Legend of the Wandering Wolf Knight
In the world of storytelling, there exists a concept known as the Twelve Stages of the Hero's Journey.
It is a narrative framework that dissects and defines how the heroes commonly celebrated in epic tales are born, how they struggle, and how they ultimately advance. To anyone who has ever studied creative writing or aspired to draw comics, it is an indispensable and universally renowned theory.
And it was a theory that, until now, did not exist anywhere in the Central Plains.
"Aaargh..."
Having gripped a brush uninterrupted for hours on end, Sanwol threw his arms upward in a luxurious stretch before collapsing flat on his back.
He had begun circulating his internal qi well past midnight, and it was only toward the tail end of the Ox Hour—nearly four in the morning—that he had finally pierced through the critical threshold.
From that moment on, he had not slept a wink, pouring every ounce of his focus onto blank sheets of paper. Off in the distance, the faint, clear crow of a rooster echoed through the dawn chill—unmistakable proof that he had pulled another complete all-nighter.
"Still... it's practically finished."
Measured against the classic Twelve Stages of the Hero's Journey, the plot of Nangahyeopjeon's first volume covered roughly up to the midpoint.
The protagonist was born to an ordinary pair of tenant farmers in a nondescript rural hamlet. Blessed with staggering martial aptitude, the boy harbored zero ambition for martial arts; his only wish was to provide for his aging parents and live a tranquil, happy life. But that peace was shattered without warning when bandits from the Greenwood ravaged the village. The hamlet was razed to ash, and the boy's parents lost their lives in a desperate bid to hide him from the raiders.
Left with nothing, the orphaned protagonist encountered masters from a regional sect who arrived too late to avert the tragedy. Burning with a singular desire to avenge his kin, he joined their ranks and threw himself into training. Fuelled by the dark kindling of vengeance, his latent genius erupted, allowing him to master the sect's martial disciplines at an astonishing pace.
After sweeping the sect's competitive tournament and defeating every senior disciple, the young hero marched off to settle his blood debt. Backed by trusted comrades introduced by his master—warriors who each harbored their own bitter grudges against the bandits—they launched a daring raid on the Greenwood stronghold. Slashing down every brigand whose face was etched into his childhood memories, he leveled the fortress and claimed his retribution.
In the traditional storytelling landscape of the Central Plains, reaching this exact beat would have already qualified the work as an unprecedented masterpiece. The narrative progression was spotless, embodying the quintessential chivalric tale of a righteous boy who masters the blade to avenge his family. Had it been published as an ordinary novel, its reception would have been extraordinary. Published instead as a dynamic, visually arresting comic, its popularity was bound to soar straight into the heavens.
Yet Sanwol had had no intention of stopping there. Reaching the sky was trivial; he wanted to craft a story that would shatter the sky itself. It was precisely that insatiable creative ambition that gave birth to the boys' comic Nangahyeopjeon—a sweeping, serialized epic boasting the most sadistic release schedule imaginable: completely unscheduled.
Wait, what's going on? The protagonist's revenge is over, so why are there still so many pages left?
The readers who had flipped through those remaining pages were left wide-eyed and dumbfounded, reacting for all the world like primitive cavemen encountering fire for the first time.
Having exacted his bloody revenge, the young hero descended the mountain, only to run headlong into an elite martial master dispatched by the Supreme Fort Lord of the Greenwood. Realizing that the entire assault was born of his personal vendetta, the protagonist chose to face the terrifying expert alone so that his comrades could survive. Though his companions managed to break away to summon reinforcements from their respective sects, the protagonist was overwhelmingly outmatched. The Greenwood master hurled his battered, blood-soaked body over the lip of a sheer chasm. Plunging into the roaring rapids far below, the boy drifted helplessly along the river, his life fading with every passing second.
And right as he stood upon death's door, an enigmatic recluse stepped out of the shadows to save him.
That was where the first volume of Nangahyeopjeon ended.
Who was this mysterious hermit? Why had he intervened? What would become of the wounded boy? The book provided not a scrap of explanation, cutting off cleanly on the cliffhanger. Readers who had been frantically turning pages, swept along by the relentless pace, were left in utter agony—resembling nothing so much as people who had been violently yanked away right at the most crucial moment of relieving themselves.
Fueled by the frantic frenzy of its readers, Nangahyeopjeon's fame had catapulted into the stratosphere. And now, Sanwol had finally inked the remaining stages of the Hero's Journey. Between the first volume and this completed second installment, the grand prologue of the series was finally drawing to a close.
A prologue served as the bedrock upon which the protagonist was woven into the vast, churning currents of the main narrative. In other words, the cultural phenomenon that had brought all of Wuhan to a standstill was only now stepping up to the starting line. Had the desperate fans begging day and night for the next volume heard this news, half of them would have fainted from pure ecstasy.
And Sanwol, the man about to unleash this momentous bombshell upon the city...
"Yaaawn... I'm so damn tired."
...was simply too exhausted to care about anything. Thus, the Central Plains' first, greatest, and only comic maestro immediately surrendered to sleep the instant he completed his manuscript.
At present, Wuhan was ablaze with comic fever. Fires never ignite without a spark, and the wildfire devouring the city was no exception: there was an arsonist responsible for the blaze. Finding the culprit hadn't required any detective work. In fact, it was fairer to say the man had never made the slightest attempt to hide his tracks, seeing as Proprietor Kang of Muho Bookstore had casually revealed his name to Sanwol without hesitation.
Indeed, the arsonist was none other than the Young Patriarch of the Namgung Clan, the Tyrant Sword Divine Genius—Namgung Mugyeol.
This, however, raised an obvious question. What reason could an esteemed figure like the heir to the premier sword clan possibly have to linger in a place like Wuhan? Pointing to the headquarters of the Murim Alliance provided little explanation. While the Alliance appeared magnificent from afar, the core scions of the Nine Sects and One Gang and the Five Great Families lived lavishly within their own provincial territories, thoroughly uninterested in playing bureaucrat.
This apathy had long been a migraine for the Alliance's leadership. Fundamentally, the Murim Alliance had been established to counter the terrifying expansion of two hostile powers: the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult perched high upon Mount Heaven, and the Blood Cult scheming from the shadows across the realm. With the depraved forces of the unorthodox gathering strength, the righteous factions felt obligated to unite to secure the future of the Central Plains.
Yet herein lay the fatal snag.
The Blood Cult and the Demonic Cult had plenty of grievances to nurse. Their simmering discontent, blended generously with envy and spite, served as the garnish on their deep-seated hatred for the orthodox sects. The righteous martial artists of the Nine Sects and the Five Great Families, on the other hand, lacked for nothing.
Shielded by the imperial principle of non-interference between the government and martial artists, the regional clans thrived as untouchable local nobility, amassing astronomical wealth and territorial authority. The prestigious monastic orders of the Nine Sects enjoyed comparable standing, even if their displays of wealth were modestly tempered. Barring acts that defied natural law or treason against the imperial crown, direct disciples of the great sects and scions of the great families enjoyed virtually every luxury life could afford—with the Beggars' Gang being the lone, impoverished exception.
The Alliance leadership had found themselves in a bind. Even if a handful of forward-thinking masters recognized the demonic menace and formed a coalition, the Alliance could not survive without the active cooperation of the existing aristocratic powers. To overcome this hurdle, the leadership had wracked their brains, practically twisting themselves into knots in a desperate campaign to make things work.
First, they sought out the supreme martial artist revered as the Number One Under Heaven, intending to install a figurehead worthy of leading the Murim Alliance. That search led them to the Illusory Star Sword, Geuk Cheonrang. He was a wandering ronin unaffiliated with any great sect or family, yet he had attained absolute mastery through pure individual brilliance.
The leadership had rejoiced. Selecting an Alliance Leader from within the entrenched clans would have inevitably sparked political friction and bitter favoritism. Placing an outsider at the helm not only bypassed factional infighting, but also offered wandering martial artists and minor sects the tantalizing dream of rising above their station through martial prowess alone. When approached, Geuk Cheonrang had accepted the post with hearty enthusiasm. Renowned for weaving astral qi that twinkled like radiant stars, the master earned the brand-new moniker of Wuhan's Number One Sword—alongside the formal mantle of Alliance Leader.
"We have secured the pillar of our Alliance, but what should we do next?"
"What else? We must foster fellowship among the rising prodigies destined to lead the future of Murim, and weave our disparate factions into genuine harmony."
"Then how about hosting a grand competitive gathering, dangling legendary panaceas and peerless weapons as rewards?"
"...You are hereby appointed our outstanding member of the month."
Thus, the Dragon and Phoenix Gathering was born.
The leadership secured the promise of a sacred Great Returning Pill from Shaolin Temple—which had supported the Alliance's formation from the start—and enlisted an illustrious master smith through Geuk Cheonrang's connections to forge an unmatched weapon for the champion. A grand martial tournament accessible to rising prodigies and nameless vagabonds alike was announced to the world. To the Nine Sects and Five Great Families, it offered an ideal arena to pit their heirs against their peers and gauge the coming generation; to smaller sects and unranked rogues, it opened a highway to instant renown.
The bait worked beyond all expectations. Young Patriarchs of the Five Great Families, foremost disciples of the Nine Sects, famed regional masters, and obscure wanderers all descended on Wuhan in droves.
...And every single one of them had become hopelessly addicted to Nangahyeopjeon.
Needless to say, the Dragon and Phoenix Gathering had been utterly sidelined.
Back at Alliance headquarters, the leadership was currently rolling across the polished council floor, howling in collective despair. Without a single exception, the high-ranking elders had been wiped out by sheer exasperation.