The carriage rattled over the uneven cobblestones of River Dragon City, moving steadily away from the burning Merchant House.
Inside the enclosed wooden cart, the air was thick with the scent of unwashed wool and old iron.
Wol lay unconscious on one side of the bench, his body finally giving out to the overwhelming fatigue and physical stress of the breakout.
On the opposite bench lay Goo Jung's sister, Goo Yeon, resting quietly. She was around the same age as Wol and Nari, but her condition had left her incredibly skinny, her pale skin stark against the dark, midnight shade of her hair that spilled over the makeshift pillow.
Goo Jung sat between them, his eyes darting from Wol's still form to his sister's steady breathing, looking after them both with a fierce protectiveness. Outside, the remaining Mad Dogs walked alongside the carriage as an escort, their footsteps a rhythmic crunch against the dirt, while Dae-ho held the reins, driving them through the shadows.
Even as his physical body collapsed, Wol's mind was not at rest. He knew momentarily that he was sleeping, that he had passed out from the sheer stress of the night, but he also sensed Goo Jung's presence, knowing he was safe enough to let his guard down.
The darkness of sleep swiftly morphed into a familiar vividness.
He was dreaming.
Wol knew this immediately, not because of any feeling of weightlessness, but because he was standing in a place that defied the logic of the Murim world he knew.
It was the sect. Three massive, sprawling buildings laid out in a perfect geometric formation. The ancient architecture, the deep, artistic red woodwork. The clear stream crossed by a pristine stone bridge, flanked by trees with pure white leaves. It was the same breathtaking scene he had seen his first time here, but it had become strangely familiar to him now. The impossible scale of it no longer surprised him.
For the past five years, building his new body had been an agonizing chore, and every time he passed out from the stress and fatigue, this exact dream welcomed him. Even now, completely drained from the breakout, he momentarily knew he was sleeping.
He walked past the stream toward the scarred training ground.
In the center lay a single sword. It was an ordinary iron sword.
He knelt down and closed his hand over the hilt.
The empty training ground vanished. Instantly, the courtyard was filled with the sharp, rhythmic shouts of young disciples moving through forms. The scene shifted to the memory of the young boy, Cheon Ryong, facing the senior disciple.
For the first few years, Wol had merely been a watcher trapped behind another's eyes. Then, as time passed, he began to see a little more. He comprehended the footwork, the precise angle of the blade. As more time passed, the watcher became the participant. He gained control of the body. He could swing the sword himself. He could feel the pure, refined Qi flowing through meridians converging into the Middle Dantian, just like the book described.
He remembered the first time he faced the senior disciple's attack. He had tried to replicate the technique, but failed. So he started again. From the beginning.
After thousands of dodges, endless simulated deaths, and constant focus, he had finally managed to do it. He vividly remembered the very first time he succeeded in this dream. In that moment, he had finally grasped the flow of Qi, focusing it onto the tip of the blade to shatter the overwhelming energy thrown at him.
When he woke up that morning, he felt something shift within his consciousness. He sat in meditation, turning his mind inward to look at the book that resided in his mind.
As he entered that space, there it was. The cover, which had been a swirling, inky blur for five years, was suddenly perfectly visible.
Heavenly Demon Ascension.
Wol stared at the text for a long moment.
In twenty four years of reading everything the archive contained — every text, every fragment, every footnote that serious scholars had dismissed as myth — he had never once encountered this title. Not a reference. Not a rumor. Not even a denial. It was as though it had been removed from history so completely that even its absence had been erased.
Something this thoroughly buried, he thought, was buried by someone very powerful, for a very specific reason.
He mentally reached out and opened the book. The ink settled onto the second page. As Wol read the text, he realized it detailed the exact same move he had just executed in the dream. The missing pieces clicked into place — as he read, the many complex theories he couldn't understand simply by watching finally settled into his mind. He could now see the true essence of the technique.
First Form — Void Severing.
Now, standing in the dream once more, the scenario reset. The phantom senior disciple loomed before him, unleashing the massive X-shaped blade of blue Qi that tore through the ground toward him.
Wol didn't panic. Same dream. Same body. Same stance.
He readied himself, pulling the mystery blade straight back, focusing the Qi onto the tip of the blade — not a rough spark like his first success, but a perfect, condensed needlepoint of pure energy, exactly as he had originally watched the boy do.
His movement was effortless. Smooth. Casual.
He thrust the sword forward. The needlepoint struck the exact dead-center of the X-shaped attack, shattering the blue beam of Qi into a million harmless fragments of light.
Amidst the cascading rain of shattered blue energy, Wol's face was reflected in the polished steel of his sword — his eyes sharp, piercing, and terrifyingly calm.
He woke with a slow breath, the remnants of the dream slipping away.
For a moment, everything felt comfortable.
His eyes opened to a ceiling he didn't recognize. Plain. Wooden. Still.
A bed.
Not his.
He knew it instantly — not by sight, but by feeling. The texture beneath him, the faint scent in the air.
Familiar.
He tried to sit up —
A small sound escaped him. Barely audible.
Pain followed.
Deep. Heavy. It spread through his body, dragging him back down before he could rise properly. His muscles trembled, his chest tightening as the movement pulled against —
Bandages.
Wrapped across his torso. His arms. Even his face.
"You're awake."
The voice came from the side. Old. Steady.
Wol turned his head slightly.
And saw him.
"...Elder Han."
The name slipped out before he could stop it.
The old man raised an eyebrow. "...Seems you know me."
A brief pause.
"...I've heard of you," Wol replied calmly.
It was enough.
Elder Han stepped closer, placing a firm hand near Wol's shoulder. "Don't move. I just finished patching you up. You'll open the wounds again."
His tone was calm but left no room for argument. "Stay still for a while."
Wol exhaled and let himself sink back. "Yeah... got it."
Same voice. Same presence. Nothing had changed.
His gaze lingered on the old man.
Still the same.
Working for a handful of coins. Refusing to raise his price. Refusing to take advantage of people no matter the situation. A man who had once been a martial artist of genuine ability — Wol knew that much from his past life — and had chosen to spend what remained of his years treating the people that everyone else walked past. Age had worn him down but not out. The hands grinding herbs by the window were still steady.
A rare kind of man.
"I guess I should thank you then," Wol said.
Elder Han gave a short, dismissive snort. "No need. I was paid."
There it was. Exactly as he remembered.
"I guess you're right," Wol said quietly. "What about the people who were with me?"
Elder Han turned and stepped outside.
Moments later the door opened again. They entered — not rushing, but quickly, with restrained urgency. Their steps slowed as they approached the bed. A brief silence settled.
Then —
"We're relieved you're awake."
"You held on well."
"You should rest."
Their voices were controlled. Respectful. But the concern was clear.
Wol looked at them. These were the same people he had beaten not long ago. His gaze moved over them — bandages, bruises, guarded movements.
Yeah. That was definitely his doing.
And yet they stood there. Checking on him.
People are strange.
"I'm fine," Wol said. "Still alive."
A few of them nodded. The tension in the room eased slightly.
Among them — Goo Jung. Silent. Watching.
Wol shifted his gaze. "Give us a moment."
There was no hesitation. They stepped out. The door closed softly behind them.
The room fell quiet. For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then — "How is your sister?" Wol asked.
Goo Jung looked slightly surprised. "...Still the same," he said. "Maybe worse."
His voice lowered. "If you hadn't come... she would still be struggling."
He stepped forward and bowed. "I won't forget this. You risked your life for us even though you didn't know us. I will repay this debt — no matter what it takes."
Wol let out a quiet breath, almost amused. "I figured you'd say that. And I know you won't drop it."
Silence.
"Well," Wol continued, "don't worry about your sister. I'll treat her myself once I've recovered."
Goo Jung's expression tightened. "...Thank you."
He bowed once more. "I'll stay with her."
He left without another word.
Silence returned.
Wol slowly adjusted his posture, drawing his legs into a meditative position.
A thought surfaced. Something he had only read about. Internal Qi circulation. Healing through one's own meridians. He had never reached that level before.
But now he could feel it.
His Dantian. Faint. But real.
He guided it. Slowly. Like moving water. He found the internal damage caused by overexertion and directed the flow toward it.
Warmth spread. Subtle. But effective.
One by one he closed the injuries. The pain faded. Not completely. But enough.
When he opened his eyes again his body felt lighter. Stable.
He stood.
As he stepped outside the door creaked softly.
Elder Han was seated nearby, writing something in a small ledger. He looked up and froze.
"You're... walking?"
His brows furrowed. "Don't strain yourself. Wait a day —"
Wol raised his arms slightly, rotating them. "I'm fine."
Elder Han stared at him with the focused attention of a man who had spent decades reading bodies for a living. How has he healed this quickly? The injuries from last night should have kept him bedridden for three days minimum.
"It seems you've recovered," he said slowly. "Are you planning to leave?"
"Not yet," Wol replied. "I need to treat the girl who came with me."
Elder Han's expression darkened. "That condition cannot be treated through normal means. If you attempt something reckless she could die — and you would suffer serious damage in the process."
"Want to make a bet?" Wol said.
Elder Han frowned.
"If I save her, you work with me. And I'll tell you how I healed myself this morning."
"It's not about that," Elder Han said firmly. "Her condition is —"
"Yin-Severing Veins," Wol said. "Blocked meridians from birth. Medicine is useless. The only way is to break the blockage using pure refined internal Qi. I know."
Silence.
"...Then you understand the risk," Elder Han said. "So why —"
"Because I can fix it."
No hesitation. No performance. Just a flat statement of fact.
Elder Han looked at him the way he had looked at very few people in a very long life — with the specific attention of someone trying to determine whether what they are seeing is arrogance or something rarer. He had known arrogant men. He had known stupid ones. He had known talented ones who combined both in equal measure.
This boy was none of those things. Whatever certainty lived behind those eyes had been built from somewhere real.
A martial artist worn to the bone by old age, Han thought, looking at his own hands briefly. And a boy of sixteen who heals himself overnight and speaks about blocked meridians like a physician of thirty years.
"Why don't you see it yourself," Wol said finally. "If something goes wrong you step in but The deal stands."
The room was full.
Goo Jung's brothers lined the walls, silent. Goo Jung himself sat at the bedside, holding his sister's hand.
Wol stepped through the doorway and stopped.
He had never seen her before. Goo Jung had spoken of her only once, briefly, by the campfire in his past life — my sister, she was always the bright one — and Wol had filed it away the way he filed everything. A name attached to a tragedy.
Now he looked at her properly for the first time.
She was beautiful. Even now, even like this — the illness had taken everything it could take and she remained beautiful. But her body was weathering in the way that bodies weather when something fundamental inside them has been wrong for a very long time. The pallor went deeper than skin.
Goo Yeon, he thought. Let's fix this.
"I'll begin," Wol said.
"You're still recovering —" Goo Jung started.
"He's healed," Elder Han said from the doorway, his voice carrying a complicated note. "I don't know how. But he has." A pause. "...This is still dangerous…..."before he could finish
Goo Jung looked at Wol for a long moment. Then he bowed his head until it nearly touched his knees.
"I'll leave her in your hands. Please... save her."
"Sit her up," Wol said.
Goo Jung lifted her carefully.Elder Han didn't understand why and he was asking who is this kid to himself but for now he decided to watch , Wol sat behind her, closed his eyes, and began.
He did not approach it with force. He approached it the way he approached every difficult thing — methodically, from the foundation. In his mind he traced the meridian diagrams he had memorized from the archive's medical texts, cross-referencing the blockage pattern against what he could feel through his palms. The Yin-Severing Veins was not one blockage. It was many — distributed across the meridian network like knots in a rope, each one reinforcing the others. Remove them in the wrong order and the system would collapse.
He had mapped the correct sequence before entering the room.
He placed his palms against her back and let the Qi flow.
It moved like water finding its path, entering her meridians and traveling inward toward the first blockage point. The moment it made contact the cold hit him — a deep, seeping cold that traveled back through his Qi and into his own meridians like reaching bare-handed into a frozen river. He had expected it. He pushed through.
His Qi intensified. Heat building at the contact point, pressing steadily against the dense cold mass. He did not rush. He melted through it the way sunlight melts ice — gradually, with consistent pressure, giving it nowhere to hold.
The first blockage dissolved.
Her body lurched.
Without warning the released energy flooded outward and her meridians, starved of flow for sixteen years, pulled at his Qi with violent, desperate hunger. Like a vortex opening beneath him. Like the ground disappearing underfoot.
Do not lose control, Wol told himself, If he did his dantain will collapse.
He stabilized. Found the center. Held.
Outside Elder Han's hand moved unconsciously toward the boy's shoulder and stopped. The sweat on the boy's face. The pallor spread across his skin. Every physician's instinct in the old man's body said intervene.
He did not intervene.
Trust it, he thought. Watch.
Inside Wol followed the sequence. Second blockage. Third. The cold came differently each time — sharper at some points, more diffuse at others — and each time he adjusted, calibrated, pushed through without losing the thread. The vortex never stopped pulling. He never stopped holding.
One by one the blockages cleared.
Until there were none.
Wol withdrew his palms slowly. The warmth that had been flooding his meridians receded, leaving behind a hollow familiar cold. His shoulders dropped slightly — just once — before he steadied himself.
He opened his eyes.
The color was returning to her skin. The deep pallor retreating, warmth spreading across her face the way dawn spreads across a dark sky — gradually, then all at once.
"She'll be fine," Wol said. His voice was steady despite the exhaustion behind it. "Feed her herbs with light yang properties for the next week. It will balance the remaining Qi. Within seven days she'll be as you remember her."
The room was silent.
Then Goo Jung pulled Yeon close and the silence broke — not with words but with the specific sound of a man who has been bracing for the worst for so long that relief has nowhere to go except through the chest and out. His brothers turned away. Elder Han looked at the ceiling.
Wol stood and left.
Outside Elder Han followed.
He was quiet for a moment. Processing.
"I never thought I'd see something like that," he said finally. "Someone your age with this level of Qi control." He paused. "Do you belong to a sect?"
"No."
"If I did," Wol added, "would I be helping people like this?"
Elder Han fell silent. He knew the answer.
But that wasn't what stayed with him. It was the boy. Straightforward. Clear. No arrogance. No pretense. He said what he meant and meant what he said.
He didn't dislike him. Not at all. If anything he was drawn in — the way a martial artist is drawn toward something worth understanding.
"...About our deal," Wol said.
"I understand," Elder Han replied. "I'll help you." He glanced sideways. "But why do you need me? Your healing already exceeds mine."
"I can heal myself with Qi," Wol said. "Doing that for every person who needs help is a different matter entirely. You have something I don't — forty years of medicinal knowledge. I need that."
He paused.
"I also know where certain things are. Rare herbs. Plants that haven't been found yet or locations that haven't been discovered. Things that could be used to make medicines that don't currently exist." He said it simply, without flourish.
Elder Han was quiet for a long moment.
He thought about what Wol had just done in that room. What it had cost him physically. The way he had walked out without waiting for thanks. The way he spoke about building something not for himself but for what it could become.
"...You won't change how I work," he said. It was not a question.
"No. You treat people regardless of what they can pay. That stays."
"...And in return I help you with medicine when you need it."
"Yes."
Elder Han looked at him one last time. Not as a patient. Not as a curiosity. As a road he had not expected to find himself on, appearing at the end of a long life, offering somewhere new to go.
"...Fine," he said. "I'll work with you."
Wol nodded once. Then he looked toward the horizon, already thinking about the next thing.
Elder Han watched him and said nothing.
Something about this boy was worth seeing through to the end.