The taste of blood was the last thing I knew.
Warm. Metallic. My own.
Snow fell lazily from the black sky, smothering the world in white silence. Beneath me, the snow was already turning red, the heat of my body bleeding out into the cold.
I could barely move. My fingers twitched uselessly against the frozen ground. The sword wound through my side burned like molten iron. Every shallow breath drew knives through my lungs.
And yet, what hurt most wasn't the pain.
It was the sight in front of me.
Through the haze of my failing vision, I saw him – my sworn brother. The man I had saved countless times, the one I had pulled from death's jaws and trusted more than anyone else.
He stood over me now, his black robe flapping in the wind, his eyes calm… almost pitying.
"Loyalty," he said softly, "is a fool's chain. Forgive me, Brother… but you were too dangerous to keep alive."
I wanted to laugh. Dangerous?
No — the truth was far simpler. He wanted what I had. My cultivation. My techniques. My treasures.
In this world, strength was everything, but strength also drew envy.
I tried to speak, but blood filled my throat. The only sound I made was a wet, ugly gurgle.
He didn't flinch. He didn't gloat. He simply drew his sword in one smooth motion and brought it down.
Steel tore through flesh, bone, and the last thread holding my life together.
There was no heroic last stand. No flash of inspiration. No miraculous reversal.
Just death.
* * * * * * * * *
The cold was the first thing to return. Not the gentle cold of snow, but the damp, heavy chill of a poorly ventilated room. My eyes snapped open, and for a moment, I thought I was still dreaming.
Wooden beams stretched overhead. The air stank of smoke and mildew. My hands — they were… wrong.
Thin. Unscarred. Calloused in the way of a street rat, not a martial master.
I sat up sharply. The movement felt light, easy, unnatural. My breath came fast, but there was no stabbing pain in my ribs. My body was young again.
No — not just young. My gaze darted around the small, cramped room. A rotting wooden table sat in the center, a rusted dagger lying on its surface. The very same dagger I had bought for two copper coins when I was fifteen.
That was twenty years ago.
The realization hit me like a hammer. My pulse roared in my ears.
This was the year I had first joined the Red Fang gang. The year I had first set foot in the bloody path that led to my eventual rise… and my betrayal.
Somehow, impossibly, I had returned to the start.
* * * * * * * * *
I sat there for a long moment, gripping the dagger, my mind racing.
The instinct was to celebrate — to think of this as a second chance. But that was the thinking of a fool.
No god had given me this gift. No heaven had granted me mercy.
The murim world was a beast. A world of sects and clans, assassins and traitors, wandering masters and hidden experts. The weak were eaten. The strong were feared — until someone stronger appeared.
If fate had placed me here again, it was not to help me. It was to test me. And if I made the same mistakes, I would die again, just as pitifully.
Not this time.
This time, I would think further ahead. I would play slower, but cut deeper.
Every move must serve a future purpose. Every friendship must be a transaction. Every enemy must be useful before they are dead.
The boy I once was had been reckless. Hungry for approval. Eager to prove himself.
That boy had died in the snow.
I rose to my feet. The table creaked. The dagger felt heavier in my grip than it should. My eyes went to the wooden door, its hinges rusted, its frame warped.
This room… I remembered it. It was the cheapest lodging in the rat district. Outside was a labyrinth of narrow alleys, gang territories marked by crude paint, and the stench of unwashed bodies.
It was here I had met Bao Liang — the man who had drawn me into the Red Fang.
In my first life, I had been grateful. The gang had given me food, a place to sleep, and basic martial training. But the Red Fang were scavengers, their loyalty lasting only as long as you were useful.
Bao Liang would later betray me to the rival Black Tiger gang in exchange for a pouch of silver.
In my first life, that betrayal had cost me an eye. This time, it would cost him his life.
* * * * * * * * *
I needed information first. Twenty years was a long time, and though I remembered major events, small shifts could destroy any plan.
I checked the loose floorboard under the table. Yes — still there. A stash hole. Empty now, but I could fill it later.
I slid the dagger into my belt and stepped outside.
The alley greeted me with its usual perfume of piss and rotting food. Above, crooked balconies leaned dangerously over the narrow street. Filthy snow lay in grey piles against the walls.
Children darted past me, barefoot despite the cold. A drunk slumped against a wall, snoring into his tattered coat.
This was home.
And like any home, it was built on the bones of the weak.
* * * * * * * * *
Bao Liang found me by midday.
"Xuan!" he called, grinning with that fake warmth he wore so well. His rat-like face was half-hidden under a ragged scarf, his narrow eyes glinting with calculation.
In my first life, I had thought him a friend. Now I saw him for what he was — an opportunist.
"Bao," I said evenly, letting none of my thoughts show. "You're looking well."
He laughed, slapping my shoulder. "The Red Fang could use another blade. You still as quick with that dagger as they say?"
Quick. That was the lie I had built my early reputation on. My skill had been average at best back then. But this time… this time I had twenty years of experience in killing men.
"Quick enough," I said.
He leaned closer. "There's work tonight. Some merchant's caravan passing through the east gate. Easy pickings. You in?"
In my first life, I had said yes. The loot had been poor, the job sloppy, and it had put me on the city watch's blacklist for years.
This time, I smiled. "I have a better idea."
Bao's eyebrows lifted. Greed was already in his eyes.
I lowered my voice. "I know of a spice shipment coming in tomorrow, unguarded. Worth ten times what a merchant caravan carries. But I can't move it alone."
It was a lie, of course. There was no spice shipment. I just needed Bao to introduce me to the Red Fang's leader earlier than in my first life.
Information was my real target. And the Red Fang's leader, Old Jin, knew more about the city's undercurrents than anyone in the slums.
Bao bit immediately. "Spices? That's noble market stuff. How do you know this?"
I smiled faintly. "I have my ways. But if you're not interested…"
He waved his hands quickly. "No, no. I'll take you to Old Jin tonight. He'll want to hear this."
Perfect.
* * * * * * * * *
As the day faded into the bruised colors of evening, I returned to my room.
I sat in the dark, the dagger across my knees, running through the plan.
Step one: gain Old Jin's trust — not through loyalty, but through value. Feed him just enough truth to keep him curious.
Step two: learn the Red Fang's operations, routes, and rivalries. Map every gang's territory from memory and current observation.
Step three: identify the future threats — the gangs and sects that would rise in the next decade — and begin undermining them now, before they ever knew my name.
It would take years. But I had years.
The boy who had once scrambled for scraps was gone. The man who had died in the snow now wore his skin.
And the world would never see me coming.
The city at night was a different beast.
By day, the slums were loud, chaotic, filthy — but they still pretended to be a place of living. By night, the pretenses fell away.
The alleys grew teeth. Shadows moved where there should have been none. The air was heavy with the metallic tang of blood, the bitter smoke of cheap opium, and the salt of the nearby river.
I walked beside Bao Liang, letting him chatter. He spoke of petty rivalries, of drunken brawls, of women whose names I no longer remembered. I gave nothing in return.
In my first life, I would have been trying to impress him. Now, I kept my eyes ahead and my steps steady, mapping every corner we passed.
Every route was potential escape or ambush ground. Every doorway was either an entry or an exit. I counted how many faces watched us from the shadows — six men, all pretending not to be part of any gang.
They would sell us out to the highest bidder before sunrise.
We turned down a narrow lane, its walls leaning inward as though conspiring to swallow us whole. At the end stood a squat brick building with no windows, only a single heavy door.
Bao knocked in a rhythm — three short, one long, two short. The slot in the door slid open, revealing a pair of eyes.
"Bao," the guard grunted. "Who's the pup?"
"New blood," Bao said. "Got something Old Jin will want to hear."
The guard's eyes slid to me, lingering for a moment. His gaze wasn't just suspicious — it was calculating. Weighing my worth.
Finally, the slot slammed shut, and the door creaked open.
Inside, the air was thick with the stink of sweat, smoke, and liquor. The main room was lit by a scattering of oil lamps, their light barely reaching the corners where shadowed figures sat hunched over dice games and low conversations.
I followed Bao through, ignoring the curious and unfriendly looks thrown my way.
At the back, a low table sat in its own pool of lamplight. Behind it lounged a man who seemed carved from old wood — wiry, weathered, and sharp-eyed. His hair was mostly grey, tied back with a strip of cloth. A thin scar ran from the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth, pulling one side of his face into a permanent half-smirk.
Old Jin.
In my first life, I had met him months later, after proving myself with petty jobs. By then, he had already decided I was a disposable pawn.
This time, I would change that first impression.
Bao bowed slightly — not out of respect, but out of habit. "Boss, this is Lin Xuan. Says he's got word on a spice shipment. I thought—"
"You thought I'd be interested in the ramblings of some alley rat?" Old Jin's voice was dry, but his gaze was locked on me, testing.
I didn't bow.
Instead, I stepped forward until the lamplight caught my face. I made sure my expression was calm, my tone steady.
"I don't deal in rumors," I said. "The shipment exists. I can tell you when it's coming, where it's passing, and how to take it without alerting the city watch."
The table between us was short, but the space felt vast. Men like Old Jin respected confidence — but they killed arrogance. The line between the two was thinner than a hair.
His smirk twitched slightly. "You're very certain of yourself, boy. If you're lying, I'll have your tongue."
"If I'm lying," I said evenly, "you won't have to take it. I'll cut it out myself before you can."
A quiet laugh came from somewhere in the room. Old Jin's eyes didn't leave mine.
"Bao," he said finally, "pour the boy a drink. Let's hear what he has to say."
* * * * * * * * *
We spoke for the better part of an hour.
I gave him nothing concrete — only enough to spark interest. I named streets the shipment would supposedly pass, dropped the names of merchants I knew would be in the city tomorrow, and hinted at my "sources" without explaining them.
The truth was, I knew far more than I was saying. But not about this fake shipment — I knew the gang's operations, their rivals' weaknesses, and which of his lieutenants were planning to betray him within the next three years.
That knowledge was my real blade, and I would not draw it too soon.
When the talk ended, Old Jin leaned back, studying me.
"You've got a sharp tongue," he said. "Sharp things are useful… until they cut the wrong hand."
"I don't cut without a reason," I replied.
His smirk deepened just slightly. "Good. Bao, get him set up with a cot in the back. Let's see if the boy bleeds Red Fang."
* * * * * * * * *
The cot they gave me was little more than a straw mat in a damp corner, but I'd slept in worse.
Lying there, I replayed every word, every glance, every shift in tone from Old Jin. The spice shipment lie had bought me three things:
1. A place inside the gang sooner than in my first life.
2. A thread of curiosity in Old Jin's mind.
3. The first step toward making myself indispensable.
Tomorrow, I would "discover" that the shipment had been moved unexpectedly — a perfect excuse for the gang to investigate without blaming me for failure. In the meantime, I'd listen, observe, and start mapping the web of relationships here.
The first rule of survival in the murim underworld:
Never be the strongest. Never be the weakest.
Be the one holding the knife… and the map.
* * * * * * * * *