When I opened my eyes again, this time a strange old man was sitting next to me.
His face was covered in pockmarks, and his frame was small and wiry—but the energy in his eyes was anything but weak.
He was someone I had never seen in my entire life.
Dear heavens. I'm still not awake?
I had never experienced a dream this vivid—let alone one that continued so seamlessly.
It was as if this old man had been waiting for me to regain consciousness, because he immediately opened his mouth.
"You should be ashamed of yourself."
But that wasn't what I needed to hear.
What I needed to know was: Why do these dreams keep going?
I slowly sat up and looked at the mirror hanging on the wall.
It was the same young man's face I had seen earlier.
This time, I took a closer look at the face.
There were bruises and scratches here and there, but overall, it was quite a handsome face.
What filled the eyes, though, was that unmistakable immaturity—an impulsive recklessness you'd only see in foolish youths.
And… he looked exactly like the woman who hit me earlier.
So she really is this young man's mother.
"She is…"
"She?"
"No, sir."
"No?"
The old man frowned, as if my words had come off disrespectfully.
The displeasure on his face felt so vivid… Can this really be a dream?
I reached out and touched the blanket covering me.
The texture of the fabric felt real.
"What happened yesterday was truly disappointing," the old man said.
"I don't remember anything," I replied.
I knew absolutely nothing about this young man's life.
The old man didn't look worried. Instead, he scoffed openly.
"Of course. That sounds just like you. Always shirking responsibility."
His words made me angry.
Even though I knew he was speaking to this young man and not me, I was still furious.
In my previous life as the Lord of the Martial Alliance, I had lived by a few unwavering principles:
Reward and punishment must be clear.
Revenge must be exact.
One must not blame circumstances in hardship.
Never rely solely on the loyalty of subordinates.
And above all—take responsibility for one's own actions.
Not once had I ever pushed my responsibilities onto someone else.
People make mistakes. They lose fights. They do foolish things.
But even so—they must have a sense of responsibility.
That was how I had lived.
When my expression hardened, the old man gave me a pitiful look—like someone staring at a fool who just farted—then stood up.
"You… are a disgrace to this family."
With that, he slammed the door and left.
What in the world did this brat do to deserve a beating the moment he woke up and be treated like this?
Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion washed over me.
Fine… once I sleep, I'll wake up and things will return to normal.
I let myself fall back into sleep.
I truly believed that when I woke again, I'd open my eyes as the Alliance Lord once more.
But when I awoke in the evening, I was still in the body of that unfamiliar young man.
The crimson glow of the setting sun filtering through the window was dreamlike—
but the reality was anything but.
That sealed it.
I was now certain.
This is not a dream.
Yes—there was no doubt.
No matter how deeply one sleeps, there's a limit to how much a dream can blur with reality. And this? This was far beyond that.
Then… could I have fallen into qi deviation?
But I had never heard of any deviation causing something like this.
Was there even anything related to martial arts that I didn't know?
No, this wasn't qi deviation.
It wasn't an illusion either.
I had been reborn—as this young man.
And yet, I still retained all the memories of my former life as Cheon Hajin.
In short, I had reincarnated into another person.
How could something like this happen?
I had lived seventy years in the martial world, experiencing countless things that defied belief—but reincarnation?
I looked up toward the sky.
The clouds were bathed in the red glow of the setting sun, no different than any other day.
Which only made the question in my heart feel more urgent—more desperate.
Why… why am I being made to go through this?
Let's say, for the sake of argument, that I really have reincarnated.
Then how is it that I remember everything from my past life?
Every detail of my life as Cheon Hajin—the strongest in the world, the Lord of the Martial Alliance—remained perfectly intact in my mind.
In the days just before my death, my memory had been deteriorating terribly.
Could this be some kind of compensation for that?
Or was it simply the power of a younger brain?
Now, I could recall everything—even things from long ago, with stunning clarity.
I remembered the day Baekpyo's son was born.
The way his face lit up with joy, flushed with excitement.
Even the wrinkles by his eyes—I could see them vividly in my mind.
If I remembered that clearly, how could I have forgotten his son's age?
Or even whether it was a son or a daughter?
Thinking back on it now, it was simply impossible.
At the time, it felt like my judgment had been clouded—like I was under the influence of something.
In other words, my death… might not have been natural.
Was I assassinated?
If so… is this reincarnation Heaven's way of giving me a chance for revenge?
...But if it's not that—then what?
I sat on the porch in front of the room, gazing out at the sunset fading beyond the courtyard wall.
A stranger's face.
A body heavy and sluggish, like soaked cotton.
An unfamiliar space. Unfamiliar people.
Everything around me… was completely foreign.
When I closed my eyes, I half expected to open them and find myself back in the Grand Seat of the Lord's Pavilion.
It felt as though at any moment, Gal Saryang would walk through that door, arms full of documents, ready to drown me in work.
Just then, the door creaked open—and someone stepped inside.
It was a man in his mid-twenties, with a smooth, easygoing expression.
"Oh? You're awake."
Until now, a few people had passed by this room.
They all gave me a quick, formal bow and hurried away without a word.
This was the first time someone had actually approached and spoken to me.
The man walked over and sat beside me.
"I told you, didn't I? I said you couldn't win just because she's a girl. She's been training under a renowned master for five years! Seriously, next time, please listen to me. I nearly died of fear running over here carrying you. I thought something might've happened to you."
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I heard about it. You were pretending to have lost your memory, right? Well, not that anyone really believes it, but still, good move. If you hadn't, Lady Daebuin probably would've beaten you to death. Gotta admit, you've got a clever mind when it counts—so why were you so reckless that day…? No, no, never mind. You're just… pure-hearted, that's all."
"I'll ask again. Who are you?"
"And by the way, Young Master, maybe it's time you started taking martial arts training seriously.
Getting beat up by a girl—it's just not a good look, you know?"
"One last time, I'm asking—"
"It's Gwangdu! Gwangdu! Geez, this joke is getting old! Drop the memory loss act already!"
"Gwangdu? As in crazy head?"
"Why are you pretending not to know?"
"Wait, are you seriously telling me your name uses the 'gwahng' for crazy?"
I stared at him in disbelief, and only then did he start to look genuinely concerned.
"Of course not! It's the 'gwahng' that means light! 'Crazy head' was just something you used to tease me with! Seriously, what's with you today?"
"I'm telling you—I really don't remember anything."
"Come on, this prank isn't funny anymore."
"It's not a prank. I'm serious."
"Really?"
I nodded at him solemnly.
He narrowed his eyes and studied me for a moment before slyly asking,
"Then… do you remember that money I lent you before?"
"How much?"
"Two nyang."
Since I've never been one to live with debts hanging over me, I immediately reached into my pocket and handed him two nyang.
Gwangdu stared at the coins in my hand with wide eyes.
"My god… you really don't remember anything, do you?"
"Why?" I asked.
"Because you never pay back money you borrow. Ever. What happened to you? Did you get hit in the head or something?"
"Feels like it."
"What did Elder Jong say?"
"Who?"
"That old man from earlier."
"Oh, him?"
Gwangdu gasped.
"Even if you were the wildest rascal, you were always terrified of Elder Jong… You really don't remember anything, huh?"
"Just answer my questions. Maybe if I hear enough, something will come back to me. That old man—who is he?"
"He's the head physician and steward of the main household. Also sworn brothers with the clan leader."
"The clan leader—meaning my father?"
"…Okay, now you're really starting to freak me out."
"He looked way older than my father. How could they be sworn brothers?"
"Ages don't matter among martial artists, right?"
"Who says that?"
"The world is one brotherhood under Heaven, no?"
"What nonsense—'the world is one brotherhood under Heaven'..."
That phrase only exists to glorify the ideal side of the martial world.
Martial artists are, in fact, some of the most nitpicky people alive.
They care about everything: age, sect, school, rank, strength, gender, seniority, region of origin.
Whether you're from the main family or a branch family, whether you wield a sword or a blade, whether you're left-handed or right-handed, whether you practice external arts or internal arts—even down to the color and pattern of your martial robes, they scrutinize every detail.
"What did Elder Jong say when you told him I lost my memory?" I asked.
"He didn't believe me," Gwangdu replied.
"Figured as much."
"But his reaction was oddly cold. What in the world did I even do?"
"Where do I start?" Gwangdu sighed deeply, clearly exasperated.
Apparently, my list of past offenses was a long one.
"Start with the most recent one. Why was I injured?"
Gwangdu let out a long sigh, wearing an expression that screamed pitiful fool.
"You went to see Miss Song. She rejected you. You lost your temper and stormed off.
Then—drunk out of your mind—you went back to cause a scene.
Miss Song came out, and you started yelling obscenities at her… and then, well, she beat you like a dog."
"Who's Miss Song?"
Once again, Gwangdu gave me a blank, disbelieving stare.
"Did you just ask who Miss Song is?"
"Yeah. Who is she?"
"Song Hwarin. Heir of the Song family manor. The most beautiful woman in all of Shandong—elegant, intelligent, and a skilled martial artist to boot. She's basically perfect… except for one fatal flaw."
"What flaw?"
"She's engaged to you."
"…What?"
"You two have a prenatal engagement."
There are usually only two reasons for a prenatal engagement:
Either the families are exceptionally close…
Or it's a purely political move.
"She really is cursed with the worst luck when it comes to men," Gwangdu muttered with a sigh.
"Did I… hit you a lot in the past?" I asked.
Gwangdu flinched. "Wh-what? N-No, of course not! Why would you ask something like that?"
"Because the more you talk, the more my hands start itching."
Gwangdu forced a laugh. "Hahaha… Well, Young Master, you and I have a bond that's stronger than any prenatal engagement!"
"Doesn't feel like it at all," I muttered.
Still, one thing was clear—this young man must've been fairly close to Gwangdu, at least on a casual level.
"But tell me," I asked, "why'd she beat him up? I mean, with a prenatal engagement, I'd think they were childhood friends or something."
"Oh, they were. They used to be really close—always playing together. But five years ago, the young lady left for Qinghai to train in martial arts. She just got back a few days ago."
"So… her feelings changed while she was away."
"Well, you changed a lot in those five years too, Young Master," Gwangdu said with a sigh full of regret.
"What about the trouble I caused before that?"
"Well…" Gwangdu began, counting on his fingers. "You lost a fortune in a rigged gambling match, spent heaps of money chasing after courtesans, got into drunken brawls, ran away from home because you didn't want to train, and went around causing chaos trying to take down outlaws of the martial world…"
"That's enough."
Even without hearing the rest, I was starting to get a clear picture of what kind of person this guy had been.
"And my mother?" I asked. "She only smacked me once in the back of the head?"
If it had been me, I wouldn't have stopped until the guy was half-dead—regardless of whether he was my son or a stranger.
"So tell me plainly—what kind of person am I?"
"Can I be honest?" Gwangdu asked hesitantly.
"Now's your chance. Be honest," I said.
"…You were garbage," he replied flatly.
Suddenly, I was reminded of the question I had asked Gal Saryang on the day I died.
And how he had answered without hesitation:
"You are the martial world itself."
Now, here I was—waking up not as a hero of the martial world, but as human trash.
After dropping the word garbage, Gwangdu quickly scurried a few steps away and tilted his head.
He seemed puzzled—maybe wondering why I wasn't reacting with outrage.
"Looks like you really did have a near-death experience," he muttered.
Close—but not quite.
I hadn't nearly died.
I had actually died—and come back.