About becoming a Boss after getting banished

Andrew Hasselhoff.

Bull of Creta, Boss.

There was no consent from him.

Morning in the Air Ground. About two hundred gang members stand in formation in front of an abandoned building.

A line cut sharp and straight. A stiff posture.

On the podium, a massive figure with shoulders like mountains. Andrew Hasselhoff.

A greeting that shakes the very earth.

Everyone shouts. "We will keep that in mind!!"

(Underground Rumor Network)

[Boss Bull of Creta descends every morning at 8 o'clock sharp]

[100 soldiers can't shake him. Truly, Never be Broken]

Rumor Credibility: 5/5

(Andrew's Sketchbook Diary)

Everyone was gathered from morning again today. I wonder why.

The space in front of the house is too narrow to draw.

How did this guy end up like this.

The story begins thirty years ago, with a single newspaper.

[Breaking: Uyoung sets new world record!]

[Greatest Baby Ever Born in the Midground]

From the day he was born, Andrew was famous.

Regardless of his will. As it would be for the rest of his life after that.

Baby Andrew smiled sweetly.

But because of the angle of the lighting, the baby in the newspaper photo was captured with a gaze that seemed to glare at the world.

I wasn't aiming for it. I was just drowsy.

It was the first record of the world misunderstanding Andrew.

Andrew's body was strange. His muscles grew even without exercise.

The muscles grew, the bone broke, and the broken bone regenerated even stronger.

It wasn't endurance. It hurt. It hurt every day.

He frowned because he was in pain, and after frowning every day, his face got stuck that way.

The gentlest child in the world has the fiercest face in the world.

One day while lying in a cast, the grandfather in the next bed gave me drawing tools.

The small brush looked like a toothpick in his hand.

For just that moment, nothing broke, and no one feared him.

Canvas didn't misunderstand him.

...The fact that Grandfather asked to move hospital rooms that very night after seeing the finished painting.

Only Andrew doesn't know.

(Andrew's Sketchbook Diary - First Page)

The picture is good. It doesn't hurt. It's quiet.

Dream: Painter.

A decade ago. Mid Industrial District, night press line.

A position no one volunteers for.

Paint was expensive and sketchbooks ran out quickly, so Andrew in his late teens worked at a factory.

Silently, without mistake, every night.

His colleagues were afraid of him at first, but three months in, they understood.

That he's the kind of guy who bows ninety degrees when you share a late-night snack with him.

And that night.

The ceiling frame of a large press, which had deferred aging equipment warnings for 12 years, collapsed.

Below the line are three night shift colleagues.

There was no time to think. I didn't think.

Andrew dove under the frame and caught it with both arms.

All three made it safely.

The moment the last one escaped, from that body that grew harder the more it broke.

For the first time in my life, I heard something breaking.

Crunch.

Even regenerating bones had their limits. Tens of tons below.

Worker's compensation was processed at the lowest grade, and Blue License could only receive one arm.

[Budget-Model Jagear Prosthetic Arm - Lowest Price Model]

[Output: Residential Grade 2]

[Recommended Uses: Dishwashing, Laundry, Light Cargo Transport]

Wait here, I need to explain the situation at the prosthetic supply depot.

The manager was sorting through inventory that day, a task delayed for 12 years.

Shelf slot: Budget-friendly cheapest prosthetic arm.

Shelf below section: Military Enhancement prosthetic arm Prototype recovered from somewhere. [Output: Unmeasurable]

The manager swapped the spec plates on both arms.

By accident.

The military Prototype went to Andrew with a [Domestic Grade 2] plate.

The grip strength meter broke when squeezed as a test after equipping it, 'It's for home use anyway, so there's nothing to measure.'

This time, no one told me it was a limit, not a malfunction.

From that day on, Andrew believed himself to be weak.

That's what it says in the spec sheet. Official documentation.

That the arm was made to take on tanks.

That the body beneath supported dozens of tons and remained intact, an irregular monster.

It was not written on that plaque.

The world misunderstood his face, and he misunderstood his own arm.

The new arm gripped the brush with remarkable precision. Military targeting correction, 0.01mm error margin.

The picture drawn that way - remained the same.

(Midground News - Brief)

[Industrial District Press Collapse, Zero Casualties]

[Witness: "Someone caught it barehanded" / Company: "Equipment was just lucky"]

(Andrew's Sketchbook Diary)

Got a new arm. They say it's for home use. It seems to suit me perfectly.

I broke the grip strength meter. Cheap stuff breaks right away. We're sorry.

Glad everyone is safe.

Practice holding the brush. A hundred times, a thousand times.

Twenty-year-old Andrew lived carefully.

Head down. Shoulders hunched. Steps toward the wall.

That day too, he was returning from the paint shop with sky-blue oil paint.

A young master who came back from Air Ground after experiencing the 'common folk experience' across the way.

She was sneaking a look around the alley without her escort.

Our eyes met.

Andrew smiled politely and as gently as possible.

That was the problem.

His facial muscles when they output a 'soft smile.'

It takes on a form similar to an ordinary person's 'murder threat.'

Thud. The young master fainted. As he collapsed, his knee scraped slightly.

Young master was a premium biometric registration subscriber with maximum protection coverage.

In 30 seconds, a rescue helicopter took off, and in 1 minute, security sealed off the alley.

In 3 minutes, a lawyer drone arrived.

Witness statement - He... looked at me.

Everyone looks at Andrew.

Andrew held a sky-blue paint, doing his best to look as unthreatening as possible.

The result of his effort resembled 'a predator choosing its prey.'

[One week later - Review No. 7749]

[Weapon Used: Impression (Not a Regulated Item / Regulation Review Recommended)]

[Penalty: Midground residency suspended. Transfer to Underground]

Andrew did not protest.

Just as he opened his mouth to protest, the examiner dropped the documents.

Because it was recorded as [None].

The elevator descends. Mid's artificial sun grows distant.

Andrew clutched the sky-blue paint in his arms.

There wasn't one. There is no sky in the Underground.

(Midground News)

[Air faction assassination attempt foiled, exiled to Underground]

[Expert: "Loses consciousness just from looking... New type of threat"]

(Andrew's Sketchbook Diary)

My face caused trouble again. Young master, we're sorry.

From now on, let's not smile. They say smiling is even scarier.

The paint is safe. That's a relief.

First day of banishment. The air in the Underground was murky.

Andrew's lungs, accustomed to only Midground's purified air, screamed from the first day.

Hyperventilation. Her eyes rolled back and a steam engine-like breath poured out of her nostrils.

Of all places, that alley was in the territory of the storied gang, the Bull of Creta.

Andrew turned his head.

Bloodshot eyes. Snorting breath. A log-like arm stretched out in a plea for help.

At that moment, an organization member clutched their chest and collapsed.

It was chronic heart failure.

Postponing a health checkup for 12 years, and it just happened to arrive at that exact moment.

Andrew steadied his breathing and stumbled forward. To help.

But from the organization member's perspective - it's a monster that defeated a comrade.

Eyes wide open and snorting, it was approaching.

The gang member abandoned his comrade and fled.

Andrew found a hospital and brought the injured person there.

Left an envelope of hospital bills at the reception desk, then quietly vanished. Thinking they'd caused trouble.

Four days later. The testimony had spread throughout the Under.

(Underground Rumor Network)

(Title Acquired: Enraged Bull of Creta)

[A man who stops people with a breath appears]

[Casts from defeat to revival. Controls life and death]

Rumor Credibility: 3/5 (1 witness, suspected exaggeration)

(Andrew's Sketchbook Diary)

The Underground air is stale. It's hard to breathe.

I took someone who was sick to the hospital today. I hope they recover soon.

Found a place. A quiet abandoned building. Large windows. I like it.

One week later. Bull of Creta, emergency executive meeting.

Meanwhile, Andrew was in the middle of moving.

The abandoned building was full of trash, so I decided to do a full cleanup all day.

And cleaning calls for music.

A premium noise-canceling headset bought by selling everything before banishment.

The only thing in Midground that didn't misunderstand him. His treasure, something that silences the world's noise.

Click. [Noise Canceling: ON]

[Playing: Peaceful Classical Collection 4 hours]

The world fell silent.

Then, 40 gang members entered the building.

- Records of 12 members who entered the 1st floor.

In the darkness, a massive shadow lifts a Worn sofa overhead.

And throws it out the window. Crash-!!

- 8 members of the 2nd floor staircase team fired their rifles.

The shadow turned his body and set up a large wooden wardrobe.

All the bullets were embedded in the closet.

(By the way, this outcry was the closest to truth in Underground rumor history.)

Except for the fact that no one, including himself, knew.)

- Six elite close-combat operatives ambushed with steel pipes.

Back. Shoulders. Head. With all your might.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Steel pipes bounced out. One was bent.

Then the shadow stretched and turned its body.

Six elite members were swept away by that arm.

- Finally, the shadow swung a plywood board the size of a door horizontally, shaking off the dust.

Boom!! The shockwave alone knocked everyone else down.

No one took a direct hit. The wind knocked them over.

11 minutes into combat. Bull of Creta x40, all neutralized.

Deaths: 0. Fractures: 0. Multiple incidents.

Click. [Noise Canceling: OFF]

Andrew removed his headset and turned around.

Forty people lay collapsed and groaning on the floor of the abandoned building.

Andrew carried 40 people out four at a time under his arms to safety outside the building.

I even covered him with a blanket.

(Underground Rumor Network)

(Title Acquired: Never be Broken)

[40 Armed Assailants Annihilated in 11 Minutes]

[Steel pipe ineffective. Bullets blocked by furniture. Didn't lift a finger]

[Spared everyone and lined them up outside. Interpreted as "Not worth killing"]

[Expert Opinions Divided on the Meaning of the Blanket]

Rumor Credibility: 5/5 (40 witnesses)

(Andrew's Sketchbook Diary)

That was close. There seems to be a gas leak at home.

The collapsed people all woke up, thankfully.

But when eyes meet, everyone gets Stunned. Is it gas aftereffects?

The wardrobe yielded something good. The bullet marks... they were probably always there.

Pal held up really well all day today. Impressive for a home model.

I'm thinking of writing a thank-you letter to the company that made it.

The next morning. The entire Bull of Creta lineup stood in formation in front of the abandoned building.

The former Boss is kneeling at the front.

What he held in both hands was the bull emblem, the symbol of the organization.

Former Boss's interpretation - 'It's a shame you dared to challenge me.'

Former Boss's interpretation - 'If you come back to my territory, you're dead.'

Former Boss's interpretation - 'Your time playing Boss is over.'

Tears streamed from the Boss's eyes.

I saw it yesterday. The difference in level.

That man knocked down 40 people, kept them all alive, and tucked a blanket over them.

Tell him to stop today.

Strength, grace, mercy, all were above.

A hundred voices cried out at once. "Please!!!" The old glass window of the abandoned building rattled.

Andrew received the bull emblem.

Later never came. Not even now.

The cheers shook the Underground.

Amid that roar, Milter, the action leader of one flank.

I was witnessing the moment a new legend began.

It was the moment the sect was founded.

The former Boss retired that very day and went fishing by the lake.

Words left behind as one departs linger long.

(Underground Rumor Network)

[Bull of Creta, bloodless regime change]

[New Boss's coronation speech: "We're sorry"] (Interpretation unclear. Under investigation)

(Title Acquired: Underground's Top Four Figures)

Rumor Credibility: 5/5

(Andrew's Sketchbook Diary)

Received something like a shield with a cow drawing on it. Is it a gift?

Too many people at the door. No space to draw.

I should return it quickly and live quietly.

Andrew drew pictures in the yard every morning. He wanted time to himself.

So the members gathered every morning at 8 o'clock.

To learn about the Boss's dawn training (or what appeared to be).

This is the origin of the Bull of Creta's famous '8 AM Roll Call.'

Every word that slipped from his lips became a specter.

"Cleaning... would be nice." -> Designated area cleanup day established.

"Fighting is... something we shouldn't do..." -> Official ban on conflict declared.

"We should all eat together..." -> Weekly group dinner.

As a result, the Bull of Creta district became the safest area in the Under.

And, we need to talk about the picture.

The way he drew was art itself.

A perfect stance carved into the body by ten thousand practices. A brushstroke without error.

Even the motion of rinsing the brush was like a tea ceremony.

Just watching him draw, anyone would be certain of the birth of a master.

And the finished work was revealed.

On the canvas...

Swirling chaos. Brushstrokes like screams.

Countless somethings staring at us from the darkness.

Pal isn't at fault. It only faithfully reproduced what was in his head.

3 seconds of Silence. 3 seconds when instinct screamed 'run.'

It was Milter's applause that broke that Silence.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Everyone stands and applauds.

"The sky... the sky is alive...!" "Picasso died today!!"

Some of the tears weren't moved, they were physiological defense reactions.

Even those shedding tears believed it was moving.

An auction took place right there. The winning bid: six months of Milter's salary.

They got into a scuffle over who would have it, and the moment Andrew stepped in to break it up, they immediately made peace. (2 Stunned)

Andrew stood there, not knowing what to do.

For the first time in his life.

Not the art master grandfather who asked to be moved to a different hospital room, nor anyone else.

He had never said this in front of his painting.

Said I drew it well.

The next morning, that drawing was hanging on the most visible wall in the hideout.

Even framed it.

It was a donation from Milter, who burned half a year's salary, saying "masterpieces should be enjoyed together."

(He made the frame himself overnight.)

For the first time in my life, it was the moment his painting hung up.

No one asked to be moved to a different ward.

No one removed it.

(Underground Rumor Network)

[Boss, Divine Technique from the Brush - 'Drawing Video' Views Skyrocket]

[However, Multiple Reports of Nightmares for One Week Among Those Who Stared at the Completed Work for 3+ Seconds]

[Conclusion: Process is Art, Product is Weapon. 'Devil's Painting' Alert]

Rumor Credibility: 4/5

(Andrew's Sketchbook Diary)

My painting was praised. For the first time in my life.

The painting hung on the wall. It even came with a frame.

I thought they were scary people, but they seem like good folks.

...Let's retire just a little bit longer.

Night. Boss's room. A single document on the desk.

[Retirement Plan No. 137]

[1. Pack quietly] [2. Leave at dawn]

[3. Live drawing somewhere on the edge]

[4. Someday, draw under the true sky]

For reference, past records.

Plan 42 - Went out at dawn and encountered patrol unit. → "Boss's dawn patrol!" Rumor upgraded.

Plan 88 - Successful runaway, discovered in three days. → "Ascetic practice with nothing" legend added.

Plan 114 - Attempt to recite retirement declaration. → Milter became emotional and collapsed before recitation. Aborted.

Knock knock.

Andrew put the blueprint in the drawer.

Inside the drawer were 136 stacked blueprints.

Outside the window, a night in the Underground. There is no sky.

But on the courtyard wall, his 'sky' hangs.

Below it, patrol squads kept watch through the night (saluting the picture, averting their gaze).

Tomorrow morning at 8, everyone will gather and greet each other noisily.

Despite his words, that fierce face was, just slightly, closer to a smile.

Of course, the two patrol officers who saw that smile were Stunned.

(Underground Rumor Network)

[Breaking: Boss smiles by window at midnight]

[Presumed to Have Selected Next Target. All Zones on High Alert]

[Bull of Creta remains peaceful today - a fact nobody believes]

Rumor Credibility: 5/5

(Andrew's Sketchbook Diary)

I postponed retirement to the day after tomorrow.

Thirty new hires are coming, they say. I wonder why they're all coming.

For the next drawing, I'm thinking of sketching everyone eating together.

The title is 'Family'... but that's embarrassing, so let's call it 'Team Dinner' instead.