…You Survived.
Mu Yun's unclosing eyelids trembled violently. His closed eyes grew moist.
After falling into the Strange Gate Formation and feeling his qi drain away, he'd thought death was imminent. But in that moment of closing his eyes, fragments of utterly unfamiliar memories had come crashing in like a tidal wave.
Only then did he realize it. He had possessed someone else's body.
Mu Lun had no interest in illusions, but he knew the basics of the formation he'd fallen into. After all, it was something he and Yeo Hwi had seized and destroyed from those bastards they'd killed.
The Jinryeongpa, a sect obsessed with illusions, had tried every method imaginable to summon an immortal's descent. When they discovered that human karma was the key, they even mixed living people with corpses. In the end, they were wiped out by Yeo Hwi's hand.
They'd burned all the books and records back then, but they couldn't bring themselves to destroy that one illusion formation that pulsed with immortal qi. They'd preserved it intact.
Yeo Hwi must have tinkered with it out of curiosity, and that's how this happened.
A line from the text in that illusion formation floated into his mind.
—If one's karma does not cross the boundary, the soul scatters or possesses. Upon realizing a new life has been granted...
An indescribable surge of emotion welled up the instant he understood.
A life overturned in a heartbeat. No way to sum it up in a few fleeting reflections.
But this wasn't the time to dwell on Mu Lun's old thoughts. He couldn't even gather his wits against the onslaught of memories flooding in like a storm.
And then he knew.
'A thousand years!'
This wasn't the moment to lament the passage of time. Even after a hundred years, few ties would remain—let alone ten times that.
It was like being stranded alone on a remote island in the vast ocean.
And there, in the chains of karma, was a name that struck him instinctively.
'Mu Yun!'
Mu Lun, now a name of the past. On a foggy day, the orphaned boy had been hit by a carriage yet survived unscathed—that's how he'd gotten his name.
And now, a thousand years across time and space, this body's name was Mu Yun. Born on a day thick with mist, named by his father to mean "become a bright light amid the murk."
Nae-yang, one of dozens of small cities in Honam. The eldest son of a decent papermaking family there, until his life unraveled in an instant, turning him into a fugitive. A pathetic start to a harsh, twisted existence.
But to Mu Lun, who had weathered a thousand years of tempests and trials before, it was just another hurdle—something to unravel slowly in time.
And this place, Chim-ju. The city where Mu Lun, in his youth, had spent twenty years in the underworld.
Now Mu Yun hid here too, concealing his identity as a squad leader in the underworld's Cheong-ho Bang. He could feel the threads of fate weaving together.
'There must be a reason.'
He'd uncover it in time.
But amid the torrent of alien memories, a stunned exclamation escaped him at one point.
'Impossible!'
Swimming through the waves of recollection, the snippets that surfaced crushed his heart and made him acutely feel why the world spoke of life's impermanence.
His closed eyelids quivered. The face of his lifelong friend Yeo Hwi rose in his mind, drawing a deep lament from his depths.
Not once had he resented the man, yet a complaint spilled out unbidden.
'You fool. How... how did it come to this!'
Mu Yun, this body's original owner and son of a martial family, had a rough knowledge of the jianghu's history.
Yet nowhere in those memory barriers was the Cheok-go-ryeon that he and Yeo Hwi had forged.
The only recollection of Sin-gang was this: An absolute warrior called the Cheonma had founded the Cheonma-gyo, spreading evil across the world and reigning as lord of all demons. His descendants lingered, having disseminated demonic arts far and wide.
Even that memory had no clear timeline.
In the end, Yeo Hwi must have died before this Cheonma appeared, and Cheok-go-ryeon had vanished.
He swallowed the crumbling regret and surging grief deep in his chest.
One keen regret hit immediately.
'I shouldn't have left.'
Yeo Hwi was the greatest warrior, but utterly unsuited as leader of an organization. After Mu Lun left, he'd handed everything to others—and Mu Lun could clearly picture how those naive fools would have bungled it.
Sigh after sigh was all he could muster to soothe his aching heart.
Even moments before crossing that illusion formation, he'd thought his life well-lived.
'Ha! Life's impermanence indeed!'
Of course, he hadn't expected Cheok-go-ryeon to endure a thousand years. But he believed some trace of them would remain. They were the first to unify and rule the murim, after all.
He hadn't asked for much. Just that the banner they'd raised endure in the world.
Before their final battle, gazing loftily at the Central Plains alliance army, his friend Yeo Hwi had declared:
That majestic cry, the thrill pounding in his chest as it rang out—it was still vivid.
With nothing to their names, no teachers, no benefactors, they had carved their own way. They'd shown it to the world.
That's why he'd hoped at least that trace would linger.
Mu Yun wrenched his rigid neck, forcing it to turn.
'This can't be all there is.'
He wanted to believe it. No—he had to.
This crude, unwarrior-like fool's memories weren't the whole world. Somewhere, their legacy must endure, passed down.
It had to. And if not, he'd find it—or forge it anew.
As he steeled himself, his pounding heart gradually calmed.
Curiosity stirred about this body and the world it inhabited.
He sifted through the influx of memories, sorting them one by one. Another long sigh escaped.
'Ha! A thousand years, and nothing's changed!'
Why, after such an age, had nothing improved? Revelations that could make one's eyes spin flooded in endlessly.
But the world's fleeting glories faded quickly, replaced by a hollow despair that filled his aching chest.
It came after peering into the lives of this world's people—those born poor and lowly, like him.
'Nothing's changed.'
He'd hoped the world had progressed. A day or two, no—but a decade brings some change, a century noticeable strides. After a millennium, what wonders might await? That thrill was short-lived.
The poor's lives had only grown more tangled, hardships harsher, pains more varied. Fewer starved or sickened to death, but life remained a chain of suffering.
The reason for that millennium's stagnation? People.
And among them...
'Still unable to curb the greed of the haves.'
That deep pit of despair drowned out other thoughts for a long while.
Eventually, he pulled himself together.
This wasn't the time for vain regrets. He needed to inspect the body he'd now claim.
A young frame of twenty-three, brimming with vibrant blood and vigor.
For this moment, uncontainable excitement surged through him.
'Youth!'
In his previous life at thirty-five, during a desperate flight for survival, he'd shattered his dantian trying to save Yeo Hwi, severing his meridians.
He'd created countless arts, earned the moniker Cheon-noe, but his life as a warrior ended there.
Later, with Yeo Hwi, he'd challenged anew via the Sin-gi Sim-ui Gong they devised together—but it only sufficed to mend his wounded, sickly body.
It was the art that made his friend the world's greatest warrior, but Mu Lun lacked the talent, and his body wouldn't cooperate.
Each time he witnessed Yeo Hwi's Hwan-gol Tal-tae, it was a dream he chased in vain. Now it was reality.
But that thrill faded quickly. Decades ago, he'd forgotten the joy of a vigorous body—yet here he was, lying prone. His head throbbed.
How to live this new hopeful life mattered less than the immediate reality.
A deep sigh burst forth.
"How could I be so obtuse!"
Those were his first words in this world.
Youth lacked worldly wisdom, but even he could see the upper echelons harbored ill intent—and he'd only suspected, not acted.
Now survival was the priority.
The moment the sound escaped, four figures burst into the room.
Pap! Tadak! Druk!
"Squad Leader Dam! Are you conscious?"
Dam Sa-un was Mu Yun's alias, grown with a thick beard to hide his identity.
The fused memories brought the man's name to mind with the face before him.
Mu Yun's first willful words made his lips quiver.
If this wasn't a dream or illusion, the man would nod to this question.
"Ak Mu-gil?"
A grin splitting to his ears answered.
"Haha! You're back with us. Thank goodness."
The other three names surfaced next, and he recited them steadily.
The thrill of true survival lit his lips.
"Jeok Myo-ye, Yeom Jung-tak, Yeom Ri-ung."
His fellow squad leaders in Chim-ju's underworld Cheong-ho Bang—and his acquaintances.
A tear dropped from the sole woman, Jeok Myo-ye's eye.
"Sorry. Because of me..."
Yeom Jung-tak, glancing at her, exploded.
"Hey! Why's it your fault? It's the Bangju and that bastard's spawn... Argh!"
"...!"
That expression, those words—proof the memories were accurate.
The earlier events replayed vividly.
＊ ＊ ＊
Two shichen earlier, in Chim-ju at Honam's southernmost tip.
The third-largest city in Honam after Changsa and Jingzhou.
At its very bottom scraped the vagrant gang known as Cheong-ho Bang.
Feared by market folk, dismissed by decent martial artists—that was the lot of vagabonds.
But with nearly two hundred members, they stood as one of the bottom rung's twin powers alongside Chim-do Bang.
Of course, they couldn't lift their heads before the orthodox Ha Hu Sega, the top martial house, or the demonic Jeok-un Mun they paid tribute to.
At Cheongwol House, Chim-ju's finest noodle joint, third floor.
As the liquor flowed freely, Cheong-ho Bang's Bangju, Gok Jeong-pil, slyly unveiled his premeditated scheme.
"Hehe! Little Sect Master. Can't have a woman cramping our style here."
Jeok-un Mun's young master, Seol Jin-gwang, furrowed his brow.
It was still far from dusk.
"Moving spots already?"
"Hit the gisaeng house later. Let's talk here first."
"About what?"
"I called Jeok Myo-ye up from downstairs."
Seol Jin-gwang masked his heated anticipation.
"Ho! What's this about? Seems the Bangju has a favor to ask."
"No need. I'll handle the rest."
"You just want me enjoying myself?"
"Of course."
As Jeok-un Mun's heir, he could simply take what was offered.
"Well then."
Moments later, Jeok Myo-ye, who had been pouring for the little sect master, twisted away.
A lecherous hand kept groping her chest, but this wasn't the place for her usual temper.
Only one way to escape a drunken lech.
"You've had plenty. Time for the gisaeng house..."
Seol Jin-gwang's gaze grew more lascivious.
His long-coveted prey was right there—why leave?
"Stay a bit longer."
"...!"
The hand at her chest stayed put, while the other slipped under her sash, inching downward.
Jeok Myo-ye's twitching eyes turned not to the culprit, but to the instigator: Bangju Gok Jeong-pil.
'You dog! Selling me off, eh?'
She could guess why the Bangju stooped to this. Common enough in the underworld.
No boss tolerates subordinates whose ambitions outgrow their place.
Especially two of them.
And she was the bait to snare them.