Murim
The ruling body of the Jianghu—the vast martial world of cultivators—was known simply as Murim. For centuries, its iron grip stretched across every province, its word law, its authority unquestioned. At its pinnacle sat the Murim Lord, a ruler whose name echoed like thunder across the land. Beneath him, twelve Sub-Lords governed the provinces, while eleven Elders—representatives of the great sects—held ministries of war, commerce, and justice, chosen not by merit but by the might of their clans.
Murim painted itself as the light of justice, a shield for mortals and cultivators alike. Yet its righteousness was often little more than a carefully polished mask.
Beyond its grasp, unorthodox sects roamed free, branded "evil" for refusing Murim's rule. Independent scholars and wandering cultivators whispered another truth: there was no good, no evil—only a spectrum of grey. Both Murim and its enemies walked the same bloodstained path, cloaked in different banners.
And somewhere, beyond their petty battles, legends spoke of another force. A power older, deeper, and stronger than both factions—a hand pulling strings from the shadows.
But that… is a story for another time.
Twilight, Outskirts of Trinity City
RUSTLE… RUSTLE…
Six figures darted through a dense forest, their robes whispering against the wind, the damp earth soft beneath their boots. The crimson glow of the setting sun streaked through the canopy, painting their silhouettes in shades of blood and shadow. The symbol of Murim gleamed faintly on their backs, declaring them members of the ruling force of Jianghu.
They weren't ordinary soldiers. Each bore a sword marked with crimson knots tied near the hilt. These knots were not decoration but rank—signifying their place within Trinity City's Special Corps, an elite strike team tasked with rooting out the darkest crimes: smuggling, assassinations, massacres, and crimes so unspeakable they never reached public ears.
Tonight, though, they weren't supposed to be hunting criminals.
Just an hour ago, the squad had been preparing for a different kind of mission: toasting their commander's retirement. After years of service, their superior was stepping down, and the entire corps had been summoned for a rare celebration at a seculded farmhouse.
But before Captain Brian could leave his office, a sealed message arrived—a desperate note from his embedded spy in the X Cartel. The smuggling network, infamous for slipping through Murim's grasp, was moving a massive shipment of Demonic Dust tonight.
The intel was too late for proper reinforcements. If Brian reported it now, the shipment would vanish before backup could respond. And he knew that even if he reported it the corrupt officials would find ways to delay the subjugation as they always did from the past.
X cartel was strong but they were too arrogant as they had most of the officials inside their pockets. So this time Brian wanted to end this himself. The note described the martial realms of all the smugglers inside the carriage. Thought the amount of dest being smuggled was unknown, he knew it'd be big.
"Six of us is enough," he decided. "They're second-rate martial artists at best. Hired muscle. We have the element of surprise—and the Qi Suppression Net. This won't take long."
The Qi Suppression Net was their ace: a rare artifact that sealed the energy of any cultivator below the Peak Master Realm.
But as the night deepened and the air grew heavy, a sliver of unease gnawed at Brian's instincts.
Brian halted suddenly, his hand raised. The squad stopped as one, crouching low.
"We set the ambush here," he said quietly, voice calm but edged with steel. "No traces. Block the road."
Without hesitation, the team moved. Swords flashed in efficient arcs as they chopped down trees, dragging them across the dirt path. Soon, the route was sealed off by a wall of fallen trunks.
Darkness blanketed the forest. The men vanished into the underbrush, their breathing shallow, their killing intent masked. The forest fell silent.
"I see a torch, Captain," Heather whispered after what felt like hours.
Brian nodded. "Positions."
The flicker of torchlight danced in the distance. A carriage appeared, its lanterns swaying, horses snorting nervously as they approached the barricade. The driver tugged on the reins, slowing them to a stop.
"Charlie," Brian whispered.
Charlie stepped forward, flicking a pin from the small artifact in his hand. He hurled it behind the carriage. It struck the dirt with a soft thud—and erupted into a shimmering dome of blue light.
The Qi Suppression Net flared, locking down the carriage. The forest lit up briefly with the glow of sealing runes before plunging back into darkness.
"Now," Brian ordered.
The squad surged from the trees like shadows given form.
The carriage door slammed open—and four men leaped out, blades flashing. They weren't mortals; their movements were sharp, disciplined. Second-rate martial artists, hired muscle, their qi restrained by the net but their physical prowess still lethal.
The fight erupted in a storm of steel.
Brian's blade was a streak of lightening as he met the first attacker head-on. The man swung a curved saber in a brutal overhead strike, but Brian sidestepped smoothly, pivoting on his heel. His sword flashed once, clean and precise—shhk!—and the man crumpled, clutching a slashed tendon.
Heather, lithe and quick as a shadow, darted forward, dual daggers in hand. She spun low, sweeping an opponent's legs, and drove a blade into his ribs before he could recover.
Charlie was a wall of muscle, his broadsword cleaving through a spear mid-thrust. He slammed the flat of his blade into his opponent's jaw, sending the man crashing to the ground unconscious.
Alex fought with elegant precision, every strike aimed to disable, not kill. He parried a wild slash, pivoted, and rammed his pommel into the man's temple, dropping him instantly.
The carriage driver tried to flee, leaping off his seat—but a throwing knife whistled through the air, pinning his sleeve to a tree. One of the other squad members, Marcus, stalked forward and knocked him out cold with a single punch.
Within seconds, four second-rate fighters lay groaning in the dirt, their weapons scattered.
But the squad didn't let their guard down.
Another man leapt from the carriage—a brute built like a fortress. Even with his qi sealed, his strength was monstrous. He swung a heavy iron mace, smashing into the ground with bone-shaking force.
Brian met him head-on. Their blades clashed in a burst of sparks, the Captain's expression calm, precise. The brute roared, swinging wildly, but Brian ducked beneath the strike and stabbed upward, piercing his shoulder. With a swift twist, he forced the man to his knees and knocked him out with the pommel of his sword.
The final two guards dropped their weapons in surrender.
"Smart," Brian said coldly, leveling his blade. "Kneel."
With the guards subdued, the team ripped open the carriage.
Inside, mountains of small, sealed bags shimmered under the lantern light. Nine hundred bags of Demonic Dust. Each bag had a snake emblem engraved on the bag and each weighed ten kilograms. So nine tons of dest was being smuggled. This was too big. It was worth about 200 million gold or 20 million spirit stones. The richest merchant group "Kesha" that controlled most of the businesses had an annual turn over of 100 million spirit stones.
Brian's stomach tightened. A fortune. Enough to fund evil cultivators and destroy sects.
And there, in the corner, sat a jade-sealed chest, its lid engraved with the mark of a coiled serpent. It was an evil artifact which in no cost myst ever get in the hands of any cultivator.
"Snake Emblem, the Cartel." Brian muttered.
Brian's face hardened. "Bind them. Use the qi restraints."
The smugglers were shackled with qi-sealing cuffs, their resistance useless. Four of the smugglers were cultivator but one man who did not fight from the start appeared to be a mortal. The team moved quickly, escorting them under cover of darkness to a forgotten outpost far from the city center.
The "station" was a relic of another era—once a bustling checkpoint, now reduced to a dusty archive for old case files. Its cracked stone walls were dimly lit, its guards little more than clerks with swords, their days spent stamping documents rather than wielding blades.
Its isolation was perfect. Nestled deep in the outskirts, surrounded by wild woods and abandoned roads, few civilians even remembered it existed.
The prisoners were locked in cells that smelled of rust and mildew. The confiscated cargo was carried to a hidden sewer entrance behind the building, accessible only through a rusted grate known to a handful of trusted operatives.
The guards glanced up as the squad passed, curiosity flickering in their eyes, but they said nothing. To them, this was just another Special Corps operation. The squad had no idea what was about to come.
Twilight, City Entrance
The gates of the city stood tall like silent sentinels, looming over a line of travelers and merchants eager to pass through. Guard posts flanked the road, and soldiers in standard-issue armor stood at attention, their sharp eyes sweeping over the crowd like hawks. Every traveler was stopped, inspected, and filtered—belongings opened, travel plaques checked, and questions asked. Suspicious individuals were swiftly separated from the rest and lined up for deeper investigation.
Among the noise of jingling harnesses and murmured conversations, one man stood out.
He moved with an unsettling calmness, hands clasped behind his back as he walked forward. He wasn't heavily built, nor did he radiate obvious power, but there was something about him—an eerie weight to his presence that made those near him instinctively step aside. His eyes, sharp and emotionless, scanned the area, while his fingers clicked softly, one after another, as if cracking each joint was a ritual. Click… click… click…
A guard, uneasy from the sound, stepped in his path. "You there! Stop."
The man halted, raising an eyebrow lazily.
"Plaque," the guard ordered.
The man didn't answer. Instead, he slowly rolled up his right sleeve, revealing a strange tattoo etched into his arm—it covered his whole arm that seemed to pulse faintly, like dried blood on old parchment. The guard's grip on his sword tightened. Tattoos weren't uncommon, but this one… this one felt wrong.
"Your plaque," the guard repeated, voice firm now.
The man reached into his robe and produced a folded document. "This will do," he said, voice low and unhurried.
The guard unfolded it carefully. It was a release order from the Portland Prison—a notorious port city known for housing only the most dangerous criminals. His breath hitched. This man wasn't just some suspicious traveler; he was an ex-convict.
"Come with me," the guard said, masking his unease. He gestured for two more guards to flank the man.
They escorted him to the gate captain's booth, where the superior officer examined the document with a grim expression. Though his spiritual sense told him the man was only a First-Rate Martial Artist, something about him screamed danger. His instincts screamed louder than his training ever had.
"We'll need to run an investigation," the captain said finally, meeting the man's unreadable gaze.
"Fine," the man replied, his voice carrying a weight that sent a chill through the captain. "Just make it quick. I have someone to meet."
The captain didn't argue. He ordered the man restrained, and the prisoner obediently extended his wrists, letting them clasp iron cuffs over his hands without resistance. He climbed into the carriage they had prepared for such cases, his movements deliberate, smooth—too smooth for a man in chains.
"Bring him to the station," the captain ordered his men, glancing at the sky. He adjusted his cloak and muttered, "I'll be leaving right after. Don't take your eyes off him for even a second."
"You're still going to the Commander's retirement party?" one of the guards asked as they prepared the carriage.
"Of course," the captain said, forcing a smile. "A drink or two won't hurt before I come back to finish my shift."
The guard chuckled, unaware of the tension in his superior's voice.
The captain tightened his gauntlets and gestured to the carriage driver. "I'll take him myself. We'll take him to the station after having a few drinks."
The party was being held in a secluded farmhouse which was far from the city, chosen for its privacy. But even as the captain climbed onto the front bench of the carriage, his instincts kept whispering… This wasn't going to be an ordinary night.
The captain glanced at the man across from him, unease prickling the back of his neck. The rattling of the carriage chains and the creak of wheels over cobblestone were the only sounds between them. Finally, he broke the silence.
"What was your name again?" His tone was firm, but his curiosity slipped through, his eyes narrowing on the shackled figure.
The prisoner didn't answer right away. He sat still, gazing out of the barred carriage window, torchlight flickering across his sharp features. His wrists were bound, but he radiated an unsettling calm—as if the chains were no more than jewelry. The streets outside blurred past, yet his focus never wavered, his expression unreadable.
Then, slowly, he turned his head.
Their eyes met.
A faint, almost mocking smile curved his lips, and in a voice as smooth as steel sliding from a scabbard, he spoke:
"Fall." He paused just long enough for the word to hang heavy in the air. "Aiden Fall."