Fifty years ago, the heavens themselves bled black ink.
The Qingyun Region, once a cradle of ancient sects nestled among cloud-piercing peaks and jade-green valleys, became a graveyard of shattered domains and broken oaths. It began on a moonless night when the Shadow Veil Cult fanatics cloaked in robes woven from cursed night silk tore open forbidden rifts at the edges of the world.
From those rifts poured the Abyssal Wraiths.
They were not beasts of flesh and blood. They were living voids ,formless at first, then coalescing into towering horrors of writhing black ink and jagged script-like veins that pulsed with corrupted qi. Some took the shape of colossal serpents with maws that swallowed light itself.
Others rose as multi-limbed abominations, their bodies etched with reversed Murim characters that bled shadow. Where they slithered or strode, the earth withered, qi meridians in the soil snapped like brittle bones, and the air grew thick with the stench of eternal grudge.
The Heavenly Union then only a fragile pact between the four great families was caught unprepared.
The Baek Family's Crimson Flame Palace burned first. Their legendary fire-script tattoos, meant to birth blazing phoenixes and inferno hydras, guttered out like candles in a storm. Abyssal Wraiths pierced their domains as if they were paper, ink tendrils coiling around proud elders and dragging them screaming into nothingness. The skies above the Baek mountains turned crimson not from flame, but from blood raining upward into the rifts.
The Seo Family's Phantom Mist Valley fell next. Masters of illusion and shadow-stepping tried to hide, to deceive, to strike from unseen angles. But the Wraiths had no eyes to fool, no minds to twist. They simply consumed the mist itself, turning the Seo's greatest weapon into a choking shroud that suffocated their own disciples. Thousands perished in the dark, clawing at throats that filled with liquid shadow.
The Jin Family, healers and guardians of life qi, held longest in their White Lotus Sanctum. Their support domains bloomed like radiant flowers, barriers of pure regenerative light. Yet the Wraiths adapted corrupting the healing qi, turning it into festering curse ink that rotted flesh from within. Elders who once saved lives watched in horror as their own tattoos reversed, carving black wounds into their skin before the Wraiths even touched them.
The Hwang Family, steadfast and defensive, bore the brunt on the front lines. Golden Peak Sect became a slaughterhouse. Their legendary balanced-script tattoos meant to form unbreakable shields and golden lion guardians cracked under endless assault. One elder, Hwang Cheoljin, ancestor of the current lineage, stood atop the highest pavilion with his domain fully expanded: a radiant golden sphere that equalized all incoming force. For three days and nights he held against a tide of Wraiths, his guardian beast a majestic armored lion of pure qi roaring defiance as it tore apart wave after wave.
But even he fell.
A colossal Abyssal Wraith, larger than any seen before, rose from the main riftthe serpent of pure void with a thousand script-etched eyes. It struck once. The golden domain shattered like glass. The lion guardian was swallowed whole. Hwang Cheoljin's body was found days later, kneeling in place, skin etched with reversed characters that spelled a single word in ancient tongue:
"Eclipse"
The Union teetered on annihilation.
Yet in the deepest hour, the four surviving patriarchs gathered in the ruins of Golden Peak's grand hall. Bloodied, half their meridians severed, they performed the forbidden Unity Ritual—linking their script tattoos in a circle, merging domains into one unprecedented whole. Hwang balance, Baek fury, Seo deception, Jin restoration all fused into a single radiant eclipse sigil that burned in the sky.
The tide turned.
Abyssal Wraiths shrieked as the fused domain consumed their essence, turning corruption against itself. The great serpent was dragged down, its thousand eyes bursting one by one. The rifts sealed with thunderous cracks that shook the continent.
The Shadow Veil Cult's leaders were hunted to the last, their bodies burned with purified flame so no grudge could linger.
Victory came but at a price etched into every stone and soul.
The Cursed Ink Valleys were born where the greatest battles raged, lands forever tainted. Thousands of ancient script tablets were lost or corrupted. Entire branches of the four families vanished. And in the bloodlines of survivors, faint black marks sometimes appeared at birth—silent reminders that the abyss had tasted them and might one day return.
Fifty years had passed since the eclipse sigil burned in the sky, yet Golden Peak Sect still carried the weight of that war in its very stones. The highest pavilion had been rebuilt thrice, each time with thicker walls and deeper script wards, but the wind that swept through the training grounds always tasted faintly of ash and old blood.
Morning mist clung to the bamboo groves like a reluctant ghost. Disciples moved in disciplined patterns across the wide stone platforms hewing the air with blades, circulating qi in perfect unison, their tattoos flickering faintly under sleeveless training robes. The clang of steel and the low hum of activated meridians filled the air, a constant reminder that peace was not absence of war, but preparation for its return.
On the eastern platform, two young men faced each other beneath a canopy of pale green leaves.
Hwang Geummo stood motionless, wooden sword held loosely at his side. Twenty-two years old, lean and unremarkable in build, his black training robes hung straight and uncreased. His hair was tied back simply, strands falling across a face that might have been carved from jade—smooth, symmetrical, and utterly devoid of expression. Eyes dark and depthless, lips a flat line. No anticipation, no battle hunger, no trace of the excitement that burned in every other disciple's gaze before a spar.
Across from him, Jin Taeho grinned wide enough for both of them.
Taeho was broader, sun-browned from hours in the healing fields of his family's White Lotus Sanctum. His white-and-gold robes bore the Jin crest—a blooming lotus encircled by soft green script lines. His tattoos were already visible: pale green characters winding up both forearms, pulsing gently like breathing vines.
"Come on, Geummo," Taeho called, spinning his own wooden sword in lazy circles. "You've been staring at me like I'm a corpse for the last minute. At least pretend you're excited."
Geummo inclined his head a fraction.
"Begin."
Taeho laughed, a warm sound that scattered the mist around them. "Always so polite."
They moved at the same instant.
Taeho struck first—fast, direct, the Jin Family way. His blade came in a downward arc meant to test defenses, qi layered thick along the edge to simulate real weight. Green script on his arms flared brighter, and faint lotus petals of pure life qi unfurled in the air behind the strike, ready to burst into healing waves the moment blood was drawn.
Geummo met it center-on.
Wood cracked against wood. The impact sent a dull thud echoing across the platform. Geummo's feet slid back only an inch, body perfectly balanced. His own qi—colorless, neutral—flowed into the wooden sword without flourish or waste.
Taeho pressed the advantage, chaining three more strikes: left rib, right shoulder, throat feint into a sweeping leg cut. Each blow carried the signature of the Jin style—aggressive yet merciful, designed to overwhelm and then mend. Lotus petals multiplied, swirling around him like a living storm.
Geummo answered every one.
His blocks were economical, almost lazy. Wrist turn, elbow shift, half-step back. No wasted motion. The colorless qi in his blade absorbed the green surges, dulled their edges, and redirected just enough force to keep him steady. Spectators on nearby platforms began to pause and watch—the fight was quiet, almost gentle, but something about it felt inevitable.
Taeho's grin widened.
"Time to stop playing, then."
He leapt back three paces, planted his sword tip into the stone, and exhaled.
[Healing Surge Domain—open.]
The air around Taeho rippled like heat over summer stone. A soft green sphere expanded outward, thirty paces across, centered on him. Inside it, life qi thickened until every breath felt like drinking spring water. Lotus petals solidified into real constructs—hundreds of them, spinning slowly, ready to mend any wound the instant it appeared. Taeho's tattoos burned bright; faint vines crept further up his neck. His guardian beast stirred beneath the skin but did not yet manifest.
The surrounding disciples murmured approval. A full domain activation in morning training was rare.
Geummo remained in place, unmoving.
Then he spoke, voice low and even.
[Equilazer Domain.]
No flash or roar of qi No dramatic wind.
A transparent sphere simply unfolded around him perfectly round, edges faintly shimmering like heat haze. It was smaller than Taeho's, only twenty paces across, but the moment the two domains touched, the air between them grew heavy, as though the world itself paused to listen.
Inside Geummo's domain, every surge of Taeho's life qi that crossed the boundary was caught, weighed, and balanced.
The lotus petals slowed. Their healing intent diffused. The green light dimmed to a neutral gray before it reached Geummo's skin. And in return, a portion of that captured power flowed back into Geummo's meridians steady, measured, neither too much nor too little.
Taeho charged.
He crossed the overlapping domains in a blur, sword thrusting straight for Geummo's heart. Mid-thrust, lotus petals condensed into a single massive bloom around the blade tip—meant to pierce and immediately heal, forcing submission without permanent harm.
Geummo stepped sideways not fast, not slow.
Perfectly timed.
The thrust passed an inch from his chest. The lotus bloom brushed his robe, and the Equilazer caught it. Petals unraveled into threads of qi, equalized, and redirected. Half the healing surge returned to Taeho, mending a bruise he had taken earlier in training. The other half settled into Geummo's arm, sharpening his next strike.
Their blades met again and again.
Each clash rang dull and muted inside the overlapping domains. Taeho's attacks grew faster, more desperate, his green qi flaring brighter to compensate. Sweat beaded on his brow. Yet every surge he poured in was captured, balanced, and partially returned—never enough to overwhelm Geummo, always enough to keep him perfectly sustained.
Minutes stretched.
Disciples gathered in a loose circle, watching in silence. This was no flashy duel of fire and shadow. It was a slow, inexorable grind one domain trying to flood, the other quietly refusing to be flooded.
Finally Taeho leapt back, breathing hard, domain flickering as his qi reserves dipped.
Geummo lowered his sword. His domain folded away without sound. His breathing remained exactly as it had been at the start calm, even, untouched.
Taeho laughed again, though it came out ragged.
"Another draw. Damn it, Geummo. One day I'll force you to actually sweat."
Geummo inclined his head once more.
"Good spar."
Taeho sheathed his wooden sword and slung an arm around Geummo's shoulders as they walked toward the edge of the platform.
"You're a monster, you know that? Anyone else would've been healed to bursting or drained dry by now. But you just… sit there. Like a scale that refuses to tip."
Geummo said nothing, but his eyes flicked briefly to the distant crimson pavilions of the Baek Family compound, far across the valley.
The scale had not yet been tested by true weight.
The eastern platform emptied slowly. Disciples drifted away in pairs and trios, their voices low, some casting lingering glances at the two young men who had just fought to a perfect standstill. The mist thinned as the sun climbed higher, burning pale gold through the bamboo leaves.
Jin Taeho led the way to a small stone pavilion at the edge of the grounds an old structure half-swallowed by vines, its pillars etched with faded protective scripts from the war era. A simple wooden table stood in the center, flanked by two benches worn smooth by generations of weary cultivators. A clay teapot and two cups waited, steam curling lazily into the morning air. Servants knew Taeho's habits.
They sat opposite each other. Taeho poured tea with practiced ease, the faint green glow of his tattoos dimming as his qi settled. Geummo accepted the cup without a word, hands steady, eyes fixed on the rising steam as though it held answers.
Taeho leaned back, studying his friend.
"You know,"he began,
voice softer now that the clamor of training had faded,
"most people think you're cold. Arrogant, even. Like you look down on everyone because nothing ever touches you."
He took a sip, watching over the rim.
"But I've known you since we were six. I remember the day the elders tested your meridians. You didn't cry when the needles went in. Didn't flinch. Just… watched."
Geummo's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the warm cup. The movement was so small it might have been the wind.
Taeho continued. "They called it the Sealed Heart Meridian. A flaw, they said. Born from the old curse ink that soaked our ancestors' blood during the war. Your emotions are all there rage, joy, grief but the meridian locks them behind a wall. Show too much, and the qi backlashes. Tears could rupture your channels. Anger could shatter your dantian. So you learned early: never let the mask slip."
He set his cup down.
"That's why your face is stone. Not because you feel nothing but Because you feel everything, and the price of showing it is your health."
Geummo stared into his tea. For a long moment the pavilion was silent, broken only by the distant ring of training swords and the rustle of bamboo.
Finally he spoke, voice quiet, flat.
"It is… manageable."
Taeho snorted. "Manageable. That's what you call it."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"But it's also why half the clan thinks you're mediocre. Your domain reflects it—Equilazer. Perfect balance, no extremes. No overwhelming power to flaunt, no weakness to exploit. Just… even. They respect your swordsmanship, but they don't fear you. And in the Union, fear and respect are the same coin."
Geummo's gaze lifted, drifting across the vast valley below Golden Peak. From this height the lands of the Heavenly Union spread like a painted scroll: golden Hwang territories in the center, crimson Baek mountains to the south, shadowed Seo valleys to the east, and the serene white lotus fields of the Jin to the north. Four realms bound by blood oaths forged in the war's aftermath.
"The Union holds because none of us can stand alone,"
Taeho said, following his gaze.
"My Jin Family heals and mediates. We keep the peace when tempers flare. The Hwang provide the shield—steady, unyielding. Baek bring the fire, the ambition that pushes us forward. Seo… well." He grimaced.
"Seo handle the knives in the dark. Spies, poisons, secrets. Everyone needs them, no one trusts them."
He paused, choosing words carefully.
"But the balance is cracking. The Baek have grown bolder since the war generation passed. They want more territory, more ancient tablets from the restricted vaults. They say the Shadow Veil Cult could return any day, and we need strength, not caution. The Seo encourage it quietly—they profit from chaos. My Jin elders spend half their time stopping open arguments from becoming duels. And your Hwang…" Taeho hesitated.
"Your Hwang just endure. Like always."
Geummo's eyes narrowed a fraction the closest he ever came to a frown.
Taeho exhaled. "Which brings us to Baek Sooyoung."
The name hung in the air like incense smoke.
Geummo did not react outwardly, but the steam above his cup stilled, as though the air itself waited.
"She's the Baek patriarch's favored granddaughter," Taeho went on. "Fire-script prodigy. Her tattoos already cover half her back rumor says her guardian beast will be a true flame hydra when it fully awakens. Beautiful as a phoenix, twice as proud."
He studied Geummo's face for any flicker and found none. "The betrothal was meant to bind Hwang caution to Baek ambition. A perfect scale, they said."
He leaned closer, voice dropping.
"But she doesn't want the marriage. Everyone knows it. She smiles in public, performs the rituals, but in private… she calls you 'the statue.' Says you're dull. Lifeless. That pairing her with you is an insult to Baek blood." Taeho's expression darkened. "There are whispers she's been seen with Seo Jinho. That one's ambitious enough for both of them illusion scripts sharp as razors, tongue sharper still. If the Baek and Seo joined openly…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Geummo set his cup down with deliberate care. The porcelain touched stone without a sound.
"I am aware," he said at last.
Taeho stared.
"You're aware? That's all? Geummo, if she breaks the engagement publicly, it'll humiliate the Hwang. If she does it privately with Jinho's help—worse. They could frame it as your failure. Your weakness."
Geummo rose slowly. The movement was fluid, unhurried. He looked down at Taeho, face as blank as ever, but something in the set of his shoulders felt different—heavier.
"Balance," he said quietly,
"can be maintained only until the weight becomes too great."
He turned to leave the pavilion.
A young disciple appeared at the entrance, bowing low, voice trembling slightly. "Senior Brother Hwang. A summons from Miss Baek Sooyoung. She requests your presence at the Crimson Lotus Pavilion. Immediately."
The mist had burned away entirely now. Sunlight glinted off distant crimson roofs far across the valley.
Geummo inclined his head to the messenger, then to Taeho.
Without another word, he stepped onto the stone path that wound downward toward the border between Hwang gold and Baek crimson.
Behind him, Taeho watched with troubled eyes.
The scale had begun to tilt.
And deep beneath Geummo's ribs, locked behind the sealed meridian, something vast and cold stirred for the first time in twenty-two years patient, silent, and endlessly hungry.