Pain was the first lesson.
Hyeon Mu learned it before dawn.
Cold water crashed over his body, dragging him out of unconsciousness. He gasped, lungs burning, chains rattling as his limbs jerked. Iron bit into his wrists and ankles, biting deep enough to draw blood.
Stone. Darkness. Screams.
He was not alone.
The chamber was circular, carved deep beneath the mountain. Torches burned low along the walls, casting long, twitching shadows. Dozens of children were chained to stone pillars, naked or half-dressed, bodies bruised, cut, trembling.
Some were younger than him.
A boy no older than six sobbed uncontrollably. A girl stared forward, her eyes empty, lips cracked from dehydration.
"Silence," a voice echoed.
The old man from the night before stepped into the light, his cane tapping slowly against the stone floor. Behind him came others—men and women dressed in black and crimson, their faces hidden behind masks of bone and steel.
Assassins.
"Welcome to your first trial," the old man said calmly. "Survival."
He raised a hand.
A masked instructor stepped forward, carrying a long, thin blade—curved, serrated, still wet.
"Pain strips lies," the instructor said. "Screams reveal weakness."
He stopped in front of the sobbing boy.
The child begged.
The blade descended.
The scream cut off abruptly as blood sprayed across the stone.
The body twitched, then went still.
No one was allowed to look away.
"If you close your eyes," the old man said softly, "you will join him."
Hyeon Mu forced himself to stare.
His stomach twisted. His hands shook. Something inside him begged to break—to scream, to cry, to die.
But beneath the terror, something darker moved.
Hatred.
The blade came to him next.
The instructor dragged the edge slowly across Hyeon Mu's chest, not deep enough to kill, just enough to open skin. Blood ran down his ribs, warm and sticky.
"Do you feel it?" the instructor whispered.
Hyeon Mu gritted his teeth.
"Yes."
"Good. Pain means you're alive. Savor it."
The blade twisted.
Hyeon Mu screamed.
Hours passed.
Or days.
Time dissolved into agony.
They were cut. Burned. Beaten. Starved. Healers arrived only to keep them alive long enough to suffer more. Bones were broken and reset without anesthetic. Fingernails were ripped out. Hot iron pressed against skin until the smell of burning flesh filled the chamber.
Children died.
Their bodies were dragged away without ceremony.
No prayers. No names.
Only blood washing into the stone drains.
When Hyeon Mu finally collapsed into darkness, his throat was raw from screaming, his mind fraying at the edges.
The second lesson came after pain.
Hunger.
They were unchained and thrown into a pit—a massive cavern with uneven ground and no light but a single opening far above. A bucket of water was dumped in the center. No food.
"Only one leaves the pit," a voice echoed from above.
A blade fell.
Then another.
Dozens of short knives clattered onto the stone.
Panic exploded.
Children rushed the water. Fights broke out immediately—screaming, clawing, biting. A girl was stabbed in the neck within seconds, blood pouring as she collapsed.
Hyeon Mu stayed back, watching.
Observe first, a whisper echoed in his mind. He didn't know whose voice it was—but it felt right.
A boy lunged at him, knife raised.
Hyeon Mu sidestepped clumsily, pain screaming through his wounds. He grabbed the boy's wrist, twisted hard, and heard a snap. The knife fell.
Hyeon Mu picked it up.
Then he stabbed.
Once. Twice. Again.
The boy's scream gurgled into silence.
Hyeon Mu stared at the blood on his hands.
It didn't disgust him.
It steadied him.
The pit became hell.
Children turned into animals. Some begged. Some prayed. Some laughed as they killed. Blood soaked the ground until it became slippery, bodies piling atop one another.
Hyeon Mu moved carefully, conserving strength. He struck only when necessary. Throat. Kidney. Spine.
Efficient.
When the screams finally faded, only one child remained standing.
Hyeon Mu.
He was covered in blood—most of it not his own. His hands shook, not from fear, but exhaustion.
A rope dropped.
He climbed.
The third lesson was worse.
Guilt.
They brought him to a small chamber, clean and brightly lit. A table stood at the center. On it lay a familiar face.
His mother.
Or what remained of her.
The body was preserved unnaturally, eyes closed, skin pale. Her hands were folded over her chest.
"This is a lie," Hyeon Mu whispered.
The old man stepped beside him.
"Is it?" he asked. "Or is this what you failed to protect?"
Hyeon Mu's knees buckled.
"Touch her," the old man commanded.
Hyeon Mu shook violently. Tears streamed down his face as he reached out, fingers brushing cold skin.
"She died screaming," the old man said. "Calling your name."
Hyeon Mu screamed.
The illusion shattered.
The body rotted instantly, flesh collapsing into ash.
"There," the old man said calmly. "Now you understand."
He leaned close.
"Love is a blade others will use to kill you."
That night, Hyeon Mu didn't sleep.
He carved his second oath into his own arm.
I will feel nothing.
I will hesitate for no one.
In the darkness, the Crimson Vein Sect watched.
And smiled.