The qualifiers had ended in a storm of shouts and clashing steel. Jin Woo had passed through them like one walks through a tempest: without brilliance, without glory, but still standing. His victories had nothing impressive about them. They left only the taste of iron in his mouth and wounds across his body that he never took the time to treat.
That night, he had collapsed alone, far from the crowd, clutching his token in his hand as if it anchored him to reality. When his eyes opened the next morning, the sun was already blazing over a village that seemed alive with celebration.
The central arena hummed with excitement. These were no longer the simple eliminations: the true matches were about to begin. The stands were full, banners of the great sects rippled in the wind, and the names of the favorites traveled eagerly from mouth to mouth.
On the stage, a young swordsman cut through the air with such grace that the crowd shivered. Further away, a disciple with a cold gaze drew thunderous applause with the mere perfection of her movements. Each of them carried the admiration and hopes of those who surrounded them.
Jin Woo, by contrast, remained unnoticed. He walked the corridors of the arena like a shadow, his steps heavy, his breath uneven. His loosely tied bandages betrayed his weakness, yet no one cared to look.
Then came the announcement.
The name of his next opponent rang out, followed by a murmur of awe. It was the name of a prodigy, one whose reputation alone was enough to silence the crowd. When Jin Woo's name was called after, laughter rippled through the audience.
No one doubted the outcome.
Jin Woo did not move. His fingers closed tightly around the token in his pocket. Small, worthless in the eyes of others—but to him, it was proof he was still here.
Let them laugh. Let them cheer for others. He needed no audience.
He needed only one thing: to move forward.