The cave was dark, silent, and suffocating. A five-meter room carved from unfeeling stone, sealed shut by a massive boulder — it became both a tomb and a forge for those inside. Every child received one of these rooms. No lights, no warmth, no comfort — just stone, silence, and solitude.
The moment Min Jae stepped in, the stone behind him rumbled and slid into place with a finality that echoed in his bones. The cold that followed was not just of the body but of the soul.
There was no bed, no place to rest. Only him, his thin yet sharp sword, the iron bands on his wrists and ankles now weighing 20kg each, and a thin, nearly crumpled scroll titled: Iron Root Breathing Technique.
It was the most basic of internal energy techniques in the world of Murim — suitable for a beginner, but also barely sufficient for true martial development. Still, for Min Jae, who had never cultivated inner energy before, it was a key to survival.
Sitting cross-legged on the stone floor, he unraveled the scroll with calloused fingers. His eyes quickly moved across the words, memorizing the breathing patterns. Inhale through the nose, guide the energy through the lower dantian, circulate it through the core, and exhale. Over and over.
Simple on paper. Torturous in practice.
The moment he began, his body rebelled. His veins seared like fire, his chest tightened, and he coughed out dark blood onto the stone. It wasn't the gentle awakening of inner energy one might expect from a peaceful sect — it was a war waged inside his body. The pain was worse than the beatings. The scroll had warned: "Without a proper foundation, the Iron Root may rot your lungs before strengthening your core."
But Min Jae endured. He always endured.
The pain didn't stop him. It never had. And now, after everything he had survived, he wasn't going to falter over something as trivial as internal damage.
Each day blurred into the next.
He followed a strict schedule, carved into his mind like markings on stone.
First, he would begin by meditating — attempting to cultivate internal energy even as blood filled his mouth. Then came physical training: push-ups and sit-ups, done with 20kg iron bands clamped to his limbs. Sometimes he added weight by balancing his sword or using the rough walls for resistance.
Then came the most brutal part — sword swings.
Ten thousand slashes a day. No less.
The cave echoed with the sharp sound of blade cutting air. He practiced not just brute strength, but angle, precision, and control. His goal wasn't speed or power — it was perfection. Each slash was a step toward mastering the ideal sword path.
Some days he would faint from the pain of breathing. Other days from hunger. Food was only provided once every three days through a tiny crevice in the wall. Water came dripping from a crack in the ceiling — barely enough to quench thirst.
Still, Min Jae trained.
In the silence of the cave, he grew more aware of his body — of the shifting of muscles, of the tightness in his shoulders, the rhythm of his heartbeat, and the dull heat in his dantian. Something was changing inside him, slowly, painfully, but surely.
He thought of the other children.
Some, he knew, had received different scrolls. Their covers shimmered faintly with symbols, unlike his plain parchment. Perhaps they had talent. Or favoritism. Perhaps they had connections. Min Jae had none of those.
What he had was stubbornness. An iron will born not of pride, but of necessity.
Each time he collapsed, he forced himself back up. Each time he swung and failed to hit the mark, he restarted the count. The cave became his world. The sword became his breath. The breathing technique — his torment and salvation.
Even the pain became familiar.
The memory of his brother, once at the forefront of his thoughts, now sat deeper in his heart. It didn't surface with every blow or cry — but it was always there, like the pulse under his skin. A constant, quiet promise: "I will come back for you."
Months passed like this. Stone and steel became his companions.
And then, one day, the silence was broken.
A faint rumble. The shifting of rock.
Dust drifted from the ceiling as the boulder sealing the entrance groaned and began to move.
Min Jae opened his eyes.
He was no longer the same boy who had walked into this room.
His shoulders were broader, muscles tightly coiled and lean. His grip on his sword had changed — it no longer trembled. The internal energy within him still felt crude, painful, and small… but it was there.
He had bled. He had screamed. He had broken.
But he had not stopped.
The stone doorway slowly gave way to light — not the warmth of the sun, but the harsh glow of torches in a cave corridor.
He stood, unshaken.
The time had come to step forward again.
Into the Third Gate of Hell.