, squinting at the boy's face with what seemed like genuine curiosity. "And as for your looks..." He trailed off, as if searching for the right words. Finally, he threw his hands up in defeat. "It's like God tried to erase a mistake and smudged it halfway. You don't even have potential for gold-digging, let alone martial arts!"

The boy blinked. "Wha—" He started to protest, but the man wasn't done.

"I've trained toddlers who could do a proper punch, and here you are, flopping around like a fish out of water. A jump kick? A simple jab? How can you not get the basics right?" The man's voice was rising, his frustration palpable. He looked up to the ceiling for divine intervention, hands clenched into fists. "I swear, in all my years of teaching, I've never been this frustrated. And you're telling me you've had thirty-three other teachers? What are they, saints? They must've gone bald from the stress you put them through."

The boy, now managing to push himself up onto his knees, muttered weakly, "Hey, I'm trying—"

"Trying?! Trying?" The man's voice hit a pitch that made the boy flinch. "Kid, even babies try to walk. But you? You've turned trying into an Olympic sport of failure. If they handed out medals for effort without results, you'd be the Michael Phelps of doing nothing!"

The boy's mouth opened and closed like a gaping fish, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Before he could formulate any response, the man kept going, now pacing back and forth like a parent trying to understand how their child failed art class with stick figures.

"I don't know what to tell you, kid," the man continued, throwing his hands in the air again. "You've made me question my entire existence as a teacher. Am I really that bad at this? Do I need to rethink my life choices? How are you still alive? How have you made it this far in life without tripping over your own feet and falling into a bottomless pit? I mean—honestly—it's like I'm losing my goddamn personality dealing with you."

The boy, now standing, his legs trembling like a newborn deer, shot back with a hint of defiance. "I can do this! I have the will to learn! I'll get better!"

The man stopped in his tracks, blinked, then burst into laughter—a loud, raucous laugh that filled the dojo and echoed off the walls. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, tears streaming down his face. "Will? Will?! Oh, my dear sweet summer child," he wheezed between bouts of laughter. "Do you think 'will' is some kind of magic potion? You think you're living in a shonen anime where grit and determination alone can turn you into the next Bruce Lee? You've got a better chance of being struck by lightning, twice, while winning the lottery, and then becoming a world-class pianist!"

The boy crossed his arms, now feeling more annoyance than embarrassment. "I'm serious! I can do this!"

The man wiped away a tear, still chuckling as he straightened up. "Serious, huh? Alright, let me break it down for you, champ. There are thousands of people out there who are faster, stronger, and more skilled than you. And guess what? They're not sitting around waiting for you to catch up. In fact, they don't even know you exist! You think you're gonna close the gap by sheer force of will? Kid, will is just a thing people cling to when they've got nothing else to offer."

The boy clenched his fists, standing as tall as his shaking legs would allow. "But I—"

"—No, stop!" The man raised a hand, exasperated. "I can't listen to this anymore. Do you know what happens when you talk about 'will' like that? Somewhere out there, a real martial artist loses brain cells from hearing it. You're doing more damage to the universe than you realize."

There was a pause as the boy stood there, fists shaking in frustration. He was about to fire back, but before he could, the man sighed and rubbed his temples.

"Look, I don't want to be the bad guy here. I really don't. But you're forcing me to tell you the cold, hard truth. Sometimes quitting isn't a sign of weakness—it's just the universe giving you a much-needed nudge in the right direction. Maybe martial arts just isn't for you, kid. Maybe you were meant to do something else. Like, I don't know, stamp collecting or... crossword puzzles?"

The boy stood in silence, his jaw tight, but the fire in his eyes refused to die out. He opened his mouth to speak, but the man waved a hand dismissively.

"I mean, for the love of all things sacred, kid, just look at yourself! You're barely at the starting line, and you've already tripped over your own shoes. I'm not saying give up on life—I'm just saying give up on this. For your own sake, and for mine."

The boy, shaking with a mix of exhaustion and determination, finally spoke through gritted teeth. "I'm not quitting."

The man raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, goodie. Another motivational speech. Go on, I'm listening."

"I'm serious," the boy said, his voice stronger now. "I might suck. I might be the worst student you've ever had, but I'll get better. I'll make it."

The man blinked, genuinely taken aback, with veins appearing on his face. "Kid, you are the first one in 10 years to make me lose my personality."

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Talent, my ass, I sat on the park bench, holding my taekwondo uniform in my hands, staring down at the white fabric stained with sweat and the occasional bruise mark. My face felt like a punching bag—probably looked like one too, given the way people kept staring at me as they passed by. There I was, bruised, battered, and utterly defeated, despite my best efforts to master my 36th martial art. Yeah, that's right—36 attempts. You'd think after that many, something would have stuck.

I muttered under my breath, listing them off, "Boxing, karate, judo, aikido, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, Muay Thai, kendo, taekwondo—obviously—capoeira, krav maga, sambo, wrestling, pankration, silat, Wing Chun, Jeet Kune Do, fencing, savate, Hwa Rang Do, Sumo, Kyudo, Shuai Jiao, Chinese swordsmanship, Arnis, Eskrima, Kalari Payattu, Baguazhang, Xing Yi Quan, Ninjutsu, Wushu, Bajiquan, Kalaripayattu, Pradal Serey, Taekkyeon, Vale Tudo, and San Shou."

I sighed. "I even watched the damn How to Fight tutorials. What the hell am I missing?"

Maybe I was cursed. Maybe genetics really was a bitch. I mean, my dad wasn't exactly an Olympian. He was your average 9-to-5 office worker, the kind of guy who came home, cracked open a beer, and settled into his well-worn spot on the couch. But he was my first martial arts teacher. Taught me Jackie Chan's drunken master style—or at least tried to—while slurring through his words and taking swigs from his bottle. Yeah, real inspiring stuff.

I opened my wallet and looked at the photo tucked in there: Mom, Dad, my little brother, and me. Dad's smile looked a bit too wide, probably still tipsy from his "training session" when the picture was taken. My mom looked tired, like she always did after dealing with Dad. And my little brother? He was perfect, of course. Never broke a sweat, always got things right on the first try.

Me, though? I was just…me. Sitting here with a face full of bruises and no closer to mastering martial arts than the day I started.

Sighing, I shoved the wallet back in my pocket. "I can't give up. I'm not two steps ahead, I'm fucking seven years ahead of canon. I know what's going to happen, and I can't let it all fall apart now."

For the past three years, I'd been trying everything. Studying like a madman, training day in and day out, investing money I made from random online ventures into Nile, Pineapple, and Coocle. I was so far ahead of everyone else my age, and yet, I couldn't even manage to be the best in school. Some random 10-year-old genius always beat me out for the top spot. Genius kid.

I rubbed my temples. "I need a cigarette… or something stronger."

Suddenly, I felt the entire bench tilt to one side. I blinked, eyes wide in shock, as I glanced to my right. And there he was—a small hamster figure, puffing and panting like he'd just run a marathon. His size alone made me instinctively scoot to the other end of the bench. My eyes trailed up and down—he looked like a walking meatball. And then, to make it worse, he flashed me the most awkward smile I had ever seen. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead as if he'd been standing under a spotlight.

"Hello," he said, sounding out of breath, "I'm Daniel Park."

My brain short-circuited for a second. Wait a minute… Daniel Park? The name echoed in my mind like a siren going off. I blinked, trying to process the situation. "Daniel Park?" I repeated.

He nodded, still panting. The reality of the situation hit me like a truck. This was the Daniel Park. I wasn't just ahead of canon—I was standing right in front of it.

My mind spun. If Daniel Park was here, then all the Lookism stuff was about to start. Fights, gangs, chaos… all the things I had been trying to avoid. I couldn't let myself get dragged into that mess. No way. What if I just move? What if I go somewhere peaceful, away from all the fights and drama? It'd be easy. With the investments I made, I could cash out and become a billionaire, live a comfortable life somewhere far from Seoul.

The realization hit me like a bolt of lightning. "Hell yeah!" I shouted, jumping up from the bench.

Daniel blinked at me, startled by my sudden outburst.

I pointed at him, suddenly giddy with excitement. "You know what, Daniel Park? I'm Doo Lee. Nice to meet you! Also, say hi to Logan for me when you see him. I'm outta here!"

Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and sprinted off in the direction of my house, a plan already forming in my head. I didn't need to stick around for the main plotline. I had the knowledge of the future, the investments, the opportunities! Screw martial arts—I could live the high life without ever throwing another punch. I could retire young, buy an island, and live peacefully, far away from all this Lookism crap.