The sun barely crept over the mist-covered peaks of Mount Seorak, casting a pale golden light over the ancient stone buildings of the Black Blossom Sect. It was the time of morning meditation, and disciples filled the central courtyard in perfect rows. The scent of dew-kissed plum blossoms lingered in the air.
But at the farthest edge of the sect, behind a cracked training dummy and crooked bamboo poles, a young man gasped for breath. His face was covered in sweat and dust, his fists bleeding and raw.
Jin Mu-Won.Seventeen years old. Orphan. Labeled "trash" by most in the sect.And more importantly—possessing a broken dantian.
"Again…" he whispered to himself, drawing a shaky breath as he took a fighting stance.
The wind blew through his loose robes as he struck the air with his right fist. A sloppy jab. No internal energy behind it. Just raw muscle memory.
"Again!"
He shouted louder, ignoring the sharp sting in his arm as his fist tore open a scab. His body trembled, not from exhaustion—but frustration.
For five years, Jin Mu-Won trained in secret. Every day. Every night. While the others meditated to circulate their qi, he did push-ups until his arms failed. While they learned sword techniques, he memorized every stance by sight and practiced them with wooden sticks.
But none of it mattered.
Not when the Elder of Martial Spirit, his own master, had declared him crippled at age twelve.
"The dantian is shattered. He will never gather qi. He is a waste of resources."
Those words were etched into his bones.
He had been cast aside. Given the lowest chores. Forbidden from attending martial lessons. Even the outer sect disciples mocked him openly.
Yet he trained.
Why?
Because of one memory.
The image of his father—dying on the sect steps, body riddled with arrows, after protecting the inner gates during a bandit raid. The Sect Leader had praised his bravery, and Jin had been taken in as a disciple out of gratitude.
But gratitude fades quickly.
Mu-Won's fists trembled.
He struck the dummy once more.
Crack!
The wood splintered, and Mu-Won dropped to his knees, panting. Blood dripped from his knuckles, but his eyes—dark, sharp, and focused—never wavered.
Just then, footsteps echoed nearby.
From the bamboo path emerged Baek Han, a senior disciple, tall and broad-shouldered, followed by three others. They wore the red trim of inner disciples, their robes pristine, unlike Mu-Won's dirt-smeared garb.
"Practicing again, trash?" Baek Han smirked, crossing his arms.
Mu-Won rose slowly. His fists clenched, but he remained silent.
One of the others laughed. "Why waste time on a broken body? You're worse than a cripple—you're a joke."
Baek Han stepped forward. "I hear you've been caught snooping near the martial hall. Trying to steal scrolls now?"
"I wasn't—"
Smack!
Baek Han's hand flew across Mu-Won's cheek, sending him stumbling.
"You speak when I say you can," he growled. "The Sect tolerates your presence only out of pity."
The others laughed, but Mu-Won stayed silent. He straightened, wiping the blood from his lip.
"Hit me all you want," he muttered, "but one day…"
Baek Han's eyes narrowed.
"One day?" he said mockingly. "One day what? You think you'll awaken some miraculous power and beat us all? You think a broken dantian suddenly heals?"
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Wake up, Jin Mu-Won. You're a ghost clinging to a fantasy."
With that, Baek Han shoved him to the ground and walked off, the others trailing behind, laughter echoing down the path.
Mu-Won didn't rise immediately.
Instead, he stared at the bloodied soil beneath his hand.
"I don't need a miracle," he said quietly. "I just need time. And pain. And will."
Then something strange happened.
A sudden pulse—like a tremor—ran through his chest. For a moment, his breathing stopped. He clutched his ribs, wincing, as a faint warmth spread through his core.
He shut his eyes.
And for the first time in five years, he felt it.
A flicker of qi.
The warmth didn't last long.
It pulsed once… twice… then vanished like mist in the morning sun.
Jin Mu-Won opened his eyes slowly, his heart hammering in his chest. For a moment, everything was silent. The birds. The breeze. Even the pain from Baek Han's blow had faded into the background.
Had he imagined it?
He pressed his palm against his abdomen, just below the sternum, where the dantian should lie—an ethereal core of energy, the center of all martial power. His was supposed to be broken, cracked beyond repair. But just now… just now, something stirred there.
He sat up straighter and shut his eyes again.
Silence.
Then he focused, drawing in a slow, deep breath.
He had no technique. No cultivation method. He had never been taught any internal arts. All he had were observations—watching others, eavesdropping on lessons, reading forbidden fragments from discarded scrolls.
But even a crude imitation was better than nothing.
Mu-Won recalled the Breath of the Falling Leaf, a basic circulation method used by outer sect disciples. He had once overheard it from a pair of novices training near the kitchens.
"Imagine the air as wind through a tree. Let it fall, settle, and stir the roots…"
He exhaled slowly and imagined the wind falling, sinking through his lungs, into his belly… and beyond.
For a moment—there. A faint tremor.
A flicker in the void.
It was like a candle in an endless cave. Weak. Faint. Laughable by any cultivator's standards.
But to Jin Mu-Won?
It was hope.
He gasped, opening his eyes. His heart pounded, and he broke into a cold sweat. It had taken everything to maintain that fragile thread of qi for just a few seconds.
But it was there.
After five years of emptiness, there was something.
He wanted to scream. Cry. Laugh. But he did none of those things. Instead, he gritted his teeth, stood up, and walked toward the woods behind the sect.
He had a new purpose now.
Two Hours Later – Deeper into Mount Seorak
Mu-Won stood before a moss-covered stone slab, half-buried under vines and time. It was hidden in a secluded grove far from the main sect grounds. Even the hunters didn't come here—too many ghost stories, too many missing animals.
But Mu-Won knew this place.
It was his father's grave.
He knelt, placing both hands on the stone. His breath still came in ragged bursts. The qi flicker had drained him more than any physical training ever had. His muscles ached. But his mind raced.
"I felt it, father," he whispered. "I really felt it."
He reached into his tattered robe and pulled out a worn scroll. It was almost illegible—torn, stained, barely held together by hope and thread. He had found it hidden behind a loose brick in the abandoned storage hall years ago. It had no title, no clear origin. But it spoke of something the sect had forbidden.
A path beyond the dantian.
It described a technique used by ancient warriors who had been crippled or born without dantians. A path that turned the entire body into a vessel. A method known as "Blood Root Cultivation."
It was heretical. Dangerous. Rejected by all the major sects.
But Jin Mu-Won had nothing left to lose.
He unrolled the scroll and read it again, carefully tracing each faded character with his finger.
"When the vessel is shattered, the blood must become the river. When the core is void, the bones must hold the flame…"
He closed his eyes.
Breathe in.
The blood must become the river.
He slowed his pulse. Focused. Visualized the warmth he had felt earlier. This time, instead of dragging it into his dantian, he let it seep into his veins.
It burned.
Fire shot through his limbs. His skin prickled. Muscles locked. Veins bulged under the strain.
He screamed silently, gritting his teeth so hard blood trickled from the corners of his mouth.
But he endured.
One second… two…
Then it snapped. Like a string stretched too tight.
Mu-Won collapsed forward, gasping.
But the scroll fell from his hand and caught the wind.
And for the briefest moment—his blood glowed faintly red beneath his skin.
That Evening – Black Blossom Sect, Outer Grounds
Master Kwon Jang-Se, the Elder of Martial Spirit, stood on the terrace of his pavilion, sipping tea. His gray beard fluttered slightly in the evening breeze.
He turned to one of the outer disciples standing nearby.
"You say you saw a flicker of qi… from Jin Mu-Won?"
The disciple hesitated. "It was very faint, Elder. But I am certain I saw it. Just a ripple around his body, then it vanished."
Kwon's brows furrowed.
"That boy has no dantian."
"He shouldn't have qi, sir… but he did something."
The old man remained silent, staring at the moon rising over the mountains.
"A flicker in the void…?"
He set his teacup down.
"Keep eyes on him. But don't interfere yet. If the heavens truly gave that boy a path, it will reveal itself soon enough…"
Later That Night – Jin Mu-Won's Quarters
Mu-Won's body shook with fever.
His skin was cold, his muscles burned. His vision swam.
But through the haze of pain, he smiled.
"I'm not broken," he whispered. "I'm just… different."
Outside, the wind howled.
And deep in his blood, a strange rhythm began to beat—a pulse, slow and steady, like a war drum.
The path ahead would be brutal. Heretical. Filled with pain.
But for the first time in years… Jin Mu-Won had taken his first step toward the martial world.
And heaven help those who stood in his way.
The fever lasted three days.
For seventy-two hours, Jin Mu-Won drifted between fire and ice. His body shook violently. His skin erupted in cold sweat. Veins along his arms and neck pulsed unnaturally. More than once, he bit into his own sleeve to stifle screams, not from pride—but to avoid drawing attention.
No one would help him. And no one could know.
On the fourth morning, he awoke—drenched in sweat, starved, but alive.
He staggered to his feet.
Something had changed.
His breathing felt smoother, more natural, as if his lungs had grown larger. His senses were heightened. He could hear the soft buzzing of insects outside his quarters. He could feel the heartbeat of a sparrow perched on the nearby windowsill.
Most importantly—his blood felt… heavier. Denser. It flowed like hot oil through his veins, humming with dormant energy.
Jin Mu-Won had passed the first step of the Blood Root Cultivation.
But this was only the beginning.
Nightfall – Forest Outside the Sect
Under a shroud of darkness, Mu-Won crept toward a hidden cave nestled behind a waterfall. The path was treacherous and slippery, known only to him and the wild beasts that called it home.
He lit a single candle within the cavern and unrolled the second portion of the mysterious scroll.
It was written in ancient Murim script—so archaic that he had spent years deciphering even fragments.
Tonight, he began Stage Two: The Crimson Trial.
"Let the body burn. Cut open the meridians with will. Let blood flow where qi once failed. Only then shall the bones awaken."
Mu-Won's hands trembled slightly.
He removed his outer robe and knelt on the jagged cave floor, shirtless, surrounded by chalk-drawn sigils copied from the scroll.
Then, he reached for the bone needle.
He had carved it himself—from the fang of a slain forest wolf. Not metal. Metal interfered with blood flow, the scroll had warned. Only living bone could carry the charge.
He dipped the needle into a concoction of ground mountain herbs, boar blood, and his own saliva—a crude alchemical paste designed to amplify the pain and force his blood to adapt.
With a deep breath, he pierced his own shoulder, targeting the Sealed Vessel Point near the collarbone.
White-hot agony.
His vision blackened for a moment.
Then he struck the next point—below his left rib. Then the right thigh. Then the forearms. Twelve major points.
Each stab felt like his veins were being scraped from the inside.
But he never screamed.
He had no one to rely on. No master. No clan. Only himself.
The final stab went into the center of his chest, just above the heart.
As the bone needle sank in, Mu-Won felt his entire body seize.
He collapsed backward. His blood spilled onto the cave floor—but it shimmered faintly, glowing red under the candlelight.
The sigils around him lit up.
Then came the pain.
Not sharp, but deep. A grinding, wrenching ache that twisted his insides. It was as if his bones were breaking and reforming with every breath.
And then… a pulse.
From his blood.
Not the center of his dantian—no, that was still shattered. But his bloodstream itself had begun to circulate something… more than blood. A crimson force that hissed and sparked in his veins.
Mu-Won arched his back, howling silently at the cavern ceiling.
And just before the candle died, he heard it:
"Well done, child."
Flashback – Nine Years Ago
The courtyard was quiet under the moonlight.
Young Jin Mu-Won, only nine, crouched beside his father, watching the older man paint calligraphy with calm precision.
"Father," he whispered. "Why don't you go to the Inner Sanctum like the other elders?"
His father didn't answer immediately. He dipped the brush once more and traced the character for "Endure" (忍).
Then he smiled.
"Because power does not make you righteous, Mu-Won. And popularity does not make you wise."
"But they say you're too weak…"
The older man chuckled. "I am weak. But weakness is the soil where true strength takes root. When you are cast aside, when you have nothing left… only then do you see the path that others cannot."
Mu-Won blinked. "What kind of path?"
His father's brush stopped mid-stroke. His voice lowered.
"The Crimson Path, son. The road for those the heavens have forgotten… but who refuse to die quietly."
Present – Cave Beneath the Waterfall
Mu-Won woke sometime after dawn, his body stiff, dried blood flaking from his skin.
But he was… different.
He pushed himself up. His muscles responded faster. His pain was dulled. His pulse was calm.
He clenched his fist—and for a moment, faint crimson energy coiled around his knuckles.
No light. No radiant aura like the Inner Sect disciples. But it was real.
His blood had begun to carry power.
The Crimson Qi had been born.
And for the first time since childhood, he had crossed the threshold from mortal to cultivator.
Meanwhile – Inner Sect, Martial Plaza
Today was the Spring Sparring Festival, where top disciples displayed their skills before the Elders and recruiters from other sects.
Baek Han, now wearing golden robes reserved for top Inner Disciples, stepped into the ring with a smug grin.
The crowd roared.
He was the sect's golden boy. Talented. Ruthless. Admired.
He faced off against a visiting disciple from the Iron Flame Clan. Within three moves, he had knocked the opponent unconscious.
As cheers erupted, Baek Han raised his hand—and out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a shadowed figure far behind the crowd.
Wearing tattered robes. Leaning against a tree.
Watching.
His grin faltered for half a second.
"Mu-Won…?"
But when he blinked, the figure was gone.
Later That Night – Cave Entrance
Jin Mu-Won stood under the moonlight, wiping dried blood from his arm with a cloth.
The wind whispered through the trees. He listened to it. Felt it. Absorbed it.
The Crimson Qi was growing inside him. Slowly. Dangerously. But steadily.
His strength was still low. His body still needed to adjust.
But he had found something no one else in the Black Blossom Sect possessed:
A path unknown.A will unbroken.A bloodline reborn in fire.
Mu-Won looked down at his palm, now pulsing faintly red.
"I don't need your dantian," he whispered to the heavens. "I'll carve my own way."
Then he turned toward the distant mountain where the Inner Sect trained—the mountain that had scorned him, abandoned him, forgotten him.
He would return.
But not as a beggar.
Not as a cripple.
He would return as a storm of crimson.
And he would not kneel.