Blood slowly dripped from the blade, falling to the earth in dull, ruby droplets. Yeon Woo stood amidst the fallen bodies, his breath steady, his gaze cold and detached. The world around him seemed to hold its breath, recognizing his dominion. But within, Yeon Woo knew—this was only the first trial. The true hunt was just beginning.
He knelt beside the body of the clan master. His fingers, swift and precise, searched the dead man's robes. Trophies. Yeon Woo had no intention of leaving them behind. What once belonged to the enemy was now his by right. He removed a crimson cord—the symbol of victory in a hundred battles—and wrapped it around his wrist, like a vow forged in blood. Then his hand moved to the fallen man's belt. Beneath the folds of cloth, a small black pouch was hidden. Yeon Woo untied it, revealing thin, nearly translucent pills that emitted a faint but tangible pressure of qi.
"Restoration pills... even better than I expected," he thought dryly and tucked the pouch inside his robe.
After searching the others, Yeon Woo found several finely crafted knives and a short sword clearly forged by a master smith. Its blade was a strange dark hue, as though it swallowed light, and its hilt bore a symbol—a triple spiral. Yeon Woo gripped the sword, sensing a curious recognition from the weapon.
"Darksteel... A fine find," he murmured, sliding the blade across his back.
With the last of the trophies gathered, Yeon Woo looked up. The forest breathed with menace. He felt it on his skin. Someone was approaching—someone who left no tracks, someone silent as death. Yeon Woo stood at once. He would not wait to meet them in a place that still reeked of blood. He was a hunter—but the prey, too, knew the value of survival.
Moving between the trees, Yeon Woo blended into the world. His breath was soft, his movements smooth, like a beast slipping through tall grass. He headed deeper—into the older part of the forest, where the trees twisted into labyrinths of branches and roots, where even light dared not intrude.
The footsteps behind him grew closer.
They weren't hurrying.
They believed he was wounded. Exhausted.
They were wrong.
As if sensing their thoughts, Yeon Woo stopped. He turned, slowly drawing his new sword of Darksteel. His eyes burned with a dark fire—no fear, no doubt. Only cold resolve.
And then they stepped from the shadows.
Four of them.
But these were no ordinary hunters.
Their skin was ash-gray, like that of the dead. Their eyes glowed red in the half-light. Their auras were suffocating, pressing on the space around them with sheer presence.
"Blackbloods," Yeon Woo whispered, his voice devoid of surprise—only grim readiness.
Elite assassins, spoken of only in hushed tones, even among masters. They were unleashed by the clan only for total erasure—no trace, no mercy.
They did not charge with cries of fury. They moved in silence, encircling him in a ring of death.
The first moved from the left.
No warning—just a swift, precise thrust aimed at the liver. Yeon Woo barely deflected it, feeling the tremor of impact through the Darksteel blade. The second Blackblood struck immediately after, a descending slash aimed at his head.
Yeon Woo rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the blow, and countered with a lightning-quick thrust to the attacker's throat. But the man was faster than a normal human—he jerked back, suffering only a thin slash across the cheek.
"They're stronger than I expected," flashed through Yeon Woo's mind.
But fear didn't take hold. Instead, it fueled a rising, icy rage.
The third and fourth came at once—one from above, one from the flank—leaving no space to retreat. Yeon Woo leapt back, rolling behind a fallen tree. In a heartbeat, he flung a knife from his belt, aimed straight at the nearest Blackblood's eye.
The target raised an arm just in time, but it was enough. Yeon Woo surged forward, using the moment of hesitation. His blade plunged into the man's gut, piercing clean through.
A scream.
Brief. Sharp.
The body fell.
The remaining three did not pause. Their faces bore no pain, no fear—only emptiness.
Yeon Woo barely evaded the next barrage of strikes. His robes tore in several places, blood seeping from the cuts. But he held firm. Every step, every motion was measured. He was a dance of death, the embodiment of survival.
When the first Blackblood faltered—slightly off-balance after an overcommitted strike—Yeon Woo struck.
Once. Twice. Thrice—precise, deadly blows to vital points.
Another body hit the earth.
Two remained.
They circled more cautiously now, like wolves, probing for weakness.
But Yeon Woo knew—hesitation would kill him faster than any blade.
He struck first.
Like an arrow loosed from the bowstring, he burst into the narrow space between the last two, cleaving through their guard. The fight was short, brutal. His blade found flesh, found bone, carved through life.
And then—silence.
Four bodies lay around him, like offerings to the abyss.
Yeon Woo stood in the clearing, his breath heavy, but his gaze still clear.
He had won.
But this was only the first wave.
He raised his sword—bloodied, heavy—and looked into the forest's darkness.
"If it's my blood you want… come," he whispered to the void.
And stepped forward.
Step by step—into the place where the abyss awaited.