Blood fell like rain the night Hyeon Mu lost his name.
The village of Stone Willow had been quiet before dusk—too quiet. Even the insects had gone silent, as if the land itself sensed what was coming. When the first scream tore through the night, it did not sound human. It sounded broken.
Hyeon Mu was ten years old.
He stood behind the thin wooden door of his family's home, his fingers gripping the edge so tightly his knuckles turned white. His mother had pushed him there only moments earlier, her face pale, eyes wide with a terror she tried—and failed—to hide.
"Don't come out," she whispered. "No matter what you hear."
Then she closed the door.
Now the world beyond it burned.
Firelight spilled through the cracks in the wood. Shadows moved—long, distorted shapes of men carrying swords that gleamed crimson. The banners they wore were white and gold, embroidered with symbols of righteousness. Orthodox sect cultivators.
Heroes, the world called them.
Hyeon Mu heard steel cut flesh. He heard pleading. He heard laughter.
The door burst open.
His father fell inside first.
Blood soaked the front of his robes, his chest carved open by a single precise strike. His eyes were still open, staring at nothing. The body hit the floor with a dull thud that echoed louder than the screams outside.
"Father—!"
Hyeon Mu rushed forward, slipping in blood. He shook the lifeless body, his breath coming in broken gasps.
"No… please… wake up…"
A boot struck his ribs, sending him crashing into the wall.
He looked up.
A cultivator stood over him, sword dripping red, expression calm and detached. His aura pressed down like a mountain, crushing the air from Hyeon Mu's lungs.
"You sheltered heretics," the man said. "This is the price."
Behind him, Hyeon Mu saw his mother.
She was on her knees, hair disheveled, lips trembling. Blood streaked her arm where she had tried—and failed—to fight back.
"Please," she said, bowing her head until it touched the floor. "My son is just a child."
The cultivator sighed, annoyed.
"For the peace of Murim," he replied.
The sword flashed.
Hyeon Mu screamed as his mother collapsed, her body folding unnaturally, blood spreading across the floor like ink on parchment.
Something shattered inside him.
The cultivator turned toward Hyeon Mu, eyes cold.
"You saw too much."
The blade descended.
Pain exploded in Hyeon Mu's chest. He was thrown backward, crashing through the broken doorway into the mud outside. The night sky spun above him, stars blurring as blood filled his mouth.
So this is death, he thought.
Footsteps approached.
Slow. Controlled.
The cultivator stiffened. "Who—"
A blade slid out of his throat before he could finish the sentence.
His body dropped.
The man who emerged from the shadows wore black robes that swallowed the firelight. A mask carved into a demon's grin hid his face, but his eyes were visible—dark, ancient, and utterly empty.
He stepped over the corpse and looked down at Hyeon Mu.
"Still alive," the man murmured. "Interesting."
Hyeon Mu tried to crawl, but his body refused to obey. The assassin knelt, pressing two fingers against Hyeon Mu's chest. A sharp pain flared, then faded. The bleeding slowed.
"Do you know who killed your family?" the assassin asked.
Hyeon Mu coughed blood. "The… righteous…"
The man chuckled softly. "There is no such thing."
The village burned around them. More cultivators lay dead now—silent, their throats opened with surgical precision.
"If you stay," the assassin continued, "you die with them. If you come with me…"
He leaned closer.
"You learn how to make Murim bleed."
Tears streamed down Hyeon Mu's face, mixing with dirt and blood.
"I want them all dead," he whispered. "Every last one."
The assassin stared at him for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
"So be it."
Hyeon Mu awoke in darkness.
Stone walls surrounded him, etched with ancient carvings that pulsed faintly in the torchlight. The air smelled of iron, incense, and old blood. Pain throbbed through his body, but it was distant—controlled.
He was lying among other children.
Some cried quietly. Others stared into nothingness. All of them bore wounds.
An old man stood at the center of the chamber, leaning on a cane carved from black bone. His presence alone made the air heavy.
"You are dead," the old man said. "Your past, your families, your names—ashes."
His gaze settled on Hyeon Mu.
"What remains is your hatred."
The children listened in silence.
"This place," the old man continued, "is the Crimson Vein Sect. Officially erased. Condemned as demons. Feared even by Heaven."
He smiled, and it was a cruel thing.
"Here, you will be broken. Remade. Your bodies will suffer. Your minds will shatter."
A pause.
"And those who survive will become assassins."
Hyeon Mu clenched his fists.
"What is our purpose?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
The old man's eyes gleamed.
"To carve truth into flesh," he replied. "And to collect the blood debt Murim owes."
That night, Hyeon Mu was dragged to a stone altar.
A blade was placed in his trembling hands.
"An oath," the old man commanded.
Hyeon Mu carved into his own palm without hesitation.
Blood dripped onto the stone.
"I swear," he said, voice shaking but unbroken, "to stain Heaven red… and make Murim remember my blade."
The torches flared violently.
Far above, beyond mortal sight, something ancient stirred.
Heaven had heard him.