The Heavenly Demon of Namgung — Chapter 1: The End of a Life of Strife

The scent of blood filled the Heavenly Demon Palace.

The once-splendid hall had long since become a vast slaughterhouse. And at its center, upon a throne drenched in crimson, the Heavenly Demon lifted his lips from the rim of a cup.

"So this is all it takes to challenge me..."

Between shattered pillars, the corpses of those who had raised their blades against him rose in mounds. These were the elders and guardians of the Demonic Cult who, mere moments ago, had groveled at his feet and sworn undying loyalty. Their faces were carved with a chilling mixture of shock, disbelief, and regret that came far too late.

He slowly bowed his head and looked down at his own body, already growing cold. His left arm had been severed, and dozens of deep wounds riddled him from head to toe. He swallowed a bitter laugh as he looked back on the life behind him.

He had been an orphan of the world, alone since birth. To keep from starving, he had thrown himself on scraps of food like a beast—and even those scraps were stolen from him time and again. His belly never filled, but the malice inside him did.

Then one day, as he swung his fists with that malice driving him simply to survive, a martial artist approached and extended a hand.

"You have talent for the martial arts. Follow me, and you will never starve again."

Hope. The hope of escaping hunger. He had no choice but to follow.

The man walked ahead in silence, offering no explanation of where they were going. Their destination was the gate of a vast, brooding mountain stronghold—so shadowy it bore no name plaque at all. Only when he felt the eerie blend of blood and killing intent hanging in the air did he finally understand.

This was the Demonic Cult.

And yet, for a time, he had been happy. Because here, at least, he would not starve to death.

...A foolish delusion, that.

The Heavenly Demon's lips curled into a bitter smile.

Life in the Cult. There, death circled him in even crueler forms. He swung his sword to survive, climbing over the corpses of countless others. Endless struggle, one battle after another—and at the end of that endless struggle, he had risen above all men and been crowned the Heavenly Demon, master of ten thousand demons.

Yet he had never once slept soundly through a single night. Not for a single moment had he been permitted a life of his own. The Heavenly Demon was the lord of all demons—he was, in himself, the reason the Cult existed. The moment he stopped, everything would crumble.

But he had never imagined that this relentless sprint would end in such a filthy betrayal.

The Young Cult Leader, of all people, raising a blade against me.

Even the disciple to whom he had taught everything had ended as a bloody lump sprawled on the cold floor.

...Everything would have been yours soon enough. Fool.

It felt hollow.

A violent cough wracked him, and dark blood poured onto the floor. Absently, he looked down at the blood smeared across the back of his hand.

It was a strange sight. How long had it been—since he had seen his own blood so closely, in such quantity? The coppery scent brushing past his nose was nothing more than a repulsive stench, no different from the blood of the traitors sprawled around him.

Yes. My blood was exactly the same as theirs. I had simply forgotten what it smelled like, it had been so long.

The first time since he had crossed swords with that relentless man, Namgung Mugang, perhaps. Just as a wry smile touched his face—

"Ugh..."

Someone staggered upright from within the pile of corpses. It was the Grand Guardian, who had served the Heavenly Demon like a shadow his entire life. In a wretched state, he dragged himself toward the throne.

The Heavenly Demon watched him approach, leaning back against the seat.

"...So now you've finally returned to standing at eye level with me, Grand Guardian."

The Grand Guardian collapsed to his knees, strength gone, before the throne. A broken sword slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

"Heavenly Demon, my lord..."

"Why?"

The question carried neither rage nor resentment—only a profound emptiness, and exhaustion.

The Grand Guardian lifted his head with difficulty. "This, too, is merely the result of struggle. Was this not the Demonic Path you showed us yourself..."

Those were his final words. His head drooped, and he went still.

The Heavenly Demon gazed down at the corpse cooling at his feet.

The result of struggle, was it.

Contempt curled across the Heavenly Demon's lips.

Nothing but a clumsy imitation. True struggle is something that loses all meaning the moment you are defeated.

He felt no pity for this old subordinate who had never truly grasped the Demonic Path he himself had taught. Only contempt remained—for the foolishness of one who had defiled his teachings.

Still, it was not a boring ending.

He had cut down every last traitor—and in payment, lost everything himself.

Little by little, the world drifted away from him. The blood stench stinging his nostrils, the dead silence that filled the Heavenly Demon Palace, even the pain itself.

His gaze fell upon the sword still clutched in his hand. A blade wreathed in a faint azure glow. Once it had been leveled against him; for the next half of his life, it had cleaved down countless enemies in his grip.

Namgung Mugang...

The name of the man who had given him that sword rose vividly in his mind.

In the end... I couldn't keep my promise.

He remembered that day—the day they had cast aside everything else and crossed blades, nothing between them. His lifelong rival, the only opponent he had ever acknowledged from the depths of his heart. How long had he dreamed of their final duel, of how it would end?

He had never imagined he would perish like this—undone by a sordid betrayal, strangled by the exhausting yoke of the Demonic Path itself.

A faint smile rose to his bloodied lips. Self-mockery ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and longing crossed him at the same time.

How I miss those days...

That was his last thought. His blood-soaked eyelids grew heavy, and at last the world sank into darkness.

A man who had run the endless road of survival and struggle to stand at the very summit of the Demonic Path. The Heavenly Demon, Cheon Myeong-hyeon.

So ended his life—leaving behind only the thirst of a promise left unkept.

Darkness, without beginning or end.

Ah. So this is what comes after.

Just as a lamp, once extinguished, gives off no light, so a man, once dead, lost everything—or so they said. And it was true. The name ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of Heavenly Demon that had once commanded the world, the peerless martial arts accumulated across the boundary of life and death, the pain of betrayal and the hollowness of his final moments—all of it now meant nothing.

Absolute emptiness, where everything grew faint. Perhaps this, of all things, was the perfect rest he had craved his entire life.

He accepted the end of it all with composure. His had been a desperate life, a sprint without pause. If its final destination was this infinite darkness, he thought it was not such a bad ending at all. All things dissolving, returning to nothing—that was the natural order.

How much time passed? No—did time even exist here?

Then, in a perfect silence that seemed it would last forever, something changed.

Far, far away, he saw a single point of light, smaller than the eye of a needle.

...Light?

He had thought every sense within him had already vanished. Then what was that?

An illusion?

The light was faint, but undeniably there—and strangely, the thought followed that he must move toward it.

He did not hesitate. He had nothing left to lose, and no lingering regrets to hold him back. The last remaining fragment of his consciousness flowed naturally toward that light.

The light drew closer. And at the moment he was finally sucked into it—

A violent vertigo struck, and countless sensations flooded in like a storm.

"Gah!"

When his mind cleared, the first thing he felt was excruciating pain. His skull felt as though it would split apart, and every joint in his body creaked as if wrenched out of place.

"Hah—hah—"

With every breath, a searing heat blazed up through his lungs as if they were on fire. And then—

...Breathing?

The dead could not breathe.

He forced his heavy eyelids open. Blurred and swimming, his vision resolved into hundreds upon hundreds of swords, arrayed without end.

So many blades stood thrust into the ground and left to rust that the place might well have been called a graveyard of swords. At the same time, unfamiliar memories came pouring into his mind like a gale.

Namgung Cheon, the youngest son of the Namgung Clan.

That was the name of this body.

"Namgung...?"

He murmured the name. Two familiar syllables. One of the Five Great Noble Clans under heaven, famed far and wide as the World's Greatest Sword Family. In his memories, the Namgung Clan had always stood at the heart of the Jianghu, radiating its power.

...They truly were formidable.

The memories that followed were not Namgung Cheon's, but the Heavenly Demon's own.

The Great War of Justice and Demons, the war that had dyed the world red with blood. He had been the Young Cult Leader then, and the Namgung Clan had been the central pillar of the orthodox alliance. They had always been his most troublesome enemy—forever standing in the vanguard, blocking the Demonic Cult's path. He himself had taken the field more than once to break their momentum as the Young Cult Leader, and each time he had been forced to accept heavy losses.

And...

Amid the memories of that ferocious war, one presence stood out with singular clarity. A man still young, yet already having brought the clan's swordsmanship to its completion, wielding an azure sword force. Namgung Mugang, then spoken of as the next head of the Namgung Clan.

The father of this Namgung Cheon... and the current Clan Head.

To wake in the body of the son of the very man he had once regarded as his rival—a hollow laugh escaped him unbidden. The thought of seeing that man again stirred something strange in him, but Mugang would never recognize him, and he had no intention of revealing himself. He simply brushed it off as a twist of cruel fate.

No time to drown in sentiment.

The Heavenly Demon snapped back to reality and began dissecting the Namgung Clan through Namgung Cheon's memories. The Clan Head, Namgung Mugang, had been absent from the clan for an extended period. As a result, the household seethed with unrest, riddled with schemes and dirty tricks—a situation where dogs unworthy of their tiger father were running wild, sullying his lofty name.

...Neglect, or tempering. I can't tell.

There was no need to plumb the depths of Namgung Mugang's intentions right now. It had no direct bearing on him, for the moment. What mattered was the reality of this body he now inhabited—Namgung Cheon himself.

The Heavenly Demon sifted through the memories. Namgung Cheon, his new flesh. In this power struggle, he had been nothing more than an inconspicuous youngest son. No will to train, no remarkable display of talent—just barely living up to the name of Namgung Clan's young master and nothing more. Those around him whispered that he had talent but was lazy.

And in truth, Namgung Cheon had been exactly that. He shrank from all competition, turned away from anything difficult, and simply lived quietly.

Why?

It made no sense. His brothers might be exceptional, his position within the clan precarious—but he was, in name ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at least, direct bloodline of the World's Greatest Sword Family. That name alone should have bought him plenty.

Digging deeper into the memories, the boy's childhood surfaced. Brief moments—only flickers—when he had shown an unusual brilliance for the sword. But that light had soon guttered out, and he had sealed himself inside a shell of mediocrity.

...I see.

Then a single guess flashed through his mind. Perhaps this boy, Namgung Cheon, had simply understood too early. Understood the storm his talent would summon—and the life of desperate struggle he would be forced to endure within it. The jealousy and scheming between brothers. The endless succession of trials and competition. Perhaps he had grown sick of all of it and simply let everything go. Hidden his own light with his own hands, and cowered behind the shadow of ordinariness, yearning for an easy peace.

Laughable. To bury his own potential with his own two hands.

He could not understand it—and did not care to. It was the exact opposite of the choice he himself had made, fighting tooth and claw to survive.

There is no rest for those who flee in fear. They merely become food for the strong.

A smile crossed his lips.

Your weakness has become my new opportunity. So don't bother being grateful—it's only the natural result.

This body, the talent he had possessed, everything that should have been his—from this moment on, all of it belonged to him.

He slowly rose to his feet. Beyond the dim glow of a slowly burning lantern, countless swords stretched out before him.

The Sword Soul Cave...

A rite of passage that every blood member of the Namgung Clan had to undergo around the age of majority. Its chief purpose was the choosing of a sword—the Sword Selection.

Nonsense. A sword choosing its master, indeed. And the notion that only Namgung blades reside here is equally absurd.

The swords within the Sword Soul Cave were not the clan's alone. Blades that had once crossed against the Namgung swordsmen as their greatest rivals, and famous weapons the clan had claimed over generations, were enshrined here together. It was, in truth, both a treasure trove and a tomb of swords. And whether it was the nature of the cave itself or not, a ferocious energy pulsed from every one of those famed blades.

So that's it. That's why this Namgung Cheon lost consciousness.

For anyone of weak will, simply enduring the energy that filled the entire cave would have been an ordeal. Perhaps that was why—despite the grand name of the rite—most were considered to have passed merely by tempering their minds and holding out.

But to be truly chosen by a sword...

It happened only once in several decades, but there were those who genuinely received the Sword Selection. And those who did were granted high standing within the clan and lavish support—their chances of becoming Clan Head rising steeply.

...A testing ground that doubles as a sieve.

He recalled Namgung Cheon's final memory. The boy had succumbed to the sword energies in the deepest part of the cave—this very Myriad Swords Thicket—and lost consciousness there.

He must have struggled from the very entrance. Why did he push this far in?

He pondered it briefly, but it was not an urgent question. Only one thing mattered.

The fact that he, the man who had been the Heavenly Demon, had been granted a new opportunity.

Yes. A new beginning. In his previous life, he had always lived as though hunted, fighting merely to survive. Even at the summit, there had been no true rest—only a life steeped in suspicion, betrayal, and endless struggle.

But now was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠different. This worthless body of Namgung Cheon, a person no one spared a glance for. Perhaps this, of all things, was the perfect opportunity.

A chance to begin everything anew.

His gaze swept slowly across the swords of the Myriad Swords Thicket. The energy pouring from hundreds of blades would have been a terror the old Namgung Cheon could never have withstood.

Nothing compared to the countless threats I faced in my past life.

A smile blossomed across Namgung Cheon's lips.

It did not matter that this body was ordinary.

I am the one who created something from nothing and stood at the very peak of the Demonic Path.

Because he had been the Heavenly Demon.