The wind howled through the skeletal remains of trees that had once formed a dense forest. The earth beneath Haejin's feet was still warm from the distant fires of Soryeon Village, as if the land itself mourned what had been lost. His clothes were tattered, his body gaunt, and his spirit hollow—but his heart burned with something hotter than fire.
I will become strong enough.
That vow was no longer just words. It was the rhythm of his heartbeat, the breath in his lungs, the reason he kept moving even when his legs threatened to give out beneath him.
He wandered for days—perhaps weeks. Time had lost meaning. Hunger gnawed at his belly like a trapped animal desperate to escape. Sleep came only in stolen moments, always interrupted by nightmares of screams and flames. He drank from streams and scavenged whatever scraps he could find in abandoned farms, but food tasted like ash in his mouth.
All that remained was the fire inside him.
Then, one evening, as the sky turned the color of old bruises and the sun bled behind the horizon, Haejin collapsed at the edge of a riverbank. His vision blurred. His hands trembled. His knees buckled beneath him, and he fell face-first into the cold mud.
Darkness crept at the edges of his mind.
And then—
A sound.
Not loud. Not threatening.
Just a soft chime.
It wasn't a bell—not quite—but something like wind passing through hollow reeds. A quiet, rhythmic tapping, like footsteps made of air.
Haejin forced his eyes open.
A man stood before him.
Tall, wrapped in robes the color of storm clouds, with a staff of polished bamboo in one hand and a small wooden bowl in the other. His face was lined with age, but his eyes were sharp—like twin blades honed by years of battle.
"You're still alive," the man said, tilting his head slightly. "That's rare."
Haejin tried to speak, but his throat was too dry.
The monk knelt beside him without hesitation and offered a ladle of rice porridge from the bowl. "Eat slowly," he said. "Too much, too fast, and you'll make yourself sick."
Haejin hesitated.
Then devoured the food.
His fingers clawed at the ladle, shoveling the warm mixture into his mouth with desperate hunger. He hadn't realized how weak he truly was until the warmth returned to his limbs.
The monk watched him in silence, then reached into his robe and pulled out a small vial. He poured a few drops of its contents into the ladle and handed it back.
"Drink this," he said. "It'll help your strength return."
Haejin obeyed.
The warmth spread through his chest like sunlight breaking through winter clouds. He felt his pulse steady, his muscles loosen.
"I'm Master Yulsa of the Iron Lotus Temple," the monk said after a while. "What's your name, boy?"
Haejin stared at him.
"My name doesn't matter," he whispered. "I have nothing left."
Yulsa studied him for a long moment.
Then he smiled—not a smile of pity, but of understanding.
"That's not true," he said. "You still have breath. And you still have rage."
Haejin flinched.
"How do you—"
"I can see it in your eyes," Yulsa interrupted gently. "It's burning behind them. Like a flame trapped in stone."
Haejin clenched his fists.
"I want power," he said. "I want to be strong enough to kill them."
Yulsa tilted his head again.
"And when you've killed them?" he asked. "What then?"
Haejin had no answer.
Yulsa rose to his feet, extending a hand.
"If you truly wish to become strong," he said, "come with me. But understand this—you will not learn vengeance. You will learn discipline. Patience. Control."
Haejin looked at the outstretched hand.
He didn't trust monks. Didn't trust anyone who spoke in riddles and refused to fight.
But he needed strength.
And if this man could give it to him…
He took the hand.
Three Months Later – Iron Lotus Temple
The temple stood atop a jagged cliff, surrounded by mist and pine forests. Its architecture was simple—wooden beams, curved roofs, stone courtyards—but there was an undeniable aura of ancient power surrounding it.
Morning bells rang at dawn, waking the disciples from their slumber. Haejin trained every day until his muscles screamed.
At sunrise, he ran barefoot up the mountain path, carrying buckets of water tied to either end of a bamboo pole. At midday, he struck wooden posts until his palms bled. At dusk, he meditated beneath the great bronze bell that never rang.
Master Yulsa never taught him a single technique—at least, not directly.
Instead, he made him watch the wind move through the leaves.
Listen to the rhythm of the rain.
Feel the pulse of his own blood.
"This is the foundation," Yulsa told him one night as they sat beneath the stars. "Before you can strike, you must feel. Before you can fight, you must listen."
Haejin hated it.
"What good is listening if I can't even defend myself?" he snapped one morning after failing to hit a moving target.
Yulsa simply smiled.
"Then show me," he said. "Strike me."
Haejin didn't hesitate.
He lunged forward, throwing a punch aimed straight at the monk's chest.
Yulsa didn't move.
The fist never landed.
At the last second, Haejin felt his arm caught—not by force, but by something else. A shift in pressure. A redirection of energy. He stumbled forward, off balance, and fell onto the training mat.
Yulsa stood exactly where he had been, untouched.
"You fight like you're running," he said calmly. "From pain. From fear. From loss."
Haejin glared up at him.
"Then teach me how to stop running."
Yulsa extended a hand once more.
"I will," he said. "But first, you must learn how to stand still."
The Way of Stillness
For the next month, Haejin was forbidden from striking anything.
No dummies.
No targets.
No sparring.
Each morning, he sat cross-legged in the courtyard, facing the unbroken bell.
He was told to listen.
To the wind.
To the birds.
To the hum of life around him.
At first, he fumed. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to demand answers. But Yulsa only watched, offering no explanation.
By the third week, Haejin began to notice things.
The way the grass bent differently depending on the time of day.
How the sound of footsteps changed based on weight and intent.
Even the subtle rise and fall of his own breath.
One afternoon, Yulsa finally spoke.
"You are beginning to hear," he said. "Now, you may begin to move."
That night, Haejin was given his first form.
The Phoenix Palm .
It was a fiery palm technique passed down through generations of the Iron Lotus Temple, known for burning away impurities—both physical and spiritual. Each movement required precision, timing, and control over internal energy, or Ki .
Haejin threw himself into the training.
Every motion scorched the air around him. Every strike cracked the wooden dummies like thunder.
But Master Yulsa only shook his head.
"Fire without control consumes more than your enemy," he warned. "You must learn restraint."
Haejin struggled.
His emotions fueled his power, making it unstable.
One day, during practice, he lost control completely.
His palm erupted in flames of raw ki, scorching the dummy to ash—and nearly hitting a younger disciple standing nearby.
Yulsa stepped in, extinguishing the flames with a wave of his hand.
"Enough," he said simply.
Haejin dropped to his knees, panting.
"I don't understand," he muttered. "Why won't it obey me?"
Yulsa placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Because it isn't meant to obey," he said. "It's meant to flow. Like water. Like wind."
He looked Haejin in the eye.
"Strength is not about overpowering. It's about harmony."