Snow fell like torn silk over Mount Baekcheon, soft and quiet, hiding blood far better than dirt ever could.
At the edge of a ruined village, a boy knelt beside a broken sword.
He could not have been more than ten.
His hands were small, fingers cracked from cold, yet he stared at the blade as if it were a living thing that had betrayed him. The sword had belonged to his father—once a respected martial artist of the Central Plains, now nothing more than a frozen corpse under a collapsed roof.
"Get up."
The voice was dry, sharp, and annoyed, as though death itself were an inconvenience.
The boy looked up. A man stood before him, wrapped in black robes stitched with faded crimson thread. His hair was silver-white despite his youthful face, and his eyes were deep enough to swallow fear whole.
The boy did not cry. He had already done that earlier. Now there was only a tight pressure in his chest and a strange calm, like the quiet before lightning split the sky.
"My name is Jin Mu-Won," the boy said hoarsely. "Everyone else is dead."
The man glanced around at the smoldering remains of the village. Burn marks. Sword scars. Traces of multiple sect techniques.
"A sect purge," the man muttered. "How bothersome."
He crouched, lifted the broken sword with two fingers, and frowned.
"This blade is trash."
Mu-Won flinched.
The man noticed and sighed. "Ah. You're attached to it."
He snapped the sword cleanly in half.
Mu-Won lunged without thinking.
It was stupid. Slow. Predictable.
The man tapped the boy's forehead.
Mu-Won flew back three meters and landed in the snow with a soft poof.
"…Ow," Mu-Won said weakly.
The man blinked. Then laughed.
A loud, shameless laugh that echoed off the mountain cliffs.
"You tried to attack me?" he said, wiping a tear from his eye. "With no internal energy? No stance? No brain?"
Mu-Won struggled to sit up. "You broke my father's sword."
The man stared at him for a long moment.
Then his expression changed.
Not softer—never softer—but sharper, as though he had found something interesting at the bottom of a dull pond.
"What if," the man said slowly, "I give you a sword that can shatter mountains instead?"
Mu-Won froze.
"What if," the man continued, "I teach you martial arts that make sects tremble, armies kneel, and heaven itself avert its gaze?"
Snow crunched as the man stood.
"But in exchange," he added, smiling faintly, "you become my disciple."
Mu-Won did not hesitate.
"I'll do it."
"Even if the entire Murim calls you a demon?"
Mu-Won looked back at the burning village, at the bodies half-buried beneath snow.
"They already took everything," he said. "They can call me whatever they want."
The man laughed again—this time, quieter.
"Good answer."
He placed a hand on Mu-Won's chest. A burning sensation exploded through the boy's body, like molten iron flooding his veins. Mu-Won screamed, his vision turning red, then black, then something stranger—endless skies filled with broken stars.
When he awoke, the snow had stopped falling.
"You survived," the man said approvingly. "Not bad."
Mu-Won gasped, clutching his chest. He felt… different. Stronger. Like something vast had been forced into a body too small to hold it.
"What did you do to me?" he asked.
The man grinned.
"I rewrote your foundation."
He turned, his robe snapping in the wind.
"From today onward, you will walk a path no righteous sect will ever accept. You will bleed. You will suffer. You will kill."
He paused.
"And occasionally," he added dryly, "you will eat properly."
Mu-Won stared. "That last part seems less threatening."
The man scoffed. "You say that now."
He took a step—and suddenly stood ten meters away.
"Follow," he said.
Mu-Won scrambled to his feet and ran after him.
They traveled for days through mountains, valleys, and abandoned temples. The man never introduced himself, never slowed his pace, and never explained anything unless Mu-Won collapsed from exhaustion.
On the fourth night, Mu-Won finally dared to ask.
"Master… what should I call you?"
The man looked up from roasting a rabbit over a small fire.
"…Right. Names."
He thought for a moment.
"Call me Cheon Ma."
Mu-Won blinked. "That means—"
"Heavenly Demon," Cheon Ma said casually. "Yes."
Mu-Won choked on his water.
"That's— That's not a name people say out loud!"
Cheon Ma shrugged. "They do when they're dying."
Mu-Won stared at the fire, suddenly very aware of his life choices.
"So," he asked carefully, "are we… evil?"
Cheon Ma snorted. "Good and evil are labels weak men use to justify killing. Power is the only truth in Murim."
He tossed Mu-Won a wooden stick.
"Now assume the Falling Star Stance. Wrong posture means broken bones."
Mu-Won fumbled into position.
CRACK.
"…OW!"
Cheon Ma nodded. "Yes. Like that. Again."
Despite the pain, Mu-Won laughed—just a little.
The fire crackled. Somewhere far away, sect banners fluttered, alliances formed, and war brewed quietly in the heart of Murim.
None of them noticed the boy training under the Heavenly Demon.
They would.
Soon.