The Last Martial Artist
“Martial artists? Aren’t they just gangsters?”
“Haha. In name only, sure…”
“Come on, who looks for a Murim in the modern Central Plains?”
So Rihwa propped her head on one hand, staring blankly at the television. She was currently tuning into a documentary titled Sixty Years After the Dissolution of the Murim Alliance: What Has Changed?
“Look at public perception,” she murmured.
The producer was conducting man-on-the-street interviews, gathering opinions from ordinary civilians regarding modern martial artists. Not a single person offered a kind word.
“The term ‘martial artist’ has gotten pretty corrupted these days,” an elderly man in his eighties offered, providing what was arguably the most measured take on screen. “Back in my youth, it wasn't quite this bad.”
Watching television was Rihwa’s favorite method of catching up on the modern world she had been abruptly dropped into with zero background knowledge. Documentaries in particular were fantastic for their dry, factual presentation of history.
“In bygone eras, martial artists were figures of romantic reverence,” the narrator’s measured voice intoned. “Today, they are universally shunned. What brought about this transformation?”
Rihwa chewed rhythmically on a strip of dried squid she had picked up from the convenience store, keeping her eyes glued to the screen.
“The decline of the Murim was an inevitable historical development,” explained a professor of martial history appearing on screen. “As industrial technology advanced and global trade flourished, the ancient policy of mutual non-interference between government and Murim became fundamentally unsustainable. The European Union even went so far as to threaten to withhold a Free Trade Agreement unless the Central Plains dismantled the Non-Interference doctrine.”
I suppose it’s similar to how South Korea effectively abolished capital punishment to align with international treaties, Rihwa mused. A modern trading nation harboring armed, extrajudicial factions operating outside the reach of the law was bound to be seen as a glaring security liability.
“Personally, I find it regrettable,” the professor continued with a rueful sigh. “If the greater Murim had embraced flexible modernization alongside the shifting era, things might look very different today. After all, look at how well the Nine Sects and Five Great Clans survived.”
Following the interview, the documentary transitioned back to its calm, chronological narration.
“In 1963, the Central Plains Public Security Department formally declared that the Government-Murim Non-Aggression Pact could no longer be maintained. In response, martial factions launched widespread protests. Yet their chosen methods failed to garner sympathy from the general public.”
“They staged armed demonstrations with unsheathed blades and occupied vital public infrastructure, including subways and commuter buses.”
“It was at this juncture that the martial world fractured. Vast legacy powers like the Nine Sects and the Five Great Clans, who had long fostered deep economic and social ties with the general populace, decisively severed relations with the militant agitators.”
“With the Nine Sects and Five Great Clans—the traditional pillars of the martial world—turning their backs, the orthodox factions clamoring for non-interference completely forfeited public goodwill.”
“Finally, in 1965, the Public Security Department forcibly dismantled the martial world’s central rallying authority, the Murim Alliance. The progressive factions that adapted, such as the Nine Sects and Five Great Clans, transitioned successfully into the modern era. The intransigent remnants were driven underground, devolving into organized crime syndicates.”
“And that, perhaps, is why modern citizens harbor such instinctive aversion toward the very word ‘martial artist.’”
With that melancholic sign-off, the program faded to black.
It had been an easy, informative watch, largely thanks to its objective tone. Ever since learning this history, Rihwa had come to terms with the fact that the Murim existing here was fundamentally distinct from the romanticized world she once imagined.
Following the dissolution of the Murim Alliance, the Public Security Department had pursued a relentless, systematic campaign to eradicate traditional martial arts. The ubiquitous Dantian Abolishment Campaign plastered across subway stations and bus shelters today was merely one piece of that broader agenda.
Even prior to the dantian neutralization push, there had been countless disarmament measures: massive Internal Energy Air Purifiers installed across cities to scrub and neutralize ambient natural qi from the atmosphere; manual buyback drives where turning in ancestral secret manuals to local police substations yielded cash rewards; strict statutory bans prohibiting any discharge of internal energy in public spaces; and sweeping Blade Ban Edicts. The list went on endlessly.
“Yaaawn.” Rihwa stretched languidly.
Naturally, as a lifelong wuxia enthusiast, she had initially felt a pang of disappointment over this bizarre, sterilized "new century" Murim. But after living in modern Central Plains society for a few years, she had fully acclimated. Aside from disciplining a handful of alleyway delinquents back when she worked odd jobs, she had never had cause to brandish her martial arts in public.
Not that she could ever entertain abolishing her own dantian.
Cultivating authentic martial arts and internal energy was the sole reason her body continued to hold back the lethal frost of the Nine Yin Severed Meridians. If she surrendered her dantian and lost her internal qi, the chill would seize her blood vessels instantly, freezing her solid from within.
With the documentary over, she found herself with nothing in particular to do. It was only three in the afternoon. Streaming took a substantial toll on one's stamina and mental focus, and she had no desire to broadcast around the clock. If she went live today, eight o'clock in the evening felt like a reasonable target.
Lighthearted laughter gently wraps around me…
Just as she was melting into the sofa cushions, her smartphone erupted into a bright ringtone. How many calls had this been already today? Probably the eighth.
Rihwa sighed and glanced at the screen. The caller ID read Dang Riah.
At least that was someone she was comfortable speaking with. Having exchanged countless text messages over the past few weeks, they were now close enough to genuinely be considered friends.
“Hey.”
“Rihwa! Rihwa!”
The moment she answered, Dang Riah’s excited, booming voice blasted through the speaker. Rihwa, by contrast, remained cool as a cucumber.
“Yeah, yeah. I already know why you’re calling.”
“Wait, you do?”
“You're going to ask if that streamer Wadeulwadeul is me, right?”
“Spot on! How did you guess?”
How else? She was fielding this exact same question for the eighth time today.
The broadcast’s viral splash had been far larger than she had anticipated. In particular, the clip where she cleanly dismantled active pro God Jaehyun using a bottom-tier, off-meta character like Mukgeom had made the rounds across every gaming board and virtual-reality community in existence.
As a result, even younger co-workers from past part-time gigs whom she assumed had long drifted out of touch were blowing up her phone. Rihwa’s voice was unmistakable to anyone who knew her in person. Among all those callers, Dang Riah was an active friend, making the conversation infinitely easier to stomach.
“Man, you were seriously insane!” Rihwa’s friend gushed through the receiver. “How on earth did you pick apart an active pro on a complete dumpster-tier trash character like Mukgeom?”
“Mukgeom isn’t trash. As long as you hit the Just Guards consistently, he’s practically broken.”
“Who on earth can time a zero-point-one-second guard on reaction?! That’s physically impossible!”
“I can do it.”
“Then how did you dodge Desperado's paralyzing round point-blank?”
“I saw his shoulder shift left, so I pivoted right.”
“You dodged that on visual reaction?!”
“Yeah.”
“You’re out of your mind. Seriously, you’re an absolute monster.”
Dang Riah burst into helpless, incredulous laughter. By now, Rihwa herself was well aware: thanks to her internal energy cultivation, her reaction time, kinetic vision, and physical reflexes operated on a plane entirely divorced from normal human limits—and every shred of that translated directly into the virtual reality capsule.
Bringing those hyper-attuned physical capabilities onto Mukgeom was practically cheating, which was why she hadn't intended to pick him during the scrim. God Jaehyun had simply pushed her hard enough that she had defaulted to her instincts.
“Oh, right. Have you checked the community forums today?”
“Checked what?”
“People were theorizing that you might be an undercover martial artist.”
Rihwa sat bolt upright on the mattress. Dang Riah, unaware of her reaction, merely chuckled dismissively.
“Which is obviously absurd. Real martial artists can’t even boot up VR capsules.”
“Wait… they can't?”
That was news to Rihwa. She perked up her ears, listening intently.
“Well, modern martial artists can't, to be precise. You know how the ones remaining today rely on illegal narcotics and performance-enhancing substances to pump up their bodies?”
“…Do they?”
Rihwa studied the intricacies of this world whenever she had spare moments, but blind spots inevitably remained. Gaining a complete grasp over an entirely novel reality took time.
“Wait, you didn't know that? Of course they do! That’s why martial artists are strictly barred from competing in the Olympics or the World Cup. Imagine if they were allowed—they’d sweep every single medal and trophy clean.”
“Well, that part makes sense.”
The raw physical prowess of a martial artist, especially when reinforced by internal qi, was beyond anything an ordinary human athlete could match.
“So the capsule hardware detects those illicit bodily-enhancement drugs,” Rihwa surmised. “And if it flags them, it blocks login access?”
“Exactly.”
“Why are martial artists relying on illegal drugs in the first place, though?”
“You really live under a rock, don’t you?”
Dang Riah giggled. There was no mockery in her voice—she simply found Rihwa’s naive innocence endearing.
“Traditional martial artists used to draw upon environmental natural qi to build their internal energy reserves, right?”
“Right.”
The pieces immediately began clicking together in Rihwa’s mind.
“The qi in the atmosphere isn’t what it used to be,” Rihwa said, connecting the dots. “So they can't cultivate natural power anymore, forcing them onto illegal narcotics.”
“Bingo. Vehicle exhaust and factory smog degrade environmental qi on their own, and the government even runs those gigantic industrial Internal Energy Air Purifiers that devour ambient energy straight out of the sky. Modern practitioners don’t stand a chance. To master higher-tier martial arts, your physical body has to be built like an iron fortress to withstand the strain. Since nobody can achieve that naturally anymore, they turn to dope.”
“Are those drugs similar to ancient spirit elixirs?”
“Elixirs were naturally concentrated botanical treasures, completely clean and legal. But since environmental qi is so depleted, true spirit herbs don't sprout anymore. So modern syndicates cook up synthetic chemical cocktails to forcefully warp their bodily parameters.”
“Ah. I get it now.”
“My family's main business is biotechnology, so I know all about that dirty stuff,” Dang Riah continued breezily. “The cocktails those thugs inject carry horrifying side effects and are insanely addictive. One cycle and you’re basically a ruined wreck for life. It’s no different from fentanyl or industrial-grade opium.”
“I see…”
“The funniest part? Even with all that juicing, they don’t come close to matching the masters of the past. The atmosphere is just too polluted. They say that fugitive Murim Alliance Leader on the most-wanted list would barely pass as a first-rate warrior by the standards of a century ago. It’s kind of like how insects shrink when atmospheric oxygen levels drop.”
“Insects, huh…”
Hearing martial artists compared to shrinking bugs drew a wry smile from Rihwa.
Still, hearing Dang Riah chatter so casually about poisons, toxins, and synthetic pharmaceuticals was a firm reminder of her bloodline. The Sichuan Tang Clan had always been renowned across martial history for their unparalleled mastery of chemicals, poisons, and remedies.
Indeed, FourRiver Therapeutics—the global biomedical and cosmetics empire established by the Tang Clan—had leveraged that very ancestral pharmacology to capture both pharmaceutical and skincare markets. It made complete sense that Dang Riah was an encyclopedia on the subject.
“Anyway, thank you again for the clothes,” Rihwa said, keen on pivoting away from the slightly awkward subject of martial artists. “I’m putting them to great use.”
“Of course! Who do you think picked them out? Aren't people telling you how gorgeous you look?”
Dang Riah’s pitch instantly jumped up a notch, clearly thrilled by the change in topic.
“I’ve only worn them out once, so I wouldn’t know about ‘people.’”
“Huh? Why only once?”
“I don't really have reasons to go outside. I broadcast from home, and throwing on designer outfits just to run to the convenience store feels pretty ridiculous.”
“Fair enough. Where did you wear it that one time?”
“When I had an in-person meeting with an MCN agency.”
Dang Riah gasped in mild shock.
“You’re already talking to MCNs?! You only started streaming a couple of days ago!”
“Yeah. Things kind of moved fast.”
“That’s incredible! Make sure to send me the contract once you get the draft. I'll have our corporate legal department scrub it for toxic clauses.”
“Oh, don’t bother. You really don’t have to go that far. If anything, I owe you far too much already.”
Dang Riah was at the very top of Rihwa’s mental list of people to pay back the moment she made real money, considering the fortune in wardrobe gifts she had received free of charge.
“Pay me back for what? I bought those clothes because I wanted to!”
“Still. I think I’m actually making decent money now.”
“You’re the first person in my entire life to brag about making good money in front of me.”
Both girls burst into laughter simultaneously. A second-day micro-streamer boasting about her earnings in front of a mega-conglomerate heiress was absurd on its face. Even so, Rihwa couldn’t help feeling proud of her newfound income.
Even after platform cuts and taxes, she had netted over two hundred thousand taels in a single day. Considering that grueling daily labor at the distribution warehouse paid around eighty thousand taels, streaming was extraordinarily lucrative.
“If you really feel like treating me, why don’t you take a trip down to Sichuan?” Dang Riah suggested cheerily. “I’ll treat you to the ultimate Sichuan full-course experience!”
“What on earth is a 'Sichuan full course'?”
“Come down and find out!”
I guess the concept of a 'full-course tour' exists across every universe, Rihwa thought, suppressing a chuckle as she recalled a squadmate from her past military days who had endlessly promised to treat everyone to a "Busan full-course tour."
“Fine. I’ll visit sometime.”
“It’s a promise, okay?! Oh—hold on, my dad’s calling for me.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Rihwa hung up and settled into quiet contemplation.
So that was why those forum threads questioning whether Wadeulwadeul was a martial artist had been immediately laughed off as bait. The general public simply took it for granted that martial artists were barred from logging into virtual reality capsules.
“Hmm…”
The only reason Rihwa could dive into capsule gaming without issue was that her cultivation was entirely orthodox and pure. Her inner qi had been honed through meticulous breathwork and genuine manual training, and every pill she had ever consumed was a pristine elixir sourced directly from untouched mountain peaks.
Come to think of it, she remembered being taken aback by how drastically the atmospheric qi dropped once she descended from the mountain into the city. That secluded peak must have been shielded from the outside world by ancient, self-sustaining formations.
“Wait.”
A sudden realization struck her like a bolt of lightning.
If modern martial artists were all drug-addled shadows of the past, then strictly speaking… the only true, uncorrupted martial artist remaining in the modern Central Plains was So Rihwa herself.
No wonder every self-proclaimed martial practitioner she had crossed paths with in back alleys had turned out to be an utter lightweight. She had spent months wondering where all the real grandmasters were hiding.
Her wuxia-loving heart fluttered with a quiet, undeniable thrill. The Last Martial Artist…
It sounded undeniably badass.
“Heh… hehe…”
A goofy, self-satisfied grin crept onto her face, soft giggles escaping her lips.
Ping!
The sharp chime of an incoming alert snapped her out of her reverie. A notification from Hogongdapbo Airlines had arrived on her screen.
“…?”
Rihwa blinked at the phone, utterly bewildered. Before she could even process what she was looking at, another chime rang out. It was a chat message from Dang Riah.
“Wait, what?!”
Wasn't that "Sichuan full course" supposed to be an empty promise like the Busan meme?!
Rihwa scrambled to pull up her calendar. Today was July 2nd. The flight was scheduled for tomorrow morning.