The outer sect dining hall smelled exactly as Mu-Jin remembered—steamed rice, pickled vegetables, and the faint underlying scent of cheap incense meant to mask the odor of two hundred unwashed disciples crammed into close quarters. Long wooden tables stretched in neat rows, already filling with gray-robed figures clutching their breakfast bowls.
Mu-Jin followed Jin Hak through the entrance, and the ambient noise hit him like a wave—conversations overlapping, laughter, arguments about cultivation techniques, boasts about upcoming evaluation performances. The cacophony of youth and ambition.
It was so achingly familiar that something in his chest tightened.
"Over here!" Jin Hak steered them toward the serving line, where several large women ladled portions from enormous iron pots. "The trick is to get here early. Sister Bong gives bigger portions if you catch her in a good mood."
The woman in question—Sister Bong, one of the sect's kitchen staff—was exactly as Mu-Jin remembered her. Round-faced, perpetually scowling, with arms thick as tree trunks from decades of cooking for hundreds. She'd died during the Demonic Cult's first major assault, caught when they'd poisoned the sect's food supplies.
Another face he could save. Another death he could prevent.
"Next!" Sister Bong's voice cut through his thoughts. She thrust a bowl of rice at Jin Hak without ceremony, then turned to Mu-Jin. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You're the one who stood up to that Guyang brat."
It wasn't a question. Mu-Jin accepted the bowl she offered, noting that it was noticeably fuller than Jin Hak's. "Yes, Auntie."
"Good." She ladled an extra scoop of vegetables onto his rice. "About time someone put that disrespectful pig in his place. His mother would be ashamed of what he's become."
Mu-Jin bowed slightly in thanks, and they moved away before Sister Bong could draw more attention to them. Jin Hak let out a low whistle once they were out of earshot.
"See? Told you. Sister Bong loves people who stand up to bullies." He found an empty spot near the back of the hall and settled onto the bench. "Though between you and me, I think she's just happy someone finally checked Guyang Cheol. He's been stealing extra portions for months."
They ate in companionable silence for a few moments, Mu-Jin savoring the simple meal with an appreciation his sixteen-year-old self never would have had. After years of cultivating demonic arts that required consuming spiritual beast flesh and rare herbs, this plain rice and vegetables tasted like a gift.
"So," Jin Hak said between mouthfuls, "nervous about the evaluation?"
"Should I be?"
"Most people are. Elder Pak isn't known for his gentle assessments." Jin Hak grimaced. "Last year, he failed forty percent of the outer disciples. Sent them packing without ceremony. My older brother barely passed, and he'd been training since he could walk."
Mu-Jin nodded, remembering. Elder Pak—the Strict Stone, they'd called him—ran the outer sect with an iron fist. Harsh but fair, he'd set standards that seemed impossible but forced disciples to exceed their perceived limits. In Mu-Jin's first life, he'd resented the old man's methods.
Now, with three decades of hindsight, he understood. Elder Pak had been preparing them for a world that showed no mercy. Every harsh critique, every impossible standard, had been armor against the brutal reality of the Murim.
"Your brother," Mu-Jin said carefully. "Jin Tae-Sung, right? He's an inner disciple now?"
Jin Hak brightened. "You know him? Yeah, he passed the inner sect trials two years ago. He's training under Elder Mok now, learning the Adamant Shield technique." Pride and a touch of envy colored his voice. "Our family's not wealthy or influential, so Tae-Sung had to claw his way up through pure skill. I'm hoping to follow in his footsteps."
In the original timeline, Jin Hak would succeed—but at terrible cost. He'd reach the inner sect, then the core disciples, eventually becoming one of the sect's strongest defenders. And he'd die holding the line during the war, buying time for civilians to evacuate while Mu-Jin fought elsewhere.
Not this time, Mu-Jin thought, meeting Jin Hak's earnest gaze. This time you survive. This time everyone I can save, I will.
"You'll make it," Mu-Jin said with certainty.
"Yeah?" Jin Hak grinned. "That confident in me already? We just met."
"Call it intuition."
Their conversation was interrupted by a commotion near the entrance. Disciples were turning to look, whispers spreading like ripples across water. Mu-Jin followed their gazes and felt his breath catch.
So Yeon-Hwa had entered the dining hall.
Even among the sea of gray outer disciple robes, she stood out like a jewel in sand. Her white inner disciple robes seemed to glow in the morning light streaming through the high windows, and her silver hair was bound in a simple style that somehow made her look more elegant than any elaborate arrangement could have. She moved with unconscious grace, seemingly unaware of or uncaring about the stares following her.
"Frost Lotus," Jin Hak breathed reverently. "I've seen her before, but never this close. They say she's only seventeen and already mastered the first three forms of the Celestial Ice Art. There are core disciples who can't claim that."
Mu-Jin said nothing, watching as Yeon-Hwa collected her meal and surveyed the dining hall. Her ice-blue eyes swept across the crowd, pausing here and there, assessing. Looking for someone? Or just observing?
Their eyes met again—the second time that morning.
This time, Mu-Jin didn't look away immediately. For a heartbeat, they simply regarded each other across the crowded hall. He saw her brow furrow slightly, that same flicker of curiosity and confusion crossing her delicate features.
She knew him. Or rather, she knew she should know him, even though they'd never properly met. Some instinct was telling her that this unremarkable outer disciple she'd glimpsed twice in one morning was... different.
Mu-Jin inclined his head slightly—a gesture of respect, nothing more—and turned back to his meal. When he glanced up again, Yeon-Hwa had moved to sit with other inner disciples at the far side of the hall.
"Did the Frost Lotus just look at you?" Jin Hak's voice was incredulous. "She looked right at you. Twice. I saw it."
"Coincidence."
"That wasn't coincidence. That was—" Jin Hak leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Brother Mu-Jin, what's going on? First you face down Guyang Cheol, now the most talented inner disciple in a generation is staring at you. Did you hit your head or something? Wake up different?"
The question was meant as a joke, but it struck closer to truth than Jin Hak could possibly know. Mu-Jin managed a slight smile. "Maybe I just decided to stop being afraid."
"Well, whatever it is, it's working." Jin Hak clapped him on the shoulder. "At this rate, you'll be a legend by lunchtime."
Or a target, Mu-Jin thought. Need to be careful. Too much attention, too fast.
He finished his meal methodically, using the time to observe the other disciples. There—three tables over—was Dok Min-Soo, laughing at someone's joke, unaware he had less than five years to live. And near the entrance, Tang Wei was arguing with another disciple about proper meridian circulation techniques.
So many lives. So many futures he knew in painful detail.
The weight of that knowledge pressed down on Mu-Jin's shoulders. In his first life, he'd been ignorant of what was coming, stumbling forward one day at a time. Now he carried the burden of foresight—knowing who would die, who would betray, which disasters loomed on the horizon.
How did one save everyone? Where did you even start?
One step at a time, he told himself. Can't save anyone if I'm discovered as a regressor or cast out of the sect. Priority one: secure my position. Everything else follows.
"Come on," Jin Hak said, standing and stretching. "We should head to the training grounds early. Find good spots for the evaluation."
Mu-Jin nodded and followed him out of the dining hall, leaving his empty bowl at the collection station. Sister Bong caught his eye as they passed and gave him an approving nod. Small victories.
The outer sect training grounds occupied a large courtyard on the eastern side of Azure Peak, surrounded by practice halls and equipment storage buildings. By the time Mu-Jin and Jin Hak arrived, nearly a hundred disciples had already gathered, clustered in nervous groups.
The grounds themselves were nothing special—packed earth worn smooth by thousands of footsteps, marked with painted circles for sparring matches, bordered by racks of practice weapons. But to Mu-Jin, returning after three decades, the sight carried unexpected emotional weight.
He'd spent countless hours here. Practiced until his hands bled and his legs gave out. This was where he'd first successfully executed the Morning Mist Sword's fifth form. Where he'd been humiliated by stronger disciples and learned to turn humiliation into motivation.
"There's Elder Pak," Jin Hak said, nodding toward the raised platform at the northern end of the grounds.
Elder Pak stood with his arms crossed, weathered face impassive as he surveyed the gathering disciples. He was shorter than Mu-Jin remembered—or perhaps Mu-Jin had simply grown taller in his first life—but no less imposing. His gray beard was neatly trimmed, his outer elder robes pristine despite their obvious age. Everything about him communicated discipline and uncompromising standards.
Beside Elder Pak stood two assistant instructors Mu-Jin recognized: Instructor Hwang, a severe woman who specialized in qi control assessment, and Instructor Lee, a jovial-looking man whose pleasant demeanor disguised a ruthless combat analyst.
"Listen up!" Elder Pak's voice cut across the courtyard, instantly silencing all conversation. "Today's evaluation will proceed in three stages. First, demonstration of basic forms. Second, qi control and circulation assessment. Third, practical sparring matches."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the assembled disciples like a blade. "Your performance today determines whether you continue your training with this sect or find your calling elsewhere. I will not tolerate half-hearted effort, sloppy technique, or excuses. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Elder!" The response came in a ragged chorus.
"Good. We'll proceed in registration order. When your name is called, step forward." Elder Pak nodded to Instructor Lee, who produced a scroll and began reading names.
Mu-Jin's name wouldn't be called for another twenty minutes—he'd registered late in his first life, distracted by duties Guyang Cheol had forced on him. He used the time to observe the other disciples' performances.
The first candidate was a nervous boy named Park Sung-Min, who fumbled his way through the basic forms with shaking hands. Elder Pak's critique was swift and brutal: "Footwork unstable. Transitions sloppy. Weight distribution completely wrong. You've learned nothing in six months. Next!"
Park Sung-Min stumbled away, face burning with shame.
One by one, disciples demonstrated their skills. Some showed promise—clean forms, decent qi control, respectable sparring performances. Others were disasters, their inadequacies laid bare under Elder Pak's unforgiving scrutiny.
Jin Hak was called after the tenth candidate. He stepped forward with visible determination, bowed to Elder Pak, and launched into the Morning Mist Sword forms.
Mu-Jin watched critically, noting both strengths and weaknesses. Jin Hak's forms were solid—not brilliant, but executed with care and obvious practice. His movements lacked the natural grace some disciples possessed, but he compensated with focus and consistency. No wasted motion. No showboating. Just honest, workmanlike technique.
"Adequate," Elder Pak pronounced when Jin Hak finished. "Your foundation is acceptable, though your qi circulation needs refinement. Proceed to sparring assessment."
Jin Hak's face lit up with relief as he bowed and retreated. Catching Mu-Jin's eye, he flashed a quick grin. I passed the first stage, that grin said.
More names. More demonstrations. Mu-Jin found himself analyzing each performance with his thirty years of experience, identifying flaws and potential with ease. That one favored his right side too heavily—exploitable in real combat. This one had excellent qi control but poor spatial awareness. Another showed natural talent but lack of discipline in the fundamentals.
I could teach them, he realized. Show them corrections that would save years of training. But that would raise questions I can't answer.
"Baek Mu-Jin!"
His name cut through his thoughts. Mu-Jin stepped forward, aware of the whispers following him. Word of the Guyang Cheol confrontation had definitely spread. Good and bad—good because it established him as more than a pushover, bad because it meant more eyes watching his performance.
He reached the center of the largest practice circle and bowed formally to Elder Pak. Up close, the old man's eyes were sharp as flint, missing nothing.
"Baek Mu-Jin," Elder Pak said, consulting the scroll Instructor Lee held. "Outer disciple for six months. Mediocre performance in monthly assessments. No notable achievements." He looked up. "What makes you think you deserve to remain?"
In his first life, that question had rattled him. Made him defensive and uncertain. Now, Mu-Jin met Elder Pak's gaze steadily.
"I don't deserve anything, Elder. But I'm willing to earn my place through honest effort and continuous improvement."
Something flickered in Elder Pak's expression—approval? Surprise? It vanished too quickly to identify. "We'll see. Demonstrate the Morning Mist Sword, all seven basic forms."
Mu-Jin drew the practice sword from the weapon rack, testing its balance. Lighter than what he was used to, but adequate. He moved to the center of the circle, settled into the opening stance, and began.
The first form—Mist Rising—came naturally. Smooth upward sweep, blade tracing a perfect arc, feet shifting with practiced precision. But Mu-Jin held back, deliberately introducing minor imperfections. A slightly wider stance than optimal. Recovery time fractionally slower than his muscle memory demanded. Enough to look competent but not exceptional.
Second form—Morning Dew—flowed from the first. Thrust and withdraw, mimicking water droplets falling from leaves. Again, he performed it well but not perfectly. Added a tiny hesitation in the transition.
Third form—Flowing River. Fourth form—Cloud Parting. Fifth form—Wind Through Bamboo.
By the sixth form—Dawn Breaking—Mu-Jin had found the right balance. Good enough to pass comfortably, skilled enough to show promise, but not so polished as to draw intense scrutiny. He made the movements clean but incorporated subtle inefficiencies that suggested room for growth.
The seventh form—Return to Stillness—concluded the sequence. Mu-Jin held the final position for three breaths, then smoothly returned to rest stance and bowed.
Silence.
Elder Pak was staring at him with an expression Mu-Jin couldn't quite read. Not disapproval, but something more complex. Puzzlement?
"Instructor Hwang," Elder Pak said without taking his eyes off Mu-Jin. "Your assessment?"
The stern woman stepped forward, studying Mu-Jin with narrowed eyes. "Forms are technically correct. No major errors. Transitions are... adequate. There's something odd about the execution, though. The movements seem both practiced and unpracticed simultaneously."
Damn. Too much? Not enough? Mu-Jin kept his expression neutral.
Elder Pak grunted. "Explain what you mean."
"His muscle memory is clearly developed—the forms aren't new to him. But there's a deliberate quality to certain motions, as if he's consciously controlling what should be instinctive." Instructor Hwang tilted her head. "It's unusual. Almost as if he's holding back."
Mu-Jin's heart rate increased slightly. This was bad. Instructor Hwang was more perceptive than he'd anticipated.
"Holding back?" Elder Pak's voice carried a dangerous edge. "Disciple Baek, are you deliberately performing below your capability?"
Think fast. Mu-Jin met the elder's gaze and made a split-second decision: partial truth. "Elder, I injured my shoulder two weeks ago during solo practice. The forms don't hurt, but I've been training more cautiously to avoid aggravating the injury. Perhaps that's what Instructor Hwang is noticing."
It was plausible. Minor training injuries were common among outer disciples. And it explained both the developed muscle memory and the deliberate control.
Elder Pak studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "A reasonable explanation. Foolish to train injured, but I appreciate honesty." He made a notation on the scroll. "Qi control assessment. Instructor Hwang will guide you."
The qi control test involved circulating internal energy through specific meridian pathways while Instructor Hwang monitored with her spiritual sense. It was designed to assess cultivation progress, purity of qi, and control precision.
For Mu-Jin, it was the most dangerous part of the evaluation.
His dantian and meridians were those of a sixteen-year-old who'd only been cultivating for six months. Undeveloped, barely opened, capable of holding only a trickle of qi compared to what he'd possessed as the Blood Demon. But his knowledge of cultivation was that of a master. He knew techniques for qi refinement that wouldn't be discovered for another decade. Understood meridian pathway optimization that most elders couldn't grasp.
If he circulated qi with the efficiency and precision his knowledge allowed, Instructor Hwang would immediately recognize the discrepancy.
So once again, Mu-Jin deliberately performed below his capability. He circulated qi through the primary meridians in the standard pattern taught to outer disciples—inefficient but acceptable. Let it flow naturally without employing any of the advanced compression or refinement techniques he knew. Made it look like the work of a diligent but unremarkable cultivator.
"Adequate purity," Instructor Hwang announced after a minute. "Flow rate is acceptable for six months of training. Control is slightly better than average. Nothing remarkable." She stepped back. "He passes stage two."
Relief flooded through Mu-Jin, though he kept it hidden. Two stages down. One to go.
"Sparring assessment," Elder Pak said. "Your opponent will be..." He glanced around the courtyard, and Mu-Jin saw the calculation in his eyes. The elder was choosing carefully, pairing disciples strategically.
Please not Guyang Cheol. That would force Mu-Jin either to lose deliberately or to thoroughly defeat him, and both options carried problems.
"Kwon Ji-Hun," Elder Pak called.
A disciple stepped forward from the crowd—tall, lean, with the confident bearing of someone who'd trained extensively before joining the sect. Mu-Jin remembered him vaguely: Kwon Ji-Hun, from a minor martial family, skilled with the spear. In the original timeline, they'd never sparred. Kwon would leave the sect after failing this evaluation.
But the memory was vague, unimportant. Kwon Ji-Hun hadn't featured in any major events Mu-Jin needed to prevent. Just another face that had passed through his life without leaving lasting impact.
They bowed to each other, selected practice weapons from the rack—Mu-Jin choosing a sword, Kwon a spear—and took positions at opposite sides of the sparring circle.
"Standard rules apply," Instructor Lee announced cheerfully. "Strikes to vital points with full force are forbidden. Match continues until submission, disarmament, or elder intervention. Begin!"
Kwon Ji-Hun attacked immediately, spear lancing forward in a textbook thrust. Fast, precise, well-executed. A decade ago, that attack would have scored easily against the original sixteen-year-old Mu-Jin.
Now, Mu-Jin saw it coming from the moment Kwon shifted his weight. Saw the entire sequence of the attack before the spear moved. His body, limited as it was, responded automatically—sidestepped the thrust, parried the follow-up sweep, created distance.
Kwon's eyes widened slightly. He'd expected an easy victory.
They circled each other, Kwon probing with testing strikes, Mu-Jin defending conservatively. The spear had reach advantage, and Kwon knew how to use it. He kept Mu-Jin at distance, jabbing and withdrawing, trying to find an opening.
But Mu-Jin had fought spear masters who could pin butterflies to trees from fifty paces. Had dueled the Crimson Spear Demon whose single thrust could pierce mountain stone. Kwon Ji-Hun's technique was competent but predictable, his patterns clear as day.
End it quickly but not too easily, Mu-Jin decided. Show skill but not mastery.
He waited for Kwon to commit to a full thrust—there, telegraphed by a subtle shoulder movement—and executed a textbook spear defense. Stepped inside the thrust, deflected the shaft with his sword, and drove forward.
Kwon tried to recover, to use the spear's shaft to create distance, but Mu-Jin was already past his guard. A simple shoulder check—using body weight rather than technique—sent Kwon stumbling backward. Before he could regain balance, Mu-Jin's practice sword was at his throat.
"Yield," Mu-Jin said quietly.
Kwon stared at him for a heartbeat, surprise and frustration warring on his face, then nodded. "I yield."
They separated, bowed to each other again. The entire exchange had lasted less than thirty seconds.
Elder Pak was watching Mu-Jin with that same unreadable expression. "Adequate," he finally said. "You capitalized on your opponent's overextension efficiently. The shoulder check was crude but effective." He made another notation. "You pass. Return to the waiting area."
Mu-Jin bowed and did as instructed, feeling the weight of multiple gazes following him. Instructor Hwang was whispering something to Elder Pak, both of them glancing in his direction.
Probably discussing the inconsistency in my performance, Mu-Jin thought. The sword forms showed promise. The qi control was merely adequate. But the sparring displayed better combat awareness than either previous assessment suggested.
He'd need to be more careful about maintaining consistent capability levels. Too much variation raised questions.
Jin Hak caught up with him at the edge of the training ground. "That was incredible! Did you see Kwon's face? He looked like someone had slapped him with a fish!"
"I got lucky. He overcommitted to his thrust."
"Lucky nothing. That was skill." Jin Hak grinned. "We both passed the evaluations. Brother Mu-Jin, I think this calls for celebration once we're done here."
Mu-Jin allowed himself a small smile. "After everyone's finished. Still hours to go."
They watched the remaining evaluations together, Jin Hak providing running commentary while Mu-Jin observed with his more experienced eye. Some disciples impressed. Most were forgettable. A few failed spectacularly.
And then, as the morning wore toward noon, Guyang Cheol's name was called.
The bully swaggered forward, shooting Mu-Jin a venomous glare before taking his position. His forms were sloppy—powerful but undisciplined, relying on raw strength rather than technique. His qi control was adequate but crude. But in sparring, he dominated his opponent through sheer aggression and physical advantage.
Elder Pak passed him, though the critiques were harsh. Guyang Cheol didn't care. He'd passed, and that was all that mattered to him.
As he left the sparring circle, Guyang Cheol deliberately walked past Mu-Jin. "You got lucky this morning," he said, voice low enough that only Mu-Jin and Jin Hak could hear. "But luck runs out. Watch your back, trash."
Jin Hak tensed, but Mu-Jin put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Let it go," he said quietly. "He's not worth the trouble."
But as Guyang Cheol walked away, Mu-Jin made a mental note. In his first life, Guyang Cheol would eventually leave the sect after being caught stealing from the sect treasury. Would join a bandit gang and die in a raid gone wrong.
This time... well, perhaps some people didn't deserve saving. Perhaps some problems needed to be handled more permanently.
The evaluations finally concluded in early afternoon. Elder Pak gathered all the participants for the final announcements.
"Of one hundred and twenty-three disciples evaluated today," he said, voice carrying across the tired, nervous crowd, "forty-seven have failed to meet minimum standards. Your names are posted at the outer sect administration building. You have one week to collect your belongings and depart."
A collective intake of breath. Forty-seven failures—better than last year, but still brutal.
"The rest of you," Elder Pak continued, "have earned the privilege of continuing your training. Do not waste this opportunity. You are dismissed."
The crowd dispersed slowly, some celebrating, others moving toward the administration building with dread. Jin Hak let out a relieved sigh.
"We made it, Brother Mu-Jin. Both of us."
"Never doubted it."
"Liar. I saw you sweating during the qi control assessment." Jin Hak stretched, joints popping. "Come on, let's grab lunch. Sister Bong might give us extra portions again if we catch her early."
Mu-Jin nodded, about to follow, when he felt it—the prickle of someone's attention, focused and intentional. He turned, scanning the dispersing crowd.
There, at the edge of the training ground, partially obscured by other disciples: So Yeon-Hwa, watching him with those ice-blue eyes. She stood perfectly still, her expression thoughtful.
When their gazes met this time, she didn't look away. Neither did Mu-Jin. For a long moment, they simply regarded each other across the distance—the unremarkable outer disciple and the talented inner disciple who would one day steal his heart and then die in his arms.
Not this time, Mu-Jin promised silently. This time, I'll keep you safe. This time, you survive.
Finally, Yeon-Hwa inclined her head slightly—acknowledgment of... what? That she'd noticed him? That some instinct was telling her he was worth watching?—and turned away, disappearing into the crowd.
"Brother Mu-Jin?" Jin Hak's voice pulled him back. "You coming?"
"Yeah." Mu-Jin forced his attention away from where Yeon-Hwa had been standing. "Let's eat."
As they walked toward the dining hall, Mu-Jin's mind was already racing ahead. The evaluation was passed. His position in the sect was secure for now. Stage one complete.
But that was only the beginning. Ahead lay years of careful maneuvering, strategic growth, and impossible choices. He'd need to cultivate power without drawing excessive attention. Build alliances without revealing his knowledge. Change the future without breaking the present.
And all while maintaining the facade of being a normal outer disciple.
The weight of it should have been crushing. Instead, Mu-Jin felt energized. Purposeful. For the first time in thirty years—in either life—he knew exactly what he was fighting for.
Everyone he'd lost. Everyone he'd failed.
This time would be different.
This time, he'd save them all.