The mountain road wound like a cracked spine through the southern slopes of the Wuqin Range. Thin snow dusted the ridges. Wild brush pushed up through gaps in the stone. Ji Haneul's boots left no sound as he walked—his steps light, deliberate.
He hadn't left the valley in nearly a year.
But the forge could teach him no more.
The sword at his hip no longer felt foreign. And the scroll he practiced daily had started to hum beneath his skin—not in noise, but in presence. Its movements spoke not just of cuts and angles, but of truth.
His Heavenly Martial Body absorbed each form with eerie clarity. The more he moved, the more the art became instinct—not mimicry, but memory. Like he had done it all before.
He hadn't reached the Peak Realm yet.
But his spirit walked just behind it.
—
It was on the second day of travel when he first met another traveler.
A man in fur robes sat beside a collapsed tree trunk, poking a fire. His features were sharp, mouth curled in a permanent half-smile. A traveling merchant by appearance—pouches at his side, a mule nearby, baskets strapped with herbs and colored flasks.
"You walk quiet for someone armed," the man said without looking up.
"I don't like wasting effort," Haneul replied.
"Good habit."
The man tossed a twig into the fire, then gestured toward a flat rock.
"Sit. I have tea. And something stronger, if you're the kind to trade."
Haneul hesitated, but stepped forward.
The tea was bitter and hot. The stronger drink tasted like burnt ginger. They spoke little.
After a while, the merchant glanced at the blade at Haneul's side.
"Forged it yourself?"
"Yes."
"Looks it."
Haneul didn't bite. He waited.
The man chuckled. "No insult meant. I've seen too many pretty blades break in the first duel. Yours has that… lived-in look."
Silence stretched between them.
Then, the man reached into one of his pouches and pulled out a small vial.
Golden liquid, thick and still.
"Spirit Elixir," he said. "Only a drop needed. Repairs the breath, clears clogged meridians. Hard to come by."
Haneul raised an eyebrow. "And you're offering it to strangers on mountain roads?"
"Let's call it goodwill."
He extended the vial.
Haneul took it. Examined the seal. Smelled it.
Then handed it back.
"It's laced with drought-silk."
The merchant froze.
"…You've got a sharp nose."
"I have a better memory. I saw a master poisoned with that. Shuts down inner circulation slowly. Looks like healing at first."
The smile faded.
Then returned. Widened.
"Well," the man said, "it was worth a try."
He didn't move to attack. Didn't reach for a weapon.
But Haneul was already standing.
"I won't kill you," Haneul said. "But you should leave this road."
"No justice for a poor merchant?"
"There's justice. And there's mercy. You've already earned one."
He walked on.
The merchant didn't follow.
—
Three days later, Haneul crossed paths with a pair of old brothers who ran a roadside teahouse on a lonely bend of the pass. They barely had enough customers to stay open.
They fed him wild pheasant and thick tea. Refused payment.
"You remind me of our nephew," one of them said. "He died during the Purge. Always said he wanted to be a swordsman."
That night, Haneul stayed on the porch, watching the stars while the two old men slept inside.
He left before dawn.
But he repaired the broken door hinge before he did.
And left behind one of the smaller elixirs he had taken from the merchant.
—
By the time he reached the border of the next village, the wind had turned warmer.
He moved differently now.
Not because he was showing off. But because the forms flowed through him like breath. His qi spun more freely. His senses stretched farther.
He caught movement before it happened.
He felt hostility before words were spoken.
His Heavenly Martial Body wasn't just absorbing techniques.
It was beginning to resonate.
And though he didn't know it yet, eyes were beginning to turn toward him.
Some curious.
Some cautious.
And some… very, very hungry.