Murim was never a land of justice. It was never a land of honor.
It was a world where the strong carved their will into the weak, where power was the only law. The righteous were trampled beneath the boots of warlords, and virtue was a noose that only fools wrapped around their own necks.
The great sects ruled like gods, their banners casting long shadows over the land. Their elders, revered as saints, held more power than kings. Their disciples, raised in the lap of luxury, spilled blood without consequence—for who would dare hold them accountable?
The righteous sects preached virtue and balance, yet their halls reeked of hypocrisy. Their so-called justice only served the powerful. A commoner who stole a grain of rice had his hands severed, yet a noble who slaughtered a village for sport was given a mere slap on the wrist.
The unorthodox clans were worse. They did not bother with lies or masks. Their rule was one of pure terror—slavery, bloodshed, and tyranny ran in their veins.
And beneath it all, crushed beneath the heels of the powerful, were the nameless. The crows.
The beggars who shivered in alleyways while sect disciples feasted in golden halls. The slaves who bled in the mines, never seeing the light of day. The orphans who learned to kill before they could even read.
This is not a story about gods who spread light… It's not a story about demons who rule darkness… It's not even the story of the demon lord who commands those demons…
This is the story of a king without a kingdom. A sword-wielding Bastard who carved his own fate. An emperor who made even god of death shudder in fear.
Throughout history, men have sung the praises of eagles and doves. Yet none dared to speak of crows—shadows in the same sky, unseen, unwanted. Forgotten. Scorned. But crows do not beg for a place among the eagles.
They take it.
This is the tale of those forsaken crows. A saga written not in ink, but in blood. A legend forged by the restless dead, drifting through the ages. The story of a clan raised on blood, nursed by the blade.
It began with a bastard—a man discarded by the world, spat on by fate. And yet, from his fury, an inferno was born. A fire that burned away weakness. That turned slaves into warriors, corpses into conquerors. The crows, once trampled beneath the feet of kings, rose with swords in hand.
And at their helm stood the most ruthless of them all—the man who would one day rule the murim itself.
This is the tale of my son.
The strongest. The richest. The most feared man to have ever walked on the lands of Murim.
You bloody mother f—!