Ji-ho believed in reincarnation, but never once did he expect to witness its proof take such a grotesque form.
Legends. Myths. Beliefs.
He always accepted that something greater existed. Chi, the cycle of life, Shaolin teachings of return and consequence. Those ideas were never foreign to him.
But this?
This was never something he expected to encounter within his own lifetime.
He had thought it only a warning tale. The final stage spoken in whispers. The end point of Ashura.
Ashuramaru.
Yet this child—
This child had already reached it in a past life.
Not failed into it.
Not slipped.
He had been forged into it.
A perfect tool.
A perfected killing machine.
Ruthless.
Heartless.
Humanless.
Mindless.
Not even demons descended so far.
And now, in this life, that corruption had followed him.
It was bleeding through.
Eating into the new incarnation.
The boy standing before him was not becoming Ashuramaru.
He was being reclaimed by it.
Ji-ho slowly reached out.
Kōin flinched instantly.
A reflex carved into bone.
Ji-ho did not withdraw his hand.
This heart could not be healed.
That truth was absolute.
This wound was beyond medicine, beyond cultivation, beyond prayer. Not even the gods or the heavens could mend something that had been annihilated so thoroughly.
Still, Ji-ho let his hand rest on the boy's head.
He gently rubbed his hair.
Then, slowly, carefully, he pulled Kōin forward and drew him against his shoulder.
Holding him.
This child has suffered enough.
Kōin did not know how to react.
So he did nothing.
He tried to feign indifference and simply let it happen. The contact was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It merely existed, like everything else that had been forced upon him.
Ji-ho eventually sat back down.
"I suppose I trust you enough now," he said. "Ask your question."
Kōin closed his eyes.
"…Is there truly no way to rid oneself of Ashura?"
He did not expect hope from the answer. He already knew that.
"…As I told you before," Ji-ho replied, calm and unyielding, "to rid yourself of Ashura is to rid yourself of the other half of your existence. Death is the only absolute release from its grasp."
Kōin let out a long breath.
"So I am condemned," he murmured. "Just as I was before."
Ji-ho did not interrupt.
"Your Ashura is different," he continued. "It is not like the others. Not the blood-drunk, screaming kind. Yours reeks of blood more deeply than any crazed Ashura I have ever encountered. It is quiet. Patient. Waiting."
He looked directly at the boy.
"It does not drive you mad by indulgence. It intends to break you. At this point, it is less a corruption and more a parasite."
Kōin's expression crumpled, sorrow settling into his features without resistance.
"I will drown in the sea of blood again, sir," he said softly. "It will happen."
His voice was steady, almost resigned.
"It would be easy to end me here."
The grandmaster looked at Kōin.
"And then let your next incarnation inherit the Ashura as well?"
Kōin froze.
He had never thought that far.
"There is a reason desertion is called a sin."
The words struck him like a blade to the soul.
A voice detonated inside his mind, tearing through his thoughts.
YOU THINK THIS ENDS IF I DIE NOW? IF I DIE NOW IT WILL BE WORSE THAN DEATH. AFTER EVERYTHING I ENDURED THIS IS NOT FAIR. THIS IS A SIN. SIN. I CANNOT ACCEPT THIS. I WILL NOT DIE. DO YOU HEAR ME. DESERTION IS WORSE THAN DEATH.
Kōin shook his head.
He knew the voice.
Kagemiya Kōin.
Ji-ho watched him closely. The boy was clearly shaken by something he himself could not hear.
"Are you alright?"
Kōin did not answer immediately.
Kagemiya...
Why was he angry?
Why did rage boil up now of all times?
He was the one who had been stripped of everything. The one who had been broken beyond repair.
YOU ARE NOT ABSOLVED.
"…I'm… I'm okay," Kōin said at last.
Ji-ho's eyes narrowed slightly. Sweat beaded on the boy's skin despite the winter air. Confusion twisted his expression, raw and unguarded. Whatever had shaken him, he did not understand it himself.
The grandmaster turned his gaze away.
Asking further would gain nothing.
The boy had already spent his turn.
Ji-ho allowed Kōin to rest, giving him time to steady his breathing and gather the fragments of himself.
When Kōin returned to his usual stillness, he lifted his gaze to the grandmaster. This time, his eyes were clear.
"Are you certain you are fine?"
"Yes."
There was no tremor in his voice. Good.
Ji-ho finally asked the question that had been weighing on him.
"That martial art you used. And that crimson haze. I have never seen anything like it, not even within your illusion. What is it?"
Kōin fell silent.
He lowered his gaze. This was something he himself did not fully understand.
"It comes from my previous incarnation," he said quietly.
He clenched his fingers.
"This is the one thing I have never been able to find an answer to. The memories I inherit always end at his death."
Sorrow crept into his expression.
He remembered how Kagemiya Kōin died.
Executed in front of his sister. Not because he failed, not because he disobeyed, but because they wanted to break her. They discarded their most useful blade simply to destroy the one thing he still cared about.
Sick people. Rotten to the core.
That was the last memory he ever inherited.
Beyond that point, there was nothing coherent. Only endless nightmares. Repeating. Suffocating. Eternal.
He did not know their name.
He only knew that they never truly ended.
"But it is something you can use normally?"
Kōin frowned.
"No. No. I never asked for this."
He looked away. He did not want to remember. Remembering hurt.
"I was born in a rural village in Kōchi no Kuni."
"Kōchi no Kuni? That is far east from here."
"Yes. I was a farmer's son. I lived without any burden from that cursed previous life. I did not even know I was a reincarnate."
A faint smile slipped past his lips.
"It was the most peaceful life I ever lived. No bloodshed. Just work. Just knowing there would be food tomorrow."
The smile faded.
"But Kōchi no Kuni was attacked by the Tekki-min army. They scorched our land. Burned our crops. They wanted to take my sibling."
His fingers trembled.
"I do not know why. I do not know how. I only know that all the memories came crashing down at once. Every single one of them. And before I realized it…"
He stared at his hands.
"The army was dead. Every one of them. And I was standing there. Covered in blood."
ASHURA.
MONSTER.
"After that… my family looked at me differently. They called me Ashura. They called me a monster."
His voice grew hollow.
"That was when I knew I had to leave. I was more dangerous to them than the Tekki-min ever were."
He lowered his head.
"They were afraid. They no longer saw me as their son. Or their brother."
A pause.
"They only saw a monster wearing their child's skin."
Ji-ho could connect the dots.
The previous Kōin had been bound to his sibling so completely that it defined him. How could the next incarnation be any different?
That bond was the trigger. The anchor that forced the memories to surface.
And with them, the Ashura.
"Before I even understood what was happening," Kōin said quietly, "I could already do the things I can do now."
Ji-ho looked at him, his expression sterner than before.
"Bandits. Thugs. Men who tried to rob me or hurt others. Once I smell blood, or sense danger…" Kōin swallowed. "I change."
His bound hand slowly opened.
A tanto materialized in his palm. The same blade that had nearly kissed Ji-ho's throat.
"When I kill, I feel nothing. No anger. No pleasure. Just emptiness. As if someone else is guiding my hands. Telling me where to cut. How deep. How fast."
His fingers tightened around the hilt.
"I can tear them apart. Reduce them to red mist. Or leave nothing but falling droplets of blood. It is terrifying. It feels like something is choking me while wearing my body."
Ji-ho's breath slowed.
This was not mere bloodlust.
This was possession.
Kōin was already standing in the Ashura's palm.
But this Ashura was not rabid. Not drunk on slaughter.
It was hollow.
Quiet.
Thinking.
That was far worse.
A smart Ashura. One that did not scream for murder, but executed it cleanly. Efficiently. Without emotion.
Ji-ho's eyes hardened.
Yes.
This was what Ashuramaru truly was.
Not a berserker.
Not a mad god.
But the concept of murder itself, given form.
"How does it work, honestly? That crimson haze. I understand sorcery through chi, but I felt nothing from it. Even if I resisted, I doubt I would be free from its hold."
Kōin could almost see it. The grandmaster's curiosity, sharp and restless, the hunger of a man who had spent his life chasing understanding.
"…I don't know how it works," Kōin answered quietly. "Usually, I can expel it like wind."
"Wind?"
"Oh. Yes. It's a form of wind." He hesitated, searching for words. "It requires focus. Intent. I have to think about what I want it to do. But when I'm in danger, the crimson haze acts on its own."
Ji-ho listened without interrupting.
"The primary effect is interference," Kōin continued. "It obscures perception. Those who breathe it in lose their sense of space. Direction. Even awareness. They move, but it's like they no longer know where they are."
His fingers curled slightly.
"This is the first time I've ever used it to convey a story. Normally, it's only for survival."
Ji-ho studied him in silence.
"Interesting," he finally said. "Something that operates without chi. I have never encountered such a thing."
His eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but fascination.
"This is not sorcery," he added. "Nor martial technique as we understand it."
Kōin lowered his gaze.
"…I never asked for it either."
The room fell quiet, heavy with the weight of something new. Something that did not belong to this world's rules.
To break the silence, Grandmaster Ji-ho stretched out his hand.
"I suppose my questions are answered for now. Ask whatever you wish."
Kōin hesitated. This time, the pause lingered longer than before.
"…Can I ask for assurance?"
The air tightened.
Ji-ho did not answer immediately. His brows drew together, faint lines on his face deepening. He already understood. This was not assurance of safety. Not of shelter. And certainly not of kindness.
"…Speak," he said at last.
Kōin lifted his eyes.
"If I lose control," he said quietly, "if that thing inside me takes over again… will you kill me?"
The words landed cleanly. No tremor. No plea.
Ji-ho exhaled through his nose.
"So that is what you want."
Kōin did not look away.
"I don't want mercy. I don't want promises about salvation. I just don't want to become it again."
His fingers tightened against his palms.
"If the day comes where I stop being myself… I want it to end there. It would be worse if someone caught me and turned me into a tool again. Or if I go on a rampage. I have spilled enough blood already. In this life and the one before."
Silence pressed down between them.
Ji-ho closed his eyes for a brief moment.
"You ask for a blade over your own neck," he said.
"That is not assurance. That is a vow of execution."
"Then answer it as such."
Ji-ho opened his eyes and met Kōin's gaze fully.
"No."
Kōin's eyes widened, just slightly.
"I will not kill you," Ji-ho continued. He leaned forward, his voice firm. "If I strike you down the moment Ashura bares its fangs, then everything you endured becomes meaningless. You would only pass the burden to the next incarnation."
Kōin clenched his teeth.
"Then what?" he demanded. "You will restrain me? Seal me? Lock me away like a beast? What changes anything then? In this life or the previous one?"
"If I must," Ji-ho said without hesitation.
The bluntness stunned him.
It was a valid answer. Cruel. Honest.
"I promise you this," Ji-ho continued. "If I must take your limbs to pull you back, I will. Even if you are drowning in that sea of blood."
His gaze hardened.
"But understand this," Ji-ho added. "If the day comes when you abandon yourself willingly. When you choose blood. When you stop resisting and call it freedom." His gaze hardened. "Then I will not call you my disciple."
Betrayal of oneself.
Kōin felt the words sink deep. Had he not already betrayed himself? In this life. In the one before. The moment his hands were dipped in blood. Again and again. Then where was this execution he asked for?
"And then?" he asked quietly.
"Then I will treat you as what you chose to become."
That answer was colder than death.
Not rage. Not punishment. Just judgment.
Yet, strangely, Kōin felt his chest loosen.
Not because he was forgiven. But because someone would see him clearly if he strayed. Someone would not lie to him. Someone would not excuse him.
"…I see," he murmured.
And for the first time since waking in this world, the weight on his lungs eased, if only a little.
The grandmaster rose to his feet and placed a hand lightly on Kōin's head, while the other moved to undo the bindings around his wrists.
The ropes fell away.
Kōin remained standing, rubbing at the raw, stained flesh where the fibers had bitten into his skin.
"…May I ask one more question, Master Baek Ji-ho?"
The grandmaster paused. A flicker of surprise crossed his face at hearing his name spoken so directly.
"As long as it is within my capability," he replied.
"What is this place?" Kōin asked. "This sect, I mean."
For a brief moment, Ji-ho looked as though he might laugh. He barely held it back.
"I have not told you anything, have I. My apologies." He turned slightly, hands clasped behind his back. "This is one of the thirteen noble sects under the Alliance. Sajo-mun. The Lion Claw Sect. Ranked fourth."
A bead of sweat slid down Kōin's temple.
Fourth.
Ji-ho noticed and waved a hand dismissively.
"Do not worry. We are not the savages you imagine from your past life." He walked to the door and pulled it open, winter light spilling in. "Come. I will show you."
He stood aside, waiting.
For Kōin.
They stepped outside, and the cold struck Kōin immediately.
The chill slid straight down his spine, sharp and invasive. He drew his arms up, rubbing his shoulders as he exhaled, pale vapor spilling from his lips. His body shuddered before he could stop it.
It was obvious. He was not accustomed to the snow of this mountain.
No wonder his strength had failed him earlier.
He followed behind Ji-ho in silence. The courtyard opened wide before them, white stone dusted with snow, breath and movement filling the air.
Disciples stood scattered across the grounds.
Some glared openly at him. There was no surprise in that. He had nearly taken their grandmaster's life.
Others paid him no mind at all, continuing their drills as if he were nothing more than passing wind.
And then Kōin stopped.
His crimson eyes locked onto their movements.
Their hands did not form fists.
They curved. Twisted. Fingers spread and bent with precision, joints aligned in a way that felt wrong to his instincts. Each strike cut through the air like talons, tearing rather than striking. The motions were fluid yet predatory, every step grounded, every turn calculated.
Claws.
Not symbolic. Not metaphorical.
Real.
Kōin narrowed his eyes.
He could not see chi. Not yet. There was no glow, no visible flow, no pressure he could identify. And yet something felt… layered. As if their forms were wrapped in something invisible, something heavy that followed the arc of every motion.
It was not wind.
It was not killing intent.
But it was there.
"What is that…?" Kōin muttered under his breath, eyes tracking a disciple as their hand snapped forward in a raking strike.
Ji-ho noticed his stare.
A faint smile tugged at the old man's lips.
"Sky-Heaven Tiger Claw Fist," Ji-ho said calmly. "A technique my late father passed down to me. After the war, the Righteous Emperor granted me this sect. What you see is what my father taught me. I taught them the same."
Kōin watched in silence.
The style was not singular. It branched, shifted, adapted. Each disciple moved with a slightly different rhythm, yet the core remained intact. What caught his eye most was not the tearing strikes.
It was the defense.
Hands curved just enough to catch force without meeting it head-on. Palms and claws slid against incoming blows, turning them aside. Even the wind displaced by movement was guided away, redirected along the body's edge instead of crashing into it.
Defense without killing.
Kōin's fingers twitched unconsciously.
"You'll learn it soon enough," Ji-ho said.
Kōin blinked. "Eh? I'm a murderer though. Are you sure?"
Ji-ho snorted.
"As if any murderer would say that willingly." He glanced at Kōin from the corner of his eye. "I can already tell. You're drooling over the Guiding Wind Tiger Claw form."
Kōin stiffened. "…I wasn't."
"Hmph." Ji-ho's smile widened slightly. "Your eyes betray you. You don't look at how they kill. You look at how they don't."
Kōin fell silent again.
His gaze returned to the disciples, to the way violence was softened without being weakened, to a path where strength did not have to end in blood.
For the first time since arriving on this mountain, something inside his chest shifted.
The grandmaster gathered all of his disciples.
Murmurs rippled through the courtyard as they noticed who stood beside him.
Kōin.
The one who had nearly killed their master.
"Everyone," Ji-ho said, his voice steady. "I have an announcement."
He placed a firm hand on Kōin's shoulder. Kōin stiffened, confusion flickering across his face. The disciples grew restless.
"Today," Ji-ho continued, "you will greet your new junior."
The murmurs exploded.
One disciple finally stepped forward, fists clenched.
"Forgive us, Master," he said, struggling to keep his composure. "That child almost took your life."
Ji-ho smiled faintly.
"He did," he said plainly. "And after hearing his story, just like yours, his actions became clearer than ever."
Unease lingered.
Ji-ho's expression softened.
"Help this child, my disciples. He has suffered greatly. Ashura has taken hold of his body."
A collective gasp swept the crowd.
Ashura.
A blood-lusted murderer.
A calamity walking in human skin.
Whispers erupted. Why shelter such a thing? Why bring a curse into the sect?
"I know," Ji-ho said, raising his hand. Silence fell immediately. "Yes. I know what Ashura means."
He looked down at Kōin, then back at them.
"But unlike most Ashura, this boy was not consumed by choice."
The courtyard went still.
"Some of you have seen what war does to men," Ji-ho continued. "This child experienced it firsthand. He was forced to kill. Again. And again. Without consent."
Kōin's eyes widened slightly.
Ji-ho had twisted the truth, carefully. No past lives. No reincarnation. Only what they could understand.
"This boy was made to kill so that his captors would remain clean of blood," Ji-ho said. "Ashura rooted itself in him because they used his hands for their sins. Countless times."
His gaze swept across the disciples.
"Tell me," he asked quietly, "can you imagine it? Being forced to take lives until the stench of Ashura clings to your soul?"
Silence answered him.
Pity crept into the air. Some stared at Kōin in disbelief. Others looked away, unable to meet his crimson eyes.
"Fortunately," Ji-ho concluded, "he has escaped that past."
He tightened his grip on Kōin's shoulder, not as restraint, but reassurance.
"Treat him kindly," he said. "He is your junior brother now."
Every disciple formed a palm and fist, stepping in unison as they bowed.
"We greet the new junior."
Ji-ho tapped Kōin's shoulder.
"Ah. Um."
Kōin startled, then hurriedly bowed as well, awkwardly copying their posture. The motion was stiff, unpracticed. Ji-ho felt a sting in his chest. The child did not even know the basics.
"Pleased to meet you all," Kōin said, voice tight but earnest. "I… I apologize for my outburst. I nearly brought calamity upon this sect. I seek atonement for raising my hand against the Grandmaster."
He bowed again, deeper this time.
"My name is Yakō Kōin. Please… call me Kōin."
For a brief moment, the courtyard was silent.
Then, as one, the disciples straightened and answered.
"WE GREET JUNIOR BROTHER KŌIN."
The sound rang clear beneath the falling snow.
Kōin lifted his head slowly, crimson eyes flickering. Something unfamiliar stirred in his chest. Not fear. Not bloodlust.
Acceptance.
Ji-ho watched quietly, hands tucked behind his back.
It was a beginning for Kōin.