[Cold, Dark]
That was all Seo Myeong could use to describe his current state.
He existed within a space of unperceivable darkness, wrapped in a bone-chilling cold that gnawed at his very marrow. He was certain of one thing—he was not dead. At first, he had leaned toward that idea, believing he had died and fallen into the underworld spoken of by many martial artists. But the longer he lingered here, the more uncertain he became.
His mind was hazy. That much was undeniable.
Slowly, he raised a hand toward his forehead, yet even that simple motion felt strange. He could not see his hand at all, not even the faintest outline. Swallowed completely by darkness, he began trying to recollect anything—anything at all—most importantly how he had ended up in this strange place.
Quickly, fragments began to flash through his mind, stirred up like mist at dawn.
The hustle and bustle of Seokyung City surfaced first. He had recently come there accompanying his second uncle, along with his cousins—the first sons of his first and third uncles. Thanks to his second uncle's years roaming the jianghu, many connections had been forged. Through those relations, he had managed to secure his three nephews a chance to enter one of the city's three major unorthodox sects: Dragon Fighting Stronghold.
His thoughts churned as the image shifted.
An open training ground appeared. A black-haired man stood before him, looking down with a gaze utterly devoid of warmth or compassion. The man clicked his tongue, then lazily thrust his sword downward.
After that, everything became hazy.
[Ah… my shoulder was pierced by that man. That's why my left arm feels so numb… Just my luck. I thought it had merely fallen asleep.]
The scene shifted once more.
He was walking through Seokyung's twilight-lit streets, moving half-mindedly, barely aware of the world around him. His thoughts were focused on a single thing—his father. He bit his lower lip as memories of disappointment surfaced. His father was his only family, the only person he needed in the world.
Seo Myeong came from a minor yet once-prevalent merchant family. When his grandfather passed, his father's portion of the inheritance was swindled and stolen by his older brothers. That had been the reason Seo Myeong had so desperately wanted to become a strong martial artist. If he succeeded, even his first and third uncles would be forced to show face to his father.
But now…
He could not even imagine the humiliation he had brought upon him.
With his left arm ruined, he had no prospects left as a martial artist. He could no longer wield a spear—his favored weapon. He had always liked the spear; it allowed offense while keeping danger at a distance.
Lost in his thoughts, he eventually lost consciousness.
Having thoroughly searched his memories, Seo Myeong finally realized what had happened. While distracted, he had been knocked out.
[But if I was kidnapped, then for what purpose? I hold no value for ransom, unlike my cousins. Nor am I physically valuable as a slave—my left arm is completely ruined. The only explanation would be this devilishly handsome face of mine.]
Carefully, he began moving his hands around his surroundings. He quickly mapped out a cold stone wall behind him and another to his left. Beneath him was rough, unyielding ground. Slowly, he stood, one hand pressed against the wall as he shuffled forward, sweeping his foot ahead to avoid smashing a toe or stepping on a sharp stone.
After several moments, he had traced the entirety of the small room he was enclosed in.
The space was man-made, rectangular—roughly eight steps wide and ten steps long. Seo Myeong was not educated enough to know precise measurements. After all, once his father had been robbed and driven out of the family, he had lived only as a simple village physician and herbalist.
In the leftmost corner of the room, he discovered a large sack. Nearby was a divot in the wall—most likely where the door once was. He tried pushing against it, but it did not budge. There was no sound of hinges resisting, and the surface felt like cold stone. It was less a door and more a solid slab sealing the exit.
On the rightmost wall, there were carvings.
He could not read them.
Even with his impeccable memory, the symbols were difficult to decipher—too complex to memorize properly, let alone piece together into meaning.
Reaching into the large sack beside him, Seo Myeong retrieved one of the many small, bead-like objects inside. They were not strange to him. In fact, he had learned of them from his father.
Nutrition pellets.
They were commonly used as military rations, and many martial artists relied on them as their primary source of sustenance during closed-door training. One pellet of this size usually provided a full day's worth of nutrition. However, Seo Myeong was not a martial artist—he would not be cultivating qi or refining techniques—so a single pellet would last him closer to a day and a half.
The sack itself was enormous—roughly half his own height. If he were to estimate, it contained well over a year's worth of pellets. Such sacks were not used for medicine but for transporting heavy, dense goods like flour or similar materials.
As Seo Myeong ran his hand down the sack's side, his fingers reached its end—but instead of cold stone, he felt something rough and coarse.
Treated leather.
Curious, he carefully pulled the object out from beneath the sack.
A book.
[A book? Could it be a breathing method meant to cultivate qi and become a martial artist? Why would it be here? Maybe my captors wish to turn me—and others—into disposable assassins . But how am I supposed to read this in the darkness?]