Year 981, Murim Alliance Building
The halls of the Murim Alliance Building were silent—too silent. Not the calm-before-a-meeting kind, but the heavy, suffocating stillness that comes before a storm that could tear the heavens apart.
The marble floors, polished enough to reflect the flickering torchlight, echoed with every soft footstep like thunderclaps. The ancient walls, engraved with tales of heroic battles and long-forgotten victories, now seemed to hold their breath. Even the wind outside didn't dare whisper past the tall, shoji-panelled windows.
Inside, martial artists gathered—elders, masters, and prodigies—draped in the robes of their respective sects. Their postures were straight, disciplined. But their eyes… their eyes betrayed them. Worry. Anticipation. Fear. It felt less like a meeting and more like warriors lining up before a battlefield none of them wanted to face.
Inside the Council Room
The meeting room was vast, circular, built from dark cedar wood and ancient black stone. In the center stood a long, rectangular table—aged, solid, and scarred by time. At one end of it, an elevated chair carved from dragonbone loomed like a throne. Seated upon it was the leader of the Murim Alliance.
His face was grim, his brows furrowed in deep thought. His fingers tapped against the armrest—not in impatience, but in calculation. When he looked up, his eyes met those of the six great sect leaders seated around the table. Once mighty forces of the martial world—today, they all wore the same expression: worried, pale, and silent. Fear was no longer hidden—it was written plainly in the tightness of their jaws, in the way their eyes darted to the door as if expecting someone… or something.
And then there was him.
Seated at the opposite end of the table, in a chair just as grand as the Alliance Leader's, was a man far too young to command such presence. Late twenties, perhaps—but he carried himself like a god wrapped in human skin. The master of the Heavenly Demonic Sect. A man who had never once stood with the orthodox sects. Never bowed, never bargained, never joined hands. And yet, today—he sat at their table.
Because even he knew… they had to come together to stop HIM.
The Alliance Leader's gaze dropped to the parchment before him. A simple document… and yet, the weight it carried could destory jianghu.
He picked up the wooden token lying beside it, dipped it into the inkstone, and paused. His hand trembled slightly in midair. His voice broke the silence—not loud, but clear, and heavy with a dread that echoed through the room.
"I had heard of monsters from my master and the previous murim leader but for the first time I saw one!" his face tightened, jaw clenched.
The sect leaders said nothing. One of them lowered his gaze, his hand shaking slightly beneath the table. Another subtly reached for the sword at his waist—not out of aggression, but for comfort.
BANG
He stamped the paper. The sound echoed like a call of death.
"No one should write or read about him," he continued, his voice now rising. "There should be no trace of him in the annals of history!"
He looked around the room—each man's face reflected the same thing: fear. Not of war, not of death—but of him.
"I am enforcing the entire Alliance," he said, slowly. "And signing the Death Warrant... of the biggest criminal the Jianghu has ever known."
Year 1018, Jegal Clan Library
"This is ridiculous!"
A sharp voice echoed through the high-vaulted halls of the Jegal Clan's Great Library. The sound bounced off the ancient wooden shelves, disturbing the silence like a thrown stone into still water.
Several heads turned. A collective sigh followed.
Of course—it was him. Jegal Sae-Jin, the young master of the Jegal Clan.
"Who writes something this carelessly?!" the voice rang out again, this time from the first floor. The speaker stood among stacks of towering scrolls and weathered tomes, holding an old book in his hand as if it had personally offended him.
The young master of the Jegal Clan—Jegal Sae-Jin—looked absolutely appalled.
The Jegal Clan, one of the revered Six Great Clans of the Murim world, was famed for its strategic minds and scholars. And Sae-Jin, heir to that legacy, had a temper when it came to books.
Across the long reading table, a young man sighed and looked up from his notes.
"Can you please keep your voice down, Sae-Jin?" he said, annoyed. His tone was calm, but the displeasure was clear.
It was Kang Hyeon, Sae-Jin's childhood friend and a disciple of the clan's archival division.
Sae-Jin, still standing with the book in hand, blinked at the stares and then sheepishly covered his mouth with one hand. He glanced at Kang, then waved him over urgently.
"Kang, come here. Read this. Fast!"
Reluctantly, Kang stood up, crossed the room, and took the book. He opened it with mild irritation—but that expression quickly faded.
First, a frown. Then widened eyes. Then—shock.
He stared at the page, then at Sae-Jin. Back at the book. Then back again. It was like he couldn't decide what was more unbelievable.
Pulling Sae-Jin closer, he whispered harshly, "Where did you find this?"
Sae-Jin leaned in. "It was holding up the broken leg of that shelf near the entrance. Looked half-burnt, and I was curious because the author... he's my grandfather's sworn brother. So I started reading it."
Kang's eyes widened even more. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Wait. This… this is Lang Lu's writing."
Sae-Jin nodded.
Kang stared at him like he'd found a hidden blade inside a prayer scroll.
"Lang Lu… the greatest scholar in Murim history. I didn't know he ever wrote fiction."
Sae-Jin said nothing. He simply turned the book over, revealing the tattered, soot-stained cover. Nearly the entire thing had been burned beyond recognition—except for one sentence, barely legible along the charred edge.
"Based on true events."
Kang gulped, his throat dry as sand.
If what he had just read was true—not fiction, not myth, but a record of actual events—then the very foundations of the current Jianghu... would be shaken to their core.
The sect alliances, the legends they revered, the balance of power—everything could collapse.
He looked up slowly, eyes still wide with disbelief.
"What will you do now?" he asked, his voice low, cautious.
Jegal Sae-Jin didn't hesitate.
"What do you mean? Of course I'm going to ask my grandfather about this." His tone was sharp, urgent. He clenched the half-burnt book in his hands. "Goddamn it... the damn thing's scorched. Only the first few pages are readable."
His frustration was barely contained, jaw tight, brows furrowed. The weight of discovery, of possibly holding the key to a buried truth—it was thrilling, but dangerous.
Kang didn't argue. He could've warned Sae-Jin to tread carefully, could've reminded him that some truths are buried for a reason. But he didn't.
Because deep down, he was just as curious.
He was a Jegal, after all.
No matter how calm or courteous Kang seemed, the thirst for knowledge—the obsession with unraveling mysteries—was in his blood. The Jegal Clan was famed not just for their strategies, but for their archives, their relentless pursuit of truth, and their uncanny ability to read between the lines of history.
And this book… this half-burnt remnant of a forgotten past… might be the most dangerous truth they'd ever come across.