The sky was a torn canvas of black clouds and flashing thunder.
Rain lashed against the jungle, hammering down on blood-soaked earth.
A lone man stood amidst the corpses. His white hair clung wet to his pale, battered face, and a deep scar stretched from his left eye down to his cheek. Blood seeped from a cut at his neck, trickling down to mix with the rain. His chest heaved, every breath shallow, every step a protest from his broken body.
At his feet lay dozens of men—warriors who had sworn to kill or die.
Among them was a towering figure, six and a half feet tall, black-haired, face drenched in blood. Even on the brink of death, that giant smiled.
The white-haired man looked down at him, eyes empty. Without hesitation, he bent low, slit the man's throat, and staggered forward, dragging one crippled leg through the mud.
A dagger still jutted from his thigh. His ribs bled freely, the rain unable to wash the wound clean. He pulled the blade out with a grunt, took one swig from a potion flask, and kept moving.
But there was nowhere to go. His body was finished.
He collapsed onto the cold earth, staring up into the storm. Raindrops splattered his face, but he did not blink. His thoughts drifted, heavy with regret.
I became the very thing I hated most… A pawn in war.
Once, he had sworn never to bend to any sect. Yet here he was, used and discarded like a blade dulled by endless battles.
A hollow smile tugged at his lips.
If I were born in another world… one with magic, maybe things would've been different.
His eyes closed.
And then—light.
A circle of glowing runes burned beneath him, humming with ancient power. The battlefield vanished. His broken body was swallowed by a void of silence, weightless and cold.
Time lost meaning. He floated endlessly, until—
A pull.
A whisper.
A sensation of solid ground.
He opened his eyes.
A white chandelier blazed above him. Marble pillars stretched skyward, polished floors reflecting his dazed face. He lay in a vast training hall, surrounded by banners marked with intricate crests.
This was no battlefield. No Murim.
---
The scene had already been set before his arrival.
Sarah Winchester stood at the center of the chamber, sweat beading her brow from training drills. Her violet hair clung to her skin, tied back in a warrior's knot. In her hand was a wooden sword, discarded the moment her younger sister rushed in holding a folded towel.
The girl stumbled, her foot catching on the polished floor. The towel flew—and with it, something slipped from her pocket.
A pendant.
Cracked already from years of wear, the locket shattered completely as it struck the marble.
The ticking sound didn't fade.
It multiplied.
Dozens of echoing chimes filled the air as if invisible gears were grinding against time itself. The broken pendant bled light, each shard hovering midair like fragments of glass reflecting an unseen sun.
Then, beneath Sarah's feet, runes in the shape of Roman numerals flared into existence, burning themselves into the floor as though the stone had always been waiting.
Her little sister clung to her side, wide-eyed, as the light twisted into a vortex.
And then—
A man appeared.
Not crawling out, not stumbling through, but falling onto the floor as though spat out by the artifact itself. His chest heaved once, then stilled.
For a full minute, the girls only stared.
Then his eyes opened. Sharp. Cold. Piercing.
The glow faded.
The man collapsed onto the rune-etched floor—
bare.
Sarah's eyes widened; she gasped and spun half-away, cheeks burning red. Her little sister squeaked and buried her face into Sarah's arm.
For a heartbeat, the room was heavy with silence, broken only by the stranger's ragged breaths. Then Sarah snatched the towel from the floor and hurled it toward him.
"C-Cover yourself!" she blurted, trying to sound firm but failing to hide her flustered tone.
The man—boy, perhaps, for his body looked younger than the spirit blazing in his eyes—caught the towel after a moment's pause. He wrapped it around himself with calm efficiency, his gaze never wavering from Sarah.
That gaze was sharp, almost dangerous, and the younger girl whimpered again. But Sarah forced herself to meet it.
"H-Hello. I am Sarah Winchester." She extended her hand, violet eyes searching his face.
He blinked at her gesture, his thoughts scattered between worlds. Murim… earth…? No.
The name that felt safest in this foreign place was the one he hadn't spoken in years.
"…Sai."
He clasped her hand, his grip steady though his heart raced.
"Where am I?" he asked, gaze flicking from the glowing runes to the unfamiliar white walls.
Sarah swallowed hard.
"This… is the Winchester family training ground. You are standing in the heart of one of the great families of the kingdom."
And for the first time in his two lives, Sai felt it—
The air hummed with mana. Not qi.
A new beginning.
---