I Wrote Wuxia in the Murim World
Beep—beep—beep.
The monotonous mechanical beeps and the sharp scent of disinfectant filled the stark white hospital room. This was the final stage for me, a wuxia web novel author raking in eight-figure annual income in Korea.
In the face of a terminal diagnosis, tens of thousands of readers and mountains of cash meant nothing.
The fingers that once hammered away at the keyboard were now skeletal husks clawing at empty air. Hundreds of unfinished stories flashed through my mind like a montage.
I didn't want to go out like this, but fate offered no mercy for regrets.
Beeeeeeeeeep.
My heart flatlined, vision went black. The suffocating pain eased, and I thought I'd slipped into eternal rest.
Until I opened my eyes again.
"The Master said: Is it not a pleasure, then, to learn and practice what you have learned from time to time?"
My voice echoed hollowly through the shabby lecture hall.
Cheongryong Mugwan, founded to train the world's greatest martial artists. But despite its fame, the Thirteenth Lecture Hall deep inside was little more than a ruin.
I stood there holding a book amid cobwebs on the ceiling and floorboards creaking like screams.
That's right. I hadn't died.
When I woke up, I'd possessed a lowly literature teacher at Cheongryong Mugwan in a wuxia world.
"Zzz... Snore."
It was a sight to behold. For these vigorous young students here to learn martial arts, literature class was nothing but a brutal sleeping pill.
Most drooled in slumber; the rest giggled and gossiped among themselves.
This "literature study" was framed as character education, but even at Cheongryong Mugwan, it was treated like a break between grueling training sessions.
I swallowed a sigh and dredged up knowledge from my body's original owner's memories, reciting mechanically.
"Having friends come from afar—is it not delightful?"
I was droning through the lesson no one listened to when I spotted her amid the chaos: one girl sitting ramrod straight, utterly absorbed in her book.
Skin like fresh snow, clad in an elegant martial robe—she was Hwangbo Suyeon, the sheltered pearl of Hwangbo Sega.
Cheongryong Mugwan's top prodigy, glued to my boring class? Pride swelled in me as a teacher—until I caught the cover of her book.
Regressor Sword God, This Life Fist King
She was riveted to what looked like a web novel title ripped straight from my past life's hits.
This body's original owner was a hopeless piece of trash.
He had a cushy job as Cheongryong Mugwan's literature teacher but threw away job security for madness.
He'd sunk into the swamp of back-alley gambling dens, blowing every coin he had.
Not satisfied, he crossed the point of no return.
Danga Sangdan masqueraded as a merchant guild but ruled murim's underworld. He'd borrowed a fortune from them at murderous interest rates.
And lost it all at the tables.
The brutal loan sharks' threats never stopped. Trembling, he downed poison, ending his worthless life.
The moment he foamed at the mouth and expired, my soul possessed the body.
I'd been isekai'd.
What a shitty twist of fate. Past life: tormented by illness, coughing blood nightly toward a pathetic death. New life: hounded by debt collectors.
That very evening, terrifying uninvited guests burst in.
"The deadline's long past. Will your pathetic life cover the interest?"
A cold, cruel voice.
A woman in red silk strode over the splintered doorframe into the room. She was murim's black-money predator: Danche Ryeong, sub-leader of Danga Sangdan.
Gorgeous, dazzling beauty. But her eyes were the opposite—ice-cold, like a viper eyeing prey.
Massive brutes loomed behind her, muscular thugs twisting their fierce faces. They oozed murderous intent, as if ready to mince me into back-alley dog food.
To survive, I racked my brain. One answer emerged.
I bellowed, veins bulging like a madman.
"I'll write! I'll write something that'll sell like crazy!"
A desperate bluff from a cornered rat. Audacious, absurd.
But Danche Ryeong showed a flicker of interest. Her sharp gaze scanned me top to bottom. A cold sneer curled her lips.
She tossed me a week's grace.
"A literature teacher, writing? Fine. One week. Bring me something I like."
Life extended: success.
"Fail, and I'll crush your fingers, then every joint."
Thus began a blood-soaked week of writing. A hellish race, pure insanity.
It had to be stimulating. Slam dopamine straight into readers' brains. That was my ticket to survival.
Ten years as a top web novel author in my past life. Vast data stockpiled from overwhelming input. Every wuxia story I'd read etched in detail.
Secret manual tropes? I could copy-paste verbatim.
And my real weapon: turning clichéd plots into page-turners. Devilish penmanship optimized for web novels.
I poured my soul into it, mobilizing everything.
A novel drenched in sticky clichés and dopamine. I hammered out the draft at breakneck speed, skipping meals.
Protagonist betrayed miserably by trusted comrade. Dies gruesomely. Miraculously regresses to the past.
Sweeps opportunities with future knowledge. Delivers fizzy revenge on arrogant foes.
Classic revenge regressor. Stale gruel in my past world.
But here? A rigid, classic wuxia realm. Cultural shock therapy. A sledgehammer to stuffy brains.
Minimize frustration, drown in sweet revenge.
Hellish week passed.
The thugs returned to check results. Danche Ryeong snatched the manuscript stack with haughty disdain.
"Let's see if this extends your worthless life even a day."
But her lofty nonchalance crumbled fast.
Lounging in the chair, she read. Arrogance shattered.
Slender fingers flipped pages faster. Poised eyes quivered with excitement and shock.
"Next volume."
"Pardon?"
"Hand over the next volume!"
Her breath ragged like an aroused beast. Hooked on my dopamine bomb.
She scrapped plans to kill me, shoving over a vicious exclusive contract instead.
Slave terms: I got a measly tenth of profits. Tearfully, I stamped it.
The published novel exploded.
Danga Sangdan's vast network spread it across murim like wildfire.
A fresh shock. Legal drug melting brains. Irresistible thrill.
They flung open wallets, screaming for sequels. Scribes worked day-night copying volumes.
One such book now clutched by the genius girl before me: Hwangbo Suyeon.
She wouldn't even breathe, eyes locked on the pages.
Something feels off...
Slam! She shut the book, straightened, crossed her legs, closed her eyes.
Bad vibes... really bad.
Premonitions like this never miss.
A massive aura erupted from her, shaking the shabby hall—and my life spiraled uncontrollably.
What? What part hit her? Regression training scene? Swordplay fused with fist techniques?
Her surging blue energy intensified, growing wilder, fiercer. It dominated the space ferociously.
Creaky wooden pillars screamed.
"What happened?!"
"This massive energy..."
"Thirteenth Lecture Hall!"
Instructors rushed in, confirming Hwangbo Suyeon's unnatural state. Shock hit, but they sprang to action.
"Deploy the formation now!"
"Guard her ironclad!"
"Not even a fly gets near!"
Veterans grasped the gravity instantly. Moved with precision.
They sealed her perimeter perfectly, blocking all interference. Precious enlightenment couldn't scatter—or worse, lead to qi deviation and ruin.
The noisy ruin turned deathly silent, controlled. Heavy, isolated space.
Students herded out by stern instructors.
But I was the hall's official overseer. Stayed to witness the madness.
Time dragged in tense silence. Instructors stood sentinel unmoving.
Sky blackened fully; hall pitch-dark.
Flash.
The energy coiling her small frame shifted. Storm-blue aura condensed, sucked inward.
Oppressive force vanished. Eerily serene.
Process complete.
Long lashes quivered. She slowly opened her eyes.
Her flawless pupils sliced air sharply—like sword qi cleaving rock.
Blue gleam flashed deep within.
In that instant, her inner energy deepened beyond compare. Vast as an abyssal mountain.
Instructors exhaled deep relief, sweat-drenched from tension.
The senior instructor overseeing all training stepped forward, voice trembling with awe.
"Cadet Hwangbo Suyeon, heartfelt congratulations."
Genuine praise from the grizzled veteran.
"Thank you for standing guard."
She bowed formally in thanks.
Instructors smiled warmly, then withdrew to give her space.
Alone now—or near enough; I was invisible anyway—her gaze drifted to the book on her desk.
Regressor Sword God, This Life Fist King
Her eyes glued to it like honey.
Small red lips quivered. A meaningful murmur escaped.
"To hide such profound martial enlightenment in the crude form of a third-rate novel."
A quiet soliloquy, weighted with certainty.
"No mere entertainment. The one who penned this masterpiece is no ordinary man. Surely a legendary absolute master in seclusion."
No! Totally not!
I just wrote it to avoid getting gutted by loan sharks!
It's junk food overloaded with dopamine! I screamed inwardly.
Clueless, she clutched the book like the world's greatest treasure. Reverent, as if handling a secret supreme manual.
"I must find this novel's great author."
Third-rate to masterpiece in a flash.
Her mutter chilled. Eyes glinted dangerously.
"And receive every one of his great teachings without omission."
Voice thick with grotesque obsession. Gone was her icy rationality.
But the real horror?
My trembling gaze locked on the book's back, hugged so preciously.
[To be continued in the next volume.]
Tomorrow was the next volume's deadline.
Should I beg Danche Ryeong for protection?