Chapter-3
Footsteps echoed softly down the dusty road, the hem of a black cloak fluttering behind a small figure barely half the height of an average man. Beneath that cloak walked Cheon-Hwa, face unreadable, eyes focused, and arms straining ever so slightly as he dragged a bulging sack behind him. The weight didn't slow him down—it only made his approach more dramatic.
His destination? None other than the SERIO GUILD—the wealthiest foreign merchant guild in the southern provinces and the Murim plains. Renowned for its unmatched appraisal skills, ruthless bargaining, and the ability to turn weeds into luxury goods, it was the one place even nobles tread carefully in. And Cheon-Hwa, at the tender age of four, was heading there to do business.
With a dramatic push, the grand doors of the guild creaked open. Opulent pillars, velvet banners, and glittering chandeliers welcomed him. Cheon-Hwa walked in like he owned the place—or would, someday.
Behind the counter stood a merchant in fine robes, skimming through inventory logs. When he glanced up, he froze.
Magenta eyes. Silky black hair. A face so beautiful it was almost suspicious—like a cherub had dropped from the heavens carrying a contract and a threat.
The merchant blinked, then leaned over the counter. "Are you lost, little one?"
Cheon-Hwa lifted his chin and smiled with the slyness of a man who'd closed deals before this man grew his first beard. "No, I'm here to sell," he said calmly, then hoisted the sack onto the counter with a thud that echoed through the marble halls.
The merchant opened it—and immediately choked on his own breath.
"Elixir herbs…!?" he sputtered. "T-These are… these are rare, some even classified! Where did you get these?!"
Cheon-Hwa only blinked innocently. "The ground," he replied.
The man was already sweating. Still, never one to back down from a deal, he cleared his throat. "Alright, alright... I'll offer you five gold coins."
"Thirty," Cheon-Hwa replied smoothly.
"Ten."
"Sixty Final."
The merchant laughed nervously. "You're quite the negotiator for a little—"
"I know you have buyers willing to pay sixty," Cheon-Hwa said, deadpan. "Let's not waste each other's time."
The merchant's lips twitched. The kid was too smart. Suspiciously smart. But before he could protest further, a guild elder who had overheard the exchange stomped over.
"I'll buy it. Sixty gold, a premium herb pouch, and first rights if he ever comes back," the elder declared, glaring at the merchant. "You were trying to scam a child, weren't you?"
Cheon-Hwa turned and bowed politely, hiding his smug grin. The pouch of gold jingled satisfyingly as it landed in his hands.
As he walked out of the guild, cloak billowing behind him, several merchants watched in silence, unsure whether they had just met a prodigy… or a tiny demon dressed for business.
Inside, the merchant slumped over the counter, muttering to himself, "I got robbed by a preschooler…"
Cheon-Hwa, meanwhile, counted his coins with sparkling eyes.
'Master always said: "Strike fast, smile sweetly, and always ask for double."'.
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Rosie and the caretakers stood frozen in place, their eyes fixed on the bulging sack of gold Cheon-Hwa had plopped onto the dining table with the nonchalance of someone bringing home wildflowers. Rosie's blue eyes slowly met the magenta gaze of the small boy standing proudly before them—his eyes wide and sparkly, his smile angelic... maybe a little too angelic. If innocence had a face, it would probably look a lot like Cheon-Hwa. If mischief had a face, it would probably look exactly the same.
"…Where did you get all this, dear?" Rosie asked, blinking in disbelief, half-expecting him to say he found it under a rock.
"I worked hard," he replied, his voice sweet, calm, and suspiciously rehearsed. And though the words technically made sense, Rosie narrowed her eyes with the quiet suspicion only a long-time caretaker could possess. But she sighed, deciding not to push further—not yet. After all, who was she to argue with a miracle... even if that miracle came with a side of cheekiness?
Days turned into weeks, and Cheon-Hwa continued to stroll in now and then with more sacks—some filled with gold coins, others with herbs or precious odds and ends. At this rate, one of the caretakers joked that he might be secretly robbing corrupt nobles in the dead of night. Rosie, while amused, didn't entirely dismiss the theory.
But none of them complained. With every coin Cheon-Hwa brought in, the orphanage slowly transformed. New beds replaced the old creaky ones. The leaky roof was fixed, the walls repainted, warm clothes purchased for every child, and the kitchen now had actual spices. The orphanage was no longer a place of mere survival—it was becoming a home.
And as Cheon-Hwa stood outside the building one quiet evening, watching the sunset cast a soft orange glow over the now-renovated orphanage, he felt a strange warmth fill his chest. In his previous life, this place had been reduced to ash, consumed by fire when unpaid debts caught up to them. The children had been scattered, the caretakers broken. But not this time.
This time, he had changed fate.
A small, satisfied smile tugged at his lips. "You're welcome," he whispered to no one in particular.
But his journey wasn't over. Not yet.
Cheon-Hwa had a plan—a very ambitious one. He needed more gold. Enough to travel to the distant city of Xi'an, where his master still lived. In his past life, it was his master who had found and raised him into a swordsman. But this time, Cheon-Hwa would be the one to find him. No more waiting around for destiny to knock.
That night, as the moon bathed his face through the open window, Cheon-Hwa lay in bed with a small grin on his face. His hands behind his head, legs swinging slightly off the edge of the too-short bed, he whispered to himself:
"Wait for me, Master. This time, I'll knock on your door."
And then, just before drifting off to sleep, he added with a yawn, "...Right after I sell a few more herbs and maybe convince Rosie to let me buy a horse. A tiny one. For dramatic effect."
He snored five minutes later, blanket kicked to the floor, still smiling.
The morning sun hung lazily in the sky as Cheon-Hwa, with his little black cloak fluttering behind him, knelt in a patch of wild herbs deep within the forest. A sharp tool twirled in his hand like a professional gardener—if that gardener just so happened to also be a reincarnated martial monster in the body of a four-year-old. He was in deep thought, his face contemplative and philosophical, though, in reality, he was mentally debating if roasted duck or steamed buns would earn him more goodwill with Rosie tonight.
Lost in this life-or-death food dilemma, he failed to notice the shadow falling over him—until his small body collided with something… large. And wet. And warm.(😏😏😏😏)
"Umpf—"
He staggered back, his tiny hands clutching the sack of herbs as he looked up—and instantly regretted it.
Before him stood a group of towering, sweaty bandits. Emphasis on sweaty. One of them scratched his hairy chest while the other cracked his neck and grinned with three teeth too many.
"Well, well... what do we have here?" one sneered, his breath audibly smelling bad. "A little lost lamb?"
Cheon-Hwa blinked once. Twice. His magenta eyes scanned their ragged outfits, their weapons, the stench of cheap liquor and bad decisions. Bandits, he thought grimly. And not even the competent kind.
The biggest one—bulky, greasy, and built like a failed barrel—reached out and yanked Cheon-Hwa by the arm.
"Such a pretty little thing… Bet we could sell him for a good price—"
Snap.
That was the sound of Cheon-Hwa's last nerve breaking.
A moment later, the air around him shifted.
"Oh no," Cheon-Hwa said sweetly, a smile creeping up his face. "You've chosen the dumbest possible way to die."
Before the man could blink, a devastating internal qi shockwave exploded from the little boy's palm, slamming into the bandit's gut like a war hammer. The man folded like laundry and flew backward—smacking into a tree with the grace of a dead goose.
The others lunged at him, weapons raised and mouths screaming.
Cheon-Hwa ducked the first slash, kicked one in the shin (hard enough to make a grown man cry), flipped midair using wind-assisted qi, and elbowed another straight in the temple. That one dropped instantly, twitching on the ground like a fish out of water.
"Seriously," Cheon-Hwa muttered as he side-stepped a punch and headbutted the attacker right in the jaw, "you smell like unwashed despair and boiled onions."
One tried to run. Mistake. Cheon-Hwa picked up a rock, imbued it with qi, and casually yeeted it. The rock hit the man's spine with the precision of divine punishment. Down he went.
Panting slightly, Cheon-Hwa straightened his cloak like nothing happened. Then—
"Cough!" He staggered. Blood trickled from the corner of his lips.
"Damn it," he muttered, wiping it off. "I knew using that much qi would backfire. Ugh. Flower God Technique: great for body counts, terrible for internal bleeding."
With a sigh of exaggerated suffering, he knelt beside the unconscious bodies and rummaged through their satchels.
"Oh ho?" he whispered, eyes glittering. "Gold… rubies… emerald hairpins? Were you bandits or failed nobles?"
He found enough jewelry to sponsor ten orphanages and a signed letter from some noble promising a payment. Cheon-Hwa clicked his tongue.
"Tax collection service? Don't mind if I do."
Piling the loot into his sack with a happy hum, he slung it over his shoulder and turned on his heel, walking back to the orphanage like a child returning from picking apples.
"Note to self," he muttered with a smug smile. "Always rob bandits. They're just mobile treasure chests with bad hygiene."
And thus, humming an off-key lullaby about money and revenge, Cheon-Hwa made his merry way home—leaving behind a pile of groaning bandits and the faint smell of justice.
By the time Cheon-Hwa returned to the orphanage, the stars had already scattered across the velvet sky, and the gentle hum of nighttime crickets filled the air. A faint smear of dried blood still clung to the corner of his lips, but he didn't seem particularly bothered—he'd had worse. Much worse.
Quiet as a whisper, he slipped through the front door, his small feet padding over the creaky floorboards. The house was dark, peaceful, and warm—exactly as it should be. Before heading to bed, he made a slight detour to the kitchen, guided by memory and the promise of leftovers. With the skill of a seasoned midnight snacker, he found a plate of cold chicken, blinked once in appreciation, and began munching without ceremony.
"Still good," he muttered calmly, savoring the taste like a gourmet critic… who had just knocked out a group of sweaty bandits earlier that day.
After finishing, he wiped his hands, tiptoed to his room, and quietly closed the door. There, in the flickering light of a single lantern, he opened the old chest tucked neatly beneath his bed and dropped the cloth sack inside. A cascade of gold coins, jewels, and trinkets tumbled out with a metallic clatter, the kind that would make even the greediest merchant faint on the spot.
He sat cross-legged before the glittering pile, slowly counting it all with the calm precision of a veteran banker. When he finished, he gave a small, satisfied nod.
"Hm. More than enough for the trip... maybe even enough to buy the gate to Xi'an itself," he whispered, lips curling into a tiny, composed smile—the kind of smile that said, I just robbed a bunch of criminals and now I'm funding my destiny.
With everything in place, he calmly folded the travel cloak, packed a few necessities (mostly buns), and laid down, arms behind his head.
Tomorrow… was the day. The day he would set out to find his master, not as a stray orphan, but as a determined disciple reborn.
And with that quiet, ambitious thought, Cheon-Hwa closed his eyes and drifted into peaceful sleep—his face bathed in silver moonlight and his dreams filled with swordplay, chicken, and the road to greatness.