Alive
The alarm bells did not stop ringing.
They multiplied.
Steel clashed above the dungeon. Boots thundered down corridors. The Heaven-Binding Alliance was not sending guards anymore.
They were sending hunters.
Crimson moved through the underground passages with a broken arm and a punctured lung, blood dripping steadily onto stone. Every breath burned. Every step screamed.
Good.
Pain kept him sharp.
He turned a corner and nearly collided with them.
Three prisoners.
Chained. Starving. Eyes hollow.
Civilians.
They stared at him in disbelief—at the mask, the blood, the blade in his hand.
"You're… you're one of them," a woman whispered. "Please. Help us."
Crimson hesitated.
A single heartbeat.
Long enough for the past to rise.
A child crying in a burning village.
Hands reaching out.
A promise never kept.
Boots echoed closer.
Decision time.
Crimson stepped forward.
And cut their chains.
The woman sobbed in relief.
Then Crimson slit her throat.
The other two froze, shock paralyzing them.
"I'm not saving you," Crimson said calmly. "I'm using you."
He shoved them toward the corridor entrance.
"Run."
They ran screaming—straight into the guards.
Crimson followed the sound.
The hallway became a slaughterhouse.
Alliance soldiers rushed in, blades raised, eyes fixed on fleeing prisoners.
They never saw Crimson.
He moved behind them like death remembering its schedule.
Throat. Spine. Artery.
Blood sprayed the walls.
One soldier turned just in time to see Crimson's blade enter his eye.
Another begged.
Crimson didn't listen.
By the time the corridor fell silent again, only Crimson remained standing.
And the prisoners.
Alive.
Shaking.
"You said you wouldn't save us," one whispered.
Crimson wiped his blade on a corpse.
"I didn't," he replied. "You survived. That's different."
He left them there.
He emerged into the night through a collapsed drainage tunnel, coughing blood, vision darkening at the edges.
Above him, the Alliance compound burned.
Fires climbed wooden towers. Screams filled the air. Someone had sabotaged their own defenses to contain him.
Smart.
Too smart.
Crimson knew what that meant.
He's here.
The air shifted.
Pressure.
A presence stepped onto the ruined courtyard stones.
White robes. Gold embroidery. A symbol of Heaven etched across his chest.
The Executioner.
His face was calm. Almost gentle.
"You survived," the man said. "Good. I would've been disappointed otherwise."
Crimson straightened slowly.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The man smiled.
"Han Yeom. Heaven's Blade."
Crimson felt the name settle into his bones.
A name meant to be remembered.
"You butchered an entire pass," Han Yeom continued. "Broke elders. Corrupted fear into worship."
He tilted his head.
"But you also killed prisoners."
Crimson said nothing.
"That makes you easier to justify," Han Yeom said softly. "Thank you."
They moved at the same time.
Han Yeom was fast.
Faster than anyone Crimson had faced.
Steel met steel, sparks exploding into the night. Crimson was driven back, each strike shaking his wounded body.
Han Yeom's cultivation was clean. Refined. Orthodox.
Perfect.
"You rely on pain," Han Yeom observed mid-clash. "I rely on Heaven."
He struck Crimson's shattered arm.
Bone screamed.
Crimson staggered.
Han Yeom raised his blade for the finishing cut.
And stopped.
Crimson was laughing.
Blood bubbled through the mask.
"You don't understand," Crimson said hoarsely. "Pain doesn't weaken me."
He stepped forward into the blade.
Let it pierce his shoulder.
Let it dig deep.
Crimson grabbed Han Yeom's wrist and activated the Crimson Oath fully.
The world dimmed.
Pain roared.
And something inside Crimson answered.
Han Yeom's eyes widened for the first time.
"What is that—"
Crimson slammed his forehead into Han Yeom's face.
Once.
Twice.
Han Yeom broke free, retreating several steps, blood running from his nose.
He smiled.
"Good," he said. "Now this is worth my time."
They stared at each other across the burning courtyard.
Neither moved.
Finally, Han Yeom lowered his blade.
"Run," he said.
Crimson blinked.
"You're not ready," Han Yeom continued. "And I don't kill unfinished things."
He turned away.
"But I will find you again."
Han Yeom vanished into the smoke.
Crimson collapsed to one knee.
Barely breathing.
Alive.
By morning, Murim was screaming.
Rumors spread faster than fire.
An assassin who slaughtered executioners.
A demon who killed prisoners without hesitation.
A monster who faced Heaven's Blade and lived.
Some cursed his name.
Others whispered it in awe.
Crimson listened from the shadows, stitching his wounds with trembling hands.
Mercy was gone.
Buried with the people he used as bait.
From now on, there would be no confusion.
No misunderstanding.
Crimson would become exactly what Murim needed him to be.
A nightmare.