The Sacred Library of the Heavenly Demonic Cult was ancient, cold, and forgotten — a place where lamps burned low and silence settled thick like dust. No disciple came here willingly. Why would they?
The only person who ever stayed here…
was considered worthless.
An old man sat alone among the endless scrolls, hunched over a desk illuminated by a single weak oil lamp.
Ma Bi Gwang.
Half-brother of the Heavenly Demon.
Born with an unfixable curse.
Destined to be nothing.
Tonight, he was dying.
His thin hand dipped the brush into ink.
His fingers trembled so violently that ink scattered on the desk.
But he forced the brush onto the last page of his diary.
The moment the bristles touched paper, his life replayed in broken shards.
He saw himself again as a child, trembling before a circle of Demonic Cult elders.
Their verdict still echoed:
"He carries the Heavenly Demon's bloodline!"
"And yet—his core is cursed!"
"He can never cultivate. Not a single breath."
"A shameful anomaly."
They didn't see him as a child.
They saw him as a stain.
From then on:
No master took him
No disciple trained with him
Servants whispered when he walked past
Elders avoided even meeting his eyes
At age seven, he was already labeled:
"The cripple of the Heavenly Demon bloodline."
At age twelve, he was summoned before Ma Cheonmu, the Heavenly Demon.
The throne hall was suffocating, its air heavy with demonic presence. Cult elites stood rigid like statues.
Bi Gwang knelt.
Afraid.
Hopeful.
Desperate for recognition.
Cheonmu looked down at him once — just once.
Eyes like golden blades.
And spoke:
"Do not embarrass our bloodline."
Not love.
Not anger.
Not pity.
Just indifference.
That was the first and last time his half-brother spoke to him.
From that day, Bi Gwang was given a meaningless position:
Sacred Librarian.
"Keep him out of sight."
"No one goes there anyway."
"Let the cripple rot among books."
He was thrown into the deepest part of the library —
the graveyard of forgotten knowledge.
And there…
he lived for seventy years.
No applause.
No recognition.
No warmth.
Only scrolls.
Dust.
And silence.
But he read.
He read everything.
Orthodox qi manuals
Unorthodox movement techniques
Demonic internal arts
Forbidden scripts
Lost ancient philosophies
Fist, palm, body forging arts
Sword intent theories
He could not cultivate them—
but he understood them.
Far deeper than anyone ever realized.
He wrote his own martial arts.
Hundreds of them.
Genius-level theories.
Flawless analysis.
Perfected flows.
Meridian insights beyond grandmasters.
But whenever he offered them to the elders:
"Just the fantasies of a cripple."
"Theory without strength is nonsense."
Eventually
he stopped offering.
And kept writing for himself.
Now, at age seventy, the curse core gnawed through his meridians like acid.
He could barely breathe.
Still, he wrote.
MC (writing):
"I wished only to walk the martial path."
His vision blurred.
Blood dripped onto the diary page.
MC (writing):
"In another life…"
His brush shuddered.
MC (writing):
"…let me be free."
His hand finally slipped.
The brush rolled off the desk.
His chest stopped rising.
Ma Bi Gwang — the forgotten genius — died in absolute silence.
The brush knocked into the oil lamp.
CLATTER—
The metal casing tipped.
Oil spilled onto the desk.
The flame caught instantly.
WHOOSH—
Fire rolled across the papers.
At first, it crackled softly.
Then louder.
Hungrier.
The flames devoured everything.
Scrolls older than empires.
Manuals stolen from all factions.
Forbidden arts sealed for centuries.
His own diaries—
his life's work—
burned.
The fire climbed shelves, leapt across beams, spread like a living beast.
No disciple came.
No guard noticed.
No elder cared about the Sacred Library.
By dawn, it would be nothing but ash.
And with it—
every trace of Ma Bi Gwang's existence would be erased.
His name.
His manuscripts.
His theories.
His body.
All gone.
His consciousness drifted inside a vast, warm void.
No sound.
No pain.
Just a weightless calm.
For a moment…
he felt something pulling him.
A heartbeat.
A spark.
A voice he couldn't hear.
Then—
A slap.
SMACK!!
Bi Gwang's eyes burst open.
Sunlight flooded his vision.
He blinked rapidly, startled, confused.
He was lying in a warm, comfortable bed—
silk sheets, clean air, bright colors.
A little girl stood over him, face puffed in frustration, hand raised again.
Little Girl:
"OPPA!! GET UP!! Mother said breakfast is ready!!"
"H… oppa?"
He slowly lifted his hands.
Small.
Soft.
Young.
His heart pounded.
MC:
"…This… this isn't the Sacred Library…"
The girl stomped.
Little Girl:
"Hurry! If you sleep more, Mother will scold you AND me!"
He sat up, trembling.
He was a child.
A boy.
Healthy.
Then—
His mind exploded with new memories.
Yeon Mu Hwi.
Age 8.
Second son of the Yeon Merchant Clan.
A loving mother.
A playful little sister.
A warm household.
A safe life.
The memories blended into him, becoming part of him.
He gasped.
And felt—
Qi.
Real qi.
Flowing through perfect meridians.
His eyes shook with emotion.
MC (whispering):
"…I… have been reborn."
"…I can cultivate."
"…My body… works…"
His little sister tilted her head.
Little Sister:
"Oppa, why are you crying…?"
He smiled through trembling lips.
For the first time in two lifetimes—
Ma Bi Gwang was alive.
MC:
"…This time… I will walk the martial path."