When Kang Muyeon opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the cold.
Not the sharp kind that bit into the skin, but the damp chill that seeped slowly into the bones. The floor beneath him was wooden and uneven, and the air smelled faintly of mold and old dust.
He lay still for several seconds, listening.
There were no screams. No clashing steel. No roar of collapsing earth.
Only silence.
That alone told him something was wrong.
Muyeon pushed himself up on his elbows. His body responded too easily. There was no tearing pain, no backlash from damaged meridians. The familiar weight of accumulated injuries was gone.
He frowned.
This wasn't how it should feel.
The last thing he remembered was the Murim Alliance courtyard—stone shattered under his palm, the seal breaking, the mountain itself groaning as it collapsed inward. He remembered making the decision clearly. There had been no hesitation.
That should have been the end.
Yet here he was.
Muyeon sat up fully and looked around.
The room was small. Bare. A single oil lamp rested on a low table, unlit. Against the wall lay a thin blanket, folded poorly. There were no weapons, no sect insignia, nothing that suggested status or rank.
It looked like servant quarters.
He lowered his gaze to his hands.
They were slim, pale, and unfamiliar. No scars traced his knuckles. No hardened calluses lined his palms. Even the veins beneath his skin were faint, undeveloped.
Slowly, he stood.
His balance was off—not from injury, but from proportion. His body felt younger. Lighter. Weak in a way he had not experienced for a very long time.
Muyeon walked to the corner where a cracked ceramic basin held murky water. He crouched and looked into it.
The face staring back at him was his.
And yet, it wasn't.
The features were sharp but unrefined, the jaw still narrow, the eyes lacking the weight of age. This was not the face of a man who had lived through decades of war, politics, and bloodshed.
This was a boy's face.
Memories surfaced without warning.
Not his own—at least, not the ones he remembered living.
A sect called Fallen Cloud.
Early mornings spent hauling water and chopping wood.
Being ignored during training, then mocked when he failed to sense qi.
A life lived on the edges.
Muyeon closed his eyes and exhaled.
"So I came back," he murmured.
Not as a master.
Not as someone feared or respected.
But as someone with nothing.
He straightened and tested his body more carefully. There was no internal flow. His dantian was empty, untouched by cultivation. No hidden injuries, no sealed power—just absence.
Weak.
Footsteps echoed outside the room, pulling him from his thoughts.
"Hey," a voice called, rough and impatient. "You still alive in there?"
Muyeon turned toward the door.
Once, he had stood at the center of Murim. His words had shaped decisions. His presence alone had been enough to stop conflicts before they began.
Now, he was a servant trainee who could be punished for missing a meal.
He did not feel anger.
Only clarity.
Muyeon picked up the folded robe from the floor and slipped it on. The fabric was coarse, the stitching uneven. It fit this body well.
As he stepped toward the door, his expression remained calm.
Murim had abandoned its principles long before it had tried to kill him. He had tried to stop that once—and failed.
This time, he would not interfere.
He would observe.
He would endure.
And when the time came—
He opened the door and stepped into the morning light.
—Murim would not see him coming.
End Of Chapter 1