Snow fell over a quiet village at the edge of nowhere. That morning Han Jisoo stood outside a small wooden house, breathing in the cold air. He shivered in his thin coat and realized this body was not his own. Three days ago, in another life, after a long day at work, Han Jisoo goes to sleep like any normal guy—only to wake up Now he was waking up here.
When Jisoo opened his eyes, he was lying on a rough wooden floor. Memories flooded in – not his memories, but those of the boy whose body he now occupied. A poor farmer's son, orphaned three years past when both parents succumbed to fever. He had lived quietly ever since: tending the fields, helping the neighbors, never complaining. Now that life was over. And inexplicably, he was alive again.
"Murim…" Jisoo whispered to himself. Murim – the world of martial arts – exactly like the novels he'd loved in his past life. The righteous clans (Namgoong, Murong, Tang) and their proud warriors. The martial alliances that kept the peace. Bandits in the wilds.
The Demonic Path was a forbidden art, granting immense power at the cost of a shortened life. Those who followed it risked becoming ruthless killers, driven only by bloodlust if they couldn't control it.
Jisoo clenched his fists in the snow. In his last life he had been weak, a spectator. Now, as the wind bit at his cheeks, he made a silent vow: this time, he would act.
That night, a blue light appeared before him. A floating window:
Name: Han JisooAge: 17Rank: NonePhysique: WeakAbility: Talent Acquisition – Copy the talent of a deceased individual.
He watched the words appear, heart steady. A sense of calm washed over him.
Talent Acquisition – Rules: He read them slowly. Only by touching a corpse could a talent be obtained. Only one martial talent per year. One non-martial talent per year (crafts, business, perception, etc.). The talent is copied intact – no downgrade. Talents, once taken, were his forever. He gains the skill only, not the strength or experience of the deceased.
Jisoo's brow furrowed. "One chance per year, each type. If I hesitate… that opportunity is gone for a whole year." He nodded. It was harsh, but it felt right. Power had to be earned and chosen carefully. Rush in blindly, and one mistake might cost him dearly.
He let the night settle. If nothing else, this rule gave him hope: he wouldn't have to fight monsters immediately, just survive wisely. If a wandering warrior fell, or a bandit died in the hills… and Jisoo was there to claim it, then he'd grow in strength. But one step at a time.
As he tucked himself into the blanket, he recalled demonic martial arts one more time. The rumors said demonic cultivators could grow incredibly strong with each foul technique, advancing far faster than normal mortals. But at what cost? Insanity and resentment. "So much strength… but it devours you," he muttered. His mind was made up: he'd avoid that path. He would acquire talents from honorable fighters or martial teachers, even petty bandits, and grow his own skill honestly.
The next morning dawned crisp and clear. Jisoo stood at the village gate with a small travel pack. Word had spread that he would leave for the city to learn martial arts. Villagers gathered – old friends and neighbors who had watched him grow from boy to man.
Old Master Liang stepped forward. The old man's back was bent from years of work, but his eyes were warm. "Jisoo, ever since your parents passed, you've been like a son to this village," Liang said softly. "You've helped all of us without complaint. Now it's time you look after yourself." His voice trembled a little. "Here," he added, pressing a worn cloth bundle into Jisoo's hands. Inside were coins and a small knife – tools for the road.
Another neighbor, Aunt Mei, hugged Jisoo fiercely. "Take this," she insisted, tucking a dried meat ration into his pack. "Your mother always said, never travel on an empty stomach." She wiped tears from her eyes. Around them, others murmured blessings: "Be safe," "Come home soon," "You'll make us proud."
Jisoo felt his throat tighten, but he managed a steady smile. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I won't forget any of you." He turned slowly, casting one last glance back at the thatched roofs and waving villagers. The sight – worried faces, clasped hands, gentle smiles – made his heart swell with determination.
As he walked away, the sound of the village faded behind him. A farmer today. But not for long. In this vast world of Murim, he now had a direction. Each snowflake that melted under his feet was a step forward.