The Road to Cheongseong
The road to Cheongseong Mountain grew steadily wider. When they first left the village, it had been little more than a narrow mountain trail, wide enough only for beasts and woodcutters. The earth was damp, leaves brushed constantly against their legs, and roots caught at their feet. But as the days passed and they circled the mountain's edge, the path began to carry the scent of people. Deep wheel ruts marked the dirt. Between them were hoofprints, the bare footprints of children, the straw-sandal tracks of old men, and the heavy impressions of porters bent under loads.
Jin Seoryeong did not slow her steps as she studied every mark. In the village, a single footprint had been enough to tell her who had passed. Her father's prints were heavy, her mother's small and careful, Old Cho's staggered when he was drunk. Children's prints were always a mess—running, falling, kicking stones, wandering off toward the stream. But this road was different. There were simply too many.
She found the number strangely fascinating. So many people. So many feet, so many directions, so many paths. In the village, no matter how far she ran, she always returned to the same faces. Mother. Father. The neighborhood children. Old Cho. The old man tending the fields. The man splitting firewood. The woman drawing water. Here, every face was unknown.
A merchant caravan passed. Loaded carts rattled by while porters cursed and shoved at the wheels. A bearded trader haggled with a roadside herbalist. A wandering swordsman dozed in his saddle, sword at his hip. A beggar clutched at passing sleeves. Children darted between adults. One woman carried a basket heavy with herbs; an old man played a battered flute as he walked. Scents tangled in the air—sweat, horses, oil, liquor, roasting meat, dried fish, metal, herbs—and beneath them all, a thin, constant layer of blood.
Jin Seoryeong twitched her nose. Blood was everywhere. Fresh wounds, old scars soaked into cloth, dried blood inside scabbards, blood that had never quite washed from sleeves. She had smelled blood in the village too—game, chickens, her own scraped knees, the blood of bandits. But here it mixed so naturally with everything else. Men laughed with swords at their waists. Others ate dumplings with hands that still carried the scent. One sharp-eyed man tossed a coin to a roadside child even as his gaze promised violence.
She found it all strange. And a little entertaining.
Hwarin, riding at an angle on her horse, watched her. “Smelling things again?”
Jin Seoryeong nodded. “Yeah.”
“Like an animal.”
“There’s an animal smell too.”
Hwarin’s words caught for a moment. “Where?”
Jin Seoryeong pointed left. “There.”
As Hwarin turned, a wild boar burst from the trees, saw the travelers, and vanished again. A carter yelped a curse. Children laughed and pointed. Hwarin stared after it, then looked back at Jin Seoryeong.
“What are you?”
“Jin Seoryeong.”
“That’s your name.”
“Then what?”
Hwarin pressed a hand to her forehead. The girl never took anything as a joke. She simply did not understand how unusual her senses were. Most people assumed others experienced the world much as they did. Jin Seoryeong took it further—she believed everyone smelled what she smelled, heard what she heard, saw what she saw. Sometimes it made Hwarin’s skin crawl.
She had seen talented children before. Ones who memorized sword forms at a glance, mastered difficult breathing techniques in three days, or drew sword qi while still young. But Jin Seoryeong was different. Her talent had not been taught. It was as though a beast called “combat” already lived inside her, using her eyes, ears, nose, and fingertips to read the world.
Hwarin asked suddenly, “Who here feels the strongest to you?”
Jin Seoryeong did not answer at once. She looked slowly over the road—porters pushing carts, swordsmen on horseback, merchants bargaining, young men whose swords were more decoration than weapon, a middle-aged man carrying a worn blade and a wine jug, a man whose footsteps barely stirred the dust despite his muddy clothes.
Her gaze stopped on a middle-aged man in gray robes. Nothing about him stood out. Average height, ordinary face. He could have been a porter or a servant from a minor sect. But Jin Seoryeong knew at once. His breathing was different. His stride was different. When his foot touched the ground, the force did not scatter. He carried no weight, yet he was not light.
She pointed. “That man.”
Hwarin’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “Why?”
“His breathing is quiet.”
“……”
“His footsteps are strange too.”
Hwarin said nothing for a moment. She was right. The man was no ordinary traveler. He had deliberately suppressed his presence, yet his center never wavered. At the very least, he was elder-level in some sect. And Jin Seoryeong had seen it. Or rather, smelled and heard it.
Hwarin laughed despite herself. “Monster.”
Jin Seoryeong turned. “Me?”
“Yes.”
“Is that praise?”
“Half.”
“What’s the other half?”
“Worry.”
Jin Seoryeong did not understand. How could praise and worry exist together? To her, strength was simply good. The stronger you were, the farther you could go, the more you could clash, the longer you could endure. Yet every time Hwarin saw strength, her face sometimes grew concerned. Jin Seoryeong could not grasp it.
At that moment the gray-robed man turned his head. Their eyes met. Jin Seoryeong did not look away. She simply watched. Is he strong? How strong? Weaker than Hwarin? Weaker than the old man at the inn, but much stronger than the braggarts on the road. The thoughts moved plainly across her face.
The man’s gaze flickered. A child had read him. He studied her for a breath, then looked away as though nothing had happened. Yet his fingers moved, almost imperceptibly, inside his sleeve.
Hwarin saw it. Caution. The man was wary of Jin Seoryeong.
“Don’t hold a strong person’s gaze too long,” she said quietly.
“Why?”
“The strong recognize the strong.”
“That’s good, then.”
“You’re still weak.”
Jin Seoryeong fell silent. It was true. She was weaker than Hwarin, far weaker than the gray-robed elder at the inn, and she would struggle against the man who had just passed. The fact did not displease her. It felt oddly pleasant. There were many strong people. That meant there were many heights still to climb.
She adjusted her grip on the spear. The wooden shaft felt familiar, but insufficient. She now knew there were worlds this spear could not reach. Someday she would need something heavier. Like the massive halberd from her dreams—something that could split the earth and crush both weapon and arm together.
Her fingertips grew warm at the thought.
Then a sharp voice cut across the road.
“You little beggar brat!”
Crack.
A child no older than ten tumbled to the ground. Jin Seoryeong’s eyes moved toward the sound. The boy was painfully thin, ribs visible, clothes torn, hair matted, face streaked with dirt and blood. Two men in black stood over him, short swords at their waists. Their eyes were vicious, but their bodies held no real strength.
One grabbed the child by the hair. “Where’s the money?”
“I don’t have any.”
“None?”
Crack. The second blow split the boy’s lip. Blood ran. Passersby glanced and kept walking. Some looked away. Some quickened their steps. A merchant dragged his stall back so blood would not stain his goods. A beggar curled tighter in the corner.
This was common in the martial world. The weak were beaten, the weaker were robbed, and bystanders stayed out of it. Interfering could mean a knife in the ribs—perhaps poisoned, perhaps backed by some sect. In the jianghu, meddling in unknown fights was usually foolish.
Hwarin watched the scene, then looked at Jin Seoryeong. She wondered how the girl would react. Anger? Pity? Indifference?
Jin Seoryeong studied the child—the frightened eyes, the trembling shoulders, the way he flinched with every blow—then the two men, who were even weaker than they appeared.
“They’re weak,” she said. “Why are they doing that?”
Hwarin almost laughed. “Who?”
“Those two.” Jin Seoryeong pointed at the black-clad men. “They look much weaker than him.”
“Than the child?”
“No. Than strong people.”
Hwarin’s mouth curved. Jin Seoryeong’s standards were always like this. Most would compare the beggar boy to the two men and call the men strong. But Jin Seoryeong placed them against a larger measure. They were not strong. They were simply loud weaklings pretending to be strong by beating someone weaker.
“Weak people often torment those weaker than themselves,” Hwarin said.
“Why?”
“Because it makes them feel strong.”
Jin Seoryeong did not understand. If you wanted to feel strong, you fought someone strong. Even if you lost, you endured. If you could not endure, you took the beating and tried to last longer next time. Why pretend to be strong by striking a child already on the ground? It was boring. Truly boring.
One man kicked the boy again. Thud. The child swallowed a whimper.
Jin Seoryeong’s eyes cooled. It was not quite anger. Not quite killing intent. Just irritation. She did not like what she saw. It was boring. And noisy.
She ate the last piece of the cotton candy she had been holding—the one Hwarin had bought after Jin Seoryeong stared too long at a stall. It was sweet, different from the rice cakes in the village. It melted quickly and left a sticky trace on her tongue.
She swallowed the sweetness and walked forward.
One of the black-clad men frowned at her. “What do you want?”
Jin Seoryeong looked down at the beggar boy first. He had curled up like an animal expecting another blow. Even when he met her eyes, his expression did not change. He was not hoping for rescue. He was checking whether a new threat had appeared.
She did not like that look. The boy had no strength to fight or flee, yet he already knew he would be beaten. What a boring world.
She turned to the black-clad man. “It’s not fun.”
His eyebrow twitched. “What?”
“Hitting a weak kid.”
Silence fell. People began to stop and watch. A young girl had stepped into the middle of someone else’s trouble—trouble involving two armed men. That alone was worth watching.
The man gave a short laugh. “Crazy little bitch.”
He reached out to shove her shoulder.
His hand never touched her.
Tap.
Jin Seoryeong caught his wrist. The man’s eyes widened. When—?
She tilted her head, still holding him. “Thin. Weak. The tendons aren’t trained. You carry a sword, but you’ve threatened people more than you’ve actually used your hands.”
“You’re really weak,” she said.
Crack.
“Aaaagh!”
His wrist bent at an unnatural angle. He dropped to his knees, screaming. The crowd stirred.
“What the—?”
“Did you see that?”
“She just…”
The second man drew his sword with a snarl. Shing. Sunlight flashed along the blade.
“You want to die?”
Jin Seoryeong’s eyes changed, just slightly. A sword. Better than bare hands. Marginally.
Her spear rose slowly.
Hwarin stood behind them with arms folded, watching. She had no intention of stopping this. There was no need. These men posed no threat to Jin Seoryeong. Intervening would only be troublesome.
The man swung. Jin Seoryeong saw it coming before he moved—his foot, his shoulder, the tension in his wrist, the way his eyes said “throat” while the blade aimed for the shoulder. Slow. Far too slow.
The spear shaft moved.
Clang.
The sword flew sideways. The man’s guard opened. Jin Seoryeong stepped in.
Thud.
The butt of the spear struck his jaw. He flew sideways into a fruit stall. Apples scattered across the road. The watching crowd scrambled back. The man lay among the fruit and dust, mouth open, no sound coming out. His jaw had taken the full blow.
Jin Seoryeong looked down at the two fallen men. “Weak, but noisy.”
Hwarin finally laughed. The honesty was terrifying. It was not mockery or bravado. Jin Seoryeong genuinely thought so. They were weak. Yet noisy. Therefore strange.
People stared at her—silver hair, red eyes, worn spear, a child who had been eating cotton candy moments ago. That same child had broken a grown man’s wrist and knocked a swordsman flying with one strike. They could not easily understand it.
There were young masters in the jianghu. Children of great clans trained from infancy on rare medicines and martial arts. Disciples of major sects held swords before they turned ten. But those children usually carried signs—fine clothes, expensive weapons, attendants, well-fed faces, the bearing of those who knew their own worth.
Jin Seoryeong was different. Ordinary clothes. Worn spear. No etiquette in her steps. Yet her eyes carried the scent of ancient battlefields.
Someone muttered, “What is that kid?”
“A Cheongseong Sect disciple?”
“At that age?”
“She just twisted his wrist…”
“Did you see her eyes?”
“Eyes that have killed before.”
Jin Seoryeong heard every word and paid them no mind. It did not matter how people saw her. Strong or weak. Fun to fight or not. That was enough.
Instead she looked at the beggar boy. He still sat on the ground, blood on his mouth, hands shaking. Jin Seoryeong remembered the cotton candy. A small piece remained in her hand—the piece she had been saving. She held it out.
“Eat.”
The boy stared blankly. “Why… are you giving it to me?”
“You’re crying.”
“……”
“Sweet things might help.”
He did not reach for it. Jin Seoryeong waited without urging. Hwarin watched with an odd expression. Moments ago the girl had broken a man’s wrist without hesitation. Now she offered sweets to a crying child. Was she kind? Merciful? Just? None of those words fit perfectly. Yet she never simply walked past what she disliked, and she gave what little she could without fuss. That combination was dangerous, yet strangely compelling.
The boy took the piece with trembling fingers. He did not eat it at once. His eyes asked whether it was truly allowed. Jin Seoryeong tilted her head. “Not going to eat it?”
“Ah…”
“Does it taste bad?”
The boy shook his head quickly and took a careful bite. His eyes widened. Sweet. Seeing his face, Jin Seoryeong nodded. “Good, right?”
The boy’s lips trembled. “Th… thank you.”
“Yeah.”
That was all. She offered no comforting words, asked no names, asked nothing at all. She simply turned to leave.
Then the man she had struck in the jaw staggered to his feet, eyes full of killing intent, blood at his mouth. From his sleeve he drew a thin, sharp throwing knife.
Jin Seoryeong’s nose wrinkled. Poison. Strong.
Hwarin’s voice dropped. “Step back.”
The words were not meant for Jin Seoryeong. The crowd hurriedly retreated. Hwarin’s presence had spread in an instant.
The man gritted his teeth, blade aimed. “I’ll kill you.”
Jin Seoryeong tilted her head. “Why?”
“What?”
“You hit the weak kid first.”
His face twisted. “What does that have to do with you?”
“I didn’t like it.”
“So you broke my wrist?”
“Yeah.”
The conversation died. The man had no reply. Jin Seoryeong truly believed that. There was no complicated justification, no shared righteousness, no righteous fury. She had simply disliked what she saw and acted because they were weak. That simplicity was what drove people mad.
He threw the knife.
Shhhk.
It flew straight for her throat. But to Jin Seoryeong the trajectory was clear from the moment it left his hand. The spear tip moved.
Ting.
The knife spun away. At the same time she lunged forward. The man’s eyes widened. She was low—foot pressing the earth, waist turning, spear butt slamming into his stomach.
Thud.
Air burst from his lungs. She did not stop. Her foot came down on his. He lost balance. The spear shaft pressed against his throat, just below the jaw. One push and his neck would break.
His face went white.
“I don’t like the smell of poison,” she said quietly.
His eyes shook. She had known. From scent alone.
She withdrew the spear. “Next time fight head-on.”
“……”
“It’s more fun that way.”
The man could not speak. The crowd had gone utterly silent. A young girl had nearly killed someone. Stranger still was that she had not been angry. There was no rage in her eyes, no cruel pleasure. Only boredom. The moment poison entered the fight, her interest had died.
Hwarin looked at those eyes and thought: This child likes fighting. But not every fight. She likes head-on clashes, power meeting power, pushing until it feels like death and enduring until it feels like death. She does not dislike cowardice on moral grounds—she simply finds it noise that ruins the battle. That makes her more dangerous. Her standard is closer to preference than good and evil. Yet that preference sometimes takes the shape of justice.
She sighed. “Let’s go.”
Jin Seoryeong shouldered her spear. “Yeah.”
Behind them, whispers continued.
“The Cheongseong Sect is raising a kid like that?”
“Is she a disciple?”
“Cheongseong disciples don’t use spears, do they?”
“Silver hair and red eyes… ominous.”
“Did you see? She knocked the poisoned knife away.”
“That’s not a child. That’s a monster.”
Jin Seoryeong heard it all and did not care. Being called a monster no longer felt strange. Hwarin sometimes looked at her the same way—half praise, half worry.
She followed Hwarin. Then asked, “Am I strange?”
Hwarin laughed at once. “You’re just realizing?”
“Why?”
“You like fighting too much.”
“Is that bad?”
“Most people don’t enjoy risking their lives.”
Jin Seoryeong thought for a moment. Life. Danger. The possibility of death. Those were clearly heavy words. Villagers turned pale when injured. Her mother worried every time she climbed the mountain. Her father sighed silently when she returned late with a spear. Hwarin’s voice grew quiet when she spoke of death. But to Jin Seoryeong, fighting felt different.
When she faced a strong opponent, her breath grew hot. Her feet gripped the earth. Her fingers tightened on her weapon. Her vision narrowed, then widened. The opponent’s shoulders, wrists, feet, eyes, breathing, heartbeat—all became close. In that moment everything else vanished—food, sleep, the village, her mother’s scolding, her father’s worry. Only herself, the opponent, and the weapon remained.
She liked that feeling. In those moments she felt truly alive.
So she answered honestly. “When I fight strong people, I feel alive.”
Hwarin was silent for a moment. The words were dangerous. But they were not lies or bravado. Jin Seoryeong truly felt that way. There was no shame or pride in her eyes—only fact.
“What about weak people?” Hwarin asked quietly.
“Boring.”
“Killing them?”
Jin Seoryeong considered. She had moments during the fight with the bandits when she could have killed. She had one just now. A little more pressure and the throat would pierce, a little more force and bones would break. It would not have been difficult. But those moments had not been especially enjoyable. Once the opponent could no longer move, the fight ended. An ended fight was boring.
“Killing isn’t fun,” she said.
Hwarin’s gaze shifted slightly.
“But fighting until someone might die is fun.”
“……”
“Especially if they’re strong.”
Hwarin let out a helpless laugh. Mad words. Truly mad. Yet in this blood-scented jianghu, they somehow fit perfectly.
Orthodox disciples spoke of righteousness. Unorthodox warriors spoke of power. Demonic Cult madmen spoke of conviction. Wanderers spoke of money, merchants of profit, great clans of bloodline. But Jin Seoryeong belonged to none of them completely. She spoke of fighting—clashing until the very last breath. That was her language.
Hwarin looked ahead. “If you want to live long with that personality, you’ll need to learn a lot.”
“By getting hit?”
“Yes. By getting hit.”
Jin Seoryeong nodded. “I can do that.”
Hwarin smiled. That, at least, she could believe. Jin Seoryeong did not fear being struck or losing. She disliked only failing to learn anything. If such a child found the right path, how terrifying would she become?
Hwarin shook her head. She still did not know whether the Cheongseong Sect could handle this child—or whether the child could stay within the sect.
The sun had begun to sink. Shadows stretched long across the road. People moved faster. Carters urged their horses, merchants shouted for inns, herbalists packed their stalls, beggars stretched their hands wider before the crowds thinned. The jianghu was noisy by day, but night was more dangerous. By day there were eyes—people watching, merchants calling, the road open. At night, bandits moved, poison users moved, nameless assassins moved. Beasts descended. Sometimes martial artists more frightening than beasts followed the scent of blood.
Hwarin scanned the road. “We need to reach the next inn before sunset.”
Jin Seoryeong nodded.
Then her steps stopped. Hwarin stopped at once. “What is it?”
Jin Seoryeong turned slowly toward the right-hand forest. Wind blew through the trees—leaves, earth, beasts, and blood. Not the faint blood scent that had lingered on the road. This was fresh, thick, the smell of newly opened wounds. Beneath it was metal—steel striking steel. Unsteady breathing mixed in. Someone was being hunted.
“They’re fighting,” she said.
Hwarin extended her senses. Faint, but present. Two—no, three—martial artists. And one more. Short clashes continued.
Hwarin’s expression tightened. “We’re passing by.”
“Why?”
“In the jianghu you don’t interfere in other people’s fights.”
“There might be strong people.”
“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t get involved.”
Jin Seoryeong did not fully understand. If there were strong people, she wanted to see them. Ideally, clash with them. But Hwarin was not wrong either. She had said such things often brought trouble—poison, ambushes, sects, grudges. Those could attach themselves in boring ways.
She looked at the forest, then started walking again.
At that moment someone burst from the trees.
A young woman in blue robes, perhaps in her early twenties, blood streaming from her shoulder, clothes torn, breath ragged. She staggered onto the road, saw Hwarin and Jin Seoryeong, and her eyes lit up.
“Help me!”
Almost at the same instant, three black-clad men emerged from the forest. These were different from the thugs on the road. Jin Seoryeong knew it the moment she saw them. Their steps were light. Their sword hands were steady. Their breathing was even. And the blood scent on them ran deep—not the smell of one or two kills, but many. The scent of men who had killed often.
Her eyes brightened, just slightly. Good. Better than before.
The blue-robed woman retreated behind Hwarin. The black-clad men paused when they saw her—red robes, sword at her waist, presence that could not be hidden. They recognized she was no ordinary traveler.
The man in the center spoke quietly. “Cheongseong Sect?”
Hwarin sighed. “This is getting troublesome.”
“Hand over the woman.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You’ll regret it.”
“I’m already regretting not just continuing down the road.”
The man’s eyes grew cold. Killing intent spread. Travelers on the road sensed the atmosphere and began backing away. A merchant yanked his reins. A carter swallowed curses and turned his cart. The previously noisy road fell silent in an instant. People knew this presence was no joke. When blades were drawn, blood would flow. When blood flowed, someone would die.
Jin Seoryeong felt the sudden stillness and smiled faintly. The tangled scents of the road had retreated. Only blood, steel, and tension remained. Good. This feeling. Her breath grew slightly warmer.
“We are from the Black Snake Society,” the man said.
Hwarin gave a short laugh. “So?”
“If you get involved for no reason, the Cheongseong Sect will bleed too.”
“Was your name worth that much?”
The man’s face hardened. Hwarin placed her hand on her sword hilt. “Let’s see.”
The moment the words left her mouth, two men moved. Fast. Swords flashed from both sides toward Hwarin. Her blade sang free.
Shrrring.
A clear ring split the air. Sparks flew. Hwarin did not meet the strikes head-on. She redirected them, using their force to open gaps, then thrust into those openings. One Black Snake Society man twisted desperately. His sleeve split. A moment later and his side would have opened.
Jin Seoryeong watched for an instant. Redirecting. Not taking force head-on. Similar to what Hwarin showed me this morning. Just as she thought she wanted to see more, the remaining man charged her.
He had underestimated her. A child. Even with a spear, she was still a child. Deal with her first, then the Cheongseong woman. He aimed for the throat from the start. Quick finish.
The sword came in at a diagonal. Fast. Different from the street thugs. His feet were alive, his wrist light, no hesitation at the tip. Jin Seoryeong’s eyes deepened. Good. This one’s a little better.
The spear shaft moved.
Clang.
Sword and spear met. The man’s eyes widened. Heavy. Not the strength of a child. His wrist rang. Jin Seoryeong drove forward.
Thud.
The spear butt slammed into his ribs. “Kuh!”
His body lurched sideways but did not fall. He endured. Jin Seoryeong’s eyes sparkled. He didn’t fall. A little fun.
The man gritted his teeth and swung again—throat, shoulder, thigh. Three consecutive strikes. An ordinary person would have lost their head to the first, their shoulder to the second, their leg to the third. But Jin Seoryeong did not retreat. The spear moved.
Clang. First strike blocked.
Her foot shifted half a step.
Clang. Second strike slid along the shaft.
Her waist turned.
Clang. Third strike was knocked away.
The man’s face stiffened. Impossible. She had blocked them. Not clumsily—she had grown more precise with each one. The first she had overpowered. The second she had changed the angle. The third she had seemed to anticipate entirely.
Jin Seoryeong was truly learning. From the first strike she absorbed speed. From the second she read wrist habits. From the third she predicted the next movement.
A chill ran down the man’s spine. This was no child. This was a beast that grew while fighting.
Jin Seoryeong spun her spear. Her fingertips burned. Her heart raced. Good. Truly good. The faster the sword came, the clearer her eyes became. The rougher the opponent’s breathing, the calmer her own. The hand gripping the spear grew more natural.
For a moment a red afterimage flashed—crimson sky, hooves, earth mixed with blood. Soldiers closing in from all sides. Spear tips raining down, shields pressing like walls. In the center stood a man with a massive halberd. Surrounded on every side, yet laughing. Madly. Joyfully. He swung. Armor crumpled. Shields shattered. Men flew. That laughter scraped at something inside Jin Seoryeong’s chest.
Her lips curved upward, just slightly.
The Black Snake Society man saw the smile and felt it instinctively. Those eyes did not belong to a young girl. They belonged to someone who had survived many battlefields. Or rather, a mad beast that enjoyed battlefields themselves.
Jin Seoryeong moved. Much faster than before. Before he could react, the spear tip was at his face. He jerked his head aside.
Slash.
His cheek opened shallowly. Blood sprayed. He swallowed a breath. A moment later and his eye would have been pierced.
Jin Seoryeong looked at the blood on her spear tip. “Now it’s getting fun.”
Cold sweat beaded on the man’s hands. Jin Seoryeong, by contrast, looked increasingly alive. That expression unsettled him further. Fights normally wore people down—wounds accumulated, breathing grew ragged, hands grew heavy. But this child was the opposite. The longer it went, the clearer she became. She read faster, entered more boldly, smiled more joyfully.
Meanwhile, Hwarin’s fight grew fiercer. The two Black Snake Society men were not weak. Their swords were short and vicious. Not as elegant as orthodox sword paths, but honed for cutting flesh. They stayed low, elbows tight, blades close to their bodies. When an opening appeared they thrust; when blocked they twisted their wrists and cut again. But Hwarin did not waver. Her sword moved like mountain wind—seeming to meet head-on, then redirecting, seeming to retreat, then piercing. The Cheongseong sword was said to resemble a mountain: steadfast yet clear, gentle yet deep. Hwarin’s blade lacked the depth of the sect leader or elders, but it carried the sharp edge of youth.
Clang. A sword was redirected.
Slash. One man’s sleeve split. Blood droplets flew.
The second man thrust from behind, but Hwarin pivoted on one foot. Her sword drew a circle and pushed his blade aside.
“Is this the level of the Black Snake Society?” she asked quietly.
One man ground his teeth. “Arrogant bitch.”
“The ones who say that never last long.”
Her sword tip flashed. The man jerked back. Skin at his throat split shallowly.
The blue-robed woman watched from behind, breathing hard. Strong. She had heard the name Cheongseong Hwarin—young, stable sword path, considerable real combat experience. Seeing her in person, she was sharper than rumored. But more frightening was the silver-haired girl beside her. That child was smiling. While fighting. While blood flew and blades passed before her eyes.
The woman shuddered without meaning to. What is that child?
Jin Seoryeong thrust again.
Thud.
The man’s sword shook violently. His wrist tingled. The strength was abnormal. Her technique was still rough, her footwork imperfect, her spear recovery sometimes late. But raw power and instinct covered everything. And she never repeated mistakes. Once she saw an opening, she corrected it immediately. Once a blade grazed her, she never allowed the same angle again.
The man knew instinctively: if this dragged on, he would die. He reached into his robe.
Jin Seoryeong’s eyes narrowed at once. Scent. Poison. Thicker than the throwing knife.
Hwarin’s voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t breathe!”
Jin Seoryeong held her breath instantly. Black powder exploded from the man’s hand.
Whoosh.
The poison spread on the wind. Grass it touched blackened and died. The blue-robed woman’s face went pale. Deadly poison. One breath and lungs would burn.
Jin Seoryeong’s eyes cooled. Boring. Truly boring. Until moments ago it had been good. The sword was fast, the strength solid, the combination attacks decent. A little more fighting and she might have learned more. But he had used poison. Instead of clashing head-on, he had tried to ruin the body. The fight had been spoiled.
The man gave a twisted smile. “Even a monster girl can’t withstand poison.”
Jin Seoryeong did not answer. She kicked off the ground.
Crack.
Earth exploded. The man’s eyes widened. Silver hair cut through the poison cloud. Fast. Too fast. The spear parted the powder. He raised his sword desperately.
Clang.
His wrist rang. At the same time her foot slammed into his knee.
Thud.
“Kuh!”
Balance broken. Jin Seoryeong spun, spear tip stopping at his throat. Precisely at the Adam’s apple. One push and it would pierce.
His face went white.
“Don’t use poison,” she said quietly.
“……”
“It’s not fun.”
The man could not even breathe properly. The spear tip did not move. That made it more frightening. Angry people’s hands shook. Excited people lost control of their strength. But Jin Seoryeong was calm. Her face showed only that interest had died. That calmness froze him.
Hwarin watched and thought: Confirmed. Jin Seoryeong dislikes underhandedness. But it is not the same as orthodox righteousness. She does not dislike it because it is cowardly or because it harms people. She dislikes it because it ruins the fight—because it clouds the moment when body, weapon, and power collide. There is a strange combat philosophy inside this child. Not yet put into words, but clearly present. Head-on. Collision. Overwhelm. Endure. Never retreat until the end. Is this something left from the battlefield in her dreams? Or was she always like this? Hwarin could not tell.
At that moment Hwarin’s sword knocked away the final opponent’s blade.
Clang.
Her sword tip touched his throat. “That’s enough.”
The two Black Snake Society men ground their teeth. But the situation was already over. One had Jin Seoryeong’s spear at his throat. The other two were under Hwarin’s sword. They had lost. Completely.
Silence stretched. Travelers on the road watched from a distance, holding their breath. Wind scattered the remnants of the poison. Blackened grass lay on the ground.
One Black Snake Society man spoke quietly. “Cheongseong Sect…”
Hwarin did not smile. “What? Want to continue?”
“You’ll regret this.”
“Only if you make it back alive.”
The man’s face hardened. He saw the truth in her eyes. If necessary, she would kill them here. Orthodox sects were not always soft-handed. Especially those who had walked the jianghu long enough.
The men retreated slowly, anger and wariness mixed in their eyes. They looked at Jin Seoryeong once more—the silver-haired child with the spear. As if to remember those eyes. Then they vanished into the forest.
Quiet returned. Only wind remained. The blue-robed woman, tension released, sank to the ground. Blood dripped between her fingers.
Hwarin sheathed her sword and approached. “Let me see the wound.”
The woman nodded, breathing hard. The shoulder wound was deep—not to the bone, but dangerous if left untreated. Hwarin pressed a cloth from her robe against it.
“Who was chasing you?”
“The Black Snake Society.”
“I heard that. Why?”
The woman hesitated, eyes wavering. Should she speak? Should she not? Hwarin narrowed her eyes at the hesitation.
“If you don’t tell us, we can’t help you further.”
The woman clenched her teeth and drew a small wooden box from her robe. It was the size of two palms, made of old wood with worn metal fittings at the corners. A faint scent of herbs and aged paper rose from inside.
Hwarin’s gaze changed. “Is that…?”
The woman nodded. “I obtained it by chance. But they found out and came after me.”
Jin Seoryeong tilted her head. “What is it?”
“A martial arts manual,” Hwarin said quietly.
Jin Seoryeong’s eyes sparkled. “Does it make you stronger?”
“It might.”
“Sounds fun.”
Hwarin added at once, “But most of the time it brings blood.”
Jin Seoryeong looked at the box. Small. People died because of this small thing. The Black Snake Society chased, swung swords, and spread poison because of this small box. Because it contained a way to become stronger. She found that strange. To become stronger, you fought. You fell, took hits, endured, and swung again. Yet people killed, chased, and hid for a few sheets of paper. The martial world was truly a strange place. But that made it more interesting. If there were this many ways to gain strength, then there were that many reasons to fight.
Hwarin saw the look in her eyes and sighed. “Don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“The face that says it looks fun.”
“It does look fun.”
“A manual is not a toy.”
“You said it makes you stronger.”
“That’s why it’s more dangerous.”
Jin Seoryeong did not fully understand. Becoming stronger was good. Danger was also good. Danger made you focus more, learn faster. But Hwarin wore that headache-inducing expression again, so she did not ask further.
The blue-robed woman spoke carefully. “I was trying to bring this to the Cheongseong Sect.”
Hwarin’s eyes narrowed. “The Cheongseong Sect?”
“Yes. My master said… this must not fall into the Black Snake Society’s hands.”
“Your master is…”
The woman’s face darkened. That was answer enough. Hwarin asked no more.
Jin Seoryeong saw the expression. Dead, then. She could tell that much. There was a certain scent when people remembered someone’s death—not blood, but a brief sinking of breath. She had seen it in the village when a sick elder passed and people stood before the house breathing that way.
She looked at the blue-robed woman for a moment. Sad? Hurting? She did not really know. She only knew the woman was weakened now—blood flowing, breathing unsteady, hands shaking. Fighting would be difficult.
Hwarin tied the wound while speaking. “Your name?”
“Yu Soha.”
“Your sect?”
“I don’t have one now.”
“None?”
Yu Soha bit her lip. “It disappeared.”
Hwarin’s gaze grew heavier. It was not uncommon in the jianghu for a small sect to vanish—crushed by debt, burned by grudges, wiped out over a single manual. The jianghu was vast, but human lives were light. Especially the lives of those without power.
Hwarin looked at the box. “Have you opened it?”
Yu Soha shook her head. “My master told me never to open it.”
“You listened well.”
“I… don’t know much about martial arts. Even if I looked, I wouldn’t have understood.”
Jin Seoryeong gave her a curious look. A way to become stronger was inside, yet she had not opened it. Because she would not understand, or because her master had forbidden it. What would Jin Seoryeong have done? She would have opened it. Looked, even without understanding, and if she still did not understand, tried it with her body. If she got hurt, she would try again. But this woman had not opened it. Strange. But not unpleasant.
Hwarin thought for a moment. The sun was setting. The Black Snake Society had retreated but would not give up entirely—not with a manual at stake. Staying on the road too long invited another attack. Cheongseong was still far. They had an injured person. And beside them was Jin Seoryeong.
Her head began to ache. “We’ll go to the next inn first.”
Yu Soha bowed quickly. “Thank you.”
Hwarin waved a hand. “Save the thanks. If the Black Snake Society returns, it’ll only get more troublesome.”
Jin Seoryeong shouldered her spear. “They’ll come back?”
Hwarin looked at her. The girl’s eyes already held a trace of anticipation. “They might.”
“Will they bring strong people?”
“Please don’t make that face.”
“Strong people are good.”
“Our goal is to reach the Cheongseong Sect. Not to fight everyone on the way.”
Jin Seoryeong considered. “Are there many strong people at the Cheongseong Sect?”
“Yes.”
“Then we should go.”
Hwarin finally felt a small relief. Thankfully, there was a simple way to move this child. Strong people. That single phrase was enough.
Yu Soha watched their exchange with a strange expression. What is this silver-haired girl? She was not a Cheongseong disciple, yet she traveled with Hwarin. Her speech was childishly simple, yet she had driven back Black Snake Society fighters. And instead of fearing strong opponents, she looked forward to them. Yu Soha felt a chill. The jianghu held many kinds of people—those who spoke of justice, those who chased money, those who sought revenge, those mad for honor, those drunk on killing. But this child was different. She walked toward strength itself.
Hwarin helped Yu Soha to her feet. Jin Seoryeong walked ahead. Travelers on the road gave way. Their gazes had changed. At first there had been curiosity, then surprise. Now there was wariness. The silver-haired spear-wielding girl who had broken the wrist of a man tormenting a weak child, knocked away a poisoned throwing knife, and pressed her spear to a Black Snake Society fighter’s throat.
Rumors would spread. Jianghu rumors traveled faster than wind and cut sharper than blades. Someone among today’s travelers would reach an inn and say: Cheongseong Hwarin is traveling with a strange child. Silver hair, red eyes, uses a spear, smiles while fighting. Some would exaggerate. The wrist turned to powder the moment she touched it. She smelled poison and remained fine. She toyed with Black Snake Society fighters. Others would speak more ominously. There was a ghost in that child’s eyes. An evil spirit from a past life clung to her. She smiled at the sight of blood.
Jin Seoryeong knew none of this. Even if she had, she would not have cared. She was thinking of something else—the third sword strike from the Black Snake Society man. If it had come a little faster, it would have grazed her shoulder. Until the poison, it had not been bad. Next time she faced a similar sword, she would block it faster.
She also remembered the sword Hwarin had used. Redirecting force instead of meeting it head-on. She did not particularly like it, but it seemed necessary. Among strong people there were surely many who redirected force that way. Pure strength alone would not suffice. She would need to be faster. Heavier. Or so overwhelming they could not redirect it.
She tightened her grip on the spear. Someday, when she wielded a heavy weapon like the halberd from her dreams, would she be able to crush anyone who tried to redirect her force—grinding their sword, body, and breath together? The thought made her chest beat faster.
The sun sank lower. The roof of a small inn appeared at the end of the road. From afar came the scents of liquor and oil on the wind. Horses whinnied. Voices murmured. And beneath it all, very faintly, an unfamiliar presence mixed in.
Jin Seoryeong did not stop walking. But her lips curved upward.
Hwarin saw it. “Why are you smiling?”
“I smell something,” Jin Seoryeong said, looking ahead.
“What smell?”
“The smell of a strong person.”
Hwarin closed her eyes for a moment. She had simply wanted to eat and sleep quietly at an inn today. Truly. But Jin Seoryeong was beside her. And Jin Seoryeong said she smelled a strong person. That usually meant trouble was coming.
Yu Soha looked between them anxiously. “Is it… the Black Snake Society?”
Hwarin did not answer. Jin Seoryeong sniffed the air a little longer. Not blood. Not poison. Old steel. Dried herbs. And a deeply settled breath. Different from the gray-robed man who had passed earlier. Different from the old man at the inn. But not weak.
“I don’t know yet,” she said.
Hwarin sighed. “Please, let’s just eat and sleep today.”
Jin Seoryeong nodded. “Is there meat?”
“Probably.”
“Then good.”
Hwarin laughed. Truly simple. Strong people. Fighting. Meat. Family. And now this strange thing called a manual. Jin Seoryeong’s world was still small. But what would happen when that small world collided with the jianghu?
Hwarin did not know. She only knew one thing for certain: after today alone, rumors would already exist. And those rumors would bring new people. The curious. Those seeking the strong. Those looking to use her. Those wanting to kill her. And those who wanted to fight her.
Thinking of that future, Hwarin muttered quietly, “Things are getting tangled before we even reach the Cheongseong Sect.”
Jin Seoryeong heard and asked, “Is tangled bad?”
“Most of the time, yes.”
“What if strong people appear?”
“That would be good for you.”
Jin Seoryeong nodded. “Then it’s a little good.”
Hwarin could not hold back her laughter. Yu Soha watched the laugh and Jin Seoryeong’s calm face and felt even more confused. A strange traveling party. A Cheongseong swordswoman. A silver-haired spear-wielding girl. A pursued woman. And a martial manual that called for blood.
The inn roof drew closer. The sun sank slowly behind the mountains. Long shadows stretched across the road. Jin Seoryeong walked upon them. Today she had learned more clearly: the jianghu was noisy. The jianghu was dirty. The jianghu was a place where the weak tormented the weaker, where the strong passed quietly, where people drew swords over a single small wooden box. There was poison, cowardice, lies, money, sects, and grudges. But there were also strong people. Truly many of them. That single fact made her like this place.
The village had been warm. There had been her mother’s cooking, her father’s sighs, familiar mountains and streams. But this road held something hot. Something that made breath quicken, fingertips tremble, something that knocked at the inside of the chest.
Jin Seoryeong adjusted her grip on the spear. She was still weak. Weaker than Hwarin, weaker than the old man at the inn, weaker than the countless people in this vast jianghu who could defeat her in three steps. That fact was deeply enjoyable. Being weak was not an end. It was a beginning. It meant she could take more hits, learn more, endure longer, and someday press her spear tip to the throat of someone stronger.
She smiled, very faintly. The smile was still small. But Hwarin saw it. And thought: Someday this smile might make the entire jianghu uneasy.
When they reached the inn, a low laugh sounded from inside. Jin Seoryeong looked at the door. She did not yet know who was within. But the scent was good. The scent of a strong person. Blood, steel, and old breath. And the smell of roasting meat.
She nodded, satisfied. “Nice.”
Hwarin spoke as though resigned. “Please, let’s eat first.”
The door opened. Sound, scent, and gazes poured out all at once. Jin Seoryeong’s second day in the jianghu was not yet over.