Boy, Draw Comics!
What kind of plot unfolds when you build a story around two simple concepts: martial arts fiction and transmigration?
Truth be told, it is hardly a question that demands much thought. With even a moment's search, one can find a boundless sea of tales about protagonists waking up inside the world of a wuxia novel. Almost without exception, those heroes navigate a predictable sequence of trials and arrive at a tidy, happy ending.
Whether born into luxury or crawling from the gutter, the protagonist invariably commands absurd talent or a miraculous transmigration perk. Wielding those peerless gifts, they skyrocket through cultivation realms, advancing step by step toward their grand design. In the end, having attained absolute supremacy, they fulfill their destiny—crowned as the Realm's Number One under Heaven or ascending to immortality as an enduring legend.
That, in a nutshell, is the standard recipe for transmigration wuxia.
Now, let us turn the question on its head.
What happens if the star of that tale is just an ordinary student or average young man ripped straight out of modern civilization?
What happens?
The boy answered the question he had posed to himself inside his own mind.
You just learn the bitter, bone-deep truth that fiction and reality have nothing in common.
Stories are thrilling and dramatic precisely because they are stories. Stumbling into miraculous encounters on the brink of death, rising eight times after falling seven, conquering insurmountable odds through sheer narrative grit—none of that belongs to someone like me. The fragile psyche of a modern human, coddled by the safest and most convenient era in human history, can hardly endure the merciless savagery of the Central Plains Murim.
Secret manual duplication, my foot.
Of all the gifts the heavens could bestow, his transmigration perk was a total white elephant.
Sighing at the bleak thought, the boy, Dokgo Sanwol, trudged down the dusty thoroughfare. His eyes took in the alien garments and traditional architecture that, even after several years, still felt foreign. Today, more than usual, he found himself terribly homesick for Earth.
Now sixteen years of age, Dokgo Sanwol was a transmigrator. In his previous life, he had been a twenty-four-year-old manhwa artist from South Korea who died in an unfortunate accident, only to awaken inside the dying body of an orphan named Dokgo Sanwol in this world.
The sensation of the original owner's memories being branded into his consciousness the moment he crossed over had been nothing short of nightmarish. It wasn't because his past identity became muddled with the boy's, triggering some grand existential crisis. It was simply that the scenes carved into the boy's mind were unspeakably horrific.
Honestly speaking, how often does a civilized modern citizen ever witness severed limbs and sprayed viscera? To say nothing of rotting flesh and the livid, bloodless faces of cold corpses.
Yet he had grown numb to it faster than he expected. For the Central Plains Murim, which Sanwol now experienced firsthand in his second life, proved far crueler than any nightmare. In this realm, lacking power and authority meant it was only natural for everything to be stripped away from you. He counted his lucky stars that he had managed to stumble upon the Three Talents Sword Technique and Three Talents Heart Method in a marketplace stall. Had he failed to master even those third-rate martial arts, he would have crossed the River Styx twice over by now.
"Haa... When will my luck finally turn around?"
Sighs and muttering had become second nature ever since he joined the ranks of martial artists. Murmuring out of habit, Sanwol pushed open the door to the single rented room he had scraped together the funds to secure.
Screeech. The hinges squealed like the door to a haunted shack. He always promised himself he would find time to oil them, but he kept putting it off. Aside from the racket, it didn't really bother him; if anything, it doubled quite nicely as an intruder alarm.
Reaching into his robes, Sanwol withdrew a heavy coin pouch and set it upon the small wooden table. His worldly possessions were sparse: a single table, two chairs, two quilts, one pillow, and a modest chest of drawers. That was the entirety of his estate. He earned decent money, but property prices were so exorbitant that purchasing a proper house was out of the question. For now, he had no choice but to settle for this cramped solitary room.
Sanwol peeled off his travel-worn martial uniform and outer garments, folded them neatly, changed into sleeping clothes, and spread his bedding across the floor. He didn't intend to turn in just yet.
"Man, I miss real beds so damn much. A soft, plush mattress... Should I just buy a few more quilts?" Contemplating the thought seriously while smoothing down the covers, Sanwol shook his head. It would only mean more laundry, and it still wouldn't match the comfort of a spring mattress. Besides, his current bedding was warm enough to sleep in without issue.
Instead of flopping down, he settled onto the quilt and crossed his legs into a lotus posture. Closing his eyes and focusing his mind, Sanwol drew in a silent breath and let it out in a long, measured exhale. It was the minor heavenly cycle of the Three Talents Heart Method, the sole internal cultivation art he possessed.
Objectively speaking, Sanwol possessed extraordinary martial talent. For starters, his comprehension when digesting secret manuals was entirely off the charts. Both the Three Talents Sword Technique and the Three Talents Heart Method had taken him a mere week from first glance to step firmly into the third-rate realm. On average, initiating into a martial discipline took several months, or at best a few weeks for the gifted. His kinesthetic talent for executing forms was just as remarkable. He manipulated internal energy with effortless intuition, steadily expanding his power day after day.
Three years had passed since the original thirteen-year-old Dokgo Sanwol perished and modern-day Sanwol possessed his body. The helpless orphan who had been slain by common roadside bandits had transformed, in the span of just three years, into an expert of the Peak Realm. He had finally built the bare minimum foundation to live like a decent human being.
"Phew..."
Having completed his cultivation cycle and gathered his internal qi, Sanwol opened his eyes. The hour for his reservation at the inn was drawing near.
"Is it that late already?"
Murmuring to himself, Sanwol changed back into his street clothes and tucked the coin pouch back into the breast of his robes. He could have tied it to his sash, but the constant anxiety of pickpockets compelled him to keep it pressed firmly against his chest. Fully prepared, Sanwol stepped outside to another screech of the rusted hinges.
"Excuse me! Waiter?"
Pushing the inn's doors wide open, Sanwol called out the moment he crossed the threshold. At his voice, an attendant came scurrying over and bowed deeply in greeting.
"Aiya, if it isn't the esteemed guest who reserved our first-class private room for this evening!"
When Sanwol nodded and flicked a few copper coins toward him, the waiter smiled broadly while shaking his hands in mock refusal. It was a bizarre sight—grinning ear-to-ear while feigning modesty—but knowing it was customary etiquette, Sanwol paid it no mind and pressed the tip into his palm.
Pocketing the silver gratuity, the waiter practically beamed, a radiant flower of joy blossoming across his face as he briskly ushered Sanwol inside. In ancient terms, haengha referred to gifts or money given to service workers—in modern parlance, a tip. As a laborer receiving a handsome bonus on top of his standard wages, the boy had every reason to be in high spirits.
"Right this way! Please make yourself comfortable and feast to your heart's content! Our head chef personally selected today's finest ingredients to prepare his signature specialties—you won't be disappointed, honored guest!"
Puffing out his chest as if he had cooked the feast himself, the waiter gave his bold boast. Sanwol dismissed the eager attendant, picked up his chopsticks, and slowly sampled each dish laid out before him. And truly—sublime delicacy! The chef had earned every ounce of his pride.
Indulging in rare luxury, the sheer bliss washed away the accumulated fatigue of the past year. Around this time every year, he treated himself to celebrate the anniversary of his transmigration; in a sense, it was his second birthday.
"This is why you grind to the Peak Realm...!"
It had already been four months since he broke through from First-rate to the Peak Realm. To think that advancing by a single cultivation stage could bring such a dramatic upgrade in compensation and treatment at the escort agency!
As Sanwol busily shoveled food into his mouth, the boisterous banter of several men filtered through the thin partition from the adjoining room. By their slurred speech and loose laughter, both sounded thoroughly plastered.
"Khaaah! Good stuff."
"The head chef here really knows what he's doing."
"Ain't that the truth. By the way, heard any interesting rumors lately?"
"If there was any good gossip, it'd already have spread across the whole district."
It sounded like standard, idle chatter over wine. Yet hearing the man complain about the utter lack of excitement perked Sanwol's ears right up. After all, this primitive, ancient world—the Central Plains Murim—was desperately impoverished when it came to genuine entertainment.
Of course, there were plenty of pastimes. Tea ceremonies and calligraphy were time-honored pursuits of refined gentlemen, as were fine art and bonsai gardening. Those with deep pockets could indulge in gourmet feasts or visit pleasure houses to tumble with courtesans and fulfill their carnal desires. But the "fun" the drunkard next door was looking for—the "fun" Sanwol so desperately craved—was nothing like that. What this world lacked was something far more visceral: the electrifying, cathartic thrill that flooded your brain with pure dopamine.
The conversation next door drifted to a new topic.
"Come to think of it, I heard the bookstore got in a new novel."
"Bah, don't even mention it. Who has time for that when we're already busy enough trying to decipher martial manuals?"
"True enough. They're dead boring. Every single plotline is smothered in scholarly Confucian scriptures and moral lectures—where's the fun in reading that?"
"Spring pictures are just as bad. They act so ridiculously prudish that you can't feel a thing."
Novels and erotic art.
Come to think of it, Sanwol hadn't touched a single novel since transmigrating into this world. Erotic scrolls were what they were, but novels? Even without reading them, he knew full well how dreadfully agonizing the literature circulating through the Central Plains was. I could write something ten times more entertaining than that garbage. That very thought had crossed his mind dozens of times...
Wait.
At that exact moment, his upper dantian seemed to burst wide open, an epiphany striking like a bolt of lightning.
Why didn't I think of this before?
Sanwol's pupils trembled, and a crooked smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. If there were no entertaining novels, he could just write one himself. No, why stop there? Go one step further: draw manhwa. Not just plain prose on parchment, but bringing a dynamic narrative to life through sequential art.
"I can't just sit around here!"
The time had come to introduce the ignorant folks of the Central Plains—who had only ever known bland, boiled chicken in the name of literature—to the electrifying, addictive crunch of fried chicken: comics.
Leaving his unfinished banquet behind, Sanwol dashed straight back to his rented room, sat at the table, and took up a brush. Jotting down various themes and motifs one by one, he pondered what story to tell first. Sheets of paper grew drenched in black ink until, at last, the theme of his debut work crystallized.
"...It'll work. This is guaranteed to hit."
None other than that bastion of passion, style, and romance—a true-blue boy's comic.