Han Gwang stood on the jagged edge of the Crying Crow Cliff, his breath coming in ragged, bloody hitches. He looked down at his chest. A spearhead from the Righteous Great Alliance was buried in his shoulder, while a serrated blade from the Unorthodox Thousand Peaks Union had pierced his thigh.
He was the greatest fixer the Murim had ever known. He was the man who kept the peace by being the monster both sides needed. But today, the peace was over.
"Han Gwang!"
The shout came from Namgung Deok, the 'Blue Cloud Sword' of the Great Alliance. He stood twenty paces away, his white robes miraculously clean despite the slaughter. Next to him, surprisingly, was the Ghost King of the Unorthodox Union, a man who had tried to assassinate Namgung Deok three times in the last month.
Today, they were standing side-by-side.
"I did your dirty work for fifteen years, Namgung Deok," Han Gwang said. He spat a mouthful of copper-tasting blood onto the mud. "And you, Ghost King... I saved your caravan from the Demonic Cult just last winter. Now you're holding hands with the 'Justice' faction?"
"You know too much, Han Gwang," the Ghost King hissed, his voice like dry leaves. "You have the ledgers. You know which 'Hero' sells opium and which 'Unorthodox Lord' pays tribute to the Emperor. You are a loose end that has grown into a noose."
Namgung Deok raised his glowing jade sword. "For the sake of the Murim's stability, the Demon of the Middle Path must fall."
Han Gwang laughed. It was a wet, hacking sound.
"Stability? You mean your reputations."
The two masters moved at once. Namgung Deok's sword blurred into a thousand petals of light—the signature technique of the Orthodox—while the Ghost King dissolved into a black mist, his twin daggers aiming for Han Gwang's blind spots.
Han Gwang didn't have a signature 'Righteous' art. He had the Shattered Path Style. He grabbed the spear stuck in his own shoulder, gritting his teeth as he ripped it out with a spray of gore.
He swung the stolen spear like a madman. He didn't aim for their weapons; he aimed for their eyes, their throats, their groins. It was the ugly, efficient combat of a man who had survived the gutters.
Clang!
He parried the jade sword, the impact shattering the bones in his forearm. He didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped into the Ghost King's mist and bit the man's ear off, slamming a hidden dagger into the assassin's ribs.
"If I'm going to hell," Han Gwang roared, "I'm taking you with me!"
He felt the cold steel of Namgung Deok's blade slide through his stomach. At the same time, the Ghost King's daggers found his back. Han Gwang didn't pull away. He grabbed both men, his fingers digging into their expensive robes like iron claws.
'Dantian Overload.'
It was the final "dirty trick." He forced every drop of his remaining Ki to rotate backward. His internal organs began to liquefy, but his body started to glow with a sickly, gray light.
"What are you doing?!" Namgung Deok screamed, his eyes wide with terror.
"Giving you... a refund," Han Gwang whispered.
The explosion leveled the cliffside. A shockwave of gray energy vaporized the rain, the trees, and the three men at the center of the crater.
Then, a voice—hollow and ancient—echoed in a place where there was no sound.
『 You lived as a tool, Han Gwang. You died as a fire. Do you wish to see the world you burned? 』
'I wish to see them suffer,' Han Gwang thought. He had no mouth to speak, but his malice was loud enough.
『 Then entertain me. The world has become boring without its Shadow. 』
Han Gwang's eyes snapped open.
He gasped, his lungs burning as if he had swallowed hot coals. He expected to see the gray sky of the mountains or the blackness of the Abyss. Instead, he saw a ceiling covered in peeling gold leaf.
The air didn't smell like ozone and blood. It smelled like cheap perfume, spilled wine, and old vomit.
"Ugh..."
He tried to move, but his body felt like a sack of damp flour. His arms were thin—disturbingly thin—and his skin was pale and sickly. He looked at his hands. They were soft. No scars. No callouses from twenty years of holding a blade.
'Where am I?'
Memories that weren't his flooded his brain like a dam breaking. Joo In-ho. 14 years old. Youngest son of the Black River Merchant Union. A gambling addict. A drunkard. The "Trash of the Black River."
He sat up, his head spinning. He realized he was in a luxury bed, but the room around him was stripped bare. The expensive vases were gone, leaving only dust circles on the tables.
Suddenly, a massive THUD shook the room.
The heavy oak doors groaned. From outside, a muffled, aggressive voice shouted, "Joo In-ho! You coward! Open this door before we drag your sister out here to pay your tabs!"
Han Gwang stared at the door. A cold, familiar sensation began to tingle in his spine. It wasn't the "Righteous" Ki of a hero or the "Demonic" Ki of a cultist. It was the raw, hungry energy of a man who had nothing left to lose.
He looked at his reflection in a cracked mirror across the room. The face was young and handsome in a pathetic, wasted way.
"Joo In-ho," Han Gwang said, testing the name. His voice was thin, but the weight behind it was ancient. "You lived like a dog. I suppose it's only fair I start by biting someone."