Wol walked ahead without looking back.
Jo Mak followed a step behind. His steps were steady now, though the stiffness of his recent beating still lingered in his movements.
For a long while, neither of them spoke as they navigated the winding slums.
Then, Wol stopped.
Jo Mak barely had time to process the sudden halt. Before he could ask what was wrong, Wol moved. His body twisted sharply, planting one foot firmly into the dirt while his other leg snapped violently upward in a clean arc—aimed straight at Jo Mak's head. It was a fast, precise kick. No wasted motion.
Jo Mak's eyes widened in shock. His body reacted before his thoughts could catch up. His arms flew up instinctively toward his head, crossing into a guard to absorb the impact.
But the kick stopped.
Wol's boot hung completely still in the air, exactly an inch away from Jo Mak's face. It was close enough for him to feel the sharp rush of air slice across his cheek.
Silence fell over the alley.
Jo Mak froze for half a second before immediately jumping back.
"Are you crazy?!" he snapped, his heart racing. "That would've killed me! What the hell is wrong with you, suddenly throwing kicks like that?!"
Wol lowered his leg calmly, returning to a relaxed stance as if he had just been stretching.
"It's interesting," Wol said, his voice even, "that someone who can react to an ambush like that in an instant got beaten half to death by three street thugs."
Jo Mak's expression stiffened.
"I was just testing you," Wol continued, his cold gaze piercing through him. "I wanted to see exactly how good you really are... and why you'd rather get kicked into the mud than throw a single punch."
Jo Mak clicked his tongue, a flash of irritation crossing his bruised face.
"Tch... so you knew," he muttered, dropping the beggar act. "And you chose to test me right now? When my guard's down?"
He scoffed lightly. "If you were trying to kill me, you should've done it earlier in the alley."
Wol let out a quiet breath.
"If I wanted to kill you," Wol said, stating a simple fact, "that kick wouldn't have stopped. Your arms would have shattered trying to block the Qi behind it. After that, killing you would have been easy. I only wanted to measure your strength."
Jo Mak held Wol's gaze for a long moment before finally looking away with a sigh.
"...Fine," Jo Mak mumbled. "Let's just say complicated circumstances brought me here. I didn't hide my skills to trick anyone. I'm just... done with the martial world. I'm done being a martial artist."
Wol nodded once.
"I see."
Jo Mak blinked, taken aback.
"...That's it?" he asked. "No endless questions? No demanding to know 'why'? No dramatic speech about wasting my potential?"
Wol didn't respond, simply turning back toward the street.
Jo Mak exhaled sharply through his nose, half‑annoyed and half‑amused. "You're a weird one," he muttered, stepping back into pace behind Wol. "How old are you anyway? You look about my age. Maybe younger."
"Fifteen," Wol replied without looking back. "Almost sixteen."
Jo Mak stopped in his tracks, staring wide‑eyed at Wol's back.
"...Fifteen?" Jo Mak let out a short laugh. "You're literally a kid."
His eyes narrowed as he studied Wol properly. "You don't act like one. But still, how are you this strong at your age?"
There was genuine curiosity in his voice. Jo Mak wasn't just a street beggar. Before his life fell apart, he was considered a rising genius within his own sect. Even now, beaten into the dirt, his instincts hadn't dulled. He knew talent when he saw it.
Wol didn't hesitate.
"I train every day."
Jo Mak's eyes skimmed over the young man. Now that he looked past the cold attitude, he could see it. Wol's build was lean but refined, and his posture was perfectly balanced. Even his clothes were clean and tailored, completely out of place for a slum orphan.
"...Are you the hidden heir of some rich family or prominent sect?" Jo Mak asked.
"No," Wol replied flatly. "I was born right here in this city."
Jo Mak raised an eyebrow.
"So you live here with your family? Did you learn your martial arts from them?"
A heavy pause settled in the air.
"I don't have a family," Wol said, the words coming out hollow. "My father went missing on an escort job when I was eight years old. He never came back."
Jo Mak's expression softened slightly.
"And your mother?"
Wol didn't answer immediately. For a moment, something incredibly distant passed through his eyes.
He remembered walking beside his father through a crowded market. He had watched other children clinging to their mothers. His small hand had reached out, clutching his father's clothes.
"Dad... where is my mom?"
His father had gone quiet. Then, he had smiled faintly and patted Wol's head.
"Your mother is the moon, Wol. She comes out every single night just to watch over you."
Back then, the young Wol hadn't understood what that meant. And as he grew older, he never got the chance to ask again.
Wol's gaze hardened, snapping back to the present.
"...I don't know," he said simply.
Sensing he had hit a sore spot, Jo Mak shifted the subject.
"So if not family, who taught you?"
Wol shook his head.
"Nobody you know."
He paused briefly. In his past life, he had learned everything by himself, struggling blindly. In this life, if he had to call anyone his master, it was either a cryptic book, the white‑haired man in his dreams, or whichever unknown beings orchestrated his regression. Explaining that would sound completely insane.
"...It was an old traveling martial artist," Wol lied smoothly. "He passed through the city and stayed for five years."
Jo Mak blinked in surprise.
"...Five years? That's it?"
Wol nodded.
"He taught me."
Jo Mak fell into silence. Five years? That was it? Jo Mak had trained for eight grueling years under a proper sect with expensive resources and top‑tier guidance. And yet, this kid, studying for just five years in the slums, was far beyond him.
"...You reached this level in five years?" Jo Mak muttered, shaking his head. "...What kind of monster did you run into?"
Wol didn't linger on the topic.
"He left," Wol said. "I haven't seen him since. He just told me to train every single day... and that we would meet again someday."
Jo Mak didn't question it.
"...Huh," he muttered. "Sounds like the kind of cryptic nonsense an old master would say before disappearing."
They continued walking, the conversation shifting to lighter, unimportant things. Jo Mak talked more than he needed to, sharing idle complaints and drunken thoughts. Wol mostly listened, occasionally offering a brief reply.
For a moment, the walk felt familiar. Walking side by side, talking without any grand purpose. It reminded Wol of his past life—nights that ended in cheap alcohol and quiet brotherhood. A small smile briefly touched Wol's lips before quickly fading.
They finally stopped in front of small house at the edge of the district
Jo Mak looked at the roof, then back down to Wol. "...This your place?"
"Yeah."
They stepped inside. The space wasn't impressive. There was a narrow wooden bed, a small table, and just enough open floor to sleep.
Jo Mak glanced around the empty room.
"So," he said, turning back to face Wol. "What exactly do you need my help with? You didn't just pick me up for my sparkling personality."
"I own a piece of land," Wol said. "There's a part of the river running right by it where the fish really seem to stay. I hired a kid from the area to catch some, but it's not enough. The local market is short on supply these days, and prices are going up."
Jo Mak raised an eyebrow.
"So what, you want me to sit around catching fish and selling them?"
"Something like that."
Jo Mak let out a heavy breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
"You do know the fish markets in this city are controlled by rich merchants, right? If you mess with their supply, it's going to cause trouble."
Wol didn't hesitate.
"They won't be a problem."
Jo Mak studied the boy's confident expression. He sighed, throwing his hands up in defeat.
"...Right. Sure. Why not. Wouldn't be the strangest thing I've ever done for a meal."
Wol nodded.
"First, go wash up," he instructed, pointing toward the back door. "The river is right out back."
He picked up a folded set of clean clothes from his bed. "Take this."
Jo Mak took the clothes instinctively, but paused as his rough fingers brushed the material.
"...Are you sure about this?" Jo Mak asked. "This looks expensive."
"It's yours," Wol said casually.
Jo Mak stared at him for another second, baffled, then shrugged.
"...Alright."
"Come back inside when you're done," Wol added. "I'll show you the spot at the river."
Some time later, Jo Mak returned.
The mud and grime were completely gone. With the dirt washed away, his face actually looked very decent and sharp‑featured. But as he stepped inside, the expensive clothes hung loosely on his frame. He was incredibly skinny from weeks of starving, and his prominent collarbones and thin arms didn't fit the well‑tailored silk shirt properly.
He adjusted the baggy sleeves.
"...This is surprisingly comfortable," he muttered.
Wol glanced at him, then simply turned toward the door.
"Let's go."
Jo Mak stared at Wol's departing back for a long second.
"...Seriously, what is wrong with this guy?" he muttered, quickly following him out.
They reached the designated spot at the river. The water stretched wide and steady, reflecting the late afternoon light.
Wol stepped forward, retrieving a neatly piled set of fishing tools—a fishing net and a line. He handed them to Jo Mak.
"You handle the fishing," Wol instructed. "And you handle selling them."
Jo Mak took the equipment slowly.
"What if I just take the money from the first sale and run away?" he asked. "You're actually going to blindly trust me with your money? You barely know me."
Wol smiled faintly. He fully knew Jo Mak wouldn't run. The man valued loyalty and a good meal too much for that. But Wol couldn't resist testing him.
"If you do decide to steal from me," Wol said, keeping his tone light, "make sure you run as far out of this province as you possibly can."
For a tense second, Jo Mak simply stared at him. Then he let out a laugh through his nose.
"You're not joking, are you."
Wol didn't bother answering. He turned away.
"I'll be back much later tonight," he said. "I have something important to take care of."
And just like that, he vanished into the trees.
Wol returned to his empty house alone.
Jo Mak was still out at the river, working the nets.
Wol stepped inside and shut the wooden door behind him. He walked over to the bed, reached into the heavy cloth bundle, and pulled out the mystery sword he had taken from Shin Dae‑seok's vault.
It was a beautiful sword. Despite its age, it was perfectly balanced. However, the leather wrapping on the hilt was heavily withered and falling apart.
I need to find a good smith to reforge the hilt and polish the blade, Wol thought, testing the loose grip.
But as he held it, he felt the familiar sensation again. A hungry resonance. Every time he held this sword, his Qi naturally responded to it. Unlike ordinary swords, this weapon felt eager to connect with his energy.
Holding the sword, Wol's thoughts drifted back to the grueling fight with Iron‑Claw Ma.
Ma had been physically strong. But realistically, compared to the true monsters in the major Murim Sects, Ma was weak. In the martial world, fighters were ranked by the sheer volume of their Qi, while the purity and control of that energy determined how efficiently they could utilize it in combat. At the bottom were those in the Qi Gathering Realm. Above them were the refined experts of the Meridian Opening Realm. Then came the highly respected masters of the True Qi Realm. And towering above them all were the terrifying Peak Masters, Transcendent Realm legends, and the mythical Profound Realm entities.
Each of these realms was strictly divided into sub‑stages: early, middle, and peak. The gap between stages was notoriously difficult to cross, and breaking entirely into a new realm required a monumental shift in internal power.
Using standard martial artist logic, Iron‑Claw Ma was categorized as a middle‑stage Meridian Opening fighter.
Wol assessed his own condition. When he had fought Ma two nights ago, he had been horribly exhausted and deeply pushed to his limits, rendering him basically equal to Ma at that middle‑stage. But now, fully rested, with his new Middle Dantian stabilized and the Heavenly Demon Ascension seamlessly circulating, Wol recognized that he was easily operating at the level of an early‑stage True Qi disciple. He was objectively much stronger than Ma.
But Wol knew his limits.
If he was surrounded by multiple fighters on Ma's level, or if Shin Dae‑seok hired True Qi mercenaries to protect him, Wol would be in trouble. The Heavenly Demon Ascension was powerful, but he hadn't fully learned it yet. He only had one offensive move: Void Severing. Relying on just one attack made him easy to read in a group fight.
He needed something else to use until the Heavenly Demon Ascension was fully mastered. He needed more moves.
Wol sat down on the edge of his bed, planted the sword into the floorboards, and closed his eyes.
He thought back to his past life in the Alliance Archives. He sifted through the thousands of lost martial arts he had read over twenty‑four years.
One specific manual stood out.
It wasn't an explosive style. It was chosen purely for its control.
Wol opened his eyes.
"...Calm Abyss Sword."
A forgotten sword style built entirely on control over movement and internal Qi. It consisted of precisely seven forms.
Wol stood up in the center of the cramped room. He raised the sword.
The room fell silent.
Then—Wol moved.
The First Form: Silent Flow.
He executed a single, sweeping slash. Hidden within that one motion were multiple smaller cuts woven together perfectly. The blade didn't rip loudly through the air; it followed the most natural path. Wol fed his Qi into the motion to smoothly guide the steel.
He adjusted his stance, pivoting on his heel.
The Second Form: Still Circle.
He launched a direct thrust, but midway through the extension, his wrist snapped, rotating the blade outward into a wide circular slash. For a breathtaking second, the path of the sword was visible, traced by a thin hum of blue Qi like a ripple on still water.
He didn't stop, sliding to the left.
The Third Form: Drifting Edge.
What began as a horizontal cut suddenly changed direction halfway through, flowing into an extreme upward angle without breaking rhythm. Wol's Qi smoothed out the air resistance, allowing the tricky movement to happen without losing momentum.
The Fourth Form: Hollow Step Cut began with his footwork. His physical presence suddenly faded within the room. The slash followed a second later—horribly delayed, intentionally thrown out of sync to confuse the enemy. The attack was specifically designed to arrive just a fraction too late for a normal person to block.
The Fifth Form: Split Current.
He swung heavily downward, but the strike violently snapped into two separate angled slashes halfway through the fall. The Qi within the blade aggressively split, creating overlapping attacks that made dodging extremely difficult.
The Sixth Form: Returning Silence.
Instead of losing energy at the end of his swing, the blade rebounded off the empty air, feeding immediately into a second deadly strike without any pause. Zero wasted energy.
And finally, his muscles coiled.
The Seventh Form: Abyss Severance.
Everything connected. Multiple vicious slashes chained together in a terrifying blur, building speed—until it collapsed inward. A final, heavy thrust.
All of the accumulated Qi cycling through his body shot into the tip of the blade. It was a technique fully capable of effortlessly blowing through a hardened shield.
Wol stopped, freezing perfectly in place.
The blade lowered slowly to his side.
His breathing remained incredibly steady.
It still needs a lot more mastery, Wol thought, staring at the steel, but this will do for now. And I always have Void Severing to finish off the truly troublesome enemies.
Outside the quiet shack, the river flowed onward. Jo Mak worked the nets. And slowly, Wol's plans were perfectly falling into place.