Autumn, the year of Gap-in.
Fwoooosh!
The prestigious Wudang Sect, which for over five centuries had produced countless sword masters acclaimed as the greatest under Heaven, was engulfed in crimson flames under the assault of the Demonic Sect.
Ash-grey smoke pierced through the clouds and rose into the heavens like a furious black dragon twisting in rage. The proud halls of Wudang, once its very glory, now burned so brightly that the inferno could be seen even a hundred li away.
At that very moment, within the Ancestral Hall where the spirit tablets of past Sect Leaders were enshrined, a deafening crash resounded.
Boom!
The cavernous chamber was vast. A Daoist in his early fifties staggered back, nearly collapsing.
Before him stood a man clad in black robes, his face hidden beneath a veil below the eyes, a sword in hand.
"Amitabha Buddha…"
Blood soaked the Daoist's chest as he barely steadied himself, reciting the dharma name with a mournful expression. He was none other than Hyeon-jin, the current Sect Leader of Wudang.
Hyeon-jin had thrown his very life into defending the Ancestral Hall, but the enemy's strength was beyond what even he could withstand.
"Amitabha… what face shall I have when I stand before our forebears in the afterlife?"
His lamenting gaze fell upon the half-shattered statue of the venerable Zhang Sanfeng, now disfigured and sorrowful.
"Grandmaster, it seems the seat of Sect Leader was far too heavy for this disciple."
No tears would come, though his heart longed for release.
'Had another senior brother taken the position instead of me… perhaps things would not have come to this.'
Closing his eyes, his life flashed before him like a lantern reel.
Wudang had walked the path of decline for forty years. In the First Great War between Righteous and Demonic, too many disciples had been lost against the Demonic Sect's elites. Since then, Wudang had fallen to the lowest seat of the Nine Great Sects, and after the Second War, it was nearly ruined.
Hyeon-jin's ascension to Sect Leader was born of that tragedy. His master, as well as most of his martial uncles, had perished or were gravely wounded. None remained fit to bear the burden. At barely thirty, Hyeon-jin was forced into the seat, enduring ridicule from all sides.
"Honestly, it's a joke that Wudang still counts among the Nine Great Sects, don't you think?"
"Exactly. Even Mount Heng Sect is three times their size!"
None in the martial world wished to acknowledge Wudang as part of the Nine Great Sects. Aspiring disciples shunned its gates.
Yet Hyeon-jin endured, grinding his teeth, nurturing the sect with twenty years of bitter effort. His labor was not in vain—though still at the fringes, Wudang had regained enough strength that no one dared laugh openly anymore. His own martial cultivation had risen beyond the Peak Stage, earning him a place among the Hundred Grandmasters of the martial world.
But Heaven showed no mercy. The Third Great War erupted, staining Mount Wudang in rivers of blood as disciples fell, their corpses covering the slopes, their halls consumed in fire.
Was Wudang truly to perish in his generation?
"Amitabha, Amitabha…"
His trembling voice whispered the dharma name as his eyes reopened.
A dark figure approached—the one whose face was veiled beneath black cloth bearing the character for "Demon." He was the Deputy Sect Leader of the Demonic Sect, the dreaded Honcheon Sword Demon.
"Who would have thought Wudang, hollow in name, would vex me so. To think you, so-called Sect Leader, withstood ten of my moves."
Of course! Did this demon know how much sweat and blood had been poured into that strength?
Grinding his teeth, Hyeon-jin glared. To train for decades, only to withstand a mere ten exchanges, left his heart torn with regret and fury.
"Hmph! Had we met a few years later, it would be you lying dead at my feet!"
If only the Supreme Sword of Taiji had been completed, even a deputy of the Demonic Sect could have been slain.
But regret was useless now.
"You've proven stronger than expected… yet your end is here."
Honcheon Sword Demon raised his blade, its tip flashing as sword energy erupted like a geyser.
Hyeon-jin's eyes trembled violently at the sight.
"Be honored, Wudang dog, that I personally come to end you."
What? To call Wudang worthless, and this death an honor?
'That bastard…!'
Fury roared to the crown of his head. Yet there was nothing he could do but swallow it.
At that moment, he glimpsed something—behind Honcheon Sword Demon, the broken eyes of Grandmaster Zhang Sanfeng's statue seemed fixed upon him.
'Grandmaster finds me pitiful as well.'
But strangely, a faint light seemed to shine from those eyes.
A childhood tale returned to him.
'They say if the Grandmaster's eyes gleam, a wish may be granted…'
The elders of Wudang had once laughed, saying, "If only it were true, Wudang might regain its former glory." No one had ever believed it.
Hyeon-jin gave a bitter smile.
'If only I could return to that time… perhaps I could prevent this fate.'
But such thoughts were nothing more than dying wishes. There was nothing left he could do.
"Kill me then, you mongrel of the Demonic Sect!"
Honcheon Sword Demon's lips curled into a strange smile as he slashed sideways.
"Very well, let us end our bitter fate here."
'What? Bitter fate?'
Did this man… know him? Who was he—?
Slash!
The sword energy tore his chest open. A firestorm of agony engulfed his heart.
Even as his vision blurred, Hyeon-jin snarled through clenched teeth, his eyes locked on his foe.
"Whoever you are… I'll wait for you… in the afterlife!"
"Urgh!"
A groan escaped his lips. Of course—it hurt. His chest had been torn open by a blade.
Yet as his blurred sight cleared, he beheld something strange.
He sat upon the ground, and before him stood a youthful boy with an arrogant expression.
"What…?"
Hyeon-jin's eyes widened in shock. He knew that boy.
Jegal-hyeon. The brat from the Jegal clan's main line—yet now in his childhood form.
'A dream?'
He lowered his gaze to his own arm. A slender, immature hand greeted him.
'I'm young as well?'
It seemed he had returned to the time when he first fought Jegal-hyeon in a sparring duel.
Back then, Wudang and the nearby Jegal clan had often exchanged friendly duels—or so they were called. In truth, it was nothing more than the Jegal clan using duels to trample the weakened Wudang.
Hyeon-jin had always been crushed by Jegal-hyeon in those bouts. Later, when Jegal-hyeon became clan head, he continued to mock Wudang and grind Hyeon-jin's pride beneath his heel.
'Amitabha… am I to resolve my grudge even in a dream?'
Jegal-hyeon's hateful face stood before him. Even if it was but a dream…
'Good. All the better.'
His teeth ground audibly.
"Hoo…"
He exhaled slowly, rising to his feet as though reluctantly. Why this dream came, he did not know. But here was his chance.
'Amitabha. If this is Grandmaster's will…'
Then he would follow it with gratitude.
The referee, who had been watching anxiously, asked quickly, "Are you all right?"
"Huh? Martial Uncle Cheong-myeong?"
Hyeon-jin's eyes widened again. The young Daoist before him was none other than Cheong-myeong, his martial uncle who had perished heroically in the Second Great War. The one closest to his late master.
'To see Martial Uncle again, even in a dream…'
Cheong-myeong returned his wistful gaze with concern.
"Yes, it is I. Are you unharmed?"
"Yes, Martial Uncle! You are the pride of Wudang."
"…What?"
Puzzled by the strange reply, Cheong-myeong coughed awkwardly.
"Hmhm, boy, what nonsense are you spouting in the middle of a duel?"
Yet his face betrayed no displeasure.
Hyeon-jin smiled brightly.
"With Martial Uncle here, Wudang has hope."
"Amitabha…"
Cheong-myeong pressed his palms together, still troubled by Hyeon-jin's odd words.
"If your head aches or body falters, you may forfeit. No one will fault you."
Perhaps the boy was spouting nonsense from shame at losing.
But Hyeon-jin only grinned.
"No, Martial Uncle. Dream or not, I will show you how far I have come. Wudang shall not lose to the Jegal clan's martial arts."
"…Dream? Hm. Amitabha. Very well, show me your resolve."
Though uneasy, Cheong-myeong did not stop him. He too could not bear the thought of Wudang's techniques yielding to the Jegal clan. Even in weakness, Wudang was still Wudang.
As Cheong-myeong stepped back, Hyeon-jin fixed his gaze on Jegal-hyeon, who stood with arrogant posture.
'Amitabha, even at this age he had those eyes.'
That gaze—looking down upon others—was one Hyeon-jin knew all too well, having endured it for decades.
The look of a proud noble heir. A look Jegal-hyeon had turned upon Wudang his entire life.
'Did you scorn Wudang so much?'
His chest grew heavy. He should have stood tall from the beginning, never bowing. Perhaps then, Wudang would not have suffered such disdain.
Jegal-hyeon, however, found Hyeon-jin's renewed defiance displeasing. The boy who had cowered like a beaten dog now dared rise again?
Tilting his head with irritation, he spoke.
"Why not just stay down? Don't trouble me further."
"Amitabha. You have not changed in the least."
"What nonsense? When have we even met?"
Jegal-hyeon snarled, his eyes filled with contempt.
Hyeon-jin ignored him, raising his sword in a downward sweep.
"Now, I shall show you the sword of Wudang."
"What? One strike and you lost your senses? And what's with that old man's way of speaking?"
Jegal-hyeon grimaced, baffled.
Hyeon-jin only let his sword hang loosely, assuming a stance. His body might not move as freely, but his spirit was unshaken.
'A bit sluggish.'
Whether due to this dream-body or his youth, his movements felt awkward. Yet he was confident. Though this body was young and untrained, he was still the Sect Leader of Wudang, counted among the Hundred Grandmasters.
Straightening, he let his sword rest with composure. From his dantian, inner energy stirred faintly. Though not fully obedient, it was far beyond what his younger self had once wielded.
Jegal-hyeon's eyes turned cold as he raised his blade.
"If you want another beating, then—wait, what?"
---
End of Chapter 1
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