Prologue, Regression
It felt like a dream.
That time, long ago, when I was young — so very young.
A father I doubted shared a single drop of blood with me, and a mother I knew only from a portrait, taken from this world the very moment I was born.
There were good memories, of course, but most of them were bad.
I was the concubine's son of the Yi Clan. With no backing of any kind, I was shoved around from pillar to post, and for as long as I could remember, I lived my life unable to meet anyone's eyes.
I had never once crossed anyone.
And still, my two elder brothers — who would stop at nothing to seize the seat of clan head — and the mothers standing behind them, the first and the second, saw me as nothing more than a thorn in their eyes.
First they tried every trick in the book to drive me out; later, they graduated to outright attempts on my life.
Every last bit of it was vivid in my mind.
I could never forget it — and I shouldn't. Those humiliating memories were what made me who I am today.
Thirty years later, I had become the Mad Sovereign of the Three Sovereigns and Seven Venerables.
I couldn't tell anymore which of the two was the dream.
Even the moment of my death remained crystalline in my memory.
The Heavenly Sovereign's hand pierced my heart, the Blazing Sovereign's fist shattered my dantian, and the Blade Sovereign's saber sheared off my right arm.
When I collapsed, I fell into a pool of blood that steamed into the air.
Some of it was mine — but not all of it.
Most of it belonged to the Celestial Dragon Divine Sovereign and the Twin-Hand Demon Sovereign, already headless corpses, and the True Heaven Spear Sovereign.
Yes.
Six of the Ten Great Masters of the World had gathered to take down one lone man: me.
They told me then—
"None of this would have happened had we known you were the disciple of the Public Enemy of Murim."
There was someone who took me in when I fled the Yi Clan.
From that person, I learned a great many things.
How to survive. How to move fast. How to throw a better punch, wield a blade properly, strike at an opponent's opening.
It was a stretch of time like hell itself — but it was a stretch of time that meant everything.
Those years with my master lasted a mere ten, yet those ten years were the most meaningful of my entire life.
My master once said to me:
"When you step out into the murim, you must never tell a soul that you are my disciple."
I refused.
"How does my disciple refuse his master's request so sternly?"
Smiling around the stem of his long pipe, my master went on:
"It will be the first and the last favor I ever ask of you. So keep it."
And with that, my master quietly fell asleep, resting against my chest.
I kept that promise.
But there is no such thing as an eternal secret in this world.
The martial arts I used — the techniques he had taught me — I had hoarded them as carefully as I could, yet in moments of true crisis, I had used them a handful of times.
That was where the thread was picked up. And because he had been so famous, no amount of clamping mouths shut could stop the rumor from spreading.
At some point, without my ever intending it, I had become known as the disciple of the Public Enemy of Murim.
The one small mercy was that by the time the rumor reached the world's ears, I was already one of the Seven Venerables.
Which meant I let my guard down, if only for a moment — and that was my mistake.
It had been a trap laid with meticulous precision, and foolish me, I walked right into it.
Say it again, and it still sounds absurd: six of the Ten Great Masters of the World, swarming like hounds after a single one of the Seven Venerables.
How was anyone supposed to predict that? No — I couldn't even have imagined it.
Those bastards were never the type to cooperate with each other like that.
That was how it ended.
I stared in silence at my reflection in the full-length mirror.
The countless wounds carved across my body like tattoos — not a single one of them remained.
There was even baby fat sitting on my face that had no business being there.
This was maddening.
I wracked my brain trying to make sense of this impossible phenomenon.
Why had this happened?
...
One thing nagged at me.
Before he died, my master had pressed a necklace into my hands. A keepsake, one I wore around my neck right up until the moment of my death.
A battered old thing, without a single jewel on it.
And just then, the words he'd spoken back then rose unbidden to my mind.
"One day, this will save you. If you live without regret, it will."
I ran a hand down my face.
Given the circumstances, this was reality — and it made the most sense to conclude that this regression had been made possible by the necklace my master left behind.
The questions could wait.
I raised my head.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I let out a small laugh.
On the first morning of my return to the past, dawn was breaking.
* * *
"Young Master. Are you awake?"
At the sudden voice, I turned my head. A smile crept onto my lips.
I spoke briefly.
"Come in."
The door opened. A man built nearly identical to myself walked in, a plate piled high with refreshments, grinning.
"You seemed like you'd be hungry, so I prepared a few things."
He approached.
Even if I forgot everything else, I would never forget this one.
His name was Pyeong Sam.
He had been taken in by the Yi Clan after his parents — slash-and-burn farmers — were murdered by a band of bandits.
"Pyeong Sam."
"Yes, Young Master."
"It's been a while."
"...I beg your pardon?"
I said nothing, only smiled. Staring at me strangely, he spoke slowly.
"We should arrive at the main estate by today. With the trade journey properly completed, perhaps the Clan Head will finally start looking at you differently."
It was hardly the kind of thing a mere porter ought to say. But Pyeong Sam and I went back a very long way.
At this point in time, I was around seventeen.
He was sixteen — one year my junior, taken in by the Yi Clan at the age of nine. We had been together for nearly seven years by now.
And how much did I trust him? Enough that, in my past life, I fled the Yi Clan with him at my side.
I reached out in silence and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Pyeong Sam."
"...Yes, Young Master."
"There's something I really want to ask you. You'd better answer carefully."
"An answer... about what, exactly...?"
"Don't think too hard. Just tell me the truth."
"...Yes. Ask me anything."
I smiled gently.
"Bandits are going to appear on the road we're taking. What do you think about that?"
He flinched. Then both of his eyes began to shake violently.
I found myself hoping, just a little. Hoping to hear what would come out of his mouth.
But it seemed that hope had been wasted.
"...I really couldn't say. Bandits, though? We're headed through Myeongwol Mountain, and the bandits there were wiped out ages ago, weren't they? You seem to be worrying over nothing."
My questions were not finished.
"Did Yi Jeong give you any orders?"
"...The Eldest Young Master? You know better than anyone that you're the one I trust most in this entire Yi Clan. And you know exactly how the Eldest Young Master treats someone like me. Are you telling me he gave me orders? What kind of joke even is that?"
I looked at him quietly.
"From the start of the trade journey until its end — when you delivered your reports to Yi Won, what answer did he send back?"
"...Young Master, you know my relationship with the Second Young Master as well. Yi Won doesn't tell me anything in particular. Because he knows exactly whose man I am. I'm yours and yours alone, Young Master. I honestly don't understand why you're asking me this, out of nowhere."
I let out a quiet sigh.
"So of the three questions I asked, you failed to answer a single one properly."
"...Young Master?"
"By this point, the two of us must have completed over ten trade journeys together — and at least eight of those ten times, you reported to Yi Won along the way. This journey was no different. Especially this one, given the sheer size of the sum involved. If it succeeds — well, like you said, Father's attitude toward me will change considerably. Of course it will. After all, this was a journey I was sent on to fail."
"..."
"I imagine that when the report went out by pigeon today, Yi Won left word along these lines. That he'd hired bandits, that they would strike at Myeongwol Mountain along our caravan's route, that we would be stripped of everything we carried and lucky to escape with our lives. Why not kill me outright? It's obvious. Robbing a caravan is one thing — spilling the blood of the clan, even a concubine's son, is quite another. If I were to die, do you think the Clan Head would sit still? They made the best choice available to them. Just as you said, if this plan succeeds, my standing within the family will change dramatically. Pyeong Sam."
"...Yes."
"I gave you a chance. Not once, but three whole times — and you couldn't even read that."
Only now did he notice that my manner of speaking had changed. A look of utter confusion spread across his face. I could see it clearly — that little head of his straining, desperately, to make sense of what was happening. A waste of effort.
In silence, I took the plate from his hands.
"A calamity brought about by human hands ought rightly be settled by human hands as well."
"Young Mas—"
He couldn't finish the sentence. He had no way to.
Because without a word, I brought the plate down on his head.
Crack—!
Not with the flat of it. With the edge.
Wincing, clutching his head, he crumpled to the floor. Refreshments spilled out around him.
I swung my foot.
Thud—!!
His head snapped sideways. Not enough.
I slammed the plate hard against the side table beside us. The plate shattered — and just like that, a weapon was made.
Gripping his hair in my left hand, I drove it in.
Shk—!
"K-kehk."
It sank into the side of his neck. Blood welled up and spattered across my face — but I didn't so much as blink.
"You won't remember this, but that makes twice. Twice that I've tried to flee the Yi Clan."
Trembling, he clutched at my arm with both hands. It meant nothing.
My arm didn't move a hair's breadth.
I had already acted. Once you start something, you see it through to a proper end.
His will to live could not overcome my will to act.
"You... Young Master... why..."
Ignoring him, I spoke on, steady and unhurried.
"The first time ended in failure. Because you struck me in the back of the head."
"...What?"
"I couldn't very well run away empty-handed, so I went to Yi Jeong's quarters and made off with a whole chest of poison pills. But I was caught within a single day. You know why?"
"How would I know anyth—"
"I told you just now. Because you struck me in the back of the head. And back then, you said this to me: 'Young Master, honestly — what chance do you really have of becoming the head of the Yi Clan? You've never done a favor for anyone in your life. This time, why not do one for me? I've served faithfully at your side all this while, so surely I'm owed at least that much.'"
I turned the words over once more in my mind.
That was the moment I first understood what the world of the strong really was.
I'd say it was a rather thorough education.
The more I thought about it, the more the laughter came.
"It must have been quite the shock, if I still haven't forgotten it even now. And from that day on, you became the youngest Head Steward in the Yi Clan's history."
"What are you even saying—"
"People do change, it turns out."
I paused for a moment, then drove the shard of porcelain in deeper.
"Go well."
No answer came. There was none to give — his throat had been pierced clean through.
Thump. His body slumped lifelessly to the floor. I rose from where I sat.
At the commotion, several warriors of the Yi Clan burst through the door.
"Young Master! What in the—!"
The sight inside froze them mid-sentence, their mouths hanging open.
I spoke without inflection.
"Clean this up."
Truly,
it was a refreshing morning.