Darkness receded like a tide, and silence gave way to the faint rustle of curtains in the breeze.
Do Gyeom—no, Kane—lay still, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Sweat dampened his temples, clinging to his hair as if he had fought another war inside his mind. A war, in truth, was exactly what it was.
When the arrow of poison had stolen his breath on the battlefield of Murim, he thought his journey had ended. Yet here he was, alive in a body that was not his own, surrounded by walls too fine and a bed too soft for any wandering martial master. The ceiling glimmered faintly with gold paint, unfamiliar patterns carved into its beams. The air smelled of scented oils, not blood or dust.
And inside his skull, memories not his own stirred.
A sharp, searing pain split his mind in two. He clenched his teeth, but his jaw barely moved. His body betrayed him even in pain, stiff and unyielding.
Images poured into him. A noble house marked with a silver hawk upon a black banner. A vast estate with white marble pillars. Servants bowing as a frail boy was carried past them. Brothers with sharp eyes and cruel whispers. Parents watching with faces torn between love and disappointment.
Kane von Havel. That was the name of this body.
Do Gyeom gasped for air as his vision swam. The headache pulsed until he thought his skull would crack. He saw Kane's memories like broken glass, cutting into him, forcing him to wear the boy's life like an old robe.
The pain eased, leaving him hollow. His breathing steadied. Slowly, his warrior's mind put the fragments in order.
The House of Havel. One of the Five Strongest Families of this empire. Their rank was that of Count, rulers of a vast swath of fertile plains, their armies trained and disciplined, their influence reaching the imperial court. The Havel crest, a silver hawk in flight, was feared on the battlefield and respected in politics.
Do Gyeom sifted through more. He saw the other four families, Kane's memories whispering their names:
Duke Reinhardt Veynar – his cold authority unmatched, commander of the northern legions that guarded the empire's borders. His word was law in the north, and no general dared defy him.
Marquis Roland Everhart – refined, elegant, and the closest confidant of the imperial throne. He was the strategist who balanced wars and politics alike, his family trusted above all others in the palace.
Viscount Lucien Dargan – smooth-tongued, cunning, a master of schemes. His wealth grew not from honor on the battlefield but from webs of trade, secrets, and manipulation.
Baron Cedric Marlowe – sharp and ambitious, his family clawed higher with each alliance. Small in rank compared to the others, but feared for his hunger and willingness to take risks.
Together with House Havel, these five ruled as pillars of the empire, their power unchecked.
And now, Do Gyeom was bound to one of them.
He turned his thoughts to the family he had inherited. Count Albrecht von Havel, Kane's father, loomed in the boy's memory like an iron wall. Stern and commanding, his very presence pressed upon men like a battlefield general. He had earned his title not through politics, but through blood and war.
Beside him, Lady Seraphina von Havel, Kane's mother. Noble and proud, her will no less steel than her husband's. She ruled the household with poise, though her heart was said to ache for her eldest son's condition.
Then came Kane's brothers.
Victor von Havel, the second son, sharp-minded, ambitious, already training in both politics and sword. He saw Kane not as a brother, but as an obstacle too weak to hold the title of heir.
Edric von Havel, the third son, brash and hot-tempered. He chased battles, eager to prove himself, his disdain for Kane often shouted in the open.
Leon von Havel, the youngest, quiet and overlooked, though his eyes watched everything. A gentle exterior, but sharp wit beneath.
Kane, at twenty years of age, was the eldest, and by blood the heir. But he was heir in name only. His body, paralyzed could not wield a blade, nor command an army, nor even stand without aid. He lived bedridden, pitied by servants, mocked by brothers, yet still chained to the title by noble custom.
Do Gyeom clenched his weak fists in frustration, though they barely twitched. To live in such weakness was worse than death. A man who once stood at the peak of martial arts, reduced to a prisoner inside another man's skin.
Yet, within that fury, something stirred.
He remembered a night long ago. He and an old comrade sat upon a ridge after battle, the moon dim, their swords thrust into the soil beside them.
That friend had laughed and asked, "Do Gyeom, are you afraid of death?"
He had answered without hesitation. "Why should I be? Death comes when it comes. Fear changes nothing."
The friend had leaned back, smiling faintly. "And what about reincarnation? Do you believe in it?"
Do Gyeom had snorted then. "If it were real, I'd try it myself. But who would want such a thing? One life of battle is enough."
The friend's smile had deepened. "Then if you were reborn… would you live in peace, or continue your path?"
Do Gyeom never answered that night. He thought it foolish. Yet here he was, with the question burned into his bones.
Peace? No. His spirit rejected it outright.
This world was not Murim. He could feel it in Kane's memories—the monsters beyond forests, races beyond human, magic that shaped elements, knights whose blades burned with mana. It was a world vast and dangerous.
And in this world, warriors gathered power differently. They forged a core in their hearts, pumping mana through their veins, weaving it into sword and spell alike. To them, it was the highest form of cultivation.
But to Do Gyeom, who had mastered the qi of Murim, it seemed clumsy. Their breathing was shallow, their refinement impure. They forced mana through the heart, a fragile organ, where Murim masters tempered qi in the dantian, the stomach, forming a foundation as solid as stone. Murim's qi was pure, sharp, unyielding. This world's mana was wide, adaptable, but blunt.
Do Gyeom's lips curled faintly. "If I can merge both… qi and mana… then no one in this world can stand against me."
His chest stirred with excitement, the kind he had not felt since reaching the peak of martial arts. For years in Murim, he had grown bored, waiting for an opponent worthy of his blade. Now, reborn in this world of mana and monsters, his path opened anew.
"I was Do Gyeom, master of the Central Plains," he thought, eyes burning with pride. "Now I am Kane von Havel, heir to one of the Five Families. I will not live crawling in pity. I will rise again, stronger than before. This world will learn what it means to face me."
The door opened softly. Hugh, the loyal servant, entered carrying a tray of medicine. His young face was tense, his steps hurried. Behind him came Otto, the butler, his back straight, eyes sharp as ever.
"Young master," Hugh whispered, relief flooding his voice, "you are awake."
Otto bowed low, his tone steady. "The Count and Lady Seraphina will be informed at once. The heir of Havel has returned from the brink."
They saw only a weak, paralyzed noble boy lying in bed.
But behind Kane's eyes burned the unyielding spirit of Do Gyeom, the wandering martial master who had once defied the whole Murim Alliance.
And in this new world, he would carve a path far greater.