The world had changed. Or rather, it had decayed.
Mu-Won walked southward through villages and forests, his presence veiled in tattered robes and silent steps. He observed the new murim from the shadows—sect politics, petty rivalries, bloated lineages filled with inherited titles and zero skill. The so-called righteous sects had become stagnant. The demonic cults were parodies of their ancestors.
In a town called Gaeryong, he stopped at a tea house to rest. The establishment was bustling with low-level disciples trying to appear important, puffing their chests and quoting martial doctrine they barely understood.
An old beggar limped in, coughing, hungry. The owner tried to drag him out. A White Flame Sect disciple struck him to the ground, laughing as he called it mercy.
Mu-Won watched.
Then he stood.
He walked to the disciple and said, "Your hand. Give it to me."
"What? Who are you, beggar?"
"Your hand. You won't need it anymore."
In one movement, Mu-Won shattered the man's meridians. The disciple screamed, collapsing. His hand turned black from the inside out, qi imploding on itself.
Gasps filled the room.
"A disciple of the White Flame Sect!" someone whispered.
"Then the White Flame Sect is raising fools," Mu-Won replied.
He tossed a copper coin to the beggar and walked out, vanishing like mist.
Whispers spread faster than wildfire: A mysterious man who crushed cultivators with a touch. Who broke techniques without lifting a blade. Who moved like smoke and struck like judgment.
A name resurfaced.
Heavenly Demon?
Impossible. Just a ghost story. Right?