Mount Mugang loomed like a silent giant.
Not the tallest of the Five Great Mountains, but perhaps the most solemn. Its slopes were carved not by time alone but by the weight of countless duels, sect negotiations, and silent pacts made by wandering warriors who bled and vanished beneath its pines.
Jinmu reached its foothills by the following morning. With the female martial artist still unconscious across his back, his movements had been cautious — not rushed, but purposeful. Every step told him more about the terrain. Narrow paths twisted through mossy ridges, old inns resting quietly under hanging rock cliffs, and faded banners flapped with sigils he didn't recognize.
But no one stopped him. No one questioned a masked man carrying a wounded person through the mountain road.
This was Mount Mugang, after all.
Too many things happened here to notice just one.
He spotted a modest inn tucked into a crag near the base of a steep ridge — small, two stories, weathered wood and smoke trailing from the chimney. No guards. No sect flags.
Perfect.
He adjusted her weight and stepped into the shade of the eaves.
Inside, the innkeeper blinked up at him. "You look like you've seen ghosts, friend."
Jinmu kept his voice low.
"She's injured. Needs a room, rest, and quiet. I've already paid."
He slipped a silver coin onto the counter.
The innkeeper's brow arched at the weight.
"That'll do."
"She'll wake soon. Don't ask her questions."
"None of my business."
The innkeeper stood and waved his apprentice forward. Together, they gently carried the woman inside, laying her on a futon near an open window where soft mountain air trickled in.
Jinmu lingered at the threshold for a moment, eyes lingering on her face.
She looked peaceful now.
Still breathing.
Still alive.
He reached up and untied the black mask from his face, tucking it into his inner robe.
Then he turned without another word and stepped back onto the road.
He found another inn down the slope — larger, louder, and more crowded. Mercenaries, peddlers, and traveling cultivators filled the main hall. A crooked wooden sign outside read:
"The Twin Brook Lodge – Food. Rest. No Sects Allowed."
He paid for a small room and a plate of steamed dumplings, then settled near the far window with a cup of watered-down plum wine.
No one gave him a second glance.
He let out a long sigh and finally leaned back.
That's over.
She's safe. And more importantly…
His eyes drifted across the room, where three martial artists from different provinces were arguing over whose blade style was superior. No one here would recognize Blossom Vein Arts. No one here would notice the subtle ki humming beneath his skin.
No one knows what I am. Or what I'm becoming.
He stared down at his fingers.
I copied two techniques already. One fluid, one violent. One from a woman who moved like mist… the other from men who struck like flame.
And neither of them broke me.
Just how much can I take in?
Before the thought could linger too long, the door swung open — and a messenger ran into the inn, his voice raised.
"All martial artists — travelers, vagabonds, and challengers — the Mugang Martial Pavilion has made its announcement!"
Several patrons immediately turned.
Jinmu sat up straighter.
The boy continued, waving a scroll in one hand. "Seven days from now, a Grand Open Tournament will be held at the Pavilion's southern arena! Winners will be offered provisional contracts, manual access, resources, and a chance to duel one of the Pavilion's twelve blades!"
A nearby swordsman stood. "Twelve blades?"
Another martial artist barked a laugh. "That's suicide. The Pavilion's Twelve Blades are all Masters!"
"No one said you had to win," the messenger replied quickly. "You just need to show potential. Survive. Impress. You'll earn your name."
Someone else asked, "Any entry restrictions?"
"None. Open bracket. Anyone with a weapon or a technique can enter. Even nobodies."
That word made Jinmu glance away.
Even nobodies, huh…
The messenger stepped onto a chair and unrolled the scroll. "Signed by the Pavilion Lord himself. Their elders will attend. The Southern Arena will host the entire event."
A heavy silence fell over the room.
Then, murmurs.
A hooded girl whispered, "That means this isn't just a sparring event. It's a recruitment."
A merchant leaned closer to his guard and said, "If the Pavilion's watching, other sects will send scouts too."
The swordsman scratched his beard. "Or assassins."
Jinmu's mind clicked into motion.
Mugang Martial Pavilion.
One of the Five Great Sects of the Orthodox Path… but unlike the others, they don't discriminate. No gender rules. No regional bloodlines. If you're strong — they accept you.
And Mount Mugang's their home.
He remembered now. He'd heard the name before, long ago, in the memories of this body.
The Pavilion wasn't just a sect.
It was a crucible.
They took in wandering martial artists, trained them, and turned them into weapons sharp enough to challenge even the elders of the Murim world.
And unlike the other four Great Sects… they didn't care where you came from. They didn't care about noble clans, surnames, or reputation.
Just skill.
Just strength.
If I want to test myself… this might be the best place to start.
But another thought quickly followed.
No. Wait. I've used Blossom Vein Arts publicly.
If I enter the tournament and someone from Yeonhwa Lotus Palace sees me, even wearing a mask…
His fingers clenched.
It's too dangerous.
He stood and returned to his room.
But that night, he couldn't sleep.
Meanwhile.
At the small inn nestled near the cliffside — the one where Jinmu had left her — the female martial artist stirred from sleep.
Her fingers curled weakly over the blanket, then tensed as her eyes opened to dim light and unfamiliar wooden beams overhead. The scent of herbs mixed with pine.
She sat up slowly, her ribs protesting every movement.
What happened…?
Bits of memory came back.
A path in the forest.
Two Crimson Flow Blade Union thugs.
A losing battle.
Then — someone appeared.
Someone she knew.
Her eyes widened slightly.
"...The inn boy?"
Her voice was raspy, but the name on her tongue wasn't in question.
It was him.
Jinmu Yeon. The boy from Peaceful Blossom Inn.
She leaned back against the headrest, stunned.
But what was he doing out there?
Was he… following me?
No — the memory was blurry, but she clearly recalled his face stepping between her and the attackers. Not hidden. Not masked. Calm and determined.
Just Jinmu.
She clenched the blanket in her fists.
But that makes no sense. He didn't even seem like a martial artist when we met… just a polite innkeeper's son.
Did he know those men? Was he caught in it by accident?
Or… did he save me?
Her head dropped slightly, a faint frown forming.
She hadn't seen him fight — her body had already shut down. And when she woke up here, he was gone.
But the evidence was clear.
She wasn't dead.
And Jinmu had been the last face she saw.
"…You helped me," she whispered to no one. "Didn't you?"
A long pause followed.
Then a quiet promise escaped her lips.
"I'll repay that."
She didn't know how.
Or when.
But she never forgot a debt.
Especially not to someone who had no reason to help her at all.
Back in the other inn, Jinmu stood at the window, staring out at Mount Mugang's silhouette rising in the distance.
A new path.
A new stage.
And maybe… the first place he could test what it meant to truly fight as himself.
Seven days.
Enough time to prepare.
But first… I need to decide.
Do I show the world what I am?
The morning sun hadn't even crested the peaks of Mount Mugang when Jinmu stepped back out onto the dusty road.
The plaza ahead of him was already alive with energy — peddlers unpacking goods, swordsmen stretching before their morning drills, and scent trails of steamed buns and roasted chestnuts curling through the air.
But Jinmu didn't come here to browse snacks.
He was here for a weapon.
And more than that — something that fit.
He walked with purpose until he spotted a corner of the plaza choked in black smoke and iron ringing.
The smithy.
An open workshop half-built into the rock wall, with giant bellows and a cracked forge whose heat could be felt even from the street. Charcoal dust lingered in the air like powder, clinging to every visible surface.
Jinmu slowed, scanning the dozens of weapons hanging from pegs and racks.
Short swords, long swords, curved blades, twin daggers, halberds, spears.
A young disciple with soot-streaked cheeks noticed him and called out.
"Looking to buy?"
"Not yet," Jinmu said calmly. "I want to speak to the blacksmith himself."
"You're looking at him," the boy smirked.
"You're not old enough to even lift a hammer without wobbling."
The boy glared. "My master's inside. But he doesn't like being bothered. If you just want to buy—"
"I don't want to buy," Jinmu said, stepping past the boy and toward the forge without waiting.
He wasn't being rude.
He just had something else in mind.
Inside, the workshop roared with heat and noise. Two apprentices pumped the bellows in rhythm, while a third prepared steel rods on the side.
But the one at the center—
A mountain of a man.
Thick arms, bare-chested, muscles taut under layers of grime and burns. His beard was singed at the edges. And his back, as he bent over a glowing iron slab, looked like the back of a bear in human form.
The hammer rose.
Then—
CLANG.
A spark shower burst into the air.
Jinmu flinched slightly.
So did everyone nearby.
The man raised the hammer again, this time tilting his head slightly as he brought it down.
CLANG.
Rhythmic. Intentional. Not just brute strength.
He was shaping something.
Not just metal, but a spirit.
Is this what swordsmiths look like in the Murim world?
He doesn't look like some old recluse or frail artisan. He looks like he could break rocks with his fist and the hammer's just extra.
Jinmu waited until the man stopped to wipe sweat from his brow.
Then cleared his throat.
The blacksmith didn't turn. "I don't do repairs."
"I'm not here for repairs."
The blacksmith paused.
Still didn't turn.
"Not interested in commissions either. Go buy one off the rack. Same steel, less chatter."
"I want to make my own," Jinmu said.
That got the man's attention.
He slowly turned.
His eyes scanned Jinmu from top to bottom — from his plain traveler's robes to his tied-back hair and clean hands.
"Make your own?" the blacksmith repeated, voice like iron scraping on gravel.
Jinmu nodded.
"I have the blueprint in my mind. I just need your forge. And maybe some advice."
The smith chuckled.
A deep, dangerous sound.
"You think I lend out my tools to kids who read a manual and think they're sword-makers?"
"I'm not a kid."
The smith leaned in.
"You've never even held a hammer, have you?"
Jinmu smiled slightly. "Not this kind."
The blacksmith's eyes narrowed.
He scratched his beard. "Let me guess… another one of those martial artists thinking you'll make a blade that reflects your soul, huh?"
"No."
That surprised the smith.
"I just don't want to use someone else's."
Another pause.
Then the blacksmith let out a low grunt.
He turned away.
"Come back in three days. Bring steel. If you haven't given up by then, I'll think about it."
Jinmu tilted his head. "And if I want to start now?"
"Then you're not ready."
"Maybe I'm just impatient."
The smith snorted.
"And maybe you're arrogant. You want to forge a blade? Fine. But swing a hammer before talking philosophy. Steel doesn't care about intentions. It only remembers the ones who hit it right."
Jinmu said nothing.
He just stood there.
Watching.
He's not wrong.
But that's not why I'm here.
I don't want to become a blacksmith.
I want to copy his skill.
And he couldn't just touch the hammer or tools and expect it to work.
He had already learned that from copying the Blossom Vein Arts.
The power came from intent — the true understanding of the technique, not just its material components.
So copying a sword wouldn't teach him how to forge.
He needed to copy the art of the forge itself.
The craftsmanship.
The breathing.
The control of heat, rhythm, precision.
But how do I touch that without making him suspicious?
He glanced at the hammer the blacksmith had laid down.
Its handle was dark from sweat. Thick. Well-worn.
Too obvious.
The tongs? Same problem.
The forge bellows? He'd be lucky not to burn his eyebrows.
Jinmu rubbed his chin.
There has to be a way…
Then the blacksmith turned back, grunting as he reached for a smaller hammer on the side table — one he used for fine detailing. As he leaned over the next blade-in-progress, his forearm flexed under the soot.
Jinmu stepped slightly closer.
"Can I at least observe?"
The blacksmith shrugged.
"Your funeral."
Jinmu bowed slightly and sat on a nearby bench.
His eyes didn't blink.
He watched.
Every movement.
Every breath.
Breathe in when lifting. Breathe out when striking.
He's not just hitting blindly. He's shaping with intent.
That tiny rotation before the strike — it directs the impact so the blade doesn't warp.
He studied for over an hour.
Then two.
The apprentices came and went.
The hammer rang again and again.
Jinmu's fingers tapped his knee rhythmically in sync.
Almost…
Almost…
He needed to make contact.
Physical.
But not suspicious.
And that was the tricky part.
He couldn't exactly shake hands with a sweaty blacksmith mid-forge and say, "Nice to meet you, I'd like to copy your soul now."
He needed an excuse.
Something natural.
But what?
Maybe…
He looked at the cooling racks.
Blades resting, still hot from the forge.
What if he asked to inspect one?
No — too obvious.
Maybe if he pretended to trip and bump into the blacksmith?
No — that was just stupid. He'd probably get thrown into the coals.
Come on, Jinmu. Think.
You're supposed to be smart. A construction worker in your past life, remember? You've dealt with rough guys with tools before. How'd you earn their trust?
Then it hit him.
Food.
Nothing broke the ice like food.
He stood suddenly and said, "Do you eat lunch here?"
The blacksmith didn't look up. "When I remember."
Jinmu nodded. "I'll be back in a bit."
He left the forge before the man could object.
Down the road, he stopped by a food cart and bought grilled meat skewers, roasted chestnuts, and two canteens of plum tea. The shop owner looked delighted at the generous payment.
By the time Jinmu returned to the forge, the apprentices had taken a break.
The blacksmith was wiping down his brow with a rag, standing over his latest piece.
Jinmu walked up and held out a skewer.
"You forgot lunch."
The blacksmith blinked at him.
Then… huffed a small chuckle.
"Trying to bribe your way in, huh?"
Jinmu grinned. "It's cheaper than paying for lessons."
The blacksmith took the skewer and bit off a chunk without complaint.
They sat side by side in silence, chewing.
Then, after a moment, the blacksmith handed him a water canteen and said, "Hold this."
Jinmu took it.
And as their hands brushed—
COPY.
A pulse surged through Jinmu's palm.
His head swam.
Metal. Fire. Precision. The weight of countless strikes. The understanding of steel temperature by color alone. The rhythm of muscle memory formed not by theory but thousands of burns and scars.
It was beautiful.
Raw.
And completely different from martial arts.
I got it.
He didn't let it show on his face.
He just took a sip from the canteen and gave a casual smile.
"I was thinking," Jinmu said. "Tomorrow… do you mind if I try swinging the hammer myself?"
The blacksmith grunted. "Fine. But if you crack the anvil, you're buying me a new one."