Chapter 1: The Scar of a Future Lost
The last thing Cheon Mu-geom knew was the taste of ash and the coppery tang of his family's blood. The grand hall of the Heavenly Sword Manor, a place of his childhood laughter and brutal training, had become a charnel house. Through a haze of agony, he saw the righteous heroes of the Central Plains Alliance, their faces masks of pitiless virtue as they slaughtered his clan.
He saw the Divine Dragon, Yoo Hyun, his sword a sliver of cold light, effortlessly parrying the desperate strikes of his second brother. He saw the Poison Phoenix, Tang So-ryeon, her delicate hands weaving formless toxins that made the very air lethal. And he saw the leader of it all, Yi Songbaek, the Fist God, watching with the calm authority of a man overseeing a necessary culling.
At the center of the storm stood his father, Patriarch Cheon Woo-yeon. A titan brought to his knees. The poisons—Bloodiron, Slaughter Heaven, and the Tang Clan's special blend—coiled visibly beneath his skin, darkening his veins. Yet, he stood.
"You hyenas!" his father roared, a bloody grin stretching his lips. "You only dare to gather for the feast after the true lion, my father the Limitless Sword, fell. Tell me, do you still feel his shadow in your dreams?"
Yoo Hyun's face was impassive. "Cheon Woo-jin's tyranny died with him. The world has no room for such unchecked power."
A figure stepped from behind Yi Songbaek. The Blade King, his father's once-sworn brother. His voice was a dry rustle. "He was a sentimental fool. I faked a near-fatal injury. He used his ultimate technique, the Golden Chaos Needle, pouring his Origin Qi into me to save my life." The Blade King's lips twisted. "He never felt the Heart Sutra we derived reverse its flow, stealing his essence. After that… it was smooth sailing."
The betrayal was a final, spiritual evisceration. Patriarch Cheon Woo-yeon began to laugh, a sound of pure, abyssal madness. The killing intent that erupted from him cracked the marble floor.
"Then behold! Witness the heritage you thought you could erase!"
He dropped his sword. A single, black tear of blood traced a path down his cheek. Where it fell, the stone sizzled. A darkness deeper than the void bloomed from his heart, spreading through his veins like black lightning.
Crack. Crackle. CRUNCH.
The sound of his skeleton shattering and reforging was a horror that would haunt Mu-geom forever. His father's body contorted, muscles tearing and re-knitting. The pain must have been unimaginable, but a smile, desperate and defiant, was carved onto his face.
"Hehehe… compared to the bitterness of your betrayal… this pain is nothing."
A black storm of demonic energy exploded outwards, swallowing the light, sucking the vitality from the air. The world was plunged into an eternal midnight. At the heart of the tempest, Cheon Woo-yeon was reborn—flawless, powerful, and utterly inhuman. His skin was deathly pale, his hair a starless night. His eyes held only the absolute silence of the void.
"Chaotic Origin Sword Art—Ultimate Form: Slaughter the Heavens!"
His voice was the grinding of tectonic plates. A sword of pure darkness manifested in his hand. It did not cut through the air; it cut through the very concept of space, leaving a tear in reality. He swung.
The world became silent and monochrome.
An elder from the Emei Sect simply ceased to be. Yi Songbaek crossed his arms, a colossal, shimmering manifestation of a golden fist—the "Heavenly Fist Aegis"—materializing before him. The black sword strike hit it with a sound that was the death cry of a galaxy. The golden light flickered violently, cracks spiderwebbing across it.
"A magnificent strike, Cheon Woo-yeon," Yi Songbaek boomed, a flicker of genuine respect in his eyes. "If you had broken through to the Mystic Realm as I have, that would have been the end of me."
It was in that moment of ultimate release that Yoo Hyun moved. The Divine Dragon became a shadow, flowing behind the Patriarch, his legendary sword striking like an assassin's dagger, piercing deep into Cheon Woo-yeon's exposed back.
From his vantage point, Mu-geom saw it all. The light in his father's void-like eyes snuffed out. He was helpless, chained to his crippled body, forced to watch the greatest man he had ever known be felled by treachery. He tried to scream, but only a bloody gurgle emerged. Tears of blood streamed down his face as he made a vow to the uncaring heavens.
Then, the darkness took him.
He awoke with a gasp that tore at his lungs, his body drenched in a cold sweat. The silken sheets, the familiar scent of sandalwood and steel… he was in his bed. In his youthful body.
Is this… the afterlife? A final cruel joke?
He pinched his arm, the pain sharp and real. He looked at his hands—slender, soft, unmarked by the calluses of a life of hardship after the fall. He was sixteen again. The memories of the massacre were not a dream; they were a brand upon his soul, a searingly real future that had happened.
A wave of disorienting, nauseating joy and fury washed over him. He had been given a second chance. The heavens, or hells, had spat him back out. He clutched his chest, feeling the weak, underdeveloped Qi in his dantian, the familiar blockage in his meridians—a prison he had thought eternal.
I am back. I am truly back.
The door slid open. It was his mother, Lady Han. Her face, which in his memory was etched with the grief of the fallen manor, was now radiant with life and concern. "Mu-geom! I heard you cry out. Are you unwell?"
The sight of her, alive and whole, was a physical blow. Without a word, he stumbled out of bed and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. He buried his face in her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her perfume, a scent he had forgotten. He felt her stiffen in surprise—her son was not one for open affection—before she softened, her hands gently patting his back.
"My son… what is it? A bad dream?" she whispered.
A dream… He let out a shaky breath that was half a sob, half a laugh. "Yes, Mother. A very long, very bad dream." He held her for a moment longer, engraving the feeling of her alive and warm in his embrace into his very soul. This was what he had lost. This was what he would protect. Not with the clumsy, honorable strength of the past, but with the ruthless, demonic will of the future.
When he pulled away, his eyes were dry and clear, the tempest of emotion locked away behind a calm facade. "I am fine now. Thank you, Mother."
After she left, reassured but slightly puzzled, the shadows in the corner of his room coalesced. A man knelt silently. It was Bak. His face was nondescript, his presence muted, but his eyes held a deadly sharpness. He was not just a guard; he was a legacy of the Asura Palace, the infamous assassin organization led by Mu-geom's maternal grandfather. His absolute loyalty was ensured not by sentiment, but by a Gu worm nestled deep in his brain, a gift from the Palace that would devour his mind at the first sign of betrayal.
"You have orders, Young Master?" Bak's voice was a low rasp.
Mu-geom looked at him, this tool of death bound to his will. In his previous life, he had been too weak to ever use Bak properly. Now, he saw the web of connections Bak represented—the shadowy power of the Asura Palace, a power his family foolishly believed they controlled.
"Two tasks," Mu-geom said, his voice devoid of the emotion he had just shown his mother. It was cold, flat, and absolute. "First, the Shaolin transport carrying the Dragon Heart Elixir to the Qingcheng Sect Leader passes through the Serpent's Gorge tonight. The real elixir is with the scout. Secure it. Leave no witnesses. Your life is expendable in this endeavor."
Bak bowed his head without a flicker of emotion. "Understood."
"Second," Mu-geom continued, his gaze turning inward, seeing not the room but the future armies he would need. "There is a beggar clan in the western slums of the city. Orphans, street rats. Select twenty. The ones with the fiercest eyes, the ones who are already survivors. Take them to the abandoned mine shaft we use on the western border. They are to be the foundation."
"The foundation of what, Young Master?"
"Of my blade," Mu-geom said softly. "Of the instrument that will carve a new world from the rotting corpse of this one. Train them in the most brutal, efficient killing methods the Asura Palace knows. I do not need warriors; I need assassins. I do not need loyalty; I need obedience. Use the Gu if you must."
Bak's eyes gleamed with a dark understanding. This was a language he spoke fluently. "It will be done."
As Bak melted back into the shadows, Mu-geom walked to the window, looking out at the bustling, arrogant vitality of the Heavenly Sword Manor. He saw it all now with new eyes. The "trusted" steward who would later open the back gates for the Alliance? There he was, hurrying across the courtyard. The "loyal" captain of the guard who would secretly dilute the clan's poison stores? He was drilling his men.
They were all already in a trap, puppets dancing on strings pulled by their future executioners. They just didn't know it yet.
But he did. He saw every snare, every traitor, every weakness. And he would use them all—the elixir, the assassins, the traitors, even his own family's darkness—as kindling for the fire that would consume his enemies. The Great Demon's ascension would not be a rebellion. It would be a reckoning.
The Dragon Heart Elixir was a sun contained in jade. As Mu-geom drank it, the serene, overwhelmingly potent Buddhist energy flooded his crippled meridians. It was met immediately by the innate, chaotic Qi of his bloodline. The two forces were diametric opposites, and his body was their battlefield.
His meridians shattered like glass. His dantian felt like it was being torn in two. He convulsed on the floor, his vision whiting out. He was dying, again, his second chance ending in a flash of agonizing failure. The despair was a physical force, pulling him under. But from that despair rose a colder, sharper thing: the abyssal killing intent from his father's final stand, the bottomless malice towards the heroes. This darkness began to radiate from him, a silent scream of hatred that polluted the very air.
In a secluded meditation garden, Cheon Woo-jin, the Limitless Sword, opened his eyes. He felt it—a ripple of ancient, profound malice emanating from his grandson's chambers. With a step that defied space, he was there.
He found Mu-geom on the floor, his body a wreck of conflicting energies. Without a word, the old man placed a hand on his grandson's forehead. His Qi, vast and limitless, acted as a divine conduit, guiding the chaotic Qi to dismantle the blockages and channeling the elixir's pure energy to rebuild the pathways, wider and more resilient than any natural meridian.
When it was over, Mu-geom lay still, his body steaming, but whole. He was reborn. His cultivation had skyrocketed to the Peak of the First-Rate Realm, his dantian swirling with sixty years of pure, potent internal energy. He could feel the sharp extension of his will that was Sword Qi humming at his fingertips.
He opened his eyes.
Cheon Woo-jin looked into them. He did not see the eyes of a sixteen-year-old boy. He saw an abyss of despair, layered with visions of carnage and a malice that had witnessed the end of worlds.
"Who are you?" the Limitless Sword asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Mu-geom held his grandfather's gaze, the memory of this man's betrayal and murder flashing in his mind. He let the darkness in his eyes recede, but not vanish. It remained, a cold fire banked in their depths.
"I am simply me, Grandfather," Mu-geom said, his voice steady and calm. "Cheon Mu-geom. Your grandson."
The old man stared for a long moment. He saw the truth in the words, and the immense, terrible lie hidden within them. He did not press. He simply nodded. "Then stand, Cheon Mu-geom. And do not waste this second chance." He vanished.
The summons from his father came the next day. In the private training ground, Patriarch Cheon Woo-yeon and his three brothers watched him.
"Your Qi… it is no longer stagnant. Demonstrate. The Chaotic Origin Sword Art, the first form."
Mu-geom drew his sword. He did not perform the form; he breathed it. He moved with a grace that spoke of a lifetime of mastery. Then, he transitioned into a technique that was not part of the standard canon, a fragment of understanding he had pieced together in his previous life.
He named it, "Unrivaled in This Age."
His sword moved in a perfect, flowing circle. It was not a defensive motion, but one of absolute control. The air within the circle did not stir; it bent, warping like heat haze, becoming a shield and a vortex simultaneously. The chaotic Sword Qi within the circle was so dense, so perfectly contained, that it seemed to create a miniature domain where his will was law. For a single, breathtaking moment, it felt truly unrivaled.
He finished. The silence was profound.
His father's eyes were wide with shock. "That… that is not anything I taught you. You didn't just learn the art… you have seen its soul and begun to create your own. How?"
Mu-geom met his father's gaze. "I saw the path to its ultimate end, Father. It focused my mind. It showed me what true chaos can become."
His brothers were stunned into silence. The cripple was gone, replaced by an enigma.
"The quarterly trials are in three days," the Patriarch declared, a fierce pride in his eyes. "Show them all what it means to bear our name."
Later, Mu-geom went to the outer disciple training grounds. He did not speak. He pointed at the three weakest. "Attack me."
They did. His sword flashed. Three heads tumbled. The rest froze in terror.
"The weak are meat," Mu-geom stated, his voice cutting through the silence. "You will become strong, or you will be culled. This is the only law."
Fear, he knew, was the most potent fertilizer for growth in an unorthodox path. And he would make sure they grew into a forest of blades, loyal only to the one who held their leash—him.