In Murim, hatred is taught before understanding.
Before Maehwa Jin learned the full form of the Plum Blossom Sword, he learned its purpose. Endure the cold. Protect the sect. Distrust poison. Distrust the Tang Clan above all else.
Poison was not merely a weapon, the elders said. It was a philosophy of cowardice. It killed without facing the blade. It corrupted honor itself. Even Tang medicine was considered tainted—life saved by poison was life owed to something impure.
Maehwa accepted these truths as one accepts winter. Without protest. Without question.
Plum Blossom swordsmanship was patient. It did not rush. It waited for snow to bury the world, then bloomed quietly when others shattered. Survival through restraint. Strength through silence.
That was how Plum Blossoms lived.
That was how they died.
He did not expect to fall beneath plum petals soaked in venom.
The beast had struck from concealment, its fangs faster than his sword. By the time steel found flesh, the poison was already inside him—burning through his meridians, convincing his heart to surrender.
As his vision dimmed, Maehwa thought this fitting. A Plum Blossom disciple dying alone, upright, unseen.
Then footsteps disturbed the petals.
When he opened his eyes, he did not see death.
He saw a woman tying a bandage around his arm with steady hands. Her sleeves were dark, her movements precise, her expression calm in a way that made his blood run colder than the poison ever had.
Tang Clan.
"You moved too much," she said, her voice flat. "Another minute and your heart would've stopped."
His fingers twitched toward his sword.
She did not step back.
"If I wanted you dead," she continued, already preparing to leave, "you wouldn't be awake."
Maehwa Jin realized then that everything he had been taught had prepared him to endure winter—but nothing had prepared him for mercy from the enemy.
And Murim would never forgive either of them for it.