"I died before I ever learned if my siblings survived."
I remember the sky turning red.
I remember the gates opening.
I remember the blade.
Cold. Black. Final.
And then—nothing.
Before all of that… before Murim fell… there was my grandfather.
They said my grandfather once stood against the Heavenly Demon himself. That for three days, the sky trembled. That neither of them yielded. I never saw that battle. I only saw what came after.
Inside the Tang great hall, a storm awaited. "You will marry the daughter of the Sword Saint of Namgung!" Yoryeon's voice shook the walls. "You cannot simply run off with a woman you met at a bar!"
Jinho remained kneeling, head lowered. "I love her, Father. I will not marry a woman I've only met twice."
"You would discard an alliance that strengthens this clan for her?"
"She is the woman I love," Jinho said.
An elder stepped forward. "Young Master, you shame—"
"Silence!" Yoryeon's word struck like steel. He rose, fists clenched. "Is she worth exile?"
"She is pregnant, Father."
Gasps filled the hall.
"Everyone out. Now."
As the elders filed from the great hall, Yoryeon's hands slowly relaxed. "I am going to be a grandfather." His face softened. "I have met this woman. She refused my gold. She refused my anger. And she chose you anyway." He looked at his son. "You have chosen well."
"Father?" Jinho looked at him, confused.
"Do you know why I am strong?" Yoryeon asked quietly. "It is for you. For your mother. For this clan. So that you may be happy and choose your own path." He exhaled slowly. "You will be removed as young leader. Shunned. Cast out. But I will always love you. And I will protect you, no matter what." He gestured toward the door. "Go. I will have a house arranged outside Chengdu."
Jinho left the clan that day.
For ten years, he worked as a caravan escort, protecting merchants through dangerous roads. His wife stayed home with their five children. Yoryeon visited when he could, training and sparring with Jinho in secret. Only one set of eyes ever watched. Mine.
I was ten years old, pressed against a storehouse wall, absorbing every movement. That was the night my dream of martial arts was born.
"Grandfather! Please — teach me!" I dropped to my knees, hands flat on the floor.
"I cannot, my grandson," Yoryeon said.
"Why? Why will no one allow me?" The anger in my voice surprised even me.
"You are not affiliated with the Tang Clan. If that day comes, I will train you. Until then, it is your parents' wish that you not step into this side of Murim."
And so I watched. Copying movements in secret — crude, unrefined, but alive.
The knock came at dawn. Not from Yoryeon. A stranger in a merchant's crest, stained with blood.
"There were no survivors," the man said.
I didn't understand.
My mother fell to the ground. "Jinho… your father… he is dead."
The words didn't make sense at first. They just… hung there.
Weeks passed. She searched everywhere—townspeople, merchants, even bandits. Every lead ended in silence. Every day, hope bled a little more.
One evening she returned, face pale and trembling. "They burned the body," she whispered.
Each day grew heavier after that. I started sleeping with one eye open, keeping watch over her. I began to follow her through alleys and markets, silent, learning what desperation looked like from the outside. Then one evening, Yoryeon arrived. His face was grave. His eyes were heavy.
"Grandfather? Why are you here?" I whispered.
"I'm sorry, Jiung," he said. "Your mother she's...dead. He swallowed. "Murdered." "I will do what I can to protect you and your siblings."
Something inside me went quiet after that.
Grandfather stepped down as patriarch that same night, taking responsibility for the grandchildren and the mistakes of the past.
Years passed without a word about the clan. I worked — cleaning dishes, cooking meals, keeping the younger ones fed and clothed. At night, I snuck out and watched Yoryeon train the way I always had. The old man moved like a ghost, faster than my eyes could follow.
"Old, my ass," I muttered often.
I thought if I could mimic even a fraction of what I saw, I might carve a path of revenge for my mother and father. When So-Yeon. Ny younger sister, begged to attend a martial academy, I understood. I couldn't have what I wanted — but I would not deny it to her. Together, with Yoryeon's help, we enrolled her. For months I watched her come home from the academy each day. I watched her train and spar and grow. And I said nothing. Yoryeon saw it on my face.
One night he found me outside. "Tonight, after the others are in bed — come find me."
I stood under the willow tree while he stared at the stars.
I didn't know it then… but everything I would become started that night.
"There is much I regret," he said. "I couldn't change the rules for your father. And now, watching you take his place raising his children…" He paused. "Perhaps this is how I atone."
"You've done enough, Grandfather. You owe me nothing."
"Even so." He placed a hand on my shoulder. "I will teach you what I can. The Tang breathing technique. The basics passed through our bloodline — daggers, poisons, hidden weapons. The foundation. The rest will be up to you."
For a moment I felt something like joy. Then reality settled back in.
"I know nothing. I'm responsible for my siblings. I'm not even affiliated with the clan." My voice came out quieter than I intended. "Maybe this dream came too late for me."
"You are my grandson," Yoryeon said. "The son of Jinho — a man of the Tang Clan. Take pride in that." He squeezed my shoulder once. "My time is short. But this much I can leave behind."
From that night onward, we trained under the stars. He taught me to breathe, to feel the flow of qi within my body, to mold it, to sharpen it. I learned what it meant to be third-rate. I read manuals late into the night and practiced stances until my legs gave out. He never called himself my master.
"I'm just a grandfather," he said once, laughing. "Fulfilling a promise before I go."
He passed away months later. The Tang Clan held a grand funeral. Lanterns stretched across the streets of Chengdu. Warriors of every sect came to pay their respects. I watched from the crowd, hidden, knowing we were still exiles despite our blood. My siblings and I mourned in our own way. But life continued. It had to. Death had become too familiar. I kept training. So-Yeon advanced quickly in her school. The younger ones found their own paths.
By the age of twenty, every day seemed to pass like the one before. Molded by grief. Taught by sorrow. I had become the head of my family without ever choosing to be — and I believed, foolishly, that the worst was behind us. That was until the day the sky turned blood-red.