The blood-soaked ruins of the Lightning Shadow Sword Sect crackled with dying embers. Bodies were strewn across the stone courtyard—elders, disciples, even the cook who used to sneak Kang Won extra steamed buns.
And Kang Won himself lay atop the shattered steps of the inner sanctum, vision dim, body pierced by a dozen blades. His sect had been abated [weakened; reduced in intensity] for years, its influence in abeyance [temporary suppression], and now, in one ruthless night, it was gone.
"W-We trusted them…" he muttered, coughing up blood. The last thing he saw was the fluttering banner of the Murim Alliance—the very group that was supposed to protect peace.
His fingers twitched. A single regret, a single scream, roared within his broken chest:
"If only I had one more chance..."
And the world went black.
He awoke not to pain but to silence—and the soft creak of old wood.
A familiar ceiling loomed above. Not the cracked tiles of the sect's main hall... but the plain pine beams of his childhood room. The scent of ink and old sweat filled his nose.
Kang Won sat up, heart pounding. He turned his hands before his eyes—small, soft, unscarred.
The room was the same. The training uniform on the hook was stitched by his mother before she died. The chipped mirror, the bamboo mat with his childish scribbles of sword forms...
He sprinted to the mirror and stared.
Ten years old.
His knees buckled.
"I… I regressed?"
Shock struck him harder than the swords that killed him. His enemies hadn't just killed him—they had destroyed a man who had spent twenty years honing his body, his sword, and his discipline.
And now, he was back. Weak. Small. But alive.
Kang Won staggered back to his bed. He clenched his fists.
"I died. And came back."
His breath hitched.
"But this time, I remember everything."
A laugh escaped his lips—dry, nearly unhinged. It was not joy, nor relief. It was the laugh of a man who'd seen the abyss and come back.
The abysmal [very bad; terrible] fate of his sect, the abject [miserable; pitiful] betrayal by the Murim Alliance—it was all carved into his soul.
And yet here he was.
Ten years old. Once again. How weird those thoughts felt
He sat in silence for hours, legs crossed, recalling every face, every treacherous whisper, every flaw in the sword techniques he once thought perfect. His sixth sense—it stirred even now, that aberrant [deviating from the norm] instinct that warned him seconds before danger.
He remembered admonishing [cautioning] junior disciples for overconfidence.
He remembered the adjunct [something added] sword style he developed—combining his sect's lightning-quick strikes with open-handed palm flows from wandering masters.
They all thought he was too obsessed, too abstemious [moderate in appetite], denying himself joy, love, rest.
They were right.
He had lived for the sword.
And died by it.
But now?
Now, he would live for something else.
Vengeance.
Strength.
And truth.
The morning after his regression, Kang Won stood outside his room, a silent storm of thoughts churning within him. His body was young again, but the weight of the past—the knowledge of betrayal, the pain of loss—still hung over him like a cloud.
But he wasn't foolish. He knew that now was not the time for impulsive actions. Patience was key. Every moment, every decision had to be calculated.He would abandon [to abandon formally] the reckless path of seeking revenge immediately. He would wait for the right moment to rise, gathering power in silence.
For now, his goal was simple: train.
He spent hours each day honing his physical strength. The swords, the techniques, they will come later. His focus was on his body first—building back a semblance what he had lost. His muscles burned as he pushed himself through endless training. Every punch, every kick, every deep stretch was meant to shape him, to mold him into something stronger than before.
His diet was full—he wasn't neglecting his nutrition. But rest? Rest was a luxury he couldn't afford. He couldn't allow himself to slow down for even a moment. His abstemious [moderate in appetite] attitude toward sleep was all he could control. He couldn't waste time lying down when the clock was ticking. He would push himself until he reached the limits of his young body, and then push even harder.
Days passed, or maybe weeks, but time seemed irrelevant. He didn't need to count the days because he had no intention of stopping. He was still an active member of the sect, though his participation in their daily routines had been modest at best. His days were consumed by personal training, physical exercise, and mental preparation. He didn't seek to draw attention yet. That would come later.
The sect was no longer the powerhouse it had once been. The halls were quieter, the old masters fewer, and the disciples less motivated. There was a time when this sect was known for its deadly sword techniques, especially the lightning-fast strikes of the Jin-Hwa Sword. Kang Won had been one of the prodigies, but the sect had long since fallen into abeyance [temporary inactivity]. It was no longer the seat of power it had once been, and its techniques had deteriorated [to decrease].
He couldn't let that happen again. Not while he had the chance to change things.
He could feel the accretion [growth by additions] of strength with every passing day. The foundation was building, slowly but surely. He would become someone new, someone worthy of rising above the sect's broken reputation.
Yet, he held back. No one could know of his true abilities—not yet. Revealing his strength would attract attention, and Kang Won knew better than to attract the sect leaders' focus too early. If he showed too much, they would ask questions he wasn't ready to answer. He had learned the hard way that some secrets were better left buried. He would not allow his affinity [fondness] for the sword to make him reckless. The path to power required restraint.
"Admonish [to caution] yourself," Kang Won muttered under his breath. He paused in his training, wiping the sweat from his brow. He had no intention of making the same mistakes again. Abjure [to give up] the old reckless desires. No more impulsive decisions. He would build, carefully and slowly, until he was strong enough to make his move. Abdicate [to give up a position or power] the old ways, to gain more than mere revenge.
As the evening sun set, Kang Won looked out over the courtyard, his eyes steady, his mind clear. The feeling of being alive, of having another chance at life, was overwhelming—but he would make it count. He wouldn't waste this precious opportunity.
"I will make them all pay, every single one of them." he muttered under his breath.
He would definitely have to slowly investigate, for the true culprits whoever they may are a mystery to him, he has agonized over who they could be, in his dreams. But revenge wasn't just about striking back. It was about power, the power to make sure he would never again be a victim of aberrant [deviating from what is normal] schemes or false allies.
His first steps were simple: build strength, become indispensable to the sect, and gain influence in silence. Once he was strong enough to be unfettered, once his presence was known, then he would make his move.
But for now, it was time to train, to grind his body into something that could withstand the trials ahead. He had previously in his youth not given too much weightage towards physical training, many martial arts are too reliant on Qi, once they have control over it, but only later he understood that for the martial arts he was going to train in, the body combined with Qi was an amplification of many magnitudes in later on stages of martial arts cultivation. This insight made him regret not giving enough importance towards physical training in his younger years when the body's optimally designed to handle stress and be polished while experiencing a boost with teenage puberty.
Kang Won's eyes gleamed, reflecting the last rays of sunlight. He had no doubts now. This time, he wouldn't fail. He would make himself the adjunct [something added] that the sect couldn't ignore, no longer a mere abject [miserable, pitiful] figure in their eyes. He would carve his own place within their broken walls.
With every abscission [the act of cutting] of his old self, he would grow. This was his chance to rise. The sword he would wield would cut through the darkness that had plagued his past.
And so, his journey continued. One step at a time.