Chapter-2
Cheon-Hwa sat motionless on the rickety wooden floor, eyes wide as he stared down at his tiny, pudgy hands. He turned them slowly, inspecting every wrinkle-free inch, then reached up and pinched his own cheek with all the force his little fingers could muster.
"OW!"
His voice cracked as he winced.
"…Yup," he muttered flatly. "Definitely not a dream."
A deep, dramatic sigh escaped his lips as he let his head fall back against the dusty wall behind him. Inside, he was mentally sobbing, screaming into a pillow that didn't exist, wondering what karmic disaster he must've committed in a past life to end up like this—again.
The room smelled like childhood—damp wood, rice porridge gone cold, and just a hint of abandonment. Nostalgia crept in like a whisper, soft and bittersweet. Everything felt familiar, painfully so. And despite himself… he smiled.
Because somewhere out there…
His master was still alive.
"...Tch. No time to get sentimental," he muttered, quickly slapping his cheeks and shaking off the incoming emotions like a warrior shooing away mosquitoes. "Tears later. Muscles now."
He stood up on unsteady toddler legs and waddled over to the cracked mirror leaning against the wall. A tiny version of himself stared back—wide eyes, messy hair, and a slightly sassy expression. He studied his reflection, then slowly raised an eyebrow.
"…I am kinda cute."
A slow grin tugged at his lips.
'Maybe I could scam a few rich old ladies. Flash the puppy eyes. Cry a little. Rake in the gold...'
He nodded to himself solemnly.
"Money is important," he said aloud with conviction, as if delivering a life lesson to an invisible audience.
But that could wait.
For now, something else burned in his chest—something stronger than embarrassment, stronger than greed.
A goal.
A promise.
He looked up toward the ceiling, as if the heavens were listening.
'Master… In my first life, you found me when I had nothing. This time… I'll find you.'
His tiny fists clenched, fire lighting in his eyes as he puffed out his chest dramatically, standing at a mighty two-foot height.
"I will grow stronger than ever before—"
"Become the greatest warrior in the world quietly with no one noticing me—"
"And bring JUSTICE!! Quietly like a cat when no-one notices and live a slacker life after I am done doing those bothersome work!"
The floor creaked under his dramatic pose.
The window rattled from his tiny battle cry.
Then—his stomach growled.
"…Right after I eat some porridge," he muttered, waddling off with all the pride of a pint-sized hero on a budget.
As the wooden door creaked open, Cheon-Hwa stepped out into the narrow hallway, sunlight streaming in through the old, paper-covered windows. The scent of boiling herbs and faint traces of ash clung to the air—so familiar, it nearly brought tears to his eyes.
He smiled.
There, in the courtyard, children ran barefoot over the dusty ground, their laughter echoing like bells in the morning breeze. Wooden toys clattered. Tiny voices shouted joyfully. And among the sound and sunlight stood a woman—tall, sturdy, draped in worn linen, with hair the color of pale wheat tied back in a loose braid.
Rosie.
A foreigner from the distant Western Empire, dropped into Murim by fate or accident long before he could remember, but more of a mother to him than anyone had ever been. It was her—this strange, kind woman—who had found him as a baby, swaddled in silence on the orphanage doorstep, left behind by people he would never know.
She never asked where he came from. She just smiled... and brought him inside.
He blinked back the weight behind his eyes.
The warmth of the sun couldn't compete with the warmth he felt seeing her now. She was still the same—soft lines on her face, strong arms, that ever-present apron stained with flour and broth.
Cheon-Hwa ran up to her, tiny feet pattering against the floorboards, raising his arms. "Rosie! Can I have porridge?"
She turned at the sound of his voice, her faded blue eyes lighting up. A chuckle escaped her lips as she wiped her hands on the apron and ruffled his hair.
"You just woke up and already asking for food? Come, come. Let's see if I've got something left in the pot."
She led him into the kitchen, humming an old lullaby from her homeland, and the smell of barley and simple herbs filled the air.
It wasn't luxurious—not the kind of food served in noble sects or imperial mansions—but Cheon-Hwa cherished every bite, because he knew how hard Rosie and the other caretakers worked. How they scraped together whatever they could to feed every mouth under this creaky roof.
And as he sat at the little wooden table, watching her ladle steaming porridge into a chipped bowl, his heart felt full.
Full of quiet gratitude. Full of longing. Full of a memory he had somehow been gifted a second time.
I'm home again, he thought.
And he smiled.
After finishing the humble but warm bowl of porridge, Cheon-Hwa gave Rosie a wide, innocent smile—one only a four-year-old could get away with—and casually excused himself to "play outside."
The moment he stepped into the courtyard, his expression shifted. His eyes sharpened like a seasoned rogue on a mission.
Time for a little treasure hunting.
He slipped past the orphanage gates with practiced ease, climbing over the mossy back wall like he'd done it a thousand times before. His tiny legs carried him with surprising agility toward the wooded area behind the orphanage—a secluded grove where sunlight barely pierced through the thick canopy. The moment he reached the clearing, he paused, glancing over both shoulders.
"…No nosy kids. No suspicious caretakers. No wandering martial artists. Perfect."
He crouched down near a cluster of rocks, grinning like a bandit who'd just found a noble's purse.
There it was.
Nestled beneath layers of damp leaves and soft moss—the Red Sunroot, an elixir plant known to boost internal qi flow and rapidly fortify a young cultivator's meridians. A precious herb most sects would kill over… and here it was, growing wild behind a rundown orphanage.
In his past life, he'd stumbled upon it by accident at the age of thirteen, nearly screamed in joy, and then lost half the root because of an overeager squirrel.
But not this time.
This time, he was four. This time, he came prepared. And most importantly, this time—no damn squirrels.
He dug it out carefully with his small hands, eyes glowing with greed pride. "Hehe... who says toddlers can't cultivate?"
Without hesitation, he popped the root into his mouth. The taste was horrendous—like spicy mud mixed with copper—but he chewed through it like a war-hardened veteran and immediately sat cross-legged on the ground.
The moment it entered his system, he felt it.
BOOM.
A massive surge of qi burst through his meridians like a floodgate had snapped open. His eyes widened as energy coursed through every channel in his body, refining, stretching, and reinforcing his foundation.
This… this is better than I remembered!
He began circulating his qi, channeling the energy with practiced ease despite his tiny frame. For hours he sat in complete focus, letting the plant's medicinal essence blend perfectly with his inner core. By the time the sun began to sink behind the trees, casting golden light across the grove, Cheon-Hwa slowly opened his eyes—his entire body tingling.
"…Forty times stronger than before. Equivalent to seventy years of cultivation."
He let out a low whistle.
"Not bad for my first snack in this life."
Dusting off his clothes and stretching out his now-glowing limbs, he tiptoed back toward the orphanage, leapt over the wall once more, and slipped into his room just as the last light of sunset touched the windows.
He flopped into bed, grinning smugly.
Four years old and already built different. The martial world isn't ready for me.
As the day melted into dusk and the sky wore its velvet-blue evening robe, the world around the orphanage softened. Moonlight poured gently through the cracked windows like a lullaby woven from silver, wrapping the quiet home in a peaceful glow. Crickets chirped rhythmically in the grass, a natural symphony serenading the sleeping world. The trees rustled softly in the wind, as if whispering bedtime stories to the stars.
Inside, on a creaky old bed with a blanket two sizes too small, Cheon-Hwa snored like a warrior fallen after a thousand battles—drool dripping down his cheek, limbs sprawled out like a starfish mid-war. The dignity of a 90-year-old martial artist? Long gone. Replaced by the serenity of a child in dreamland, possibly dreaming about buns and sword fights.
Morning came far too quickly.
The rooster, clearly still holding a grudge from some ancient rivalry, screeched with the fury of a sect leader caught in traffic. Cheon-Hwa jolted upright, hair shooting in every direction, eyes bleary and soul half-dragged back from the afterlife.
He sniffed. Once. Then again.
"…Porridge?" he whispered, hopeful.
Driven by instinct, he zombie-shuffled to the dining room, ready for his usual bowl of flavorless warmth—and stopped dead in his tracks.
What in the Nine Heavens…?
The table was loaded.
Loaded.
Golden buns, glistening vegetables, thick creamy porridge topped with nuts and herbs. Pickled radishes that looked crunchy enough to awaken the dead. Stir-fried greens, freshly steamed dumplings—dumplings!—lined up like soldiers awaiting judgment.
Cheon-Hwa's jaw hit the floor before his feet did.
The other children were also frozen, as if afraid the food might vanish if they blinked too hard.
Slowly, all heads turned toward Rosie, who stood by the table with her usual gentle smile and hands on her hips. She looked every bit like a kitchen goddess descended from the heavens.
"We managed to sell a rare batch of herbs," she said warmly. "Got a nice price. Thought we'd treat you all today. And since you've been such good children lately…"
Cheon-Hwa felt something in his chest break. His soul, hardened by a lifetime of hardship, cracked like an overcooked dumpling.
Kindness… actual food… love?
Tears welled up in his eyes as he clasped his hands and looked to the heavens.
"Thank you, dear gods. This one will never take plain porridge for granted again," he whispered dramatically.
He sat down, grabbed a bun, and took a bite.
Instant tears. Holy, steaming tears of joy.
Around him, other children were already crying quietly as they ate, faces stuffed, eyes shining.
It was a buffet of emotion.
Rosie and the caretakers exchanged amused glances, covering their chuckles with their sleeves as they watched the emotional meltdown unfold.
And so, in a humble orphanage tucked into the corner of Murim, one tiny martial artist with the soul of a grizzled elder sat at a wooden table, crying into his food like he'd just been handed enlightenment—one bun at a time.
The Next Morning
After another glorious breakfast where Cheon-Hwa nearly cried into his porridge out of sheer gratitude (again), he wiped his mouth like a gentleman—which, in his case, meant using his sleeve—and bolted out of the orphanage like a man on a divine mission.
Which, to be fair, he kind of was.
"More herbs, more qi, more power," he muttered like a lunatic four-year-old entrepreneur. "And then… I'll sell the leftovers to some rich merchant and finally start my financial empire. Youngest cultivator billionaire incoming."
He scampered through the woods like a squirrel on caffeine, eyes sharper than most adults, and within an hour, he had doubled yesterday's harvest. If this kept up, he might as well start a side business in spiritual pharmacy.
Holding his bursting herb pouch like it was filled with gold, he strutted back toward the orphanage with the exaggerated confidence of a man who had already planned his retirement at the age of five.
But instead of going to his room to secretly cultivate like a normal overpowered child with a secret technique, he turned and made his way to the Great Library of the orphanage—a place where most children feared entering due to its towering shelves, dusty scrolls, and suspicious smell of aged tofu.
Cheon-Hwa pushed open the heavy doors dramatically, as if entering a sacred temple.
"Time to continue my research. Operation: Why the hell am I vomiting blood."
He went straight to the herbology shelves and, after scanning through three different scrolls with the speed of someone who'd done this in another life (which he had), he finally picked up The Flower God Technique: Side Effects Edition—a massive, intimidating book filled with ancient wisdom and bitter footnotes from past victims.
He sat cross-legged like a tiny monk, opened the book, and began reading.
One glance. Memorized.
Another. Engraved.
Page after page, his master's brutal education bore fruit—he absorbed information like a sponge on steroids. He didn't just read; he devoured knowledge. If reading had a martial realm, he was at Peak Heaven stage.
But then… he reached that section.
> Side Effects of Early Flower God Technique Practice:
– Vomiting bad blood (fun)
– Nausea (check)
– Fainting spells (frequent and unpredictable)
– Intense cravings for food—any food. Even the burnt rice crust no one eats.
– And lastly…
The technique may begin speaking to the user in the distant future. In their head. Whispering. Frequently. With opinions.
Cheon-Hwa blinked.
"…I'm sorry, what did I just read?"
He leaned closer, as if the text would somehow change.
It didn't.
"…WHY IS MY CULTIVATION METHOD VOICE-ACTIVATED?! Who decided it was a good idea to give a sword technique an inner monologue?!"
He flipped back to make sure it wasn't part of some Warning: Satire Edition joke.
Nope. It was official. Underlined. Annotated. And written in formal calligraphy.
He could already imagine it.
> 'Mmmm… your posture is crooked, disciple.'
'Oho? You call that a qi rotation? Disgraceful.'
'Eat more herbs. Or dumplings. Preferably dumplings.'
He clutched his head.
"I didn't reincarnate to be lectured by a sentient sword scroll!"
Still, he wasn't completely hopeless. After all, he was Cheon-Hwa. So he spent the next few hours flipping through dozens of other books, scanning diagrams, charts, and secret footnotes, memorizing them with machine-like precision.
He'd gone from zero to junior alchemist in one afternoon. Somewhere, his master was probably weeping tears of joy in another timeline.
By the time the sun was setting, the library was littered with open scrolls, empty tea cups, and one very smug four-year-old.
He leaned back, arms behind his head, and sighed dramatically.
"Well… I might have a sassy cultivation voice in my head eventually, but hey—at least I'll be strong, rich, and still have great hair."
And with that, he walked out of the library like a scholar-warrior in training, ready to take over the world—one sarcastic technique whisper at a time.