It started with rain.
Again.
Not the soft drizzle of passing weather, but the hard, punishing kind that drilled into rooftiles and turned courtyards to mud. It came down like it had a grudge.
Sim Gwan stood in the yard, training shirtless. His bare feet slid across the soaked ground in slow, methodical steps.
Tiger's Tail Step. Over and over. One hundred reps before breakfast. One hundred after.
Repetition. Breathing. Intent. Pain.
Not flashy.
Not powerful.
But precise.
Each step forced qi into the arches of his feet, across the knees, up the spine. The Viscera Strengthening method was brutal. Inefficient. Ancient.
But it worked.
He'd been back for twelve days.
Already, he could hold stances longer. Take hits harder. His pulse was slower, his steps quieter. Most of the other disciples hadn't noticed.
But one person did.
Elder Han.
He watched from the steps with half-lidded eyes and a jug of rice wine.
"You move different, Jin Mu."
Sim kept moving. "I've been practicing."
Han squinted. "No. That's not all. You look like someone who's killed now."
Sim stopped.
"I survived," he said quietly.
Han snorted. "Same thing."
---
That afternoon, the peace died.
The gate bell rang three times, sharp and fast. That wasn't for visitors.
That was for Inner Disciples returning.
Most of the Howling Tiger Sect's strength lay outside its walls. The best disciples didn't hang around they took contracts, served merchants, escorted nobles, or trained in other sects through exchange programs.
When they came back, it was either for rest…
Or to re-establish dominance.
---
Lee Jang-Hun returned with a storm behind his eyes.
He was tall. Thick arms. Hair shaved close to his scalp. His robes were clean, pressed, and bore the Inner Disciple crest on the chest.
His qi aura was oppressive.
Not flamboyant like the showoffs from Heavenly sects but dense, steady. You could feel it in your lungs when he stood too close.
[Stage: Mid Foundation Establishment]
He had a scar that ran down his temple, barely visible but old. The kind that didn't come from training, but from fighting someone who didn't hold back.
He strode into the courtyard and immediately scanned the gathering disciples like a wolf looking for meat.
"Where's Jin Mu?"
Sim stepped forward.
The other disciples backed off like someone had lit oil under their feet.
Jang-Hun looked him over with a neutral face.
"You're the one who fought off three attackers alone?"
Sim nodded.
"I want a match."
Sim's stomach coiled.
He couldn't win.
There was no illusion about that. Mid Foundation against Peak Qi Gathering? That was like punching a boulder with a toothpick.
But refusal wasn't an option.
Saying no meant weak.
And in all the Murim he studied, weakness wasn't forgiven.
Sim took a breath. "I'll spar you."
Baek-Ha was behind him somewhere, hissing something under her breath. He didn't look.
---
The match was set for dusk.
A crowd formed. Even Elder Han showed up, sober and attentive. That alone meant something.
Sim stood barefoot in the center of the courtyard. The rain had turned everything slick. His sword was wood. Jang-Hun's was, too but thicker, and reinforced with weighted iron near the hilt.
The bell rang once.
Jang-Hun didn't hesitate.
He closed the distance with three perfect steps, like a diagram come to life. His first strike was low, controlled, meant to trip.
Sim jumped, deflected.
The force vibrated through his wrists like he'd blocked a tree trunk.
He fell into Tiger's Tail, circling. Staying light. Waiting for an opening.
Second strike faster. This time diagonal. Sim dodged barely. Felt the wind on his cheek. A nick opened. Blood.
He retaliated.
Step in. Feint. Elbow slash.
He connected.
Barely. A tap on Jang-Hun's side.
The older disciple didn't even grunt.
He smiled.
"You're good."
Then he kicked Sim in the ribs.
The world spun.
Mud, sky, feet.
Sim hit the ground, rolled, and forced himself up before the bell could ring a mercy signal.
His ribs screamed.
He grabbed that scream and channeled it.
Qi pulsed through him like molten wine.
He surged forward.
Viscera Strengthening moved his body with pain-precision.
His palm strike landed.
Jang-Hun took a half-step back.
It was enough.
Sim pressed the attack. One-two. Step pivot. Heel drop.
Every move was clean.
Every impact shallow.
He couldn't break through.
Then Jang-Hun's aura surged.
Sim didn't even see the next blow.
He was lifted off his feet, slammed back-first into the training post.
Wood cracked.
Blood filled his mouth.
He slid down the post and spat red.
The bell rang.
Match over.
---
He lost.
Hard.
But he'd lasted twelve exchanges.
Twelve.
That number mattered.
To everyone else, he was still weak.
But to those who knew what it meant?
He had forced a Foundation-level cultivator to defend.
That wasn't nothing.
It was a whisper of something else.
---
That night, Sim lay on his side in the infirmary, ribs wrapped, breath shallow.
Baek-Ha sat nearby, sharpening her cleaver again.
"You're a dumbass," she said gently.
"I know."
"You could've refused."
"No, I couldn't."
She paused. "Why?"
He stared at the ceiling.
"Because tigers don't meow."
She blinked. Then laughed. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
He smiled, weakly.
Then coughed blood.
She pressed a hand to his forehead. It wasn't tender. Just firm. Real.
"I'll make you something disgusting in the morning."
"Looking forward to it."
---
Somewhere in the mountains, a masked man reviewed a report.
Sim Gwan.
Cultivation: rising. Background: commoner. Status: stable.
But there was a note scratched into the margin.
> "Monitor. High pain tolerance. Absorbs pressure unusually well. Possible deviation in dantian flow."
The man folded the parchment.
The wind howled through his cave.
He murmured, "Maybe he's not Jin Mu anymore."
---