To the south of the vast northeastern mountains of Samul Gaya stretched a wide, open plain. And just where the highlands gave way to the lowlands stood a great forest, like an island nestled in the sea of fields. This was Yimul Forest—a sprawling expanse of pine, thick with the crisp, fragrant scent of needles and sap, imbued with a sacred air that set it apart from the world beyond.
Yet it was not the forest alone that brought pilgrims and wanderers to this place. Deep within its heart stood a single, ancient tree—a thousand-year-old peach tree, revered and spoken of in legend. It was said that in the distant age of Dangun, when heaven and earth were closer than they are now, immortals had gathered beneath its boughs to play games of Go. In honor of that ancient lore, a great sanctuary had been erected some fifteen years ago: the Mingrang Monastery, founded by the sage known as Numen. After seven years of solitary cultivation beneath that very tree, Sage Numen claimed to have attained a deep and radiant enlightenment, and disciples from every corner of the land now journeyed to train at his side.
And there, among the whispering pines of Yimul Forest, a young swordsman of seventeen crouched behind a tree, chest heaving, blade worn and trembling in his grip. Blood and sweat had stained the hem of his robe, and his breath came ragged and shallow. For the first time in his life, he had looked into the eyes of death.
But his grip did not loosen.
"I am Mulgeza," he whispered, grounding himself. "Even if I die on this foreign path, I will not disgrace the name of Seraburl's swordsmen."
He closed his eyes and summoned a white sphere in his mind—a visualization from his training, to still the heart and sharpen the senses. Slowly, the racing in his veins settled. Footsteps echoed through the forest. The faint sound of steel unsheathing reached his ears. But his spirit remained calm.
He remembered his uncle's stern words, spoken long ago when Mulgeza had first been praised as a prodigy—the finest boy-swordsman in all of Seraburl at the age of thirteen. "There is always a sky above the sky," his uncle had said. "Arrogance will see you die where humility might live."
His father had echoed that wisdom, his voice rough with worry. "Pride invites downfall. The unworthy may endure… but the haughty perish."
And yet—Mulgeza also remembered the joy on their faces, that day he had triumphed in the youth martial arts tournament. Though they were but humble soldiers, men of no high birth, his uncle and father had raised him in the sword arts with nothing but pride and love.
That victory had brought him recognition… and it had brought him misfortune.
Not long after the tournament, a royal summons had arrived. A prince of the Seok clan wished to honor the young champion. His father and uncle had tried to refuse. "It's too great a burden," they had said. But the steward who had come to escort him looked stricken.
"If I return without him, I will be punished."
Why were they so cautious? Mulgeza had wondered. A prince was offering praise—what could be the harm?
So he went, carried by excitement and dreams of glory, to the great pavilion of the prince. Upon arrival, he was gifted a sack of rice—a gesture of esteem that made the boy glow with joy. He bowed again and again, overcome with gratitude.
Then the prince offered him a chance: a friendly match against one of his royal guards. "Defeat him," the prince said, "and I'll grant you a jar of pickled pollock roe."
Mulgeza thought of his mother's smile. That jar would be a treasure in their home. He took up the wooden sword.
It was a hard match, but in the end, he landed a clean strike to the guard's hand, forcing him to drop his weapon. The prince clapped in delight. "Remarkable!" he exclaimed. "Then how about you spar with me?"
"If you best me," he added, "you'll receive a bolt of Five-Colored Silk."
Even young as he was, Mulgeza knew the worth of that prize—it could buy a house of tiled stone.
As he stepped forward, the guard he had just defeated whispered, "You're supposed to lose."
Lose? Why?
Mulgeza ignored the warning.
He fought with everything he had. It took three precise strikes to disarm the prince—each one a blow to the wrist, not enough to injure but enough to knock the sword away.
The prince's face twisted with frustration. In a flash, he drew a real blade. But before anything could unfold, the crown prince arrived. Laughing, he teased his younger brother for being beaten. The humiliated prince threw down his sword and stormed off.
"Will you honor your promise?" the crown prince asked coolly.
The defeated prince glared but nodded. "I always keep my word."
Four days later, a jar of roe and a bolt of silk arrived at Mulgeza's home. His mother wept with joy. But his uncle and father were silent. Their faces, once proud, now carried only a shadow.
That year, which had seemed so full of promise, ended in heartbreak—with his father's death.
He had been accused of stealing military rations, said to have distributed them among favored comrades. The punishment had been swift: a brutal flogging. To "uphold discipline," even medical aid was denied. And so, they said, he withered away slowly in the cold of the prison cell, dying alone.
Mulgeza could not understand it. Could not accept it.
Why hadn't his father waited—just a little longer?
In two more years, he would have joined the army himself, earned his own merits, brought honor and support to their family. His father should have lived to see it. Should have endured for the sake of his wife. The memory of his mother, curled alone in the corner of their home, weeping softly with no one left to lean on—it clawed at his chest even now.
Damn it all. How blind I was back then…
Footsteps and clanging steel echoed through the forest again. The enemy was closing in.
Still hidden in the thicket, Mulgeza drew a deep breath, forcing calm into his weary limbs. He needed time. Time to recover, to act.
He closed his eyes.
Yes… I was foolish.
Two years after his fateful duel with the prince, the day of his enlistment approached. He was to serve directly under the very prince.
And then, one night, a man knocked on their door.
It was the royal guard he had defeated that day. Older now, eyes heavier, he bowed deeply to both Mulgeza and his mother. "I should've stopped you," he said. "You were just a boy, and that prince… he was born cruel. Narrow of mind, violent of heart."
Then he told them the truth.
The general, under the prince's orders, had instructed Mulgeza's father to distribute a year-end gift—one hop of rice per soldier. But afterward, the order was denied. The general accused the man of theft.
"They beat him," the guard said, voice tight. "And then, the prince himself came to the prison—to laugh at him."
The next month, Mulgeza was scheduled to join that prince's battalion.
The guard placed a hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye. "It's not too late. Leave. Seek training. Become something more."
Mulgeza had erupted in rage. He had seized a real sword, intent on vengeance.
But the guard stopped him.
"Do that," he warned, "and your mother will be executed. Your kin will be hunted. All for your pride."
Mulgeza's hands trembled. The rage in his chest dissolved into sobs. He dropped to his knees and wept.
That was when the door creaked open. His uncle had been listening. He stepped inside, his face solemn but resolute.
"Go," he said. "Do not look back."
His mother, though heartbroken, nodded. His uncle promised to report him as a religious initiate, gone for ascetic training. The officials would not pursue him.
"You must live," his mother whispered. "Live, and grow strong."
It was not justice.
But it was survival.
And so, choking on anger and shame, Mulgeza left. Left his home. Left Seraburl.