The blade hadn't swung yet. But tension cracked the air like a storm about to break.
Jinmu's foot shifted once more, settling deeper into the stance. Calm. Controlled. Ready.
But something inside him held still.
If I use it here…
He scanned the room from the corner of his eye. Seryeon crouched behind the pillar, shielding their mother. Customers huddled beneath overturned tables. The little girl who'd spilled tea was crying into her father's arms.
They'll see everything. The forms. The flow.
Someone will notice. Someone always does.
Even the Crimson Flow Blade Union wasn't stupid. They'd recognize high-level technique. Maybe not by name, but by shape. By presence.
And worse—
What if it triggered attention from someone else?
From someone stronger?
This ability… I need to keep it secret. Until I can use it without fear.
He straightened. Slowly.
Dropped the stance.
The taller martial artist frowned. "Changed your mind?"
"I remembered this isn't worth dying over," Jinmu said.
The man studied him a moment longer, then scoffed and turned away.
"Smart boy."
His partner kicked over another chair for no reason, then followed him out the door, scarf flicking as he moved.
The inn stayed silent even after they left.
Only after the door closed and their footsteps vanished down the path did the tension finally shatter like glass.
Customers began to rise from under tables. Some cursed. Some stumbled away without paying. Others whispered as they gathered their belongings.
"Let's go before they come back—"
"I'm not eating here again, this place's cursed—"
"They were Crimson Flow. What kind of place lets those people in?"
The murmurs cut deeper than Jinmu expected.
And then came Seryeon's voice from behind him.
"Did you see what they did?"
She wasn't angry. Not yet. Just stunned.
"The table's in pieces," she continued, pointing. "That kettle hit the ceiling. The whole rice pot spilled. Jinmu—" she stepped closer— "what were you doing standing there like an idiot?"
He turned, met her eyes.
"Protecting you."
"With your body?"
"With whatever I had."
"You didn't have anything."
"I had enough."
Their mother interrupted quietly. "You should've called your father. Or fetched the neighbors. Or… something."
Yeon Baekho entered through the side door at that exact moment, covered in dust from chopping wood behind the shed.
"What happened? I heard yelling—"
Haerin looked at him, then gestured to the room. "Crimson Flow Blade Union came looking for someone."
Baekho's face darkened immediately. "How many?"
"Two."
"And Jinmu almost got his head split in half," Seryeon snapped, still shaking.
Baekho's eyes landed on his son. "You stood up to them?"
"I didn't fight."
"Doesn't matter. You made yourself a target."
"I couldn't let them wreck everything and just smile."
"Well, they did wreck everything," Baekho said, motioning to the broken counter and smashed pottery. "And now they know your face."
Jinmu didn't reply. He stared at the shattered teacups on the ground. One still rolled in a lazy circle.
Haerin crouched, began picking up the fragments in silence.
Seryeon sank to her knees beside her.
"I just fixed that table last month," she mumbled, half angry, half scared. "Do they think inns rebuild themselves?"
"Martial artists don't care about things like that," Baekho muttered. "Especially not Unorthodox ones."
He looked at Jinmu again.
"They could've killed you."
"But they didn't," Jinmu said quietly.
"And next time?"
There was no answer.
Just silence.
Then footsteps as Jinmu walked back into the kitchen without a word.
Night fell fast.
Jinmu sat alone near the woodpile, sharpening an old carving knife on a whetstone, not because he needed to — but because he couldn't stay still.
They think they're done.
They think they walked in, threatened us, and walked out with no consequences.
He thought of his mother crouching over broken cups. His sister's hands trembling as she gathered rice from the floor. His father trying to act unshaken when his jaw had clenched so tight he nearly cracked his teeth.
If I let them go, they'll do this again. Somewhere else. To someone else.
But he couldn't fight them in the inn.
Too many people. Too much risk.
That's why…
I'll do it where no one sees.
He stood.
Didn't grab anything.
Didn't say anything.
Just turned and walked toward the outer gate, moving through the shadows like he was just checking on the peach trees.
He paused near the lantern pole, glanced over his shoulder.
No one followed.
The kitchen lights were dim. Seryeon's silhouette moved behind the curtain, folding laundry with stiff motions. Haerin was likely boiling tea leaves, calming herself. Baekho sat near the fire, sharpening the same dull axe he used every week, but with more force than usual.
Jinmu lowered his head.
Then slipped into the trees.
The trail wasn't hard to follow.
Crimson Flow members didn't exactly hide their movements. Their boots crushed twigs loudly. Their path bent branches and trampled low ferns.
Jinmu moved slowly. Quietly.
He didn't carry a sword.
He didn't need one.
The Blossom Vein Arts…
I don't know if I can use it perfectly. But if I can use even three of the forms, I might have a chance.
He remembered the stance. The flow. The way his body moved without effort the night he learned it.
No more waiting.
They threatened my family.
They crossed a line.
The forest thickened. Moonlight slipped between leaves, dappling the path.
In the distance, he heard laughter.
Two men. One deep-voiced, one lighter.
"—and he just stood there, like he was about to cry."
"Should've gutted him for fun."
"He had that look though. Like a scared animal pretending it had teeth."
"Maybe we go back after midnight and burn it down. Teach 'em not to lie to us."
Laughter again.
Jinmu exhaled slowly.
He kept walking.
One foot after the other.
No sound.
No hesitation.
Just quiet steps through the dark.
You shouldn't have touched our inn.
You shouldn't have looked at my family.
You shouldn't have come at all.
The path curved. The trees opened.
A small clearing ahead. Campfire flickering. Swords resting against a stone.
Jinmu stopped ten steps away.
They hadn't seen him yet.
He slid into a stance.
The fire crackled in the clearing, its embers floating upward like fireflies swallowed by the moonlight. The two Crimson Flow Blade Union martial artists leaned back against a pair of flat stones, chewing on dried meat and laughing like they hadn't just threatened to burn down a family's life.
Jinmu stood in the shadows of the trees.
Unmoving.
Unblinking.
Listening.
The taller man tossed a bone into the fire. "That kid at the inn. Had guts."
The shorter one spat. "Had a death wish. I should've cut him. Would've been funny to watch him squeal."
"Tch. You're always itching for blood."
"And you're always too soft."
"He reminded me of my little brother."
"He reminded me of a rat who didn't know it was already bleeding."
The taller man laughed, low and short. "You think we'll get reprimanded again?"
"For what? Asking questions?"
"We tore up the place."
"Not our problem. We needed answers."
They talked casually, as if the destruction of a family inn was no more than a breeze they'd passed through.
Jinmu's fingers curled at his side.
They don't even remember our faces. That's how little they care. That's the kind of people they are. Laughing over a threat, a broken pot, a terrified girl hiding behind her mother.
His breathing slowed.
He stepped forward.
The snap of a twig underfoot was sharp.
The two martial artists turned quickly, reaching for their blades. The fire lit Jinmu's face just enough to make him visible.
"You."
The shorter man stood first, sneering. "Well, well. The little rat shows up after all. What, miss us already?"
The taller man's brow furrowed. "You came alone?"
Jinmu didn't answer.
He took one step into the clearing.
I've never killed anyone before.
But this isn't killing out of rage.
This is protection.
He raised his foot slowly and settled into the first stance.
The taller one stiffened. "That form…"
Too late.
Drifting Petal Stance.
The ground beneath Jinmu's foot shifted slightly as his weight adjusted. His body flowed with a grace he didn't practice — it simply was.
He dashed forward.
The taller man moved first, drawing his sword halfway before Jinmu closed the gap. A palm struck upward, redirecting the sword arm, and his other hand slammed against the man's exposed chest.
Vein-Pulse Bloom.
A burst of ki discharged into his opponent's body, striking deep — invisible, silent, internal.
The man staggered, arms going limp like wet towels.
He dropped to his knees, gasping, eyes wide.
Jinmu pivoted without hesitation.
The shorter martial artist lunged from the side, blade in a reverse grip. Fast. Precise.
Too late.
Twin Lotus Coils.
Jinmu's legs twisted with a spin, intercepting the attack. His arms snaked around the man's wrist and elbow, redirecting the momentum. He didn't resist it — he guided it, allowing the force to fold inward.
The attacker was sent flipping sideways. He hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from his lungs.
"Y-You bastard—!"
He tried to rise—
Misting Blade Fingers.
Three rapid strikes. Wrist. Shoulder. Base of the neck.
The man's body seized.
His arm dropped limp to his side.
"W-What the hell…?"
Jinmu didn't stop.
Petal Curtain Dance.
He stepped into the flow, hands moving like a series of fluttering strikes that danced across his opponent's chest, disrupting ki channels one after another. The man convulsed with each hit, unable to catch his breath.
Jinmu stepped back.
Sinking Root Spiral.
He sank low, drew in the remaining energy of his movement, and redirected it upward with a rising kick. The impact connected with the man's chin, sending him spinning into the dirt.
Blood flew from his mouth. He twitched. Once.
And then nothing.
Jinmu turned back.
The taller one, barely conscious, was trying to crawl backward.
Jinmu approached calmly.
Last form.
Heart of Blooming Death.
He didn't need to call it aloud.
His body moved through the full sequence of forms — the stance of the petals, the pulse, the coil, the blade, the dance, the spiral. Each form flowed into the next like a storm of blooming lotus blossoms, invisible but deadly.
The final strike landed against the man's chest, centered and controlled.
His body spasmed.
And then stilled.
The fire crackled again.
Jinmu stood over both bodies, expression calm. Not cold — just quiet.
They didn't scream.
Good.
He looked down at his own hands.
There wasn't a scratch on him.
No bruise.
No tear in his clothes.
It was clean.
Too clean.
If someone else saw this… if they even suspected I had an ability like this…
He turned and walked away.
Leaving the corpses behind.
The Peaceful Blossom Inn was quiet when he returned.
Too quiet.
No customer chatter. No smell of boiling broth. Just faint creaks and the low hum of wind against damaged beams.
Jinmu slipped through the back gate and approached the main hall.
The sight hit him harder than the fight did.
Baekho stood in the middle of the hall, arms crossed, staring at the cracked support pillar. His hammer hung loosely from his hand, but he wasn't swinging it anymore. Just staring.
Haerin sat near the stove, folding scorched cloth, her expression unreadable.
Seryeon leaned against the counter, arms crossed, her face sullen.
A pile of broken ceramics sat in the corner.
No one said anything for a while.
Jinmu stepped inside, quietly.
Baekho didn't look up. "You came back."
"I did."
Haerin finally turned her head. "You were gone for a while."
"I had to be."
Seryeon scoffed faintly. "What'd you do? Follow them with a spoon and hope they'd trip?"
Jinmu stepped closer. "I followed them."
Her arms dropped. "Wait—seriously?"
Baekho looked over sharply. "What did you do?"
Jinmu didn't answer right away. He walked over to a toppled chair and set it upright.
"I finished what they started."
Seryeon blinked. "What does that mean?"
"They won't be coming back."
"You fought them?" Baekho asked again.
Jinmu nodded.
"And?"
"They're dead."
Silence.
Haerin dropped the cloth.
Seryeon sat down slowly. "You're not serious."
"I am."
"You killed both of them?"
"Yes."
Baekho stared at him, then looked down at his hammer.
"You're not a martial artist."
"I am now."
"That's not how it works."
"It is for me."
No one spoke.
Not for a full minute.
Then Seryeon leaned back, rubbing her face. "You're not even going to explain how?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because if I do, things will get worse."
Haerin's voice was quiet. "Worse than this?"
He looked around at the broken counter. The half-crumbled pillar. The ruined rice pots. The bent stove pipe.
The customers had fled. The name of the inn was in danger. The trust they had built with travelers could disappear overnight.
"Yeah," he said. "Worse than this."
Baekho walked over and sat on the damaged steps.
"Even if they're gone," he said, "what now? We can't rebuild this without money. We have enough for food, maybe repairs to the kitchen. But the main hall? The outer rooms? That's silver we don't have."
"We can get a loan," Haerin said softly, though her tone lacked faith.
"With what collateral?"
Seryeon said nothing. She just stared at the floor.
"I'll handle it," Jinmu said.
Baekho looked up. "You?"
"Yes."
"Do you know how much this will cost?"
"I don't need to."
"Then you're being stupid."
"Maybe."
"But you still believe you can fix it?"
"I will," Jinmu said simply.
"How?"
He paused.
"I have… an idea."
Haerin walked over, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "You don't have to carry this alone, you know."
"I know."
"But you want to."
Jinmu didn't answer.
Because she was right.
Later that night, Jinmu sat beneath the peach tree, staring at the moon. It was full, glowing faintly behind thin clouds, casting silver shadows across the inn's roof.
He held a single bronze coin in his palm.
Turned it slowly between his fingers.
It caught the moonlight.
Soft.
Unremarkable.
Ordinary.
If I can copy martial arts… if I can paste them into my body…
He turned the coin again.
What happens if I copy this?
He didn't move.
Didn't test it.
Not yet.
Just stared.
A breeze swept through the peach blossoms.
A petal drifted past his eyes.
Maybe it's time to find out.