The night enveloped the forest in an eerie silence. The only sound was the whisper of the wind, rustling through the leaves as if it was hiding something. Amidst the dense trees stood a small hut—fragile and almost invisible. Inside, a man sat cross-legged, his body upright but seemingly weary. Jian Mo, the once-feared warrior who had shaken the world, now a mere shadow of his former self.
His eyes were tightly shut, but his face was tense. His brows furrowed, and though his breathing was steady, it betrayed the heavy burden he carried. Cold sweat trickled down his temples. In the silence, he fought—not with his sword, but with memories that no blade could cut.
Then, it came again—the shadow of the past that never truly faded.
In the dream that slowly consumed his consciousness, Jian Mo was pulled back into the dark days. The time when he was not just a killer, but someone who had lost everything.
The sky darkened with a crimson hue, like an open wound. The wind carried the scent of blood and death. The barren land had become the graveyard for hundreds of warriors—and would soon bear witness to yet another end.
There, in the midst of the former battlefield, stood two figures. Young Jian Mo, his body covered in wounds, his tattered cloak fluttering, and his eyes burning with hatred and loss. Before him stood a man with a silver beard and piercing eyes—the Lord of Murim. The man who had once united the martial world, but also the one who had taken away the only person Jian Mo had ever considered a father.
"Jian Mo... finally," the Lord of Murim said, his voice deep and calm, yet full of pressure.
Jian Mo gripped the hilt of his sword. His hand trembled—not out of fear, but from the anger that could no longer be contained. "You will pay for everything. Here. Now."
The Lord of Murim sighed softly. "The fire you once carried has burned your own heart, Jian Mo. What I see now is emptiness."
No more words were exchanged. Jian Mo lunged forward. Swords clashed in flashes of light and explosions of sound. The earth trembled. The air hissed. They danced in the rhythm of slaughter—two legends attempting to kill each other in one final dance.
Every strike from Jian Mo was filled with rage. Each movement seemed to want to erase the past. But the Lord of Murim deflected it elegantly—as a teacher who understood his student more than the student understood himself.
"This is not justice. This is just blind vengeance," he said, blocking Jian Mo's strike with one hand.
Jian Mo did not listen. He shouted and struck again—and finally, with one clean move, the Lord's head was severed. His body fell slowly, but before it touched the ground, a faint voice whispered in Jian Mo's mind.
> "You will live for a thousand years… but not as a human. But as a shadow. As a curse."
The sky crumbled. The earth melted into blood. Around Jian Mo, faces of the people he had killed appeared—countless numbers. Young disciples. Old friends. Innocent warriors. All of them stared at him… full of wounds, disappointment, and betrayal.
> "We believed in you..." "Why, Jian Mo...?" "What were you fighting for...?"
His hands were covered in blood. His sword turned black, as if it no longer absorbed light. Jian Mo screamed, but no sound came out. He cried, but his tears turned to blood.
He wanted to run. But he could not move. He was trapped in a prison of his own making—a prison of memories.
Jian Mo woke up.
His breath was rapid. His body drenched in sweat. His gaze was empty, yet his eyes betrayed a fear that no one could see.
He stared at his hands—trembling, as if the blood still lingered there. The voices from the past echoed clearly in his ears.
> "You have become a true demon. You can never return to being human."
His head hung low. For a long time, he let himself drown in the darkness, before finally looking up and gazing out the small window. In the corner of the room, on the straw mat, Su Daji slept peacefully. That innocent face… was the only light in his life now.
He clenched his cloak tightly, as if trying to hold something together before it shattered.
"Enough..." he whispered.
Jian Mo stood up. Slowly, he approached the sleeping child. He sat beside her, staring at her calm face for a long time. His lips trembled, and then a faint voice escaped, barely audible:
> "I am not a demon… I am just… lost. And from now on… I will be a good father."
He reached out, gently touching Su Daji's forehead. For the first time in a long while… Jian Mo felt warmth.
But deep inside his heart, he knew—the journey toward redemption had only just begun.
Meanwhile, in the Pavilion of the Murim Alliance, the atmosphere was thick with tension, even though the night had grown late.
"Any news? Have we received any reports from the expedition to Daeng City?" asked Cheon Ji, the young leader of the Murim Alliance. His gaze was piercing, showing his impatience.
Mo Tian, an elder dressed in gray with the Alliance's insignia on his chest, responded as he rolled up a scroll of reports. "No news yet. They might have been delayed. Daeng City hasn't been quiet lately..."
Cheon Ji crossed his arms. "Is this the work of Demon Fire again?"
Mo Tian nodded slowly. "Most likely. Since they expanded their influence to the south, the villages around Daeng City have become isolated. Even merchants are too afraid to travel the main routes."
"If it is their doing, we cannot remain idle," Cheon Ji's voice grew harsh. "If our expedition is attacked, consider it a declaration of war."
Mo Tian looked at the young man with concern in his eyes. "Are you sure you want to escalate a fire whose source we haven't clearly seen yet?"
"If we keep waiting, the fire will burn the martial world from within," Cheon Ji stood up. "Prepare the second army. If we don't get news by dawn, we move."
The night wind blew gently through the open window. Outside, the stars shone calmly, as if they cared not that behind their light, the Murim world was preparing to face a new threat—not from the past, but from an ambition slowly growing in the darkness.