The taste of blood filled Baek Mu-Jin's mouth—metallic, warm, inevitable.
He'd tasted it countless times before. On battlefields stretching across the Northern Wastes. In midnight duels where honor mattered less than survival. In the mouths of men who'd begged for mercy he couldn't afford to give. But this blood was different. This blood was his own, pooling in his lungs with each labored breath, drowning him from the inside.
So this is how it ends.
The irony wasn't lost on him. Baek Mu-Jin, the Blood Demon of the North, the man who'd made the Nine Great Sects tremble with his name alone, dying not in glorious combat but on his knees in a circle of "righteous" swords.
Around him, the Azure Peak Summit gleamed under the afternoon sun, its ancient stones stained crimson—his crimson. The air smelled of scorched earth and ozone, residue from techniques that had torn through his defenses. Spring blossoms drifted past on the wind, delicate pink petals landing in pools of blood. Nature's cruel poetry.
"Any last words, Blood Demon?"
Mu-Jin raised his head slowly, each movement sending fresh agony through his shattered meridians. The speaker stood ten paces away, white robes immaculate despite the carnage, not a single dark hair out of place. Jang Moon-Hyeok. The Righteous Blade. The man Mu-Jin had once called brother.
Behind Moon-Hyeok, thirty-seven masters of the Righteous Alliance maintained their formation, swords pointed inward. Mu-Jin recognized each face. He'd fought beside some of them against the Demonic Cult's incursions. He'd shared wine with others during the brief peace. Three had sworn oaths of brotherhood in his presence.
None of them met his eyes now.
"Last words?" Mu-Jin's laugh came out as a wet cough. More blood. "What would be the point? You've already written the history, haven't you? The evil Blood Demon, corrupted by forbidden arts, put down by the righteous alliance. They'll sing songs about this."
"You chose your path." Moon-Hyeok's voice carried across the summit, pitched perfectly for the audience of sect leaders watching from a respectful distance. "When you embraced demonic cultivation, you forsook any claim to righteousness. The Murim cannot tolerate such corruption."
Corruption. The word tasted more bitter than blood.
Mu-Jin's gaze drifted past Moon-Hyeok to the observation pavilion where the sect leaders sat in judgment. There was Namgung Jae-Hwan of the Imperial Namgung Family, his jade robes catching the light. Elder Woo of the Celestial Sword Sect, the man who'd first taught Mu-Jin the basics of qi circulation thirty years ago. Poison King Dok Sa-Yeong, whose daughter Mu-Jin had saved from the Demonic Cult's ambush just three months prior.
They all averted their eyes.
"You know what's funny?" Mu-Jin said, his voice stronger now despite the pain. His dantian was shattered, his meridians torn beyond repair, but he'd be damned if he'd die whimpering. "I used to believe in all of it. The righteous path. The orthodox way. I thought if I was strong enough, skilled enough, honorable enough—I could change things. Make the Murim better."
"You became a monster," Moon-Hyeok said simply.
"No." Mu-Jin's eyes locked onto his former friend's face. "I became inconvenient. There's a difference."
For just a moment—less than a heartbeat—something flickered in Moon-Hyeok's expression. Guilt? Regret? It vanished too quickly to identify, replaced by righteous certainty.
"Farewell, Blood Demon." Moon-Hyeok raised his sword—the Heaven's Justice Blade, its edge gleaming with concentrated qi. "May your next life be free of demonic taint."
The blade descended.
Mu-Jin didn't close his eyes. If this was the end, he'd face it as he'd faced everything else—unflinching.
The sword pierced his chest, sliding between ribs to puncture his heart. Cold. He'd expected burning, but the qi-infused blade was ice. His vision blurred at the edges, darkness creeping in like ink spreading through water.
I failed.
The thought echoed in his fading consciousness. He'd failed to protect those who'd trusted him. Failed to stop the real threats lurking in the shadows while the "righteous" ones played their political games. Failed So Yeon-Hwa, who'd looked at him with such hope before the war came. Failed Jin Hak, loyal fool that he was, who'd died covering Mu-Jin's escape three years ago.
If I had another chance...
But there were no second chances. Not in the real world. Not for men like him.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
Cold.
That was Mu-Jin's first thought as consciousness returned. Not the creeping cold of death, but the sharp, biting cold of a winter morning in the outer disciple dormitories.
His second thought: I can breathe.
Mu-Jin's eyes snapped open. Rough wooden beams stretched above him, supporting a ceiling he hadn't seen in thirty years. Gray pre-dawn light filtered through a small window to his left, illuminating a cramped room barely large enough for the narrow bed he lay in and a small wooden chest at its foot.
He knew this room. He'd lived in it for three years during his time as an outer disciple of the Celestial Sword Sect.
Mu-Jin sat up slowly, and the motion sent him reeling. No pain. No shattered meridians. No gaping chest wound. His hands—when he raised them into the weak light—were smooth, unmarred by the scars he'd accumulated over three decades of brutal cultivation and combat.
They were the hands of a sixteen-year-old.
"What—" His voice cracked, higher-pitched than it should be. Than it had been. The voice of a boy, not a man who'd seen forty-six winters.
With trembling fingers, Mu-Jin threw off the thin blanket and examined his body. Lean muscle, yes, but nothing like the battle-hardened physique he'd built over years of demonic body cultivation. His chest was whole, unmarred. When he pressed his hand to his dantian, he felt it there—small, barely developed, but present. Intact.
His breath came faster. This wasn't possible. This couldn't be—
A memory surfaced: himself at sixteen, waking in this exact room on this exact morning. The day of the outer disciple evaluation. The day that would determine whether he'd be allowed to continue his training or be cast out of the sect entirely.
Mu-Jin's hand moved to his left shoulder without conscious thought, finding the spot where a scar should be. The scar from the wolf demon that had attacked him during a mission when he was seventeen. His fingers found only smooth skin.
This was real. Somehow, impossibly, he'd returned.
Thirty years. He'd gone back thirty years.
The implications crashed over him like a tidal wave. The war with the Demonic Cult hadn't started yet. Jin Hak was alive—alive and sleeping three rooms down, probably snoring like always. Yeon-Hwa hadn't witnessed the massacre at Crimson Dawn Valley. Elder Hong was still teaching advanced sword techniques to inner disciples.
Moon-Hyeok hadn't yet become the monster wearing a righteous mask.
Mu-Jin's hands clenched into fists, and he felt the sting of nails digging into palms. The pain grounded him, proved this wasn't a dying dream. He was here. He was alive. He had another chance.
A sound in the hallway—footsteps, heavy and approaching. Mu-Jin's instincts, honed by decades of survival, kicked in before he could think. He analyzed the gait: male, approximately eighty kilograms, favoring his left leg slightly. Guyang Cheol, the outer sect bully who'd made Mu-Jin's first year miserable.
The door slammed open without preamble. "Wake up, trash. Evaluation's in two hours, and Elder Pak wants the training grounds cleaned before—"
Guyang Cheol stopped mid-sentence, staring at Mu-Jin who sat calmly on the bed, meeting his gaze without a hint of the fear or resentment he was clearly expecting.
The bully was exactly as Mu-Jin remembered: thick-necked, pig-faced, with the distinctive red belt of a senior outer disciple. He'd been eighteen then—now—and had cultivated just enough strength to terrorize those weaker than himself while licking the boots of those stronger.
In Mu-Jin's first life, he'd cowered before this man. Had endured his beatings and insults because he'd lacked the strength and skill to fight back. In that original timeline, Guyang Cheol would beat him again today, cracking two ribs that would hamper his performance in the evaluation.
Things would be different this time.
"What are you staring at?" Guyang Cheol's face flushed with anger at Mu-Jin's unresponsive gaze. "I said get up and—"
"No."
The word fell between them like a stone into still water. Guyang Cheol blinked, clearly not certain he'd heard correctly.
"What did you just—"
"I said no." Mu-Jin stood slowly, his movements controlled despite the strange lightness of this younger body. "I won't be cleaning the training grounds today. Or any other day. You want them cleaned, do it yourself."
The room's temperature seemed to drop. Mu-Jin realized distantly that he'd unconsciously circulated qi—what little this undeveloped body could manage—in a way that projected killing intent. A technique he'd learned twenty years in the future from Jang Cheol-San in the Northern Wastes.
Guyang Cheol took an involuntary step backward before catching himself. His face went from red to purple.
"You dare—" He lunged forward, fist raised for the backhand that would have sent the original sixteen-year-old Mu-Jin sprawling.
Mu-Jin caught the wrist mid-swing.
It was almost absurdly easy, despite this body's limited strength. Guyang Cheol's technique was sloppy, his form predictable, his commitment to the strike complete. Mu-Jin had fought grandmasters whose single palm strikes contained enough force to shatter mountains. This was nothing.
He twisted, applied pressure to three specific points along Guyang Cheol's wrist and forearm, and the bully gasped as his entire arm went numb. Mu-Jin hadn't used cultivation to overpower him—just pure technique, pressure point manipulation that wouldn't register as anything other than lucky grip.
"Listen carefully," Mu-Jin said softly, pitching his voice so it wouldn't carry beyond the room. "You're going to turn around, walk out of here, and never bother me again. If you do, I'll break more than your arm. Understand?"
He released the wrist, and Guyang Cheol stumbled backward, cradling his arm against his chest. The bully's eyes were wide—not just with pain, but with genuine fear. He'd seen something in Mu-Jin's gaze that his sixteen-year-old self hadn't possessed.
The look of a man who'd killed.
Guyang Cheol fled without another word, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. Mu-Jin listened until they faded, then slowly released the breath he'd been holding.
His hands were shaking.
Not from fear or adrenaline, but from the weight of reality crashing down. This was real. He was really here, thirty years in the past, with all his memories intact. With knowledge of every betrayal, every disaster, every opportunity missed.
With the chance to change everything.
Mu-Jin moved to the small chest at the foot of his bed and opened it with hands that still trembled slightly. Inside, carefully wrapped in cloth, was the practice sword he'd been issued upon joining the outer sect. Basic iron, poorly balanced, with a grip wrapped in fraying cord. He'd thought it precious once, had practiced with it until his hands bled.
He drew it now, feeling its weight. So light compared to the weapons he'd wielded as the Blood Demon. So crude compared to the demonic blade he'd forged from fallen star iron and the bones of the Crimson Drake.
But it would do. For now.
Mu-Jin moved through the basic forms of the Celestial Sword Sect's foundation technique—the Morning Mist Sword. Movements he'd performed ten thousand times, muscle memory encoded so deeply that even this new-old body responded. Thrust, parry, sweep, rotate. Each motion flowing into the next like water.
But he adjusted the technique as he moved, incorporating efficiency principles he'd learned from decades of real combat. Shortened the recovery on the thrust by two inches—wasted motion. Angled the parry five degrees differently—better deflection against downward strikes. Shifted his weight distribution during the sweep—improved stability.
The enhanced forms felt natural, right, like his body was remembering a future it hadn't yet lived.
Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the morning cold. This undeveloped body tired so easily, its meridians barely opened, its dantian holding only a trickle of qi compared to what he was used to. Frustrating, yes, but also...
Mu-Jin completed the final movement and held the ending stance, sword extended, breathing controlled. Through the window, dawn light was breaking over Azure Peak, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson.
This body was a blank canvas. Uninjured by the shortcuts he'd taken in his first life, the demonic corruption that had ravaged his meridians, the emergency breakthrough that had cracked his dantian. He could rebuild himself properly this time. Better. Stronger.
And he would. But carefully. Drawing too much attention too early would be disastrous. In his first life, he'd been unremarkable until his twenties, rising to prominence only after the war began. If he suddenly displayed master-level skills, questions would be asked. Investigations would follow.
No. He'd need to be smart about this. Show improvement, yes, but gradual. Natural. Enough to avoid being dismissed from the sect, but not enough to attract the wrong kind of attention.
Not yet.
A bell rang in the distance—the first morning bell, calling disciples to breakfast before the evaluation. Mu-Jin carefully wrapped the practice sword and returned it to the chest. He had two hours before the evaluation that would determine his immediate future in the sect.
Two hours to plan how to navigate the minefield of his own past.
As he changed into his outer disciple robes—plain gray cotton with the sect's symbol embroidered on the left breast—Mu-Jin's mind raced. The evaluation would test basic forms, qi control, and sparring ability. In his first life, he'd placed in the lower third, just barely avoiding expulsion. His injured ribs from Guyang Cheol's beating had cost him points in the sparring matches.
This time would be different. He'd place solidly in the middle—respectable enough to continue, unremarkable enough to avoid scrutiny. He'd need to deliberately hold back, miss certain opportunities, even lose matches he could easily win.
It would go against every instinct honed by three decades of fighting for survival. But survival was exactly what this was. Just a different kind of battlefield.
Mu-Jin tied his belt and moved to the window, looking out over the outer sect compound. Other disciples were emerging from their dormitories, heading toward the dining hall. He recognized faces—so many faces he'd forgotten or thought he'd never see again.
There, near the well, was Dok Min-Soo, who would die in the first Demonic Cult raid in five years. And crossing the courtyard was Tang Wei, who'd become a renowned poison master before being assassinated by Moon-Hyeok's faction. Hong Sa-Ra, the girl who'd had a crush on him that he'd never noticed, who would die defending civilians during the war.
All of them alive. All of them unaware of the futures that awaited.
All of them savable, if Mu-Jin was clever enough.
The weight of it pressed down on his shoulders—not oppressive, but grounding. Purposeful. He'd died full of regrets, failed and broken. But the heavens, or fate, or whatever forces governed such things had given him something impossible.
A second chance.
Mu-Jin wouldn't waste it.
He turned from the window and moved toward the door, his mind already cataloging priorities. First, survive the evaluation without standing out. Second, carefully re-establish relationships with those who would become allies. Third, begin investigating the early movements of those who would eventually betray the Murim to Hyeol-Ma's corruption.
And fourth—most important—prevent the tragedies he'd witnessed. Save those who'd died. Stop the wars before they started. Expose the real threats before they could take root.
It wouldn't be easy. Changing the past never was. Every action would ripple outward in ways he couldn't fully predict. But he had one advantage no one else possessed: he knew how the story ended.
Now he just had to write a better one.
Mu-Jin opened the door and stepped into the hallway, where morning light streamed through eastern windows. Other disciples moved past, some giving him curious looks—news of his confrontation with Guyang Cheol would already be spreading—but he ignored them.
His attention was drawn by a figure at the far end of the hallway, silhouetted against the bright morning. Female, standing with the kind of unconscious grace that marked either noble birth or exceptional martial training. Silver-white hair caught the light like frost, and even at this distance, Mu-Jin could see those distinctive ice-blue eyes.
So Yeon-Hwa.
His breath caught in his throat. He'd seen her die. Watched the light fade from those eyes as she bled out in his arms, her last words a whisper he'd never quite heard over the sounds of battle. The pain of that memory was sharp enough to steal his breath even now, three decades later.
But she was alive. Seventeen years old, already an inner disciple despite her youth, destined for greatness. She'd come to the outer sect dormitories on some errand—in his first life, he'd been too insignificant for her to notice.
Their eyes met across the distance.
And something flickered in her expression—surprise, curiosity, a momentary furrowing of her brow. As if she sensed something different about him, something that didn't quite fit the profile of a forgettable outer disciple.
Mu-Jin forced himself to look away first, breaking the moment. Too much, too soon. She couldn't know. No one could know.
When he glanced back, she was gone, disappeared around a corner like morning mist.
His heart was pounding, and he realized his hands had clenched into fists again. He forced them to relax, to breathe, to center himself.
Control. I need control.
This was going to be harder than he thought. Seeing them all again—alive, unmarked by the horrors to come. Every instinct screamed at him to warn them, to tell them what was coming, to change everything immediately.
But he couldn't. Not yet. The wrong word to the wrong person could destroy everything. Could make things worse. He had to be patient. Strategic. Play the long game.
Even if patience had never been his strength.
Mu-Jin made his way through the awakening compound, passing familiar landmarks that brought memories flooding back. The ancient oak where he'd first successfully circulated qi through his meridians. The sparring ground where Jin Hak had bloodied his nose during their first bout. The meditation garden where he'd—
"Hey! You!"
The voice made Mu-Jin turn. A young man was jogging toward him—stocky build, honest face, slightly disheveled hair. Jin Hak. Still alive. Still whole.
"You're Baek Mu-Jin, right? Room seven?" Jin Hak fell into step beside him, slightly out of breath. "I heard about what happened with Guyang Cheol. That true? You really stood up to him?"
In his first life, Jin Hak had approached him after the evaluation, after Mu-Jin had been beaten and humiliated. Had offered friendship when no one else would. Mu-Jin had been too proud, too bitter to accept it then. It had taken months before they'd become close.
Not this time.
"He wanted me to clean the training grounds," Mu-Jin said simply. "I declined."
Jin Hak let out a low whistle. "You've got guts. That bastard's been terrorizing the outer sect for years. Someone needed to stand up to him." He stuck out his hand. "Jin Hak. Also room seven corridor, room three. We're practically neighbors."
Mu-Jin took the offered hand, feeling the calluses of another martial artist. Jin Hak's grip was firm, honest, without the political calculation that colored most interactions in the sect.
"Baek Mu-Jin."
"I know. Like I said, word's already spreading." Jin Hak grinned. "You're either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Evaluation's in less than two hours, and you've already made an enemy of the biggest bully in the outer sect."
"Maybe both," Mu-Jin allowed, surprising himself with a genuine smile. He'd forgotten what it felt like to talk to Jin Hak like this—before the cynicism and death and betrayal. When they were just two young men trying to make their way in the world.
"Well, incredibly brave or stupid, you'll need to eat something before the evaluation. I'm heading to the dining hall. Join me?"
Mu-Jin hesitated for only a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. Let's go."
As they walked together toward the dining hall, Jin Hak chattering about the evaluation and the other disciples, Mu-Jin felt something unexpected settle in his chest.
Hope.
He'd been given an impossible gift—a chance to fix his mistakes, to save those who'd died, to prevent the disasters he'd witnessed. The road ahead would be long and treacherous. There would be setbacks. Failures. Moments when everything seemed lost.
But for the first time since he'd awakened on Azure Peak with a sword through his heart, Baek Mu-Jin felt something other than bitter resignation.
He felt ready.
The Blood Demon of the North was dead. Long live Baek Mu-Jin—outer disciple of the Celestial Sword Sect, sixteen years old, with three decades of future knowledge and a burning determination to reshape destiny itself.
Let the game begin.