Please support the authors by reading Manhwas on the official websites. This is where you can read the Manhwa: Jinx But be aware that the Manhwa is a mature Yaoi, which means, it is about homosexuality with explicit scenes. Here is the link of the table of contents about Jinx. Here is the link where you can find the table of contents of analyzed Manhwas. Here are the links, if you are interested in the first work from Mingwa, BJ Alex, and the 2 previous essays about Jinx Kim Dan on Thin Ice and The Watery Point Of No Return
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The Poster as a Manifesto of Shadows and Smoke
When I first saw the new promotional image titled 
“The Return of the Emp”, I had to pause. Something in it refused to make sense — or perhaps, it made too much sense. Here stands the celebrity fighter alone, shirtless, his upper body carved out of darkness, while a faint cloud floats behind him accompanied by a hidden spotlight. Beneath him glows the number 317, a detail too deliberate to be accidental. And yet, where is the opponent? Every previous MFC poster — from Randy Booker’s green inferno 
(chapter 13) 
(chapter 40) to Baek Junmin’s red blaze 
(chapter 48) — had mirrored faces, two bodies, two lights. This time, there is only one. The duel has vanished. What remains looks less like a fight and more like a myth in the making. (chapter 81)
So I began to wonder, my fellow Jinx-lovers, who made this image? One might reply, of course, the marketing branch of MFC, eager to sell the comeback of their most profitable star. And yet, something doesn’t add up. Unlike the posters for Randy Booker (chapter 13) or Dominic Hill (chapter 40), this one shows no date, no place, no trace of logistics (no TV diffusion like in the States “On PPV”). Only a face, a body, a void. Why would MFC release such an abstract announcement, stripped of all practical information? Why design such a poster which makes this event look more like a secret rendez-vous?
At that point, another possibility emerged. Perhaps this is not merely MFC’s doing but Mingwa’s own design — a deliberate distortion, letting fiction expose the machinery that feeds it. The result, I believe, is an image that speaks in two voices at once: one belonging to the league’s publicity team, and the other to the storyteller who knows what must eventually rise from the smoke. But I am suspecting a third voice hiding behind MFC which I will reveal below.
But the first mystery is not the smoke or the color. It is the absence of Arnaud Gabriel, the French kickboxer 
(chapter 81) chosen to face the Emperor. According to Oh Daehyun, this man is fighting for the title of the hottest male athlete in the world. 
(chapter 81) So why is he not placed in the poster? Does he fear comparison — or has someone decided that no comparison should be allowed? Each missing element feels intentional — the kind of silence that makes the viewer uneasy, as though something essential was being hidden in plain sight. (chapter 81)
Then there is the pose — a quiet rupture in Mingwa’s visual language. Instead of the usual mirrored confrontation, the camera turns entirely toward the champion, revealing the torso and the raised fist. The MMA star faces not his rival, but the audience itself, as if daring the beholder to guess what has changed. For once, no familiar emblems frame him — no belt, no symmetry, only a body standing between light and smoke. Why this exposure now, and what does it conceal?
The light, too, behaves differently. In earlier posters, illumination came from behind (chapter 13) or within (chapter 48) — from the collision of two forces. Here, the glow seems to rise from below, slightly to the right, and yet the source remains unseen. Why there, and why invisible? What are we supposed to read in that slanted brightness — revelation or exposure, ascension or downfall?
And finally, the text itself: “The Return of the Emp.” (chapter 81) For the first time, words intrude upon the image — not just names, but a sentence, an unfinished promise. “Emp”: a fragment of Emperor, a crown cut short. 
(chapter 14) Why is there this abbreviation? Why does the image proclaim a return while simultaneously concealing the full title? What does it signify?
These details — the number 317, the smoke, the missing rival, the hidden light, the fractured title — weave a code of absence and expectation. They refuse to settle into one meaning, riddles disguised as design choices. From these visual clues, my previous theory 
seems to be corroborated: this event doesn’t announce the glorious comeback it pretends to be, but a carefully staged trap. However, there is more to it. The longer I examine the composition (chapter 81) — the fist aimed at the viewer, the smoke curling like a stage curtain, the void where the opponent should stand — the clearer it becomes that this poster already sketches the scene of the athlete’s anticipated demise. It reveals not just a fight, but where and how the next act will unfold 😲— before an audience that may not be what it seems.
The Absent Rival – Arnaud Gabriel and the Art of the Mask
Every puzzle begins with a missing face. And here, the first enigma is Arnaud Gabriel himself (chapter 81) — the man selected to stand against the Emperor, yet nowhere to be seen. Why choose him, a French fighter known less for his record than for his looks? (chapter 40) Where every previous MFC announcement balanced two visages, two auras, two lights, this one shows only the wolf. The French kickboxer has been erased before the match even begins. (chapter 81)
(chapter 81) According to Oh Daehyun, his goal is not victory but visibility — to be crowned the hottest male athlete. (chapter 81) That title alone tells us everything about his mindset. For Arnaud, competition is not victory but exhibition. His sport is not combat; it is choreography. Every gesture (the smile, the wink, the tilt of his head) (chapter 81) seems designed for the lens rather than the opponent.
And perhaps that is precisely why he was chosen. A kickboxer fights with distance. (chapter 81) His weapon is reach, not contact — the opposite of boxing, where rhythm and proximity create truth. Arnaud’s martial art allows him to attack without connection, to strike without touching — the perfect metaphor for a system built on façade. In this sense, he does not merely fight; he performs the idea of fighting. For him, combat is not confrontation but more dance, not survival but fun. It is sparring in its purest, most aesthetic form — controlled, rhythmic, pleasing to the eye. Every kick and grin seems rehearsed to delight the crowd.
His entire persona seems imported from the cinema rather than the cage. One cannot help but think of Jean-Claude Van Damme, the Belgian kickboxer and martial artist turned movie icon, whose blend of violence and grace transformed the fight into spectacle. Like Van Damme, Arnaud Gabriel stands at the crossroads between athlete and actor — between authenticity and artifice. And now, you comprehend why certain readers felt a connection between this fighter and Choi Heesung: 
(chapter 30) The latter had to learn fighting in order to play his role in the drama Extreme Worlds 
(chapter 29).
The fighter’s origin deepens this impression: France. The latter is famous for the spirit of savoir vivre — the art of living well, of savoring the moment. “Savoir vivre” is definitely part of his professional philosophy. Arnaud’s smile proclaims respect, pleasure and not perseverance or Schadenfreude. (chapter 81) He embodies a hedonism of the ring, a man who delights in admiration more than victory. Yet beneath the charm lies subtle anxiety. The beard that frames his grin functions as disguise — not to conceal aging, but to simulate experience, to appear older, to lend him a gravitas he has not earned. It is artifice masquerading as mastery.
It is funny, because in the analysis I had predicted that the match would take place in Europe. However, what my avid readers don’t know is that I was hesitating between France and Germany because of the desserts. And guess what… not only my prediction was proven correct, but also my hesitation. Why? Arnaud is a French name but its origins are Germanic. Arnaud, from arn (eagle) and wald (rule), means “he who rules like an eagle.” His name carries a certain arrogance. A creature of height and distance, he surveys from above, untouched by the chaos below. Gabriel, the angelic messenger, completes the illusion: an eagle crowned with divinity, a herald of light who never lands. Together they form the symbol of a man who rules through air — dazzling, distant, and hollow. Under this perspective, the smoke behind the champion could be interpreted as a veiled reference to Arnaud Gabriel. (chapter 81) He could attack him from behind or above. The smoke lingers behind both the title and the wolf, hinting that this elegant newcomer may have been placed as a pawn — not to challenge the champion’s skill, but to block his return to the title of Emperor. Consequently, he represents a real threat to Joo Jaekyung, while on the surface he looks harmless. That’s why for Park Namwook, Arnaud Gabriel seems to be an easy rival. No wonder why he described this encounter as a breeze (air element) 
(chapter 81), while in reality a “storm” is actually coming.
But in Jinx, there exists another eagle in the sky: Oh Daehyun. 
(chapter 8) His eagle is spreading his wings in front of his god, the sun, attempting to fly closer to the sun. According to me, Joo Jaekyung is the sun. This explains the loyalty of this purple belt fighter toward the protagonist!
Because of these parallels, I couldn’t help myself envisaging this possibility that Oh Daehyun ends up facing the other eagle. And that’s how the “novice” would get his breakthrough. 
(chapter 47) But that’s one possibility among others, one thing is sure. Oh Daehyun will play an important part during their stay in France.
And yet, for all this lightness, the Frenchman is nowhere to be seen. (chapter 81) His absence from the poster betrays the truth: he is not a rival but a tool. MFC’s marketing machine uses him as a prop, an emblem of beauty to bait the audience, to divert attention. The company doesn’t need his fists — only his face — and even that, now, has been erased. His omission signals that the game is fixed before it begins. Yes, the poster is implying the existence of a rigged match.
The same is true for the missing championship belt. (chapter 13) Once gleaming over the champion’s shoulder — as in the poster with Randy Booker — it has vanished. It absence in the fight against Baek Junmin revealed (chapter 48) MFC’s true intentions. The tie had long been decided in order to create a smooth transition. MFC’s goal becomes clear: to take away the belt and give it to someone else, while appearing clean. The wolf’s success represented a threat to their illegal business (gambling and money laundering). 
(chapter 46) People would bet on him and win… they needed him to lose and break his “lucky streak”. In other words, the organization betrayed the body they once sold. They had prepared the fall long before the injury, the surgery, or the suspension. But their plan failed. Despite every setback, the wolf remained beloved at home. People still admired him, not for the trophies, but for his kindness 
(chapter 62), humility 
and strength 
(chapter 62) In other words, what the champion did in the seaside town had a huge impact in his life and world. He lingered in the hearts of those he touched. He was not a fallen idol, nor a forgotten champion, but a living memory — proof that integrity leaves deeper marks than victory ever could. To conclude, his fame no longer comes from spectacle only but also from empathy and presence — from the very qualities the schemers and media system fail to grasp.
And so the game shifts. What cannot be destroyed by defeat will be targeted through image. 
(chapter 81) The new battlefield is the face. Under this light, Jinx-philes will grasp why the agents from the Entertainment agency were so zealous in defending the star’s reputation. If he were to lose his good looks, they would lose one of their most profitable clients. (chapter 81) They hadn’t intervened when he was suspended or stripped of brand value — back then, he was still only a fighter, not a product. The entertainment world belongs to artists, not athletes. In truth, the celebrity now stands between two worlds: the ring and the stage, the punch and the pose, the man and the myth. If the schemers cannot ruin his record, they will try to ruin his reflection.
Here, I suspect, lies the invisible hand of Baek Junmin — the man whose own face was once disfigured
(chapter 52), whose envy of beauty turned into a creed. Imagine this. Now he holds the championship belt, yet no one admires him. His ruined face became the excuse for his bitterness,
(chapter 52) and his rival the embodiment of everything he lost. He had to flee to Thailand to claim glory and admiration 
(chapter 69), only to discover that ownership without recognition is hollow. Even with the title, his name barely circulates in the media. 
(chapter 77) MFC can not promote him so easily, as his title could get questioned. He remains unseen — a champion without a face.
If Baek Junmin cannot be admired, he will annihilate admiration itself. (chapter 81) To him, visibility has become an offense. And this poster lets that mindset leak through. His presence is everywhere — not in the body of the opponent, but in the photograph chosen, in the smoke curling behind the champion, and in the raised fist, the same one that once struck him down. 
(chapter 52) In the past, his insult 
(chapter 74) merged anger with heat; now that very “hotness” materializes in the media and poster as smoke, an image of resentment turned into atmosphere. (chapter 81)
And yet, the smoke behind the celebrity’s silhouette may carry another, more literal association — one tied to France itself. (chapter 81)
The old blue packs of Gauloises Caporal, adorned with a winged helmet, were once the emblem of French masculinity and freedom — a breath of rebellion. “Gauloises,” meaning “Gallic,” evokes both the air of the bird (rooster/eagle) and the pride of the soldier. How fitting, then, that the French opponent, Arnaud Gabriel, should enter the narrative surrounded by air and smoke, like a man of wings rather than roots.
But here the image turns double-edged. To Baek Junmin, smoke is not freedom but submission 
(chapter 74): the visible trace of a man who dares to rebel. He once watched the fighter smoke a plain cigarette and sneered at him for it, precisely because he knew it was not a joint. In Junmin’s world, violation meant courage and power intoxication. He assumed that fearlessness linked to drugs would bring admiration and success. Jaekyung’s refusal to accept their drug wasn’t prudence; it was, to him, an insult — a quiet act of superiority. The wolf’s restraint exposed his indifference and own dependency, and that humiliation still burns.
Now that same symbol returns, ready to be twisted. (chapter 81) The schemers can weaponize the image of smoke — turning a mundane habit into proof of moral decay. What once marked distance from corruption could now be rebranded as relapse. Under this light, the haze on the new poster reads like the resurrection of that old resentment: smoke as proof, as provocation, as the spark that might ignite the next fall.
Worse still, the smoke doesn’t surround the fighter, it floats behind him. The poster makes the celebrity appear like vapor itself: fleeting, unsubstantial, “hot air.” The man of iron and will is reduced to mist and memory, a puff of illusion dissolving under false light. And now, we can finally grasp why the word “Emperor” remains unfinished. Emp no longer stands for empire, but for emptiness in the schemers’ eyes — the very image of a man hollowed out by rumor, stripped of body and voice, left to vanish in someone else’s smoke.
The Message Behind The Colors
At first glance, the black-and-white palette of the new poster might seem to echo the timeless harmony of yin and yang — two forces locked in mutual creation (chapter 81), night feeding day, death feeding life. Yet the longer I stared, the more this equilibrium seemed broken. Instead of flowing into each other, black and white now collide: the darkness doesn’t cradle the light, it devours it. The world becomes gray. And that’s the intention of the creators, though yin and yang will be present in the match.
My fellow Jinx-lovers might also recall that in South Korea, black and white are not symbols of elegance or neutrality — they are the colors of mourning. 
(chapter 74) The main lead was seen “wearing a black suit with three white strips” showing that he was the chief mourner. 
(chapter 74) Once you recognize this (chapter 81), the image takes on an entirely different meaning. The smoke rises not like balance restored, but like incense burning for the dead, a soul leaving a body. This inversion transforms the poster into something closer to a memorial portrait.
And then there is the light purple haze — a color that at first might seem aesthetic, even noble. Yet in this context, it suggests something bleeding, rotting, fermenting, like wine left too long in the glass. It blurs the boundary between beauty and decay, pleasure and loss. In religious iconography, purple once stood for power and resurrection; here it becomes the color of corruption — the slow decomposition of glory. This could be seen as a clue that the authors of this poster are aware of the athlete’s past drinking. 
(chapter 54) The wolf is wrapped not in triumph, but in the faint perfume of something dying beautifully. He is shown before his decomposition, which reminds us of his father’s fate: 
(chapter 73)
(chapter 74) The dense, rising smoke recalls the funeral altar we once saw during Joo Jaewoon’s death scene — white blossoms, a dark frame, and a half-erased face. The emperor’s comeback has been reframed as his own commemoration: a legend embalmed in monochrome.
What makes this echo even more haunting is the photograph chosen for Joo Jaewoon’s funeral — his portrait as a boxer. One part of his face is covered. Moreover, his burial fused the professional and the personal, erasing the line between athlete and man. When his father died, he vanished both as a sportsman and as a person — an identity consumed by a role. And now, the poster of “The Return of the Emp” seems to repeat the same logic. The fighter clenching his MFC-branded fist mirrors that old photograph. It’s as if the marketing team were unconsciously recreating the father’s memorial, predicting the son’s fall. The image proclaims not revival, but elimination in advance — the death of the fighter, and with him, the man.
And that, I believe, is precisely what Baek Junmin desires. Unlike the champion, Junmin never lived the disciplined life of a true athlete; he was a thug from the very beginning, fighting not for mastery, but for longing and recognition. He has always been a man of the shadows 
(chapter 73), hiding behind his hyungs, the mobsters who granted him borrowed strength and false belonging. Joo Jaekyung, by contrast, was raised in the ring — the gym shaped him as both a professional and a person.
But here is the difference between the two “altars”: the smoke in the poster is placed not in front of the picture (chapter 74), but behind and it is going in the opposite direction: (chapter 81) Mingwa is announcing the failure of the trap. In other words, the athlete is about to earn his stage name “The Emperor” for good! Observe that so far, this stage name was only announced once and it was never written. Under this light, it becomes comprehensible why the fighter’s name is placed at the bottom. They are trying to erase his name, while he is about to become a real legend: the Emperor!
But let’s return our attention to The Shotgun and his relationship with the wolf! 
(chapter 49) If you have read my previous essay, you’ll remember that I connected the arc of chapters 80 to 89 to the theme of jealousy. Baek Junmin embodies that poison completely. His words — “ 
(chapter 49) “kid”, “coward,” “chicken” (chapter 74)— reveal not confidence but a profound inferiority complex. Obsessed with the Emperor, he wants to destroy the man he cannot become.
Yet in that obsession, Baek Junmin has frozen in time. His envy, greed, and resentment prevent him from truly living. He remains trapped in the past, mirroring the ghost of Joo Jaewoon, whose death also fused ambition and ruin. 
(chapter 73) Both men are haunted by the same delusion: that to win, one must erase the other.
That’s why the poster’s mourning tone resonates so powerfully — because it visualizes Junmin’s fantasy: to see the Emperor vanish, not only as a fighter, but as a man. And when he realizes that the wolf is not dying but living — that he has found peace, love, and laughter again — his envy will not fade. It will ignite.
And yet, the author behind this illustration — whoever designed it within the MFC hierarchy — does not realize how prophetic it becomes under Mingwa’s hand. (chapter 81) For what they intended as a visual obituary might instead signal transformation: the end of a man defined by violence and the birth of one reborn through empathy. Yes, the title of the match could be read like this: The return of Empathy. One might argue that this took place before. However, so far, none of the members from Team Black noticed it. In fact, the athlete stopped doc Dan from treating other members of Team Black. 
(chapter 79) And the hamster followed the wolf’s request. This explicates why Potato is wearing a knee support brace — a sign that he is now tending to his own injuries without the doctor’s assistance. 
(chapter 81) It is a subtle but telling detail: the physical separation mirrors the emotional boundary now forming within the team. The healer’s hands have been withdrawn. So the emperor’s empathy is incomplete, hence he is only EMP. It extends only toward his chosen one — the doctor — and not yet to the others around him. True empathy, however, cannot be selective; it must reach beyond intimacy to encompass even those who do not stand at the center of affection.
Potato’s knee brace exposes the current limit of the wolf’s compassion: he protects Kim Dan but neglects the rest. Yet the injured knee also foreshadows the coming fight. Arnaud Gabriel, the “eagle,” is a kickboxer — his power rests on his legs, his rhythm, his ability to stay aloft through movement. By highlighting Potato’s injury, the author discreetly reveals the eagle’s own weakness: the knee, the joint that bridges grace and collapse. Without his legs, the eagle cannot kick or dance — he becomes a chicken, earthbound and ridiculous. And how was the main lead described in the past? 
(chapter 1) He was a beast of destruction, someone who made sure to crush his opponents without mercy 
(chapter 15) Unstoppable in his rage, he moved like a man possessed — bloodthirsty, unrelenting, fighting not for glory but for survival. Each strike was a declaration: I will not die.
The French MMA scene, by contrast, stands for the opposite ethos — for entertainment, glamour, and spectacle, not mortal struggle. For the eagle, the ring is a stage; for the wolf, it has always been an arena. Thus, if the champion were to injure Arnaud Gabriel seriously, the audience’s outrage would be immediate. He would be condemned not as a fighter but as a monster. (chapter 81) Yet, this does not make the eagle harmless. He embodies dream and danger alike — beauty that glides above the earth, but also talons sharp enough to wound.
In my eyes, Arnaud Gabriel personifies both illusion and seduction, much like the cloud — an image that leads us back to Kim Dan himself. 
(chapter 38) The doctor, too, has always been associated with clouds: soft, elusive, shifting with emotion. Thus I deduce that their paths will inevitably cross, dream and danger meeting in vapor and light. But more importantly, I perceive the smoke as a reference to the rising of doc Dan as physical therapist. (chapter 81) So far, his efforts were never noticed. Park Namwook’s gratitude was rather a lip service than a true recognition, because after the debacle, he was ready to hire a new physical therapist. And according to me, the schemers are all expecting the arrival of a diminished “MMA fighter” reaching the end of his career. That’s why the light is directed at the cloud/smoke! The one behind him is his hidden support.
And if the match truly takes place, I believe the champion’s way to ruin the schemers’ plan will not be through annihilation but transformation. He has to become himself an ARTIST!! [I will elaborate more about this aspect below] This time, victory will not depend on blood, but on how he fights — by returning to his origins, to boxing, to the simplicity of rhythm and breath, to the era when his smile was genuine. By having fun… In that sense, Joo Jaekyung may no longer be fighting for MFC but as the living embodiment of his own gym — Team Black reborn as the Emperor’s court.
But before we reach that possibility, another layer of meaning unfolds through Team Black itself. 
(chapter 81) The team’s black-and-white uniform (chapter 81) echoes the same mourning duality: black in the center, white on the sides — precisely like the arrangement of smoke behind the poster’s title. Yet when the team steps into the airport, the palette explodes into the full five Korean colors (오방색):
- Black (north, water): Kim Dan, wearing the Team Black jacket — still faithful, yet marked and exposed.
- White (west, metal): Park Namwook, disciplined but cold.
(chapter 81) - Blue (east, wood): Joo Jaekyung, vitality and growth, standing quietly at the center.
- Red (south, fire): Potato, radiating warmth and impulsive energy.
- Green (center, earth): Yosep, grounding the group in human normalcy.
Only Oh Daehyun’s clothing remains unseen, though his blond hair shines like yellow, the missing balance of the circle. Taken together, they form a living flag of South Korea, suggesting that for the first time, Team Black stands united not by uniform, but by spirit.
This silent unity contrasts sharply with their earlier appearance during the Baek Junmin match, when they were clothed alike but divided in heart and mind. 
(chapter 49) What looked like teamwork was mere coordination. Now, the visual disarray hides emotional harmony — the perfect yin-yang inversion of their past selves.
The poster may wear the colors of death, but the airport scene (chapter 81) quietly answers it with the colors of life, diversity, and rebirth. Behind the mourning veil, something in this team has already begun to live again.
As you could see, I detected parallels between the match in the States and the one in France. Everything is pointing out the existence of another trap. (chapter 81) People started wondering about the doctor’s jacket. Why is he the only one wearing it? It is clear that this cloth truly belongs to the physical therapist, because the sportsman’s has always been too big for the “hamster”. 
(chapter 36) One could think, the other members are not wearing it, for they don’t want to be associated with the champion. He has been stigmatized as a thug or a child losing his temper, the consequences of Park Namwook’s badmouthing. However, observe that even the star is not wearing it. (chapter 81) It, was if they didn’t want to be recognized.
I think, there exists another explanation. Don’t forget that the jacket had different logos on the back: 
(chapter 36) What once symbolized sponsorship and solidarity has quietly disappeared. The explanation seems obvious at first: the loss of commercial partners following scandal and suspension. 
(chapter 54) Yet the deeper implication is far more unsettling. The jacket was more than a uniform; it was a contract, a visible bond between fighter and system. Its absence signals abandonment. The champion may still fight under the MFC banner, but the federation no longer claims him with pride. He is now a free agent trapped in an invisible cage — tolerated, not trusted. He questioned MFC and their competence (see chapter 67 and 69).
And what about the doctor? His jacket, now a solitary relic, must have arrived after his departure and given to him after his return. The Team Black jacket makes him a walking target. By still carrying the brand, he becomes the visible trace of a world that wishes to erase itself. He wears proof of loyalty in a landscape where faithfulness has become liability. If the upcoming match is indeed a trap, his uniform can mark him as bait or as a disguise! 
(chapter 37) He could be mistaken for the owner of the gym or a person involved in the scheme. And this leads me to my next observation: the champion’s picture and posture!
The Body That Faces the Crowd – From Defiance to Dialogue
If the smoke and the black-and-white palette whisper of death, the body posture roars of defiance. On the poster, the MMA fighter stands half-turned toward us, left fist raised, the logo MFC glinting on his glove like a brand or a curse. The light strikes him from below and from the right, revealing one side while leaving the other in shadow — a visual echo of his divided self: the professional mask and the wounded man beneath.
The position of that raised fist is crucial. It does not challenge the opponent — there is none in sight. It challenges the beholder. The blow is aimed outward, toward the audience, toward a world that has mocked, condemned, or abandoned him. The poster transforms the traditional stance of the victor into something closer to revolt. The “comeback” it advertises is not a return to sport, but a return against the crowd. Despite his handsomeness, he seems to have a bad personality (provoking, insulting, challenging the audience). They made him look like a bad guy: ruthless, arrogant and rebellious. As you can see, they are attempting again to ruin his fame and name.
Light purple bleeds through the smoke, carrying an undertone of resentment — bruised flesh, fermented wine, or the slow rot of disillusion. It’s the color of pride wounded yet unyielding, the hue of someone who refuses to forgive the world for its betrayal. In this light, the athlete seems less a man celebrating triumph than a revenant demanding recognition.
This reversal also tells us something about the system around him. In earlier matches, such as the one in the United States, both fighters were cheered, embraced as performers in a shared spectacle. Here, the scene will be different. No shared ovation, no brotherly arm around the shoulder, as with Dominique Hill. The poster prepares us for isolation, for a battle where the crowd itself becomes the enemy.
The schemers are expecting an angry and resentful man, while in verity this is a projection from the Shotgun. But because MFC is placed twice, it exposes the company’s greed and possessiveness. With the logo on the glove, they insinuate that they are the one deciding when Joo Jaekyung will fight or not. He is their puppet, and they decide when to discard him.
And perhaps that is the deepest irony. Team Black, still unaware that the previous match had been rigged — blind to the partial commentary, the biased jury, the manipulated outcome — walks toward a trap thinking it’s a stage. Neither the champion nor his coach nor his companion suspects that this time, the audience’s hostility has been engineered. The raised fist is both prophecy and warning: he will fight alone, not just in the ring, but against perception itself. Yet, he will supported by the “vapor”.
What the schemers read as fury, however, may become the seed of transformation. The same gesture that once meant aggression could turn, under a new light, into assertion — not of anger, but of presence. If the previous posters framed the fighter as spectacle, this one shows him claiming his body back from those who profited from it. I would even go so far to say that the athlete will end up challenging the authority MFC and even sue them. (chapter 81) And that’s how he could make history. He will be remembered as the Emperor, the one who put an end to crimes!
317 — The Date That Isn’t There
After the smoke, the colors and the picture, the next enigma lies in what the poster refuses to specify: no date, no location, no time. Every previous MFC announcement was anchored in visibility — April X, Saturday, on PPV , June — a fixed promise to the public. Here, all coordinates vanish.
That erasure extends beyond the poster. When Team Black lands abroad, the airport — once a stage for flashbulbs and microphones — stands eerily still. (chapter 81) That erasure extends beyond the poster. Behind Potato and Kim Dan drift a few gray silhouettes, barely human, half-formed shadows of what should have been journalists or fans. They look less like people than ghosts of publicity, residues of a crowd that never came. No banners, no reporters’ questions, 
(chapter 36) no cheering spectators — nothing recalls the hero’s welcomes of earlier arcs.
And yet, paradoxically, this match was an invitation from the CEO himself, supposedly a prestigious opportunity. The absence of press coverage therefore exposes a contradiction: the greater the supposed honor, the deeper the concealment. No one outside the organization has been informed; the public is deliberately kept in the dark. What pretends to be a triumphant comeback is, in truth, a private operation, an exclusive fight designed for a restricted audience. (chapter 81) Thus I deduce that the athlete won’t fight in a huge arena, but in front of a small circle, where people might smoke. A new version of this scene
(chapter 74) but with a different public.
Still, one element gives the illusion of authenticity: the number 317. It appears on the poster like a seal of legitimacy — the next official bout in MFC’s timeline. And that is precisely the brilliance of the trap. The number suggests continuity, reassuring the team that everything follows protocol. The wolf and his court walk straight into the ambush because the system’s familiar numbering masks the rupture beneath.
In this silence, the gray figures become a visual metaphor for the event’s nature: visible enough to seem real, but hollow when touched. The “return of the Emperor” is not a broadcast — it’s a ghost match, orchestrated for unseen eyes, similar to the high-rollers who once financed Baek Junmin’s underground bouts for “commoners”. 
(chapter 47) Thus, 317 functions like a counterfeit signature — convincing enough to deceive even those inside the organization. What looks like promotion turns out to be execution by design, a fight that exists on paper but not on record. Hence no one is waiting for them at the airport.
At first glance, 317 might seem to follow the ordinary sequence of MFC events, yet the attentive reader will recall the last recorded bout — MFC 298 
(chapter 54), the match where the Emperor faced Baek Junmin. That small arithmetic gap hides something extraordinary: eighteen events have supposedly taken place since then, in barely three months. Such acceleration borders on absurdity. It feels less like a sports calendar than a purge — as if the federation were rushing to overwrite history, to bury the memory of its fallen champion beneath a flood of new numbers.
The more I pondered this, the more the number 317 began to sound not like continuity, but conspiracy. The digits 3, 1, and 7 echo two pivotal moments in the narrative: chapter 16 (1+6= 7), where the doctor was almost raped 
(chapter 16), the moment Heo Manwook thought that the “hamster” was working as an escort due to the name “Team Black”. 
(chapter 16) So because of the jacket Team Black, doc Dan could be mistaken for a prostitute. Naturally, Jinx-lovers will remember the great fight between Heo Manwook and his minions, when the athlete saved his fated partner. Back then, no one discovered his great action.
(Chapter 17) And how did the loan shark describe their world? Fake… he even called him a princeling, because he stands for the glamor and artificiality of MFC. He is the cover for the underground fights, drugs and money laundering. This connection reinforces my interpretation that the future match is « fake » and as such rigged. Then in chapter 37, the hamster met a Korean disguised as a MFC manager. (chapter 37) Both episodes revolve around misunderstandings, silence and deception. In this light, 317 fuses these numbers into a single cipher of repetition: history threatening to repeat itself.
The absence of any date or place only amplifies the unease. “The Return of the Emp” seems less like a public comeback than a covert operation. A fight that exists everywhere and nowhere. Its secrecy betrays its true nature — not an open competition, but a private spectacle designed for those already in the know.
And who are “those”? The answer leads us back to the high rollers. 
(chapter 47) In the past, they participated in the underground matches of Gangwon Province, where Baek Junmin reigned as a local legend — a thug made myth through blood and rumor. (chapter 47) There, they would even cheat with weapons to ensure the right outcome 
(chapter 46), as they didn’t want to lose money. And what did Park Namwook say in episode 46? 
(chapter 46) But now, the same hunger for spectacle has simply migrated upward. What once belonged to the alleys has climbed into the penthouses. The illegal thrill of the poor has become the curated decadence of the rich. And they were invited to witness the death of the “emperor”, someone who tried to escape from his origins. Thus I deduced that this is only a match that the high rollers (I suppose, mostly people from the Occident, though expect some from South Korea) know about.
Baek Junmin’s smoky basements have found their mirror in Arnaud Gabriel’s illuminated arenas. One fed the working man’s fantasy of domination, the other gratifies the elite’s appetite for risk (chapter 81) — both sustained by the same voyeuristic instinct to watch another man fall. That’s why he doesn’t need to be seen in the poster. His source of income comes from sponsors in the end. They come from the elite.
And this time, the high rollers know precisely what they’re buying. They have been definitely briefed: the celebrity has had shoulder surgery, suffers from headaches, drinks, and dismissed his own physical therapist. He avoided the gym for a while. He is someone who gets easily triggered, and once he is furious, he makes mistakes. They are not ignorant; they are investors in ruin, betting on a man already wounded. The match is not entertainment but a calculated execution disguised as sport. (chapter 46) Hence the French kickboxer can see his art as entertainment and fun, for he is facing a so-called injured opponent. To conclude, they have ascended into a new form of decadence. The same pattern persists, merely transposed to another altitude. Baek Junmin’s world of illegal betting has found its reflection in Arnaud Gabriel’s world of sponsored violence. One feeds the poor man’s fantasy of power; the other, the rich man’s craving for risk. At the same time, the Korean thug had connections to high rollers too, but mostly Korean people. And the CEO is the link between these extreme two worlds. In other words, this match is bringing up the corruption to the surface. However, they are not expecting “change” and as such coincidence. Consequently, I am assuming that their plan will fail. And if they bet against the champion, imagine their reactions, when the opposite happens. They might feel deceived and betrayed. They could even lose, if someone else takes his place and he acts as the director of the gym. And who agreed to this match? Park Namwook… He wanted a match at any cost thinking that this would revive his boy’s “reputation” and fame. And now, you comprehend why no advisor was sent to develop a strategy against Arnaud Gabriel, the angel of death from the CEO!! Both sides are underestimating and deceiving each other. In this case, Park Namwook’s blindness and ignorance becomes a virtue. The enemy is left in the dark.
Thus, 317 becomes the code of collusion — the bridge between the basement and the penthouse, between the mud of Gangwon and the marble of Paris. A number that hides a shared agenda: the silent elimination of the Emperor. And now, you are wondering how the main leads can escape from this trap! If he wins and its victory reaches the ears of the public audience, the schemers will definitely attempt to accuse him of selecting a wrong fighter. If he loses, he will be “disfigured” and forgotten. Don’t forget that according to me, the French kickboxer will aim at his face and shoulders, his weaknesses. By losing his second title, Joo Jaekyung won’t be able to appear in the covers or social media! Another possibility is that he lets someone else fight in the ring due to circumstances, yet I have my doubts about this. You will discover soon why. But if my theory is correct and the champion shines in that fight so that the downfall doesn’t happen, the VIP audience might get upset against the CEO. The latter deceived them in order to earn a lot of money! They have been tricked by his lies and bet against the athlete. And the high rollers could decide to switch sides and question the new champion’s victory. One might think, a tie could be a possibility, but the poster is suggesting otherwise: it is a rigged game at the athlete’s expense. There’s another way that the wolf can succeed: it is to become an artist!! But what does it mean exactly?
Be Water, my friend
The heading is an important quote from the famous martial arts fighter Bruce Lee:
“Here is natural instinct, here is control. You are to combine the two in harmony. If you have one to the extreme, you’ll be very unscientific, if you have another to the extreme, you’ll become all of the sudden a mechanical man, no longer a human being. So it is a successful combination of both. The word Superstar really turned me off because the word Star man is an illusion. It’s something what the public calls you, you should look upon oneself as an actor. All type of knowledge ultimately means self knowledge. Therefore they ask me to teach them not so much how to defend themselves, rather they want to express themselves through movement, be it anger, be it determination, or what so ever… to me, martial arts means expressing yourself. And it is very difficult to do… to express oneself honestly … not lying to oneself That my friend is very hard to do. you have to train, you have to keep your reflexes so that when you want it is there. When you want to move, you’re moving. And when you move, you’re determined to move all the time you are keeping the continuity going, bending, stretching … to this, the journalist said, you seem like a ballet dancer. Bruce Lee: To Them, running water never grows stale so you just got to keep flowing.
After reading his definition about Martial Arts, it becomes clear that the pool scenes are not just there for the doctor’s sake, they’re the curriculum. In water, the champion rehearses the very balance Bruce Lee describes—moving without forcing 
(chapter 81), breathing without bracing, learning that flow is strength. The author placed the swimming lessons here so we’d see him practice calm under pressure before he performs it in the ring. But observe that when he is in the swimming pool, he is expressing more and more his emotions. 
(chapter 81) At the same time, he is also incited to control his pulsions and body. 
(chapter 81) In other words, during the swimming lessons, he was encouraged to find the right balance between instincts and control, which Bruce Lee recommended. It is no coincidence that he referred to the philosophy of yin and yang!
Bruce Lee warns: “If you have anger toward others, they control you.” That’s been the wolf’s trap from chapter 14 onward—rage as a leash. 
(chapter 36) The pool inverts it. Laps replace lunges; rhythm and love replace revenge and hatred. Anger loses its grip because water refuses to hold it. And now, you can grasp why the athlete was calm during the meeting: 
(chapter 81) His fear and anger were no longer controlling his heart and mind. “One of the best lessons you can learn in life is to remain calm.” The swimmer learns it; the fighter must now prove it. Thanks to doc Dan, the athlete was incited not only to accept himself, but also to get self-knowledge.
Across from him stands the eagle: instinct without control —aerodynamic, moving based on the circumstances. Arnaud Gabriel fights based on the reaction of his opponent. He is air: elegant, distant, untouched. But the problem is that he has no strategy at all (“the unscientific”), as he is dependent on the air, his opponent. This gives another explanation why the Entertainment agency offered no advisors to the athlete. 
(chapter 81) Arnaud Gabriel is totally unpredictable which makes him dangerous but also weak. So what happens when the athlete uses a totally different strategy? The eagle will get caught by surprise. Thus in the past, we have to envision that the wolf was the mechanical man, iron and fire, surviving by destruction. Bruce Lee’s middle path—instinct guided by awareness—is the only way out of this binary. That’s why the story moves him from steel to steam, from panic to presence.
“Life itself is your teacher 
(chapter 62), and you are in a state of constant learning. 
(chapter 80) The seaside town and doc Dan taught him kindness, the pool teaches him composure and precision, the poster’s smoke teaches him restraint: you don’t swat at vapor; you breathe and move through it. “It is far better to be alone than to be in bad company”—so he steps out of the schemers’ frame. “When you accept yourself, the whole world accepts you”—so he stops fighting the audience and starts speaking to one person who matters, then to many. In my opinion, Joo Jaekyung will use this bout to express his feelings for Doc Dan (“to me, martial arts means expressing yourself“) and the birthday card 
(chapter 81) with the key chain represents now his motivation. Thus he resembles more and more to the physical therapist. 
8chapter 81) Under this new light, it becomes comprehensible why the athlete has not confessed his feelings yet. In my eyes, the confession will be strongly connected to the imminent match. In other words, by spending time with the physical therapist, the Emperor regained his voice and body. He can now express himself in the ring, making sure to catch doc Dan’s gaze and admiration. And now, you comprehend why I mentioned that Joo Jaekyung will come to see this fight as a source of strength and inspiration: it will be more about love and recognition from his loved one than the money or hatred from the audience.
Practically, this means the bout must look less like slaughter and more like sparring—measured pressure, controlled power, no needless cruelty. That choice does two things at once: it denies the high-rollers their blood-script and leaves the kickboxer no “reason” to obey orders to ruin a face or a shoulder. Arnaud only embodies instinct — rhythm without reflection, showmanship without soul. So he is not guided by negative emotions. Be water becomes case law: adapt, absorb, answer—without being owned by anger.
So air meets water: (chapter 81) spectacle meets expression. The eagle can only descend to strike; water rises, falls, returns. And since Bruce Lee’s punch turn into water 
, I came to imagine that the athlete might strike him like “water”, hard enough to make him lose the balance and defeat him, but not too strong to damage his knee for good.
If he carries the pool into the cage, the “emp” on the poster will cease to read as emptiness. It will resolve into empathy—calm under fire, feeling without being ruled by it. And the smoke behind him? Not a death shroud, but iron turning to steam—a body once forged in rage, now speaking in flow. And now, look at the other tattoo on his left arm: it is a cloud or steam! 
(chapter 17) And once the cloud (doc Dan) meets the steam (chapter 81), they can be together as a couple. To conclude, though this poster was created as an epitaph, the reality is that it announces the emergence of Joo Jaekyung, the dragon! Kim Dan is the one who is turning the athlete Joo Jaekyung into an actor, the emperor! Even if his career as MMA fighter ends, he can still work as an actor or as the owner of his gym. He will never be forgotten as an athlete like his father or Hwang Byungchul. His name Emperor will remain forever in the memory of people and maybe because of his “fight” with MFC and thugs. At the same time, it displays the increasing conflict between Team Black and MFC. The fist could be seen as directed at MFC. The Emperor represents a menace for the CEO in the end. One thing is sure: since Baek Junmin chose the nickname “The Shotgun”, it becomes clear that he has become the negative version of his rival: he is now the mechanical man (control without any natural instinct). He lost his balance and can no longer rely on others. What he fails to realize is that by bringing more and more people in the schemes, he is actually endangering the whole organisation MFC! Furthermore, contrary to the past, the athlete will pay attention to his fated partner in France, so a meeting between Arnaud Gabriel and Kim Dan will definitely reach the athlete’s eyes and ears.
This is the longer interview of Bruce Lee:
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(chapter 53), yet she kept her distance. Observe that she only talked about one time experience. She sensed its danger and built her life on the solid ground of caution, duty, and control. In other words, she belongs to the world of the shore 
(chapter 28) and learn that not everything can be postponed or entrusted to someone else. Water, in this sense, rejects fatalism. It calls for motion, for risk, for personal responsibility.
(chapter 80) He is no longer the man waiting to be rescued; he is the man learning how to swim. The champion’s words 
(chapter 80) distill the new doctrine: don’t wait for salvation 
(chapter 80), create your own buoyancy. Between the first swim 
(chapter 27) and this second lies the true point of no return—where superficial judgment turns into reflection, dependency into self-trust 
(chapter 80) and the rejection of powerlessness, 
(chapter 28) into the first stirrings of love 
(chapter 80).
(chapter 53) Safety lay in patience and dependence. Even when she later spoke with the champion by the sea, she avoided mentioning the ocean —as if to deny that any movement beyond her control could exist.
(chapter 65) 
(chapter 80) Yet her absence from the pool scene is precisely what reveals her theology of avoidance. The pool was never her domain because her life revolves around work, not pleasure. She has no notion of rest without guilt, no concept of joy detached from utility. For her, swimming would appear frivolous—something “unnecessary” as long as one stays on solid ground. Jinx-philes should keep in mind that she never gave such a task to Joo Jaekyung. Her instructions to him were always practical, delegating care outward: take him back to Seoul, bring him to a big hospital and make sure he’s safe. 
(chapter 65) When she sees them together, her first reaction is not pride or relief but mild reproach— doc Dan should have left already. 
(chapter 78) The subtext is unmistakable: she expected obedience, efficiency, not attachment. Furthermore, her final instruction—“Make sure you see a doctor regularly”— 
(chapter 78) sounds like ordinary concern, yet it hides her familiar logic of blame. It is as if she were implying that Joo Jaekyung has failed to fulfill her favor because Kim Dan has resisted care. In her eyes, the grandson is still the one responsible for trouble; the athlete’s role remains that of the dependable proxy who must “fix” him. What makes this moment striking is her tone of urgency, so unlike her habitual fatalism. The woman who once repeated “I’m the same as always” 
(chapter 65) suddenly speaks as though time is running out. 
(chapter 77), respect and care. What she calls delay is, in truth, meditation and transformation.
(chapter 80) It was her graduation gift, yet it had nothing to do with his new profession or status. In contrast, the first episode already shows Kim Dan in a blue therapist’s uniform, name tag neatly pinned — a garment he must have purchased himself. 
(chapter 1) Traditionally, a graduation present helps the recipient embark on a career — like for example, a watch, a suit, or even a briefcase — symbols of adult entry into the job market. By offering him a hoodie instead, she unconsciously devalued her grandson’s professional worth. The garment belongs to the domestic sphere, not the workplace; it wraps him in comfort rather than readiness. In a moment meant to celebrate his arrival into public life, she reinscribes him into the private one — the house, the caretaker role, the obedient child. He doesn’t look like someone who went to university. 
(chapter 47) There was no curiosity about his career, no acknowledgment of his competence—only the quiet satisfaction that through her endurance, she had produced a “doctor.” In the graduation photo, she even wears the mortarboard herself, smiling with the pride of someone who believes the diploma justifies a lifetime of sacrifice. Her grandson’s success confirms her own virtue; his “adulthood” validates her survival. This question to the athlete exposes her lack of interests in his profession: 
(chapter 65)
(chapter 41) While dying, she reduces love to an equation of productivity: “Dan, it’s important to give back as much as you take.” The verb do anchors her worldview — love must be measurable, visible, earned through action. To do good by someone means to labor for them, not to rest beside them. What caught my attention is that neither doctor 
(chapter 27) nor the champion employs the expression “vacation” or “break”. 
(chapter 80) Why? It is because they never experienced a break. We have to envision that the “hamster” must have followed his grandmother, when he was not busy studying or working. Both main leads never experienced a real vacation. They say a day off, as if the day itself didn’t really exist, as if it were a temporary pause between “real” time. In their inherited logic, only work gives time its value; everything else evaporates. The grandmother’s way of loving has turned rest into an absence, something unworthy of being named. However, observe that there’s a gradual change in doc Dan’s vocabulary: 
(chapter 80) The problem is that for the hamster, only the athlete is worthy of getting his rest. It still doesn’t belong to his world.
(chapter 5) the focus remains mechanical. Eating is fuel; sleep is maintenance. But rest, in the sense of surrender, stillness, or joy, is foreign to her lexicon.
(chapter 47) is, in truth, a legend she wrote about herself. When Kim Dan recalls that “she’s never had a day’s rest,” the statement reveals more about his belief than about her reality. The woman who claimed endless labor also knew the comfort of “weekends” 
(chapter 30) — she watched The Fine Line, the very drama that made Choi Heesung famous. The detail seems trivial, yet it exposes everything: she had leisure 
(chapter 30), she simply refused to call it that. Watching television was permitted because it was passive, solitary, and could be rationalized as recuperation, not pleasure. In contrast, genuine rest — time shared, chosen, or joyful — never existed in her vocabulary. What she denied was not the existence of rest but the act of resting with him. She kept her downtime to herself, as if peace were a private possession. For her, love meant providing, not accompanying. Yet true care requires presence — sharing is caring, as the saying goes. [For more read this essay: 
(chapter 65) displays that she perceives her grandson’s exhaustion not as suffering but as malfunction, as if the human were a device that could be recalibrated through work and pills. That’s why her favors revolves about living conditions, but not about his “happiness”. Perhaps she genuinely hoped that the drugs and the stability of a “regular job” with the champion would realign him, as though routine alone could fix what grief and deprivation had unbalanced.
(chapter 65) Her constant bookkeeping—every favor tallied, every gift framed as trouble—betrays a hidden fear: that if she stops keeping score, she will lose him. Rather than grant him autonomy, she entrusts him to another caretaker. Sending him to the champion is not an act of faith but of resignation, a way to offload responsibility while maintaining the illusion of control.
(chapter 11), scarf tied under her chin, carrying a single sweet bun. She doesn’t need to say she “went out of her way”—her action already proclaims it. The effort is the gift. 
(chapter 11) That simple walk to the store becomes a moral event, proof of affection through fatigue. 
(chapter 11) Even the smallest purchase is framed as sacrifice. The sweet bread itself—a cheap red bean bun—is less nourishment than testimony: “Look what I endured for you.” If he had followed her, he would have seen that it didn’t take so much effort and money to buy the “present”. Finally, he had to share the sweet bread with his grandmother.
(chapter 53) —perhaps the signing of the loan. “You’re a doctor now; you’ll pay it off quickly.” 
(chapter 80) In her eyes, generosity always justified expectation. The flowers were for display; the hoodie was the contract.
(chapter 65) and the future 
(chapter 65), what he would one day repay 
(chapter 47). The present moment existed only as a bridge between past sacrifice and future obligation. The embrace is conditional — a rehearsal for independence, not tenderness. In that instant, love is already an investment waiting for return. The teddy bear pressed between them, once a symbol of innocence and comfort, becomes collateral in this emotional economy: the pledge that he will someday “grow up,” earn, and pay back the care that raised him. Even at the graduation, she treated the day not as fulfillment but as record keeping. 
(chapter 41) When Dan gifts his grandmother an expensive scarf, he hides its true price — “I got it for a bargain” — repeating her own pattern of disguised generosity. She sees through the lie, teasing him for “spoiling” her, yet she accepts the luxury without feeling guilty. The scarf becomes her version of the hoodie: a fabric trophy of moral worth. But its later disappearance is revealing. In season two, she wears it 
(chapter 56) shortly after her arrival at the hospice, never again. When she greets Joo Jaekyung, the scarf is gone 
(chapter 61). Why? One might reply that the scarf lost its value, especially since she is living next to the director’s room. I doubt that such men would pay attention to such an object. Another possibility is that she fears its brightness might betray her neglect, for the champion has lived with her grandson for a while. How could she display silk while her grandson owns almost nothing? 
(chapter 80) The missing scarf thus exposes both her superficiality and exaggerated generosity. Her affection, like her pride, is short-lived — decorative rather than enduring. Should Heesung ever visit her, 
(chapter 80) The gesture that once symbolized love now feels like pain and loss. The signification of the gift has changed. What once wrapped him in safety now weighs like absence — the fabric retains the shape of someone who is about to vanish. His silence is not understanding but hurt, a wordless awareness that affection can curdle into memory. The audience, not the character, perceives that with the grandmother’s approaching death, her ledger is about to close. The gray fabric, once proof of her sacrifice, will lose its moral weight; her “gesture” will expire with her. Yet Kim Dan may not yet realize that this very ending could one day free him. The book-keeping dies with the bookkeeper.
(chapter 31) When Heesung offers flowers “to get closer,” Kim Dan’s face mirrors the same unease: affection presented as transaction, intimacy disguised as generosity. What the actor calls closeness, the doctor feels as imbalance — the same emotional distance that Shin Okja’s presents once produced. Her gifts, meant to bind, isolated him instead; they built a hierarchy where gratitude replaced equality. Each present widened the gap between giver and receiver. To be cared for was to be indebted.
(chapter 31) and tries to refuse it. 
(chapter 31) 
(chapter 67), loses sleep, or pays a price. He interprets Joo Jaekyung’s concern as “trouble,” Heesung’s gifts as “too much.” In his mind, affection is inseparable from cost:
(chapter 80) “I’ll stay in the background.” His self-worth depends on not burdening others. His words let transpire that he has never been Shin Okja’s first priority in the end. The hoodie reinforces that psychology—it is not a professional outfit like a suit or briefcase would have been, but a teenager’s garment, meant for the domestic space rather than the adult world. It literally arrests his growth, keeping him in the house and under her logic. Thus it is not surprising that after receiving his diploma, he still took part-time jobs. 
(chapter 80) is the site of its quiet destruction. His act of giving reverses every law the grandmother ever taught. First, he does not “go out of his way.” The clothes are delivered effortlessly, without fanfare or moral accounting. 
(chapter 80) There is no speech about sacrifice, no self-congratulation. 
(chapter 80) By erasing the gesture of “effort,” he removes the emotional price tag that once accompanied every gift.
(chapter 80) If the grandmother’s motto was “I went through so much for you,” the champion’s is “It’s no big deal.” Generosity becomes invisible, unburdened, and therefore trustworthy.
(chapter 80) The row of garments invites choice — a concept absent from Shin Okja’s universe, where love came in single doses and with strings attached. Here, the doctor is asked to select what he likes, to exercise taste, to inhabit preference. The abundance of options grants him agency, dignity, and the right to refuse.
(chapter 22) 
(chapter 30) becomes unexpectedly true here. The wardrobe bridges the distance that the grandmother’s gifts had always created.
(chapter 80) This is why his hesitant and embarrassed gratitude, framed against a background of dissolving gray waves, feels so transformative. The air behind him ripples as if washing away the residue of his old faith.
(chapter 80); they mark the passing of days, the return of seasons, the rediscovery that not every morning has to look the same. Variety itself becomes a form of freedom. When the wolf once complained that all his shirts looked identical, he was unknowingly naming what both of them lacked: differentiation, spontaneity, change. Through this act, he restores color not only to the doctor’s wardrobe but to his emotional world — a quiet resurrection through fabric.
(chapter 80) The “hamster” had instinctively turned to the only person who had ever offered him help without cost.
— the luminous, wish-granting jewel said to contain both wisdom and life energy. The dragon’s power is not innate; it is completed and elevated by the jewel. Without the yeouiju, it cannot ascend to the heavens — strength without meaning, force without direction.
(chapter 80), the myth reverses. The dragon—once feared, untouchable, wrapped in rage and solitude—is suddenly embraced by the very being he once believed too fragile for his world. The power dynamic inverts: the human shelters the beast.
(chapter 75) —this embrace is nothing short of salvation. The man who once fought to wash off shame through endless training now finds himself accepted in his unguarded state. He doesn’t need to mask his trauma with perfume 
(chapter 75), the imagined smell, or cleanse his skin of battle; he is held and, therefore, purified. Through Dan’s arms, he rediscovers his value and humanity—the dragon touched and not destroyed. He is worth of being embraced, even if he is already so old! 
(chapter 79) This is one part of the new circle. Jealousy is the residue of imbalance — the echo of the 7 within the 8. In the numerology of Jinx, the 7-chapters, like for example episode 7 
(chapter 7), episode 18, where the champion had sex because of this statement 
(chapter 18),episode 34 with Choi Heesung 
(chapter 34) or episode 52, where the former members of Team Black and expressed their disdain and jealousy toward the main lead 
(chapter 52)
(chapter 79), the final test before the circle closes for good.
(chapter 47) and 8 lies that invisible hinge: the death of the old economy of love and the birth of a new one.
(chapter 61) and Heesung’s residual rivalry and resent. Each acts as a different face of control: the woman binds through guilt, the manager through hierarchy acting as the owner of the athlete’s time, the actor through charm and deceptions. Together they form the triad that tries to reopen the circle closed in the pool. Let’s not forget that the athlete chose to take a day off on his own accord 
(chapter 80), but he had just returned to the gym. It is no longer the same training and routine.
I established that Kim Dan’s number is 8. It is therefore no coincidence that the arc from chapter 80 to 89 should revolve around him—his body, his suffering, and ultimately his recovery. The number 8, often associated with balance, renewal, and continuity, here signals not only the doctor’s rebirth but also the gradual thawing of his frozen world. It marks the moment when the past can no longer remain buried, when the last remnants of family and unspoken pain begin to surface. The mystery behind this phone call will be soon revealed. 
(chapter 19) 
(chapter 26) the sparring between Joo Jaekyung and Kim Dan unfolds under the sign of fun and apparent joy, yet its origin lies in jealousy. The champion, unconsciously triggered by the doctor’s closeness with Potato 
(chapter 25), turns play into a contest—a way to reclaim attention. 
(chapter 25) The gym, usually a place of hierarchy, momentarily becomes a stage where both can laugh, but beneath that laughter runs an undercurrent of rivalry (with Potato). On the other hand, for the first time, the Manhwa allows both protagonists to exist outside the economy of debt and hierarchy. The gym, normally a place of discipline and work, transforms into a playground of laughter. The champion teases the doctor 
(chapter 26), and the latter, clumsy but determined, strikes back with surprising boldness. The crowd cheers, not for the fighter but for the therapist—the underdog, the one who usually stands in the shadow. The entire scene feels like a short-lived holiday, a suspension of order and pain. When Kim Dan smiles at the end of the match, the gesture radiates genuine lightness: he has momentarily escaped the burden of fear and experienced himself as a free, living body. 
(chapter 26) He believes he has accomplished something meaningful and feels, perhaps for the first time, proud of himself. He was taught that he could fight back and overcome his fear. 
(chapter 26) He realizes that the hamster can beam at others, that such light has never been directed at him. In that instant, he no longer sees an employee but a companion whose gaze and embrace he covets, whose approval he unconsciously seeks.
(chapter 62) Indirectly, he hoped to get the doctor’s attention, but he failed. In fact, none of the wolf’s good actions got noticed by his fated partner. Interesting is that though the characters engage in acts of performance and service—helping others, pleasing strangers— their smiles have turned into masks. 
(chapter 62) 
(chapter 62) Where chapter 26 radiated spontaneity, this one reveals calculation and fatigue. 
(chapter 62), where exposure to others leaves both men strangely isolated. The happiness of the crowd no longer unites; it separates. The champion’s outfit, ridiculous and domestic 
(chapter 62) which is actually his true nature. I will elaborate more further below. For the first time, the wolf looks at his companion and senses distance instead of warmth, as though the man he once touched so easily has withdrawn behind glass. His thought—“Has he always been this cold?”—marks the beginning of introspection, the moment when perception replaces instinct.
(chapter 80) To “walk on thin ice” is to approach him gently, without force—a lesson the champion must learn if he wishes to thaw what has been frozen by years of duty and self-denial.
(chapter 80) 
(chapter 80), not red. The atmosphere is fluid, reflective, submerged. Water—not flame—governs this new stage. What we witness is not combustion but fusion—ice meeting water, solid meeting liquid, two states of the same element touching at last. Ice does not just melt under fire; but also in the presence of water. It softens when it recognizes itself in another form. In that sense, Joo Jaekyung’s tenderness doesn’t heat Kim Dan—it mirrors him. The thaw begins not through passion, but through likeness, through quiet recognition. This signifies that Joo Jaekyung is on his way to discover their similarities: they both suffered from bullying and abandonment issues and they love each other.
(chapter 80) at the board game table mirrors that moment: his smile is light, childlike, uncontaminated by dominance. Yet, tellingly, they do not smile together. Each glows in isolation, unaware of the other’s joy. Doc Dan has not realized it yet: he is the wolf’s source of happiness, he is the only one who can make him laugh and smile. 
(chapter 27) Thus I came to the following deduction. This is the emotional geometry of the arc 80–89: two smiles moving toward synchrony, two currents approaching convergence. Both need to experience that they make each other happy. Kim Dan on Thin Ice thus begins where the infinite loop of 8 converges—between warmth and coldness, joy and fatigue, play and labor. It is here, in this fragile equilibrium—where ice and water finally coexist—that both men begin, at last, to thaw. And the latter implies emancipation
(chapter 80), as it exposes the real metamorphosis from the “wolf”. The night Joo Jaekyung watches Kim Dan sleep is not erotic; it is revolutionary. For once, his desire gives way to perception and attentiveness. The fighter who has conquered bodies now studies one that is quietly losing its battle. The body before him is not the sculpted strength he knows, but a map of deprivation: protruding collarbones 
(chapter 80), visible neck tendons, the knobby finger joints and his stiff fingers resting on the blanket as if holding the body together. 
(chapter 80) The pale, bluish hue of the skin—half light, half illness—tells him what no words ever have.
(chapter 80), the faint opacity of the nails 
(chapter 80) In the faint parting of the mouth he sees not seduction, but exhaustion—a man so depleted that even rest demands effort. 
(chapter 80) he begins to treat rest not as weakness, but as reverence.
(chapter 13) The fighter who once mocked stillness as laziness now finds meaning in it.
(chapter 80), it signifies that he will have to dedicate his time to the physical therapist! Hence his routine and training could get affected, just like their weekends. 
(chapter 80) —the doctor 
(chapter 13), the family member 
(chapter 56), the one who stays close enough to touch if needed. 
(chapter 80) Without realizing it,the athlete has inherited that role. His nearness is no longer intrusive but protective. He has crossed the invisible threshold that separates obligation from affection. The fighter who once stood as an outsider in the doctor’s life now finds himself within its most intimate circle.
(chapter 80) Compare his facial expression to the hamster’s before their first day off together. 
(chapter 27) That way, Mingwa can outline the champion’s confidence and that the one who needed the rest is the physical therapist and not the champion.
(chapter 69) Every flicker of light falls through The Emperor’s gaze and lands on Kim Dan’s form, transforming weariness into something sacred. 
(chapter 68) in the bathtub 
(chapter 68) —“I’ll keep him right here in the palm of my hand”—echo now with quiet irony. To hold someone in one’s hand is, paradoxically, to immobilize them; it grants possession but denies agency. The same gesture that promises safety also enacts paralysis. His possessiveness, once mistaken for protection, now appears as helplessness.
(chapter 79), 
(chapter 80) shrinking back when confronted. The body remembers the threat long after the mind tries to forget. 
(chapter 79) He lives suspended between two survival reflexes: freezing or fleeing. Since the contract binds him to stay, he cannot physically run away; therefore, his body freezes instead. It is his way of obeying while still protecting himself. Exhaustion becomes his armor. And now, you comprehend why the celebrity could detect the coldness in the “hamster” in front of the hospice. 
(chapter 79) — now turned outward and wounded the one he wished to protect. 
(chapter 79) That icy look became a mirror: it froze Kim Dan’s small confidence, reinforcing his belief that he would always displease or fail others. Since his return to the gym, the doctor feared the emperor’s next outburst, walking on eggshells and suppressing every impulse to speak or move freely. 
(chapter 79) Thus he clinched onto routine to maintain a normal relationship. But once the champion voiced his dissatisfaction (masking his jealousy), the light in the doctor’s gaze vanished. 
(chapter 79)
(chapter 79) His unconscious was telling him to flee, as he feared the athlete. To conclude, he was always one step away from collapse. In symbolic terms, he had become ice itself — air and water solidified, transparent yet untouchable. Keep in mind that according to me, the clouds embody the physical therapist. 
That’s why I can’t help myself thinking that the physical therapist is actually embodied by the snow. Ice and snow preserve, but they also isolate.
(chapter 72), snow was falling — a silent mirror of his loneliness, the frozen residue of a home that no longer existed. Later, in chapter 77, the motif returned as ice cream 
(chapter 63), desperate to restore closeness, mistook passion and pleasure 
(chapter 63) for repair. Believing that physical heat could melt emotional frost 
(chapter 64), he tried to burn away the distance through souvenirs (evoking the night in the States) and desire. Yet the more he tried to ignite fire, the more he fed the cold. 
(chapter 64) The physical act, rather than fusing them, exposed the truth he had refused to see — that his partner was already freezing from within. On the other hand, during this night, the athlete used “self-control” for the first time, his roughness in bed started vanishing. 
(chapter 64) The wolf’s attempt to “burn the bridge” between them became the very thing that broke it. His flame met ice 
(chapter 64), and the result was not warmth but steam — a brief illusion of intimacy that vanished as soon as Kim Dan pulled away. His rejection wasn’t cruelty but a cry of despair, disillusion and exhaustion
(chapter 64): a body too cold to burn, a heart too tired to love and fight.
(chapter 80), but about melting together, letting warmth and cold coexist without annihilating each other. To melt together does not mean to dissolve into sameness, but to trust that proximity will not destroy one’s shape. True intimacy begins when both accept that they can share warmth without losing form — when fire believes it can touch ice without turning it to steam, and ice trusts it can meet fire without vanishing. 
(chapter 61) Touch it bare-handed, and you feel both heat and pain. The same holds true for Kim Dan’s presence: those who reach for him too quickly end up wounding both him and themselves. The sportsman’s early attempts at care followed that pattern — too forceful, too immediate, leaving frostbite where he intended warmth. 
(chapter 64) 
(chapter 80) They never played it — and that is no accident. The title encapsulates the temptation Jaekyung must resist: to treat intimacy as a contest, to imagine that trust can be won through tactics or timing. But hearts do not yield to strategies. The only way to melt the ice is not by “breaking” it, but by warming it, patiently, sincerely.
(chapter 66) And this is something the physical therapist could notice, if he enters the room again and pays more attention to his surroundings. This is not about ownership but about inclusion: an unspoken invitation to share a part of himself. 
(chapter 30). Even in that comic panel, the imbalance between physical familiarity and emotional distance was evident. Kim Dan’s embarrassment stood for boundaries not yet earned, and Jaekyung’s casual tone for a love not yet understood.
(chapter 80) The scene is small but seismic. The camera places Jaekyung slightly behind, his fists curled and his shoulders tense — an instinctive gesture of self-restraint rather than dominance. He is no longer the one towering above, demanding or explaining; he is waiting, watching, enduring the discomfort of having gone too far. His silence here is not indifference but humility — the silence of someone learning, painfully, what boundaries mean.
(chapter 70) The athlete’s posture 
(chapter 21) Behind the warmth of her words lies a quiet wound: she loves her grandson, but she wishes him to be different — stronger, healthier, easier to care for. In his eyes, it’s an unreliable, burdensome shell — a vessel of weakness and sickness. Every protruding collarbone, every cracked lip or dark circle testifies to a deeper wound: the conviction that he is unworthy of care.
(chapter 62) the weight of that sentence stretches far beyond the bedroom. It carries the residue of every moral, familial, and physical contract that has reduced him to flesh. What the champion hears as accusation is, at its core, a confession of alienation — the echo of a man who has never learned to live inside himself. It’s not only a reproach but a confession. He hates his body because it has become the medium through which he is used, never loved.
(chapter 27)
(chapter 61), the other where no one looks. Yet, the attitude of people is the same: no one pays attention to them. Both inhabit bodies that have forgotten the difference between endurance and pain. Both mistake self-destruction for strength. 
(chapter 18) when Kim Dan, bruised, had seized his hand and expressed his concerns. Back then, the gesture had confused the wolf. His hands were made to strike, to defend, to dominate — not to be pitied or protected. He had pulled away instinctively, unsettled by the tenderness and the huge sense of responsibility behind the question. He felt criticized, as if his power was questioned. 
(chapter 80) What began as misunderstanding in episode 1, 
(chapter 1) and was maintained through the awkward hospital encounter in episode 18, now evolves into dialogue and genuine comprehension. In the beginning, Kim Dan’s touch had been accidental and defensive—a misreading of bodily proximity. When he grabbed the fighter in episode 1, he believed he had crossed a forbidden line, that his action would be seen as insolence or violation. The fear and shame that followed transformed touch into a territory of silence and self-censorship.
(chapter 56), he had interpreted that touch not as mistake or violation, but as a spark of invitation—proof that the “hamster” might want him after all. His own longing twisted the scene into a fantasy of desire, into a private “game” he wanted to continue in the bedroom. One misunderstanding gave birth to another. By episode 18, the same reflex persisted: he reached out again, asking if Jaekyung was hurt, his hand trembling with the same mixture of care and fear. Once more, touch was misread—offered as comfort, received as intrusion. Thus their relationship began under crossed signals: one moved out of survival, the other out of projection or the reverse. It is no coincidence that their relationship in season 1 was doomed to fail. They never communicated properly, as their perception was influenced by their past and surroundings. 
(chapter 80), Kim Dan panics, convinced that release equals abandonment. 
(chapter 80) He freezes once again. Yet the water holds him; he reaches onto the champion again — and this time, the embrace stays. What makes this moment remarkable is that the pool is shallow. 
(chapter 80) Kim Dan could easily stand on his own, but fear has eclipsed reason. His instinct is not to trust his feet, not to fight the water, but to cling to the man before him. 
(chapter 16) —that deceptively simple French word—finds its power. It means “ice,” but also “mirror” and “window.” When the champion looks through Kim Dan’s glace 
(chapter 77), unlike the touch of ice. It softens, sweetens, dissolves slowly on the tongue. Likewise, the heat between them no longer needs to scorch; it can melt. And yet, the kiss — once their most volatile exchange — has fallen silent. 
(chapter 64) Kim Dan had to bite his own lips to make Jaekyung stop, and neither has ever truly spoken of it. Yet, during the night, the athlete could see the remains of that cold war. 
(chapter 16), just as the champion has never confessed that it was his first kiss. Moreover, during their first day off together, Joo Jaekyung had also initiated a kiss and back then, the doctor never wondered why. 
(chapter 27) Both men have been staring into the same mirror without realizing that the reflection was shared. They love each other. Joo Jaekyung needs to ponder on the signification of a kiss 
(chapter 13) and why doc Dan made such a request. 
(chapter 15) The kiss is more than just fun and pleasure. It is the expression of “love”. And now, you comprehend why I am expecting a huge change in the next episode.
(chapter 28) and urge Kim Dan to ask, at last, the question that remained frozen between them. In doing so, he would not only reopen the conversation but also reclaim the meaning of touch itself: not as misunderstanding or survival, but as curiosity and love.
(chapter 80) And it comes with a small but crucial instruction. In that single phrase, the MMA fighter encourages Kim Dan to discover his own power and strength without overexercising. His feet, which were once symbolically trapped in the nightly ice, now press against the water with intent during the day. For the first time, his body obeys him, not fear. His movements are neither frantic nor helpless but self-regulated, gentle and alive. That’s why the main lead becomes happy for a moment. 
(chapter 21) comes from the early loss of his mother. 
(chapter 79), if he knew that the doctor has already loved him for a long time.
Kim Dan on Thin Ice was never just about danger or fragility — it was about transformation. The ice that once confined him to stillness has melted into water, and the fear that once froze his body has become motion. Where there was trembling, there is now flow; where there was isolation, there is connection. 
(chapter 79) However, let me ask you this. What kind of circle ends in episode 79? Moreover, how is this ending different from the past? Interesting is that episode 79 of Jinx doesn’t end with conflict, but with an awakening. For the first time, Joo Jaekyung does not rise to fight, command, or perform — he wakes up to a realization: “This can’t go on.” In the Korean version, his words carry an unusual clarity. It is not fate that changes, but choice. The champion, who once lived as if enslaved by habit and haunted by ghosts, now chooses transformation. The circle that has defined his life — power, silence, guilt, and repression — finally begins to close.
(chapter 79) Until now, Jaekyung has moved through life as if carrying a curse — the belief that he is unworthy of care and love. 
(chapter 78) Every match, every order, every touch was an act of penance. Yet, in this episode, that belief dissolves. What vanishes in chapter 79 is not his strength, but the compulsion to suffer for it. Through the unconscious confession from Doc Dan, the wolf discovers that despite his wrongdoings, he is not hated by the “hamster”. 
(chapter 39) from the magical night in the States. Both moments unfold in half-darkness, both break through inhibition, and both blur the line between consciousness and surrender. The verbal difference hides a deeper sameness: 
(chapter 79) is not remorse alone — it is an act of love, an instinctive reaching-out toward the other’s pain.
(chapter 41) What could have been a moment of truth was repressed through mockery. His body language was betraying him: his closed arms reveal that he was on the defensive. By trivializing love, he protected himself from suffering and as such from facing his own capacity for harm. Behind the joke hid an immense self-loathing: to accept the confession as real would have required believing himself worthy of it. To trust himself…. he is not a loser, a nobody! 
(chapter 9), 29’s confession on the couch 
(chapter 29), 69’s first expression of feelings in the dark 
(chapter 69). In chapter 79, the circle closes once more. The night’s palette tells the story — deep blue softens into violet 
(chapter 64) 
(chapter 79), the color born from the fusion of blue (Dan’s sorrow) and red (Jaekyung’s intensity). For the first time, in the penthouse the color of their relationship is not pain but balance. And now, you comprehend why in the hallway, the purple had almost vanished: 
(chapter 66) 
(chapter 79)
(chapter 79) To restore it, he will have to speak, to act, and ultimately, to smile again.
(chapter 79), it is a confession disguised as complaint. For the first time, he voiced his dependency and vulnerability more clearly, as his body language is no longer expressing hesitation and shyness. Imagine that so far, he had lived following the principle of “self-reliance”. Yet when Dan asks, “What?” the champion retreats: 
(chapter 79) His feelings collapse into the void between words. Above them, the spiral chandelier glows — the perfect symbol of their unfinished circle. His unspoken fear hangs suspended, waiting to be voiced because of someone else’s actions: the doctor’s grin 
(chapter 79) and fall 
(chapter 54) still equates vulnerability with humiliation. 
(chapter 79) The vision forces him to confront the origin of his shame. He realizes, instinctively, that the real Kim Dan would never smile at his pain — and through that recognition, he begins to separate present from past. He has already experienced a silent, but warm gaze 
(chapter 77) from his fated partner after admitting his defeat: 
(chapter 76)
(chapter 73) but by a new, fragile dread: the possibility of losing the one person who would never say it. What vanishes in episode 79 is not his strength, but the belief that to need someone is to be weak.
(chapter 78) He has long recognized his wrongdoings — the pressure, the harshness, the selfishness 
(chapter 76) — but guilt without self-forgiveness remains sterile. What is the point of apologizing to someone when you cannot forgive yourself? His silence, then, is not arrogance but self-condemnation. Beneath his strength lies a man who believes that no apology can redeem him, because no one ever offered him one first. His father’s mockery, his coach’s reproaches 
(chapter 74) and expectations, his mother’s betrayal 
(chapter 74), his manager’s slap at the hospital 
(chapter 52) — none of them ever voiced regret and said “I’m sorry.”
(chapter 73) Every punch was an act of self-erasure, every victory a brief anesthesia against the echo of his own self-loathing and regrets. He mistook exhaustion for atonement. But when Kim Dan whispers 
(chapter 79) His vision of Kim Dan’s false grin is not a taunt from the other 
(chapter 51) The dream revives that unspoken answer, revealing that what Jaekyung perceived as danger was, in fact, an offer of trust. In trying to protect himself from mockery, he denied the very connection that could have saved him. The dream reconstructs the very morning he had dismissed his vulnerability 
(chapter 79)— the breakfast scene 
(chapter 79) , the casual 
(chapter 78) That word revealed his blindness — the refusal to acknowledge pain that does not announce itself through wounds. The new incident at the railing shatters that illusion. It was never an accident, but the expression of mental illness
(chapter 77) 
(chapter 80) Each time, the physical therapist shows concerns for the athlete’s well-being. He perceives this change of behavior as the expression of unwell-being.
(chapter 69), and the balcony 
(chapter 37) Behind the champion, the Golden Gate Bridge stands as a silent witness — a place where many have ended their lives by leaping into the void between air and water. The bridge fuses both symbols: it is where drowning and falling meet. Moreover, the bridge embodies the connection of two worlds. This backdrop, unnoticed by the protagonists themselves, prefigures the later arcs. Joo Jaekyung is the one standing between the bridge and the physical therapist. It was, as if the author was already announcing the huge depression doc Dan would face in the future. At the same time, I came to wonder if the unconscious suicidal attempts from Doc Dan were actually revealing the biggest secret in his life: the suicide of his parents and their death could be linked to a bridge. Striking is that while the members of Team Black were partying
(chapter 73) before he discovered Joo Jaewoong’s corpse. The bridge thus becomes a metaphor for invisible grief: joy and pain occurring simultaneously, one masking the other. And keep in mind that according to my theory, the picture of Dan with his grandmother is hiding a tragedy. This would explain why doc Dan is so obsessed with this picture: 
(chapter 47) The smiles here are hiding the past reality. 
(chapter 79) — so unlike his real, exhausted self — is a vision of peace, of love unburdened by fear, while this grin exposes the truth. The dream, the realm of clouds, becomes a stage where the wolf shows and learns tenderness. The dream’s fear and indirect self-reproach 
(chapter 41) In other words, the dream is giving him clues as well how to behave: not only greeting, but also talking. What caught my attention is that during their two last breakfasts together 
(chapter 68), they didn’t talk at all 
(chapter 79) which contrasts to the star’s vision. 
(chapter 79) He does not kneel; he sits, his body settling softly against the floor as he catches Dan in his arms. The man once associated with dominance becomes a cushion, a pillow, a living anchor. His strength, once used to impose weight, now exists to absorb it. The fall is not toward repentance through pain, but toward tenderness through stillness.
(chapter 11) now becomes the one who receives the collapse. 
(chapter 39) escapes him in an embrace; his 
(chapter 66) 
(chapter 66) trembles out against Jaekyung’s chest; his 
(chapter 57), he could only confide while being physically comforted. The grandmother’s embrace in chapter 57 becomes the prototype of this pattern — the last instance of safety tied to voice. Yet, crucially, that embrace was conditional and silencing. She soothed him but redirected his pain: 
(chapter 80) When Jaekyung takes his hands in the swimming pool, the gesture revives this primal language of reassurance. For the first time, the touch is neither coercive nor desperate; it’s sustaining. The handhold reverses the earlier dynamic — instead of silencing him, it gives him permission to speak. Furthermore, the champion is pointing out that he can rely on two things, the champion’s hands and the kickboard belt. This stands in opposition to the fake promise of Shin Okja. 
(chapter 57) In other words, he is inciting the doctor to trust himself more and become independent. 
(chapter 65), the champion seeks to restore the missing confidence.
(chapter 28) 
(chapter 69) The wolf, who once relied on dominance and silence, is now allowing his fated partner to hug him. 
(chapter 59) His hand resting on Boksoon’s fur repeats the same motion — the pat once given to him, now returned to another being in pain. What he offers the animal is precisely what he has always longed for: warmth without judgment, touch without condition. 
(chapter 4), not intention: a reflex of possession, not communication. As time passed on, it changed, yet in the bathtub (chapter 68), Dan fell asleep against him so that he could never experience the athlete’s care 
(chapter 68); in the morning, Jaekyung acted as though nothing had happened. Then on the dock, Joo Jaekyung expressed his relief 
(chapter 65); “bring him to a big hospital so that he can take pills” 
(chapter 65) 
(chapter 65) He trusted her words and advises. I would even add that he believed that compliance equaled real care. Yet the night by the balcony teaches him otherwise. 
(chapter 57). Everything evolved around his lack of sleep and his dependency on her. 
(chapter 65) However, in episode 79, for the first time, the champion notices it.
(chapter 79) It is important because very early on, the doctor Cheolmin had already detected his malnutrition: 
(chapter 13) In other words, the physical therapist’s depression and eating disorder were already existent before meeting the “wolf”. And what did the mysterious friend tell to the “wolf”? He shouldn’t wait out of fear that he might regret it later! 
(chapter 13) As you can see, “sorry” is the link between the two doctors and the celebrity. 
His metamorphosis will be complete with the birth of the kind and sweet Joo Jaekyung! 
(chapter 21) Imagine that I had written this part before the release of episode 80! 
(chapter 21) 
(chapter 29) 
(chapter 61) Hence it is no coincidence that while sleeping in his own bedroom, the physical therapist had a relapse. 
(chapter 79) Because the champion had come to the conclusion that his own bedchamber was linked to sex 
(chapter 78) And though he had another “accident”, the former is never bringing it up to doc Dan. There’s no blame or accusation. The athlete is keeping these accidents as secrets. However, pay attention that he is making sure that doc Dan is resting. 
(chapter 27) Striking is that the champion always chose the left side of the bed 
(chapter 66) Thus I deduce that doc Dan is destined to take over his grandmother’s position in the bed: 
(chapter 21) And this observation seems to be validated by chapter 80. 
(chapter 78) But if they switch places, the wolf should be able to watch his partner’s face. And now, pay attention to the way Mingwa placed the new embrace in the swimming pool: 
(chapter 79) He had the impression that he wouldn’t meet his “expectations”. Observe the parallels between the champion’s dream 
(chapter 57) We have the doctor’s fake smile which is strongly linked to rejection 
(chapter 57) and expectations. And what is the other common denominator? His self-loathing and immense guilt. He has the feeling that he is not lovable. In my opinion, doc Dan is suffering because no one is listening to him at all. So far, they all projected their own thoughts onto him. The reality is that doc Dan already had a hard time before moving to the seaside town, 
(chapter 11) yet she failed to notice it or refused to face his struggles, as they were related to their poverty. 
(chapter 5), he lost his voice and became a ghost. It is no coincidence that in this scene, doc Dan was silent despite the caress. He was avoiding any topic that could trouble his grandmother. He accepted to remain a little boy in her eyes. But thanks to the wolf, doc Dan is learning to become strong and independent so that he can decide about his life. The swimming lesson is pushing him to overcome his abandonment issues. 
(chapter 79). Yet as the doctor grows thinner and more exhausted, the wolf begins to understand what “starvation” truly means. 
(chapter 79) 
(chapter 78) Their noisy excitement — hugs, wishes, smiles, jokes, even talk of meat — gave the impression of a long-awaited reunion. Yet the suggestion was cut short by Jaekyung, who rejected it like this: 
(chapter 78) In other words, a party was “missed.” At first glance, this might appear to be an exception, a rare moment of denial in a story otherwise filled with shared rituals. Readers might recall the welcome party
(chapter 9) in episode 9, the champion’s birthday dinner 
(chapter 43) in episode 43, the talk of hospital get-togethers 
(chapter 61), or the festive tone of fighters after director Choi Gilseok’s victory 
(chapter 52).
(chapter 41) Why did they not organize a party in Seoul to celebrate his victory in the States? Dan devotes himself to work, but his departures are marked by silence 
(chapter 53) rather than farewell. 
(chapter 1) The few rituals that do occur — a premature birthday cake, a noisy hug, puppies chasing after a car — 
(chapter 78) always miss their mark, either hollow in substance or unseen by the very people who should be honored.
. (Chapter 43) Even the “dragon’s” birthday, supposedly a day of personal celebration, is reduced to an awkward dinner at his expense, with a cake arriving a day too early 
(chapter 43) or gifts from sponsors and fans he never wanted. 
(Chapter 41) In Germany, it is considered as a bad omen to celebrate a birthday too soon. Rituals that should affirm intimacy instead expose distance and lack of respect.
(Chapter 52) 
(chapter 56) However, this is just an illusion. What caught my attention is that the nurses wondered themselves why such a skilled therapist would come to a small-town hospital.
(chapter 56) They speak about him, as though he had no reason to stay there, as if he were a stranger passing through. Right from the beginning, he was treated unconsciously as temporary, someone whose presence required explanation rather than welcome. Finally, no party was held for him, no ritual of inclusion was offered. His distance and their detachment mirrored each other, producing the silence that would later define his departure. 
(chapter 78)
(chapter 5) It ends either in the car or in the locker room. 
(chapter 15) The high peak of his celebrated victories takes place at the gym where Park Namwook gather the fighters in front of the Emperor congratulating himself for his “good work” and the spectators for belonging to a winning team. 
(chapter 53) For him, the physical therapists were just tools and as such replaceable.
(chapter 43) A birthday, especially in Korea, is typically a family-centered celebration, held at home or among close friends. Yet Jaekyung’s “party” takes place in a restaurant, under Yosep’s casual announcement that they would be having a “dinner party.” 
(chapter 45) By keeping Dan in the dark about the “surprise,” the fighters created another problem. Their silence pushed him to offer his own present on the same day as the gifts from sponsors and fans — exactly the kind of attention Jaekyung resented. He had already said he did not want those presents, and now Dan’s sincere gesture was placed in the same category, indistinguishable from the flood of unwanted offerings. What could have been a private, meaningful moment was absorbed into the hollow ritual of the group. Hence the champion never got to read his card! 
(Chapter 1) His stay had been so brief as well. Besides, his absence was engineered to be total, as though he had never existed. The very ritual that should have affirmed his contributions instead became a ritual of erasure.
(Chapter 50) Then later the athlete questioned the physical therapist’s actions and told him this 
(chapter 51) out of fear and pain, the physical therapist thought, he was fired. Once again, he left in silence, unacknowledged. No one stood up for him, no one tried to reintegrate him, no farewell was offered. 
(chapter 74) The silence of his grandmother on this point suggests that even the most basic ritual of mourning was denied him.
(Chapter 59) Only Dan and the landlord marked the event with a quiet burial. Since no one knew about it, it left the ritual incomplete. For Dan, the small act was meaningful, but its invisibility to the larger community echoed his own life: recognition always hidden, always partial, never public.
(chapter 43) This was the real heart of the evening, the only moment where ritual turned into intimacy. And yet even this was missed by Potato, who was absent at that crucial moment, lingering elsewhere with Heesung. The party’s form was there, but its essence — the recognition of Jaekyung’s loneliness and Dan’s importance — was overlooked by the two men at its center due to the presence of alcohol.
(Chapter 78) To them, departure is not tragedy but play, a noisy farewell parade. Their barking and chasing become a spontaneous party, a joyous ritual of attachment. 
(Chapter 78) Striking is that here, doc Dan is making a promise to Boksoon and her puppies, but the latter have no idea. Therefore imagine this. On the weekend, the moment the car approaches the landlord’s house, the puppies will recognize them and celebrate their return! And this time, both characters will witness this welcome party: 
(chapter 78)
(Chapter 78) But this “reset” is an illusion. Dan is only contracted for two matches. Interesting is that no one is capable of perceiving the truth, as the main lead’s explanation is ambiguous.
(Chapter 78) He doesn’t limit the number of matches, only that he will focus on the “wolf”. So for them, his return is not limited in time. Nevertheless, his paleness and dark circles speak louder than their words: he is exhausted, fragile, still haunted.
(Chapter 78) They are more worried about another possible departure than about his condition, as though his leaving again would be a greater tragedy than his ongoing suffering. This exposes that the members are not totally oblivious and their reunion is not a repetition of the past. On the other hand, warm words and a noisy welcome are enough for them. They take his generosity for granted, just as they always have. Therefore they ask for his magic hands. 
(chapter 9), and abstaining from drink often means being excluded from group belonging. Yet Dan, on medication, cannot drink. His doctor’s recommendation makes it impossible for him to participate in such “public” rituals. Even the customary sharing of a huge bowl — a symbol of intimacy and unity — must be avoided. For Jaekyung, who once used alcohol to dull his own struggles, 
(Chapter 78) Hence the latter has no interest to organize a welcome party and even maintain the ritual with the bowl!! What might appear to others as grumpiness or stinginess is in fact a form of protection.
(Chapter 78) Having missed Dan most deeply during his absence, he now wishes to spend as much time as possible with his hyung. His longing shows that no party with Heesung and the landlord — no noisy drinking night — 
(chapter 58) could fill the hole left by Dan’s departure. But his form of attachment is still caught in the ritual of surface-level affection. What Potato craves is real closeness, hence he keeps hugging the physical therapist, 
(chapter 9) 
(chapter 26), or allowed whether welcome parties or surprise celebrations or pre-match meals 
(chapter 22). These events were never about genuine recognition but about maintaining power and appearances, boosting morale, or reminding the fighters of their dependence on the team structure he managed. The “surprise” birthday party in chapter 43 bore his fingerprints, 
(chapter 43) This absence is revealing: Namwook preferred to avoid direct conflict with Jaekyung’s visible displeasure, leaving the awkward burden of paying and performing to the champion himself to Yosep. In other words, his parties were tools of control, not gifts of belonging. By chapter 78, however, the balance has shifted. 
(chapter 78) Standing in the back, Namwook watches as Dan returns and is embraced by the fighters. He notices a “different vibe” between the two leads, but fails to grasp what it means. Doc Dan is actually free and has the upper hand in their relationship. Hence he can no longer ask this from doc Dan: 
(chapter 36) Doc Dan should put up with everything. What he cannot admit is that Dan is no longer replaceable. 
(chapter 69) Yet unlike all the hollow celebrations that came before, this missed event would finally have meaning. It would not be absence through neglect, but absence as recognition: proof that Dan’s life matters more than ritual, profit, or performance.
(chapter 78) This delay suggests a split loyalty: while the team is already celebrating, Potato is likely still tied to Heesung, perhaps even speaking to him on the phone. His tardiness betrays how his heart is pulled in two directions — caught between the actor’s orbit and the gym’s renewed center around Dan. Yet the embrace of the fighter, and his tearful reaction at seeing Dan again, show that his real place lies with Team Black.
(chapter 59) Potato had made a promise to treat Dan to a meal if he ever returned, squeezing his hand with the sincerity of a puppy. That promise, innocent as it seemed, carried a hidden trap: in Korea, such “treats” almost always involve alcohol. And he could try to recreate the party on the coast. Potato, unaware of Dan’s medical restrictions, may offer him exactly what he must refuse. Only Jaekyung knows the truth of Dan’s fragile health; only he can act as his shield against such misplaced affection. Secondly, Potato possesses pictures of the puppies 
(chapter 60), which he took on the day one of them died! 
(chapter 58), and his presence ties alcohol directly to the champion’s vulnerability. At the same time, Potato’s loyalty is beginning to shift. He once orbited Heesung like a hidden lover, but Dan’s return rekindles his attachment to the gym and as such will affect his relationship with the gumiho. 
(chapter 78) Sitting stiffly in his hospital bed, he waves away any possibility of affection. His body language, arms crossed, his words reduced to commands about training, erase the emotional bond that might have connected him to Jaekyung. Where halmoni’s silence is passive, Byungchul’s is active — he refuses intimacy, replacing it with obligation. For both figures, farewell becomes an empty form, stripped of the recognition that makes partings bearable. In these moments, the absence of a hug, the denial of tenderness, is more devastating than the loudest rejection. It is a party that never begins, a rite of passage left unspoken.
(chapter 22) 
(chapter 13) a breakfast in silence 
(chapter 78) Even Jaekyung is troubled by the reminder that Dan’s stay is temporary, as if the very walls of the penthouse resist turning into a home.
(chapter 78) In other words, the wolf’s task is no longer to win battles in the ring but to protect these fragile celebrations — to make Dan feel at home, to turn missed hugs into embraces, missed parties into warm meals, missed gestures into habits of care. Only then can the cycle of exclusion be broken. Only then can “The Missed Party” become, at last, a real one.
(chapter 78). For me, it is no coincidence that the senior followed them to the street and waved at them! 
(chapter 78) He expressed not only his genuine feelings, but also his longing: he hoped to see them soon. He had come to appreciate their presence which is not related to their work. The Missed Party becomes not a single absence, but the haunting rhythm of the entire narrative: recognition always arriving too late, always seen by the wrong eyes. And perhaps the story’s promise lies here — that one day, the real party will finally be held, not in karaoke bars or gym halls, but in the unbreakable bond of two men who learn what true friendship and belonging mean. This means, the more the champion and his fated partner develop new routines, the more it will affect the gym and as such Park Namwook, which can only feel more and more excluded.
Bebebisous33s' analyses in K-Dramaland and Manhwas 