"Stir slower," Yeon Haerin said from behind the wooden counter, arms folded, her expression as unreadable as ever. "You're splashing it."
"I'm not," Jinmu replied, eyes fixed on the pot. "The broth's just too eager."
She didn't laugh, of course. His mother was not the type to be moved by cheap wordplay. But he saw the way her mouth twitched slightly before she turned back to folding the napkins. That was enough to call it a win.
"You never used to help in the kitchen," she said. "Last year, you nearly burned down the storage room trying to light a candle."
"Maybe I grew up," he said, adjusting the ladle's angle and lowering the flame beneath the pot. "Maybe I realized the stew pot doesn't stir itself."
Yeon Haerin paused. Her eyes scanned his profile in silence, the way only a mother could look at a child and see through years of nonsense in an instant. "Or maybe you hit your head when you fainted three days ago and forgot who you were."
"That's possible," Jinmu replied casually. "Honestly? Doesn't sound like a bad trade."
He heard her sigh. The kind of sigh mothers let out when they're trying not to smile but don't want to encourage whatever's making them feel that way.
"I'll bring in the laundry," she said, walking away. "Try not to poison our guests while I'm gone."
"No promises," he called after her.
The stew bubbled gently as he stirred.
It feels strange, how easily I fit here. Like this has always been home.
It hadn't. Not for him.
His last home was filled with rebar, dust, and distant traffic. His name wasn't Jinmu Yeon. It was something dull. Something gray. Forgotten the moment he was crushed beneath twisted steel and falling scaffolding. In that world, he never had parents. Never had a sister. He had supervisors. Rent deadlines. Calluses that never went away.
And then—he had nothing.
Until he opened his eyes here.
The Peaceful Blossom Inn. A family that wasn't his, but accepted him without question. A new name, a new face, and a body that remembered things he didn't.
This time, he'd hold on tight.
He was chopping radish behind the inn when Yeon Seryeon stomped out of the kitchen with a tray in hand. The bowls rattled slightly as she walked past him without slowing down.
"Hey," he said without looking up. "You're walking too fast. That tray's gonna tip."
"I'm not a baby," she muttered. "Don't talk to me like I don't know how trays work."
"I'm talking to you like someone who dropped three bowls yesterday."
"That was one bowl. And you startled me."
"I was in another room."
"You breathed too loudly."
Jinmu smirked, setting the cleaver down. "Want me to serve the guests today?"
She stopped mid-step, twisting around with a suspicious look. "Why?"
"I'm offering."
"Since when do you offer anything that involves actual work?"
"Since now."
Seryeon narrowed her eyes. "Is this because you think you're dying?"
"I'm not dying."
"You were unconscious for two days and woke up talking like a monk. You said weird stuff about reincarnation. That's 'dying' behavior."
Jinmu exhaled through his nose, then picked up the chopped radish. "Look. I just want to do more around here. I figured I should."
"You figured," she repeated. "You figured... that you'd help the family business. Just like that?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, where's my real brother and what have you done with him?"
He looked at her. She looked at him. Then she let out a dramatic sigh and shoved the tray into his arms.
"Fine. But don't mess up the orders. If anyone gets soy sauce in their ginseng broth again, I'm blaming you."
"Understood."
"And don't flirt with the merchants' daughters."
"I'm a changed man."
"Gross. Don't say that."
The late morning rush came and went, and the inn fell into a lull. Jinmu was wiping down the counter when the wind outside shifted.
The bell above the door gave a soft chime.
He turned.
The woman who stepped inside didn't belong in this town.
Not because she looked threatening — if anything, she was calm. Perfectly so. She wore a wide bamboo hat, shadowing her face, and a long ash-gray travel cloak that reached the floor. Her boots were caked with dried mud. Not the fresh, sticky kind you'd get from walking the roads around here — but the cracked, flaky remnants of a long journey over many days.
"Welcome to the Peaceful Blossom Inn," Jinmu said, straightening. "You've traveled far?"
The woman didn't answer at first. Her eyes scanned the inn's interior — walls, stairs, windows — before returning to him.
"I'll need a room. One night."
Her voice was low and measured, neither polite nor impolite. Just... practiced.
Jinmu didn't blink. "We have one available. Room Three. Hot water's included, meals are served at sundown and at dawn."
She reached into her cloak and placed a silver tael on the counter.
He stared at the coin.
"That's too much," he said. "This place isn't worth that much."
"I don't like haggling," she replied.
He took the coin anyway, handed her a carved wooden key.
"Up the stairs. Second door on the right."
She nodded and took it.
Then, just as she turned to go, she paused. Her hand rested lightly on the key, but she didn't take another step.
"You're not a martial artist," she said, voice softer now. "But you're not normal either."
Jinmu met her gaze, even though he couldn't fully see her eyes beneath the brim of her hat.
"Not yet," he said simply.
The woman didn't reply. She only tilted her head slightly, as if examining a puzzle that didn't fit. Then she turned and disappeared up the stairs without another word.
Yeon Seryeon appeared from the kitchen a few seconds later, wiping her hands on a towel.
"Who was that?"
"No idea."
"She didn't look like a traveler."
"She didn't move like one, either."
"You think she's Murim?"
"Definitely."
She frowned, peering toward the staircase. "The last time a martial artist stayed here, Dad's soup got ranked third best in the province."
Jinmu chuckled. "You think that's what she came for? The soup?"
"I'm just saying. It better be good today."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Seryeon's eyes narrowed.
"...You're planning something, aren't you?"
"Me? Never."
"If she tries anything weird, I'm stabbing her with a spoon."
"Why a spoon?"
"It's personal."
He laughed.
But even as the moment passed, Jinmu's thoughts stayed elsewhere.
That woman… she didn't look strong. But she felt... quiet. Too quiet.
Even her presence was hidden.
He stared up toward the staircase.
She could've killed everyone here without lifting a finger. And no one would've known until morning.
His hand curled slightly against the counter.
I need to get stronger. Fast.
And whatever this "Heavenly Copy-Paste Technique" is... I'll have to figure it out before someone dangerous forces my hand.
Lunch passed without incident.
The martial artist woman remained in her room, and Yeon Seryeon kept glancing up the stairs like she expected smoke or sword qi to suddenly pour out.
"She hasn't moved in hours," she whispered as they cleaned the counter together. "Maybe she died."
"Pretty sure martial artists don't die that easily," Jinmu said, stacking bowls.
"Maybe she overdosed on cultivation."
"That's not how that works."
"You don't know that."
Jinmu shrugged. "You're right. I don't. Want me to knock and check if she's still breathing?"
"I'm not going near that door."
"Then stop staring like she owes you money."
Seryeon clicked her tongue and went back to wiping dishes, grumbling about ungrateful martial artists and their mysterious silence.
Later in the afternoon, as the sun tilted west, Jinmu stood by the porch trimming firewood when he heard footsteps coming down the stairs.
The woman emerged, dressed now in a simpler robe. Her cloak and hat were gone, revealing her full face for the first time.
Sharp. Pale. Calm.
Definitely someone used to killing.
She approached the courtyard, stretching her arms lightly as if to test the air.
"Warm today," she murmured.
Jinmu took his cue.
"You heading out?" he asked, setting the axe down.
"No," she said. "Just stretching."
She glanced at him. "Still not a martial artist?"
"Still not," he said. "But…"
He scratched the back of his head, feigning awkwardness.
"You know, uh… I heard martial artists always have strong grip. Something about qi density, right?"
The woman blinked. "...Excuse me?"
"Grip strength," he repeated, holding out a hand with the most innocent expression he could manage. "Mind if I… you know. For comparison. Just a handshake."
She stared at his hand.
Then at him.
Jinmu coughed. "It's purely academic."
She raised a brow. "You want to touch my hand. Randomly."
"I mean," he coughed again, "You already paid extra, so this handshake is basically part of the premium package."
Silence.
She looked like she was deciding whether to slap him or laugh.
Then—finally—she raised her hand and clasped his.
"Try not to cry," she said.
The moment their hands touched, something invisible clicked inside Jinmu's mind. A soundless pulse, like a breath being held and then slowly exhaled.
A stream of data flowed inward.
Formless. Clear. Complete.
It's working.
I'm actually copying it…
He held her hand for one extra second, pretending to test her grip.
"Wow," he said, shaking his head. "That's firm. No wonder you people split trees in half."
She tilted her head. "You people?"
"Martial artists," he said. "What rank are you, if you don't mind me asking?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to know?"
"Curiosity. I'm a curious person."
She studied him. Then, perhaps deciding he was harmless, she spoke.
"There are eight recognized levels in Murim," she said. "It begins with Outer Disciples — those still learning stances and breathing."
Jinmu nodded. "That's not me. I can barely breathe when I walk uphill."
"Then Inner Disciples. Still unproven. But trained. After that, the Martial Artist stage — divided into low, mid, and peak grades. From there: Expert, Master, Supreme Master, Grandmaster, and…"
She hesitated.
"And what?"
"Heavenly Realm."
He blinked. "Sounds fancy."
"It is." Her tone was flat. "Almost no one reaches it."
"Where are you on that ladder?"
She didn't answer.
Which, to Jinmu, was answer enough.
"So… Expert?"
Still no answer.
Definitely Expert. Maybe higher.
He leaned against the fence. "You're not from around here, huh?"
"No."
"From a sect?"
"Yes."
"Which one?"
She hesitated. Then answered.
"Yeonhwa Lotus Palace."
Jinmu's eyes widened slightly.
"The one from… what mountain was it?"
"Mt. Yeonhwa," she said. "It's one of the Five Great Mountain Ranges."
He nodded slowly. "Right, right. That place full of poison masters and women who kick harder than horses."
She didn't react.
"You're not going to poison me for saying that, are you?"
Still no reaction.
He took that as a yes.
She continued. "Five Mountains. Five Major Sects. Mount Hwagyeong Sword Sect sits on Fire Mirror Mountain. Baekrin White Tiger Hall dominates the snowy north. Azure Thunder Hall occupies the storm peaks of Cheongjin. Mugang Martial Pavilion resides at the center."
"And your sect?"
"Misty peak of Mt. Yeonhwa. Hidden by clouds. Seen by few."
He nodded again. "Mysterious. Elegant. Deadly. Just like you."
She gave him a look.
"Too much?"
"Far too much."
They stood in silence for a moment.
Then she turned and walked off toward the pond behind the inn.
As soon as she disappeared from view, Jinmu clenched his hand.
It worked.
I actually copied her martial technique.
He didn't know the name. Didn't know how it worked yet. But the feeling was unmistakable. Something alive now rested inside his mind — like a folded scroll made of pure light, waiting to be opened.
He just needed time. A moment alone.
A chance to test the next step.
That night, the inn was quiet.
The guests had gone to bed. The fire had dimmed. Seryeon snored faintly from the next room.
Jinmu sat cross-legged on the floor of the storage shed, the door slightly ajar to let in moonlight.
In his hand, the memory of the handshake still tingled.
COPY complete…
He breathed slowly.
Now… let's try PASTE.