Steel did not care about innocence.
Hyeon Mu learned that lesson the moment the blade was placed before him.
It lay on a black stone altar, short and narrow, forged for killing in silence. The metal was dark, almost absorbing the torchlight instead of reflecting it. Runes were carved along the flat of the blade—not decorative, but functional. Seals meant to drink blood.
Around him, the surviving children stood in a semicircle. Fewer than half remained from the first night.
Their eyes were hollow.
Their bodies were wrapped in crude bandages, already stained red.
"This," the old man said, resting his cane against the altar, "is not a weapon."
He tapped the blade once. The sound echoed unnaturally.
"It is a confession. Every life it takes will carve itself into you."
One by one, instructors stepped forward, each masked, each carrying a different blade—long, curved, hooked, jagged.
"Murim worships swords," one instructor said. "Honor. Technique. Form."
He spat on the stone.
"We worship results."
The instructor gestured to Hyeon Mu.
"You. Step forward."
Hyeon Mu obeyed.
His legs still trembled from exhaustion. His body ached constantly, pain now a permanent companion. But his eyes were steady.
"Pick it up," the old man commanded.
Hyeon Mu reached out.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, pain surged through his arm. The blade bit into his palm, drawing blood instantly, as if alive.
He hissed, but did not let go.
Blood ran down the metal.
The runes pulsed faintly.
"Good," the old man said. "It accepts you."
A child to Hyeon Mu's left screamed as his chosen blade rejected him—slicing deep into his wrist before falling to the ground. The instructors dragged the child away as he begged, blood trailing behind him.
No one looked.
"Your name?" an instructor asked Hyeon Mu.
"Hyeon Mu."
The old man struck him across the face with his cane.
Blood burst from Hyeon Mu's lip.
"That name is dead," the old man said coldly. "Names are attachments."
He leaned closer.
"You are Unit Seventeen."
The blade in Hyeon Mu's hand felt heavier.
"Follow," the instructor ordered.
They descended deeper into the mountain.
The air grew colder, thicker. The walls were no longer stone but bone—polished, layered, fused together by ancient blood. Faces were carved into them, frozen in agony.
"This is where failures end," the instructor said.
They stopped before an iron door.
Inside, a man was chained to a wooden frame.
He was alive.
Barely.
His body was flayed in places, muscle exposed. His eyes rolled weakly as the door creaked open. He tried to speak, but only a wet gurgle escaped.
"Who is he?" Hyeon Mu asked.
"A cultivator," the instructor replied. "Orthodox sect. Captured last night."
The man's eyes focused on Hyeon Mu.
"Please," he croaked. "I have disciples… I have—"
The instructor shoved Hyeon Mu forward.
"Kill him."
Hyeon Mu froze.
The pit.
The screams.
The blood.
This was different.
The man was helpless.
Alive.
Waiting.
"I—" Hyeon Mu swallowed. "How?"
The instructor tilted his head.
"That," he said, "is your problem."
The door slammed shut behind them.
Hyeon Mu stood alone with the man.
The cultivator sobbed openly now.
"I swear," he whispered, "I never harmed children…"
Hyeon Mu stared at him.
He saw white-and-gold banners.
He saw his mother kneeling.
He raised the blade.
His hand shook.
The cultivator sensed it and clung to hope. "You don't have to—"
The blade pierced his throat.
Not cleanly.
Hyeon Mu twisted instinctively, ripping sideways. Blood sprayed across his face, warm and thick. The man convulsed violently, choking, eyes bulging as he drowned in his own blood.
Hyeon Mu didn't pull the blade out.
He watched.
Counted the seconds.
When the body finally went limp, Hyeon Mu stepped back, breathing hard.
He felt something coil in his chest.
Not guilt.
Not regret.
Relief.
The door opened.
The instructor entered, inspected the corpse, and nodded once.
"Messy," he said. "But effective."
He looked at Hyeon Mu.
"Again."
They did not let him sleep.
Execution followed execution.
Men. Women. Once, even a teenager barely older than Hyeon Mu.
Each death came with instruction.
Too slow.
Wrong angle.
You hesitated.
Mistakes were punished immediately. A broken finger. A knife through the thigh. Salt rubbed into open wounds.
By the tenth kill, Hyeon Mu's hands no longer shook.
By the twentieth, he stopped hearing their pleas.
By the thirtieth—
He felt nothing at all.
The final lesson came unexpectedly.
They brought him into a chamber filled with mirrors.
Every wall. Every angle.
His reflection stared back at him from a hundred directions—blood-soaked, scarred, eyes empty.
"Look," the old man said, appearing beside him. "What do you see?"
"A killer," Hyeon Mu answered without hesitation.
The old man smiled faintly.
"No," he said. "A tool."
He placed a dagger against Hyeon Mu's throat.
"If I ordered your death now," the old man asked, "would you resist?"
Hyeon Mu met his gaze in the mirror.
"No."
"Good."
The dagger withdrew.
"You are becoming useful."
The old man turned away.
"Tomorrow, you hunt."
Hyeon Mu blinked.
"Outside?"
"Yes," the old man replied. "Your first mission."
He paused at the door.
"And Unit Seventeen?"
"Yes?"
"Try not to enjoy it."
The door closed.
Hyeon Mu stared at his reflection.
For a moment—just a moment—he wondered when the boy named Hyeon Mu had truly died.
Then the thought vanished.