Plum trees bloomed in winter because they had no choice.
Yeon-seo learned this before she learned her own name.
The courtyard was white with frost, the stones brittle beneath bare feet. Dawn had not yet arrived, but the elders were already seated, their silhouettes rigid against the lantern glow. Breath misted in the air. No one spoke. Silence was not a courtesy here; it was instruction.
She knelt until her knees numbed, then until numbness became irrelevant.
"Again," the elder said.
Yeon-seo bowed.
The movement was precise. It had been corrected into her bones long before memory took shape. Spine straight. Neck lowered at the correct angle. Eyes to the stone, never to a face. Respect was measured in degrees, and error was measured in pain.
She rose, took the wooden sword from the rack, and assumed her stance.
Her arms trembled. She was seven. The sword weighed more than it should have. The cold did not help. Neither did hunger. Both were considered useful.
"Plum Blossom Form," the elder said. "First posture."
Yeon-seo moved.
The sword traced a clean arc through the air. Not fast. Not strong. Correct.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Her wrists burned. Her shoulders screamed. Frost gathered in her hair and sleeves, melting slowly as her body heated under strain. She did not cry. Crying wasted breath, and breath was already rationed.
Across the courtyard, a branch snapped softly under the weight of snow. Red petals drifted down, landing against the white stone like blood against linen.
The elder watched the petals fall.
"Do you know why the plum tree blooms in winter?" he asked.
Yeon-seo did not answer immediately. She waited, counting her breaths. Answering too quickly was arrogance. Too slowly was defiance.
"Because it is strong," she said.
The elder's staff struck the ground once. Disapproval.
"No," he said. "Because it endures."
He rose and approached her, boots crunching against frost. His shadow swallowed her small frame. He lifted the wooden sword with two fingers, inspecting her grip.
"Strength breaks," he continued. "Endurance remains. Murim is not kind to those who bloom at the wrong time."
His fingers tightened suddenly. The wood bit into her skin.
"You will endure," he said. "Or you will be pruned."
She bowed again, deeper this time.
"Yes, Elder."
The Tang Clan's name was never spoken in the courtyard. Hatred did not require repetition; it was treated as a constant, like cold. Poison was treachery. Treachery was weakness. Weakness was unforgivable.
Yeon-seo accepted these truths the way she accepted winter—without expectation of warmth.
Training resumed.
Hours later, when her arms could no longer lift the sword, she was dismissed with a nod. No praise. Praise encouraged attachment. Attachment led to hesitation.
She retrieved her outer robe and stepped toward the far edge of the courtyard, where the plum tree stood alone. Its bark was dark and cracked, roots clawing stubbornly through frozen earth. Blossoms clung to its branches despite the cold, small and defiant.
Yeon-seo paused.
She was not supposed to linger. Still, she looked.
The petals were beautiful. That was dangerous, too. Beauty invited softness. Softness invited mistakes.
A gust of wind shook the branch. Several blossoms fell, landing soundlessly at her feet.
She did not pick them up.
Behind her, the elder's voice carried, calm and distant.
"Remember this," he said. "Plum blossoms are admired because they survive the cold. Not because they are spared by it."
Yeon-seo bowed one last time to the courtyard, to the tree, to the winter that would never leave her.
She walked away without looking back.
Later, much later, when poison burned through her veins and Murim turned its face aside, she would remember this morning.
Not as cruelty.
As preparation.