The Northern Sea Ice Palace.
The deepest underground dungeon, known simply as the 'Cold Hell.'
It was a place where not even a ray of sunlight could penetrate, a tomb for the living where the breath froze the moment it left the lips.
Drip. Drip.
The sound of water droplets falling from stalactites echoed through the silent corridor.
A boy was dragging a heavy wooden bucket across the frost-covered stone floor.
Scrape— Scrape—
The sound of the bucket scratching against the stone grated on the ears.
The boy was thin, his ribs showing through his ragged hemp clothes. His skin was pale blue from the cold, and his bare feet were covered in calluses and scars.
He stopped in front of a cell made of Thousand-Year Cold Iron.
Inside the darkness of the cell, a pair of eyes, burning like blue will-o'-the-wisps, stared out.
"Food…"
A rasping voice, like scraping metal, came from within.
The boy, expressionless, scooped a ladle of frozen gruel from the bucket.
Splash.
He poured the gruel into the trough at the bottom of the bars.
It was fodder fit for livestock, not humans.
However, the shadow inside the cell rushed forward desperately.
Gulp! Gulp!
The sound of frantic swallowing filled the air.
The prisoner was the 'Blood Hand Demon,' a martial artist who had once terrified the Central Plains with his poisonous palm strikes. Now, he was nothing more than a starving beast.
The boy watched this with dry, indifferent eyes.
To him, these were not legendary masters or terrifying villains.
They were just mouths to feed.
"Hey, kid."
A voice called out from the cell opposite the Blood Hand Demon.
The boy turned his head slowly.
In that cell sat an old man with all his limbs severed, suspended in the air by chains hooked through his collarbones.
He was the 'Mad Monk of the West,' a man who had slaughtered three thousand people in a single night twenty years ago.
" come closer."
The boy didn't move. He simply stared.
The Mad Monk chuckled, a sound that resembled wheezing.
"You have... interesting eyes."
"..."
"They are eyes that have seen too much death. Like a dried-up well."
The boy ignored him and lifted the handle of his bucket again.
Scrape—
"Wait."
The Mad Monk's voice dropped an octave. It carried a strange resonance that made the air vibrate.
"Do you want to live?"
The boy stopped.
He didn't turn around, but his grip on the bucket handle tightened slightly.
Living.
In this Cold Hell, 'living' meant only one thing: not freezing to death, and not being eaten by the prisoners when the guards weren't looking.
"I am going to die tonight."
The Mad Monk spoke calmly, as if discussing the weather.
"My internal energy has run dry. The cold poison has reached my heart."
Cough!
Black blood splattered from the old man's mouth onto the frozen floor.
"It is a waste to let it rot. This knowledge... this curse."
The boy finally turned around.
He walked slowly toward the Mad Monk's cell.
Unlike the other prisoners who begged for food, this old man had never asked for anything in the five years the boy had worked here.
"Come here. Closer."
The boy approached the iron bars.
The smell of rotting flesh and old blood wafted from the cell.
"What is your name?"
"…Jin."
It was the first time the boy had spoken in months. His voice was cracked and rough.
"Jin. A good name. It means to advance."
The Mad Monk's eyes, which had been cloudy, suddenly flashed with a terrifying clarity.
"Listen well, Jin. In this world, the weak are meat, and the strong do as they please. I was strong, yet I ended up here. Do you know why?"
Jin shook his head.
"Because I was arrogant. I thought I was the peak."
The Mad Monk smiled, revealing toothless gums.
"But you... you are starting from the bottom of hell. There is nowhere to fall."
Clank!
The chains rattled as the old man convulsed.
"Take it."
"...?"
"My breath. My last breath."
Whoosh!
Suddenly, a gust of wind blew from inside the cell.
It wasn't a physical wind. It was an invisible pressure, a vacuum created by the old man inhaling deeply.
The Mad Monk's chest expanded to its limit.
And then.
Phoo—!
He exhaled a stream of white mist.
It wasn't ordinary breath. It was a dense, white stream of Qi, the essence of seventy years of cultivation, condensed into a single exhalation.
It passed through the iron bars and struck Jin directly in the face.
"Ugh!"
Jin staggered back.
The mist didn't scatter. Instead, like a living snake, it burrowed into Jin's nose and mouth.
"Cough! Cough!"
Heat.
A scorching heat, contradictory to the freezing Cold Hell, exploded inside Jin's chest.
It felt as if he had swallowed a burning coal.
"Kek... Heh..."
The Mad Monk watched the boy writhing on the ground with a satisfied look.
"That is the 'Asura Breathing Technique.' It feeds on pain. It grows in hell."
The light in the old man's eyes began to fade rapidly.
"Survive, Jin. Survive and... burn this frozen world to ash."
Thud.
The old man's head dropped. The chains swung gently.
The Mad Monk of the West was dead.
"Haa... Haa..."
Jin curled up on the cold stone floor, clutching his chest.
The pain was excruciating. It felt like his veins were being torn apart and stitched back together with hot iron threads.
But Jin didn't scream.
Just like the boy in the wooden cage who was hit by a stone, Jin had learned that screaming changed nothing.
He grit his teeth until they cracked.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His heart beat like a war drum.
The heat that had entered his body began to settle in his lower abdomen.
It was a tiny spark, barely the size of a fingernail.
But in this world of ice, it was the only thing that was warm.
Creak—
Suddenly, the heavy iron door at the end of the corridor opened.
Light poured in, accompanied by the sound of heavy boots.
"Time for inspection!"
The guards were coming.
If they found the Mad Monk dead and Jin writhing on the floor, they would kill him without hesitation. A corpse carrier was easily replaceable.
Jin forced his trembling body to stand.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, which instantly froze into ice.
He looked at the dead old man one last time, then grabbed the handle of his wooden bucket.
Scrape... Scrape...
He began to drag the bucket again, moving into the shadows.
His face was pale and expressionless, just as it had always been.
But deep within his dark pupils, a faint, red ember had begun to glow.
The monster of the Cold Hell had not died.
It had merely changed skin.
[End of Chapter 1]