Reader's POV
---
The portal behind us gave one final shimmer — a convulsion of ink and light — then folded inward with a silent snap.
Gone.
No echo. No trace. Only the scent of petrichor and wind.
I took a breath and felt the weight of the air. Not fabricated. Not code. It was dense, charged, ancient. As if the very oxygen here had memory.
As if it knew what we were.
And it wasn't sure whether to welcome us… or reject us.
---
Beneath my boots, the grass was wet and uneven, scattered with white blossoms. A storm brewed far off — not yet lightning, but the kind of charged tension that settles into your skin before thunder ever breaks.
We stood on the edge of a steep rise. Below, nestled in a cradle of mountains, was the fortress-city.
It pulsed with age. With expectation.
Banners of forgotten clans hung like veins across its high walls, flapping lazily in the wind. The stone was old, yet unmarred — the kind of untouched ruin only found in sealed timelines or perfect preservation.
Murim.
Not a word anymore. A pulse.
The root of every sword technique I ever read about. The birthplace of the Path.
---
Jiwoon was already kneeling, fingers brushing the soil like a priest in silent worship.
"This land… it remembers what it means to fight," he said softly.
Ereze didn't kneel. She stood perfectly still, head cocked slightly to the side, lips tight. She was listening.
"What is it?" I asked.
Her eyes flicked to the east. "Four presences. Low-grade illusions. They're watching, but not attacking."
I tightened my grip on the hilt at my side.
"Are they hostile?"
"Not yet."
---
It didn't matter.
Because this place — this world — was already measuring us.
I felt it.
The weight behind our names. The trails we'd carved in the ink.
Every choice we made until now — the alliances, the kills, the betrayals, even the mercy — was being read.
I shivered. This wasn't like the City of Beginning.
That was scaffolding.
This was blood-soaked parchment.
This was recorded war.
---
Then the wind changed.
It twisted in a spiral, dragging leaves upward like dancers mid-ritual.
And a voice rang out. Not from above or below — it came from within the wind itself.
> "Step forward, children of ink.
The ancestors are watching."
---
It wasn't a threat.
It was a summons.
Jiwoon stood. Ereze rolled her neck once, and I just… breathed.
"Trial city," I muttered. "We're inside a Lineage Instance."
"That's impossible," Jiwoon said. "The Lineage Trial doesn't appear until Chapter 120. We're barely at 76."
"Maybe someone skipped ahead," Ereze said dryly, eyes flicking toward me.
I raised both hands innocently. "I only poked the timeline. Not ripped it."
She didn't smile. She never did when things got serious.
---
As we descended the hill, the air got heavier. Not metaphorically — literally. Every step felt like walking through resistance. Jiwoon's pace slowed. Ereze's brows drew into a frown.
"They're measuring our bloodlines," she said.
"Not bloodlines," I corrected. "Narrative weight. They're testing how much history we carry."
---
At the gate stood two old warriors — stone still, grey robes flapping, eyes lit by the dim glow of narrative preservation. They weren't alive. Not in the breathing sense.
They were echoes.
Reinforced memory constructs.
Oaths turned into watchers.
---
As we reached them, a glyph ignited in the sky.
Bright. Spinning. Ancient.
> The Emblem of Lineage Trial.
I recognized it from the old patch notes. The final arc. The "End of All Swords" sequence.
Jiwoon stepped beside me, his voice low. "You changed the route again."
"I didn't mean to," I said. "But I think the story's folding on itself now."
Ereze didn't wait. She stepped forward.
> "Prove you remember the Way. Or be forgotten."
The glyph bloomed open — a lotus of burning lines. And the gates opened.
---
Inside, there was no market, no civilian sector, no signs of mundane life.
This was a city forged for one purpose: combat legacy.
Dojo after dojo. Blade on blade.
Children practiced in pairs, swinging wooden swords with bruised knuckles and perfect stances. Warriors meditated beside fire pits. Entire alleyways echoed with the clack of training.
Not a single building was for sleep.
Even rest here meant readiness.
---
We walked through, silent.
Ereze scanned for threats. Jiwoon inhaled reverently. I just kept walking, wondering:
How much of this is real?
How much is written?
And then we saw it.
Carved into the mountain that cradled the city — a sword the size of a skyscraper. Stabbed into stone. Its blade caught the fading sunlight and fractured it into thousands of colors. A prism of war.
---
"This is where the First Murim Lords ascended," I whispered.
Where they carved their names into fate. Where legends weren't born — they were forged.
Ereze stared up. "This place isn't for us."
Jiwoon disagreed. "No. It's waiting because of us."
---
I looked behind us.
The portal was gone.
Ink, scattered in the wind.
There was no way back.
Only forward — into a city made of combat, memory, and testaments to those who lived only for the sword.
And we weren't ready.
But we were here.