Pain was no longer something Crimson endured.
It was something he used.
The chamber was small, narrow enough that sound had nowhere to escape. Stone walls were stained dark from years of blood that had soaked too deep to be scrubbed away. Hooks hung from the ceiling. Chains lay coiled like sleeping serpents on the floor.
At the center knelt a man.
Sect Master Yun Gwang of the Azure Cloud Sect.
His robes had been stripped away. His cultivation was sealed, meridians crushed by precise strikes that left his dantian intact—but useless. He was awake. Conscious. Aware.
That was important.
Crimson circled him slowly, blade hanging loose in his hand.
"You know who I am," Crimson said quietly.
Yun Gwang spat blood onto the stone. "A dog trained by demons."
Crimson stopped in front of him.
"No," he replied. "I am the reason your disciples stopped screaming."
The sect master laughed weakly. "You'll kill me eventually. Do it."
Crimson tilted his head.
"Kill you?" he echoed. "Why would I start there?"
He moved.
The first cut was shallow—across the thigh. Not enough to cripple. Just enough to wake every nerve.
Yun Gwang screamed.
Crimson waited until the scream peaked… then faded.
"Lesson one," Crimson said. "Pain teaches faster than death."
He pressed two fingers into a point beneath Yun Gwang's ribs.
The sect master convulsed.
Crimson smiled faintly beneath his mask.
"Lesson two," he continued, "breathing is optional."
He released the pressure.
Yun Gwang gasped desperately, lungs burning.
Crimson stepped back and wiped his blade clean.
Hours passed.
Crimson worked with patience bordering on reverence. Tendons were sliced—not severed, just damaged enough to fail later. Fingers were broken one by one, then reset incorrectly. Pressure points were crushed to induce paralysis that faded and returned unpredictably.
Yun Gwang begged.
Then cursed.
Then prayed.
Crimson listened to all of it.
When the sect master finally went silent, Crimson leaned close.
"Do you know the difference between you and me?" Crimson asked.
Yun Gwang lifted his head weakly.
"You still believe someone is coming to save you."
Crimson removed a small needle from his sleeve.
Black.
Vibrating faintly.
Yun Gwang's eyes widened in terror.
"No—"
The needle slid into his spine.
Yun Gwang screamed.
Every memory of pain Crimson carried—every cut, every scream, every moment of helplessness—was forced into the sect master's mind. His body arched violently as his consciousness drowned in suffering that wasn't his.
Crimson watched closely.
This was important.
When Yun Gwang finally collapsed, sobbing, broken beyond words, Crimson removed the needle.
"Good," Crimson whispered. "You'll live."
Yun Gwang looked up in disbelief.
"You're… letting me go?"
Crimson shook his head.
"No," he said. "I'm sending you home."
They released Yun Gwang at dawn.
Alive.
Mutilated.
His sect found him hours later, crawling along the mountain path, his mind shattered, his body ruined. He spoke no coherent words—only fragments.
Black mask.
Child's eyes.
Pain that never ends.
Murim listened.
Fear deepened.
Crimson did not return to the mountain immediately.
The old man had given him a new directive.
Operate alone.
No instructors. No backup.
"An assassin must learn isolation," the old man had said. "Loneliness sharpens the blade."
Crimson moved through Murim like a ghost.
He killed a merchant lord who funded three sects. He drowned a cultivator in a public bath, holding him under until the water turned pink. He poisoned an entire training hall and watched from the rooftops as disciples convulsed and died together.
Sometimes he killed quickly.
Sometimes he didn't.
He learned what screams carried farthest.
What wounds bled slowest.
What words broke people fastest.
At night, he dreamed of blood.
But he did not wake screaming anymore.
The next mission was different.
The order came sealed in black wax.
Target: Sect Elder Jang Seorin
Status: Untouchable
Objective: Break. Do not kill.
Crimson infiltrated her estate at dusk.
She was old. Frail. Surrounded by guards and charms meant to ward off demons.
They failed.
Crimson entered her chamber silently and stood at the foot of her bed.
She woke instantly.
Her eyes widened—but she did not scream.
"You're young," she said calmly.
Crimson said nothing.
"I've heard the rumors," she continued. "You enjoy suffering."
Crimson tilted his head.
"Enjoyment is irrelevant."
She smiled faintly. "Then why hesitate?"
Crimson realized his blade had not moved.
She saw it.
"You still feel," she said softly.
Crimson's grip tightened.
She raised a trembling hand. "Let me tell you something about Murim, child."
Crimson stepped forward.
The blade flashed.
Her hand fell to the floor.
She screamed.
Crimson leaned close.
"Lesson three," he whispered. "Never assume mercy exists."
He left her alive.
Broken.
Whispering his name until her voice failed.
When Crimson finally returned to the Crimson Vein Sect, weeks later, the old man was waiting.
"You're changing," the old man observed.
Crimson knelt.
"I am efficient."
The old man smiled.
"You're becoming feared," he said. "That's better."
He stepped closer.
"But fear is not enough."
Crimson looked up.
"What's next?"
The old man's eyes gleamed.
"War," he said.
Beyond the mountain, Murim shifted.
Sects were forming alliances. Cultivators sharpened blades. Bounties were whispered.
And at the center of it all, a single name was spoken with dread.
Crimson.