The morning mist clung stubbornly to the slopes of Gwaneum Mountain, veiling the world in soft silvers and fading blues. The air carried the crisp bite of early autumn, sharp enough to wake a man's lungs with every breath. It was 7:12 AM by Han's reckoning—he had learned to tell the time by the slant of sunlight over the eastern ridge, where the first golden fingers reached down to touch the tops of the pine trees.
Han trudged up the uneven path barefoot, his calloused soles used to the bite of gravel and the damp kiss of dew. Over his left shoulder hung a worn straw basket, already heavy with wild ginger, a few mountain roots, and the tender shoots of shepherd's purse. He had been up since before dawn, working in silence save for the crunch of twigs and the occasional rustle of a squirrel darting through the undergrowth.
At twenty-one, Han stood just under five foot eight, his frame lean from years of labor rather than training. His black hair was tied loosely at the nape, strands escaping to brush against his brow. His clothes were plain—faded hemp tunic, patched twice at the elbows, and trousers tied with a fraying sash. Yet his eyes were bright, the kind that still carried an ember of quiet hope despite a life of hard ground and harder fortune.
As he bent to dig out a knot of burdock root, something caught the corner of his vision—a glimmer of sunlight on glass where no glass should be. He straightened slowly, squinting through the mist.
There, just beyond the bend in the path, stood a building that should not exist.
It was tall and narrow, its steep gabled roof shingled in dark slate, the walls built of heavy timber and pale stone. Arched windows lined its front, their panes catching the sunlight in molten hues. The great double doors were thick oak, carved with unfamiliar patterns—spirals and sword marks, as if a hundred duels had left their stories upon its surface. Above them stretched a mural that seemed almost alive: warriors crossing blades under a sky that shifted colors in the light.
Han's pulse quickened. He knew this mountain well—every rock, every crooked pine—but he had never seen this place before.
"Am I… dreaming?" he muttered under his breath. The words were half-choked by the strange weight in the air, as though the building exhaled a presence of its own.
Drawn forward, he found himself at the threshold before realizing his feet had moved. The door loomed above him. One hesitant push, and it opened without resistance, creaking like the sigh of an old giant.
The scent hit him first—aged wood, old paper, a faint hint of sandalwood smoke. The warmth inside wrapped around him like a winter cloak. Golden lamplight mingled with the pale shafts of morning sun, illuminating row upon row of bookshelves, each crammed with tomes bound in leather, silk, or strange fabrics that shimmered faintly. Sword scars marred the wooden pillars between the shelves, not in ruin but as if placed there deliberately—like decorations, proud trophies of a forgotten age. The murals continued inside, painting the ceiling with battles, serene masters in meditation, and landscapes too perfect to be real.
Han's breath caught. This was no ordinary building. This was…
"Who is it?"
The voice was calm, yet it filled the space like a ripple spreading across still water.
Han spun toward it, heart pounding. A man stood behind a polished counter at the center of the hall. He was tall—easily six feet—with dark hair that fell just above his shoulders, and eyes so steady they seemed to pin Han in place. His skin was pale but not sickly, his features sharp yet softened by an air of quiet patience.
Han stammered, "I—I'm Han… I'm not a thief, and I wasn't doing anything wrong!"
The man regarded him with an unreadable expression, then spoke again, his tone neither warm nor cold—simply certain:"Then… are you here to buy books, or to borrow?"
Han blinked. "Books? What is this place?"
The man's lips curved in a faint smile that wasn't quite a smile at all."This is a library. One composed entirely of martial arts and techniques."
The words struck Han like a spark to dry tinder. His mouth went dry.
A library… of martial arts?
In his world, such a thing should not exist. He knew the rules of Murim society well enough—born poor, you stayed poor. Only heirs of the Nine Great Families or the Five Great Sects could walk the martial path. The rest, like him, were fodder for the wars of greater men. Murim was a realm for the chosen: a world where the Demonic Sect and the Blood Sect lurked in the shadows, waiting to spill the blood of rivals. For commoners, the martial dream was a story you heard in taverns—never a door you could step through.
And yet, here it was.
Han's fingers curled against his palm. "A… a library of martial arts…" His voice trembled with something between disbelief and longing. "This is… this is a golden opportunity."
Han's voice still echoed faintly in the vast hall, swallowed by the soft rustle of unseen pages and the faint hiss of an oil lamp somewhere deeper within.
The tall man behind the counter—his posture as straight as a spear shaft—studied Han for a moment longer before speaking again.
"You cannot read these books here," he said. "You may either buy… or borrow."
Han hesitated. His fingers fidgeted with the fraying edge of his sash. "B-buy? How much?"
The man's gaze was steady. "More than you can afford."
The truth stung, though Han had expected it. His entire savings amounted to three copper coins—barely enough for salt and millet, much less whatever price such treasures would demand.
Han swallowed. "…Borrow, then?"
The man nodded once. "If you borrow, you may keep the book for three days. On the dawn of the fourth, it will return here, no matter where you are."
Han tilted his head. "Return here? What if I'm far away?"
A flicker of something unreadable—perhaps amusement—passed through the man's eyes. "It will return regardless."
Han's mind raced. This was unlike anything he had ever heard. "And… the cost?"
The man's answer was simple: "The same price a laborer earns in a day. Paid once, up front."
That much Han understood. Three days' wages… for three days with a book that could change his life. It was steep for him, but not impossible.
He exhaled slowly. "If I… were to borrow… what would you recommend for someone like me?"
The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifted—subtle, but deliberate—toward the far left shelves. His lips moved soundlessly, as if speaking to someone Han couldn't see.
Han frowned. Was he… talking to himself?
After a few breaths, the man spoke aloud. "You lack foundation. Before anything else, you must temper your body. A Body Qi technique will serve you best."
"Body… Qi technique?" Han repeated, testing the words on his tongue.
The man's hand lifted, palm open in silent instruction. "Browse that section. Choose one. But choose carefully—each book carries weight beyond its pages."
Han's bare feet made no sound on the polished wooden floor as he stepped away from the counter. The air here seemed warmer, denser, almost humming as he approached the shelves the man had indicated. The spines gleamed under the lamplight—some etched in gold, others in deep, ancient inks that refused to fade.
He reached out, fingertips brushing over a title: Dragonbone Marrow Refinement. The name alone sent a shiver down his spine. Another: Iron Mountain Stance. Then Whale Breath Meridian Flow. Each title was grand, almost mythical, the kind of thing wandering storytellers spoke of after a few cups of rice wine.
Han muttered under his breath, "These… these aren't fake. These are real martial arts manuals…" His pulse quickened. The air smelled faintly of pine resin and something sharper—like the cold tang of steel before a duel.
But then his eyes stopped on one book in particular.
It wasn't the most ornate—bound in simple dark leather, with its title burned deep into the cover: Iron Bark Skin.
The moment his gaze fell upon it, something inside him stirred. He couldn't explain it—like an unspoken familiarity, as though the book had been waiting for him, and him alone. His hand closed around it without hesitation.
He turned back toward the counter. The man—tall, unshaken, a presence as calm as still water—watched him approach.
"This one," Han said, setting the book down.
The man's eyes lowered briefly to read the title, then rose again to meet Han's. "Iron Bark Skin. A wise choice for your frame. It will not make you fast… but it will make you endure."
Han swallowed. "…I'll borrow it."
The man nodded once. "Three days. At dawn on the fourth, it will return to me."
Han paid with three days' worth of labor coins, the small copper disks clinking softly as they landed on the counter. The man slid the book toward him, and as Han's fingers closed around it, the air seemed to hum again—like a string plucked in the depths of the earth.
Outside, the mist was lifting, the first warmth of the sun spilling over the mountainside. Han stepped through the great doors, clutching the manual to his chest.
He did not see the man's gaze following him until the last moment. Nor could he have guessed how swiftly fate would test his choice.
Because not an hour later, on the narrow path leading down the slope, trouble found him.
The first day after Han returned from the mountain was unlike any other in his twenty-three years of life. He shut himself inside his modest home at the edge of the village—little more than two rooms with a thatched roof and a bamboo mat for a bed. The Iron Bark Skin manual lay open before him on the low wooden table, its pages exuding a faint fragrance of sandalwood and ink, the characters written in a style so refined it seemed each stroke carried weight.
By the dim light of an oil lamp, Han traced the brush lines with his finger, mouthing each passage under his breath. The technique spoke not of sudden bursts of strength, but of forging one's body into a fortress—layer by layer, breath by breath—until even blades would find no easy passage.
Morning became night, night became morning. He read, re-read, and committed each instruction to memory. His meals were nothing but rice gruel and boiled roots, eaten hastily before returning to the book.
On the second day, he began the breathing exercises. Standing barefoot in the small courtyard behind his home, he planted his feet shoulder-width apart, bent his knees slightly, and inhaled through his nose as the manual described—slowly, deliberately—until his belly felt heavy with air. Then came the exhalation, drawn out like a slow wind leaving a cavern. The first attempts made him dizzy, his vision swimming, but by the tenth cycle he felt something faint… a tingle at the base of his spine, as if warmth were settling into his bones.
Neighbors peeked over the fence at him—curious, amused—but Han ignored them.
By the third day, something had changed. His palms no longer felt soft; they carried a faint callus-like texture, though he had not handled rope or stone. His breath came deeper, steadier, and when he slapped his own forearm in idle curiosity, the impact was met with a firmness he had never known.
The book lay on his table that evening, the lamp's flame swaying gently in the breeze. Han looked at it for a long moment. "Three days…" he murmured. Tomorrow, as Seojin had said, the manual would vanish. But the foundation—the feeling—was already his.
That night, the mountain wind carried a different sound to the village: the crunch of hurried footsteps on the dirt road, the low murmur of unfamiliar voices.
It was just past the hour of the boar—around nine at night—when Han stepped outside to fetch water. The moon hung low and pale over the rooftops, casting long shadows. From the corner of his eye, he caught movement at the edge of the village path.
Two figures emerged from the darkness. Bandits—one broad-shouldered with a scar cutting through his left brow, the other taller, leaner, his eyes narrow and gleaming like a hunting fox's.
"Well, if it isn't the quiet forager," the tall one said, his voice dripping with mockery. "We've heard stories about you, Han. Stories about you suddenly standing up to troublemakers."
The scarred man's gaze shifted to Han's small home. "And we've heard about a… book."
Han's stomach tightened, but his stance did not waver. He straightened to his full height, the cool night air filling his lungs the way the manual had taught him.
"If you're here for it," he said evenly, "you're too late."
The night's chill had sharpened, the kind that crept under one's clothes and made the joints stiff. The moon—half-hidden by slow-moving clouds—cast silver streaks across the dirt path, making every shadow stretch like the fingers of some great hand reaching for the village. A stray wind whistled past the thatched roofs, carrying with it the smell of damp earth and distant pine.
Han stood in that pale light, facing the two intruders. He was of average height—around five and a half feet—but that night he felt taller, the ground beneath his bare feet somehow more solid. His dark hair was unkempt from three days without care, his hands faintly roughened by the subtle transformations of the Iron Bark Skin technique.
The scarred bandit stepped forward, the metal of his short blade catching the moonlight. "We don't have to make this ugly," he said, his voice like gravel in a bucket. "Just tell us where the book is."
Han's mind raced. They must have heard from someone. But even if they tear this place apart, the book will vanish by morning. His gaze didn't falter. "It's not yours to take," he said, his tone even but firm.
The lean bandit smirked and flicked his wrist, loosening the grip on his wooden club. "You talk big for a forager." He circled left, the other circling right, both moving like wolves testing a prey animal.
Han's breath slowed—inhale through the nose, feel the belly rise, exhale steadily. Just as the manual instructed. A faint warmth pooled in his limbs, a heaviness in his skin that was not weakness, but density, resilience.
The first lunge came from the right—blade flashing down toward Han's shoulder. Han's forearm rose instinctively to meet it. Metal struck flesh, but the sound was dull, almost muted, as though hitting seasoned wood instead of skin. The scarred bandit blinked in surprise, pulling back.
Han seized that moment, pivoting on his heel and driving the heel of his palm into the man's chest. The impact was solid; the bandit staggered back two paces, wheezing.
The lean one snarled and swung his club in a wide arc. Han ducked low, his knees bending effortlessly despite the tension in the air, and swept his leg out. The club-wielder's feet were taken from under him, and he crashed to the ground with a grunt.
Han could feel his own heartbeat, steady and deep, like a drum echoing in a quiet hall. So this is what it feels like, he thought, to stand without fear.
The scarred bandit recovered enough to rush again, but this time Han stepped in, chest forward, letting the man's shoulder collide with him. The impact was like running into a tree. The man cried out, stumbling backward, clutching his shoulder.
"Leave," Han said, his voice low but carrying through the cold air. "Or next time, you won't walk away."
They hesitated—pride warring with the dawning realization that the quiet forager was not the easy target they expected. The lean one spat on the dirt, muttered a curse, and pulled his companion toward the road. Their figures disappeared into the shadows between the pine trees, their retreating footsteps fading into silence.
Han stood alone under the moonlight, his breath visible in the chill air. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the rush of victory. Three days, he thought. Three days, and I am no longer the same man.
The next morning, the first rays of dawn painted the village roofs gold. Han entered his home, ready to return the book, only to find the table bare. The Iron Bark Skin manual was gone, as though it had never existed. He stared for a long moment, then allowed a small, knowing smile.
By noon, the whispers had already begun. A forager who beat two armed men. A hidden strength. A mysterious book from a library that appeared out of nowhere. And when a few brave—or foolish—souls ventured into the mountains to find this place, they returned pale and shaken. The library was gone.
By the following day, the mountain air carried more than the scent of pine and damp soil—it carried voices. The kind that carried easily in a small village, where a morning's gossip could swell into an evening's legend.
The sun had risen only an hour ago, climbing lazily over the eastern ridge, its light spilling in gentle gold across the tiled roofs and worn dirt paths. The air was cool but no longer biting, the faint mist clinging to the foot of the hills dissolving into threads. A rooster crowed somewhere to the north, answered by another in the west, their calls overlapping in a ragged chorus.
Han sat outside his small, thatched home, his knees pulled close, his hands resting loosely atop them. His body ached faintly—not from injury, but from the strange tension that came with newfound strength. The memory of the fight was still sharp in his mind: the weight in his skin, the solidness of his stance, the shock in the bandits' eyes. He had never been more certain of himself, yet at the same time, a sliver of unease lodged itself in his chest.
"It's gone…" he murmured, recalling the bare table that morning. The Iron Bark Skin manual had vanished with the dawn, just as Seojin had said. No trace, no page, not even the faint scent of the ink remained.
Children darted past, bare feet kicking up small clouds of dust, their laughter punctuated by shouts."He's the one!" a boy cried, pointing toward Han before sprinting away, as if afraid to stand too close.
Two elderly women huddled by the well nearby, their voices low but not low enough to hide the words."They say he fought off two bandits—armed men!—and didn't get a scratch.""And they say it's because of a book.""A strange book, from a library that no one can find."
Han exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. So it begins…
Meanwhile, further up the slope where the first trees of the pine forest thickened, Seojin stood leaning against the carved stone pillar that marked the place where his library had been only yesterday. His hands were tucked into the sleeves of his gray scholar's robe, the long hem brushing against the ground. His black hair was neatly tied, not a strand out of place, his face serene—perhaps too serene, like the still surface of a deep pond.
From his vantage, he could see the rooftops of the village and the faint trail of smoke from cooking fires. The sound of voices reached him in fragments, carried by the shifting wind.
He had heard them already—the whispers, the embellishments, the reshaping of events into something grander than they were. So even a poor forager can stir the waters of this stagnant pond, he thought.
The morning breeze stirred the edge of his robe, carrying with it the faint scent of the forest—resin, moss, and the faint sweetness of early wildflowers. Seojin's lips curved ever so slightly."The book served its purpose. Now… let us see where the ripples reach."
By midday, the market square of the village was alive. Merchants laid out baskets of root vegetables, bundles of firewood, and woven straw mats. But the usual bartering and haggling was undercut by glances toward Han, who stood near the edge of the square, speaking to a neighbor.
One man—a traveling peddler with a pack full of copper trinkets—leaned in to whisper to another villager. "If he truly learned from such a book in only three days… imagine what one could gain in a week, a month."
Another voice joined in. "My cousin swears he saw a building on the mountain road two nights ago. Tall shelves, golden lanterns, paintings on the walls. And a man, dressed in scholar's robes, watching him."
Han caught pieces of these conversations without trying, each one making his chest tighten. He had no desire to become the center of such attention, yet the thought of the power in that book—and others like it—lit a small fire in his heart. If I could learn more… how far could I go?
As the sun began its slow descent, painting the western hills in amber, the talk had spread to every corner of the village. Some believed the library was a gift from the heavens, others that it was a test set by immortals. And there were those, quiet and calculating, who wondered if they could take what Han had found for themselves.
Far up the slope, Seojin began walking again, his steps unhurried, his figure soon swallowed by the shadows of the pines. The day's events were unfolding just as he had expected. The library would not appear here again—not for a long while. But its presence lingered, not in wood or paper, but in the hearts of those who had heard the tale.
And that, Seojin knew, was how the legend began.