UNFED

It was old. The cover was creased, and the corners were worn. There were ballpoint pen marks on the front cover as well—traces of where he’d written something and, finding no other paper underneath, had simply pressed down to continue writing.

It was one of the few things Hoon had brought from Korea. He’d put it in his bag when he came to the Philippines. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

He had first started writing in this notebook in his early forties. It was when he resumed his studies in psychology. Not what he had learned in college, but self-directed study.

He ran his business during the day and read books at night. He jotted down important points as he read. He wrote down his questions when they arose. He wrote down connections when he saw them.

One chapter in that notebook was about “qi” (氣).

At first, he wasn’t interested. I had a strong impression that “qi” wasn’t science. It was something that appeared in martial arts novels, a term used in traditional Korean medicine clinics, and unproven Eastern mysticism. he dismissed it as such and moved on.

But as he delved deeper into psychology, he kept encountering strange points.

There were phenomena that Western psychology couldn’t explain. Changes in human abilities under extreme conditions. The tangible effects of meditation on the body’s physiology.

Changes in consciousness during fasting practices. While there were studies that measured and documented these phenomena, Western science offered little explanation for why they occurred.

Yet Eastern traditions offered an explanation.

Qi.

Hoon opened his notebook. It was the first time since his awakening. He read his own old handwriting. These were things he had written ten or fifteen years ago.

* * *

The concept of Qi was not simple.

In Chinese characters, it is written as 氣. Vital energy, energy, life force. Yet none of these translations felt quite right. Air is 氣, the flow of emotions is 氣, the body’s vitality is 氣, and the principles governing the universe are 氣.

It seemed too broad to be meaningful. But looking at it from the opposite perspective, the very idea that all these things could be encompassed by a single concept was fascinating.

In Taoism, qi (氣) was the core of practice. One draws in qi through breathing, directs it through consciousness, and circulates it within the body. It was said that a well-trained person derives more energy from qi than from food.

Bigu (辟穀) was the extreme manifestation of this—avoiding grains and living on qi alone.

In the Indian yoga tradition, it was called prana. The life energy contained in the air we breathe. Pranayama was the breathing technique used to regulate it. Practitioners claimed that once prana was sufficiently accumulated, one could live without food.

The Tummo practice of Tibetan Buddhism. A technique for consciously generating body heat. Experiments in which practitioners sat naked in sub-zero temperatures and dried wet cloths with their body heat were recorded by Western scientists.

They were measured. There was undeniable data. However, no explanation was given as to why such a thing was possible.

Hoon’s notebook was filled with meticulous records of these cases. And in the margins, questions were written.

“Is this mere mysticism, or is it an energy system we have not yet been able to measure?”

“If it is the latter, what picture emerges when approached through modern neuroscience?”

These were the questions he had asked himself ten years ago. At the time, he hadn’t found the answers. He had simply left them open.

Now, on the morning ten days after his awakening, those questions read differently to Hoon.

They were not mere questions. They were a map.

* * *

He spent three more days reading.

Modern neuroscience papers. Research on the hypothalamic appetite circuit. Studies on the structural changes meditation induces in the prefrontal cortex. Changes occurring in the brain during prolonged fasting .

Changes in cognitive function when ketone bodies are converted into a brain energy source. The effects of autophagy on cellular function.

Read separately, they were individual studies. Hoon laid them out side by side.

A single possibility began to emerge.

The NPY and AgRP neurons in the hypothalamus generate hunger signals. The prefrontal cortex regulates these signals. There was a study showing that brain scans of long-term meditation practitioners revealed increased thickness in the prefrontal cortex.

A thicker prefrontal cortex meant stronger down-regulation capabilities. It meant greater control over hypothalamic signals.

Add autophagy to that.

The ability of cells to recycle internal resources without external nutrition. It is promoted during fasting. In the long term, an extremely efficient autophagy system could theoretically reduce dependence on external nutrition.

And if qi cultivation trains both of these simultaneously...

Hoon drew a diagram in his notebook. Arrows. A structure connecting three circles. And a question mark in the center.

〈Prefrontal cortex downregulation + hyper-efficient autophagy + conscious energy management. What is possible if these three operate simultaneously?〉

His own experience matched this diagram. The events that occurred during the awakening process. Breathing exercises suppressed hunger signals. Meditation regulated his physical state. Something had been rearranged.

There was no proof yet. But the direction was right.

Hoon thought of one more thing. Seventy-two hours. He had first sensed the change on the third dawn. Until then, it had been nothing but pain and instability. On the third dawn, something shifted.

That was the tipping point.

“72 hours. That might be the time the brain needs to learn a new state.”

This could become a protocol. Breathing, meditation, fasting, and 72 hours. It could be designed to be reproducible.

Hoon put down his pen and looked out the window. It was an afternoon in Dasol. Palm leaves swayed in the breeze. Neighborhood children played in the alley. It was an ordinary afternoon in a small Philippine town.

He looked at the scene and thought.

He couldn't keep this to myself. But how do he spread it? And the more important question — to whom should he share it first?

* * *

The first person.

Hoon spent several days mulling it over. Who would be suitable? What kind of person should it be?

They had to be trustworthy. That was a given. But until trust was proven, it was merely an expectation. In the end, choosing the first person meant relying on intuition.

He thought it would be best if they were well-educated — someone he wouldn’t have to explain the basics to. But an open mind was more important than academic credentials. In fact, experts were often the most closed-minded.

he thought it would be best if they had little to lose. People who are focused on protecting what they already have find it difficult to embrace new things. Just as Hoon himself was only able to have this realization after coming to the Philippines.

And—he thought they had to be Korean. At first, I didn’t know why. The more he thought about it, the clearer the reason became.

The root of this realization lay in Eastern tradition — a cultural context where the concept of “qi” is understood through the body.

And above all — someone who could fully convey the explanation and nuances in Hoon’s current language . The initial transmission had to be accurate. If the beginning is distorted, the distortion grows as it spreads.

As I listed these conditions, one person’s face naturally came to mind.

Lee Jae-in.

A junior of Hoon’s from college. He majored in architecture and returned to the countryside after graduation. The last I heard, he was planning to renovate an abandoned school somewhere in Gyeongsang Province to build a small community. That was several years ago. I didn’t know if he was still there.

But Hoon knew Lee Jae-in. He had known him for over ten years. He knew how that person thought, what he feared, and what he was brave enough to face.

He was not someone whose mind worked faster than his hands, but someone whose hands worked faster than his mind. He was someone who believed in doing things himself rather than persuading others with words.

That was exactly the kind of personality he needed right now.

Hoon wrote the name in his notebook.

〈Lee Jae-in. I need to find a way to contact him. I have to meet him in person.〉

He had to meet him in person. That was what mattered. A phone call or a text wouldn’t do. Digital wouldn’t do. AI reads it. And this wasn’t something that could be conveyed through text. I had to show him with my own body. I had to let him experience it firsthand.

He had to go back to Korea.

Hoon lingered on that thought for a moment. Korea. A place he hadn’t been to in two years. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go. It was just that the reason he had to stay here was clearer. But now it was different.

There was no reason he had to stay here. His awakening was complete, his direction was set, and he could see the next step.

He looked at the calendar. It had been two years and three months since he’d arrived in the Philippines.

It was enough.

* * *

Late that night, Hoon opened his old notebook again.

He reread the pages about ki (energy). The questions from ten years ago now read differently. Back then, they were just questions, but now he could see the structure of the answers.

What had happened in the meantime? One thing had changed. He had tried it himself.

The distance between knowledge and experience. The paradox that you only know how far that distance is after you’ve experienced it.

Hoon wrote anew on the last blank page of the notebook.

“Ki is not a mystery. It is physiology that has not yet been measured. And it can be trained. It can be reproduced. It can be transmitted.”

He added one more line below that.

“This is the only way humanity can become equal to AI.”

The word “only” felt heavy. But he didn’t erase it.

Because it was true.

Hoon closed the notebook. The cover was worn. The corners were frayed. This notebook had brought him this far over the past ten years. Slowly, in a direction no one was watching.

Tomorrow, he had to look for a plane ticket. A ticket to Korea. And he had to find a way to get Lee Jae-in’s contact information.

He could hear the sound of night insects outside the window. Dasol’s nights were always accompanied by this sound. At first, it was noisy. Now, without it, it actually felt quiet.

That was what adaptation was all about.

When the unfamiliar becomes the norm. And then, one day, feeling empty without it.

Listening to those sounds, Hoon wondered: What if we created a world where not eating became the norm? A world where the absence of the fear of starvation didn’t feel empty. What would people live for in that world?

He didn’t know yet.

But the fact that the question had arisen was already significant.

His eyes closed.

New episode drops daily at 7 AM (Philippine Time, UTC+8) until Part 1 concludes (Ep. 55) on July 25th.

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