A cold wind swept across the verdant phantom peak that had changed paradise to blood-soaked battlefield, carrying the stench of death.the acrid scent of burnt flesh, mingling with the cries of the dying. Corpses littered the broken earth, limbs severed, bodies twisted in grotesque shapes. Blood pooled in the cracks of shattered stone, reflecting the dim light of the lasting sunset.
ethereal demon, Sheng! Quietly hand over the royal treasure you've stolen, bastard."
"Stop resisting, old man. Today, we will avenge the countless lives you've taken for that treasure. We will make your death a symbol of justice for all Murim!"
"Look at yourself, Sheng. Age has finally caught up with you. See how pitiful you are—on your knees, drenched in blood. If you were still in your prime, not a single one of us, even with all the great factions of justice combined, would dare oppose you."
"You bastard!" a woman in the crowd spat venomously. "I never liked your touch. You might be handsome, but that doesn't give you the right to humiliate me! Today, I'll repay all my suffering and avenge my husband!"
Sheng Cheon stood at the center of the carnage. His once-pristine black robe was now torn and drenched in blood, clinging to his battered form. His long white hair hung in tangled strands over his face, half-covering the deep scars that marred his features. One of his eyes had already lost its light, leaving him with only a single, dim gaze to take in the battlefield.
Around him, bodies littered the ground. The once-mighty warriors of Murim, elders, and grandmasters—men who had spent centuries honing their craft—now lay lifeless, their blood seeping into the cold earth. The survivors, still encircling him, did not cheer for victory. No, they stood motionless, their grips tightening on their weapons, wary of his every move.
Even now, even as he bled, even as his strength waned, they feared him.
Sheng's breath was ragged. His arms trembled from exhaustion, yet he refused to let go of the object in his hand—a golden relic, pulsating with a mysterious glow.
But His mind drifted, lost in a sea of memories. Six thousand and eight years… He had walked this world for over six millennia, witnessing the rise and fall of murim, enduring loneliness, suffering, and betrayal. Twice an orphan, first in a distant world called Earth, and now here, in Murim. He had fought his way to the peak, defying even the heavens themselves.
Yet now, at the end of it all, standing at the door of death, he felt nothing. No regret, no despair. Just an unwavering pride that burned within his remaining eye.
"You old monster," a warrior sneered, stepping forward cautiously. "That evil brain of yours must be slowing down. Don't let your guard down, everyone! He's still dangerous."
Sheng Cheon chuckled—a hoarse, rasping sound. "How amusing… to be lectured by children."
His grip tightened around the treasure. If only he could use it. If only he had the strength left to activate its full power… Perhaps, even in this moment of certain doom, he could grasp a sliver of hope.
The warriors hesitated, but their resolve did not waver. Weapons gleamed under the dim light as they prepared to strike.
Then, the relic pulsed.
A golden radiance burst forth, blinding them all. For a fleeting moment, Sheng felt his body weightless, as if being pulled into the abyss.
Then, everything went black.
A sharp pain stabbed through his skull.
Sheng's consciousness stirred, dragged from the depths of oblivion. A pounding sensation filled his head, as if thousands of needles were piercing through his mind.
Groggy and disoriented, he tried to move, but his limbs were sluggish, unresponsive.
Where… am I?
His instincts screamed at him. His body felt intact—no shattered bones, no bleeding wounds—yet something was wrong. He felt lighter, weaker, smaller.
Slowly, painfully, he forced his eyes open. Blurred shapes and muted colors greeted him. His mind struggled to make sense of his surroundings.
A wooden desk. A chair. A mirror.
He was in a modest study, nothing like the blood-soaked battlefield he had collapsed in moments ago. A large bed sat against the wall, side lamps casting a warm glow. Bookshelves lined the room, filled with neatly arranged tomes.
The air was still. Too still.
His gaze shifted to a desk where an open diary lay, its first words catching his attention:
"I am giving my life to the Lord."
His brow furrowed. What nonsense is this?
Nearby, an empty bottle lay discarded on the floor. A single word was etched onto the label:
"Toxic."
Something in his mind clicked.
Sheng's breath hitched as his gaze flickered toward the mirror.
And then, he froze.
The reflection staring back at him was not his own.
Instead of a weathered, battle-hardened warrior, he saw a boy—no older than twelve—with soft, delicate features and golden hair that shimmered under the light. His skin was pale, his frame frail.
He leaned closer, his heart pounding.
Oh, heavens…
His fingers touched his face, tracing over unfamiliar contours. His body trembled, his mind racing.
"I've… reincarnated again?"
For a long moment, silence filled the room.
Then, a sudden knock shattered the stillness.
"Alex? Are you awake? I'm coming in."
Sheng—no, Alex—flinched. His mind spun as he pieced together the situation.
Alex? That's my new name? Who is she? And why now?
He didn't have time to think.
The door handle turned.
Meanwhile, in the grand royal hall, the king sat upon his throne, flanked by generals and advisors. His regal presence radiated authority, his gaze sharp and discerning.
A woman in her forties, clad in a maid's uniform, knelt before him. "Long live the king," she said respectfully.
"Speak," the king commanded.
"My Majesty," the Head Maid began, "as you know, the second prince will soon attend the Oxid Academy to train as a knight. However, his lack of swordsmanship is… troubling. I humbly request that a tutor be assigned to him for the next three months."
The room filled with whispers of disapproval. The generals exchanged glances, their disdain evident.
The king's face darkened. The second prince's incompetence was an embarrassment, but he couldn't ignore the Head Maid's plea. "Very well," he said. "General Viscal, assign an ordinary knight to train him. But hear me clearly—if the boy shows no progress, he will not attend the academy. Instead, he will serve as an ordinary knight in Barran."
The headmaid bowed deeply. "Thank you, Your Majesty."