The night air was still, and the fireflies blinked lazily outside the shed. Inside, the silence was heavier. Not uncomfortable — just watchful. Like the walls and floor were holding their breath, waiting to see what would happen.
Jinmu sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, a single candle flickering beside him. Its light bent and danced against the clay jars and hanging ropes of garlic. The scent of dried herbs reminded him where he was — a storage shed at the back of the Peaceful Blossom Inn — but his mind was already far from it.
It's time.
He drew in a breath.
The copied scroll inside him — that strange presence imprinted into his being the moment he touched the woman's hand — had stopped pulsing. Now it waited. As if asking permission.
I copied her technique. I know I did. But what happens when I… paste it?
There was no manual. No glowing guide. No pop-up window that said "Are you sure?"
Just instinct.
And the subtle pull inside his core — like invisible threads connecting his breath to something foreign… and beautiful.
He whispered to himself.
"PASTE."
He didn't shout it. Didn't force it.
He just said it with certainty.
And in that moment—
—his body reacted.
It wasn't an explosion. Not a burst of qi or a dramatic flash.
It was more like ink soaking into paper. Slow. Absolute.
A cool wave flowed through his chest, up his spine, and into every limb. His fingers twitched. His jaw tightened. He clenched his teeth, not from pain — but from pressure. Like something ancient and graceful had just been etched into his bones.
His breath caught.
And then…
It bloomed.
A soft sound echoed through his mind. A flutter — not of wings, but of petals.
He saw it.
A lotus, in full bloom, floating over water that reflected a moon he couldn't name.
From the lotus, a single stream of energy uncoiled and split — spiraling outward into seven distinct paths.
They each took shape in his mind like they'd always been there, waiting just beneath the surface.
"Blossom Vein Arts."
The name resonated through his thoughts, not spoken, but imprinted.
It wasn't just a martial technique. It was a legacy. A doctrine passed in secret between generations of warrior maidens trained beneath mist and moonlight.
And now… it belonged to him.
It's beautiful.
And deadly.
Form One – Drifting Petal Stance.
A loose stance meant to bait and mislead. The practitioner appears off-balance, even untrained, but every motion hides a snap pivot, a feint that collapses into real force.
This would disarm anyone who underestimates me…
Form Two – Vein-Pulse Bloom.
A surge of internal ki released in a single pulse through the palms. When timed properly, it scrambles the opponent's limb control for a few seconds — enough to break their rhythm.
It doesn't just stun. It disrupts their flow…
Form Three – Twin Lotus Coils.
A grappling counter. Uses coiling momentum and rapid footwork to twist around an enemy's strike and reverse their direction. The more force they use, the harder they fall.
Perfect against those brute-force types…
Form Four – Misting Blade Fingers.
A pattern of light, piercing strikes aimed at specific acupuncture points. Temporarily weakens ki flow, leaving opponents unable to channel strength into their next attack.
Even if I can't overpower them, I can make them weaker…
Form Five – Petal Curtain Dance.
A sequence of flowing palm strikes. Circular. Continuous. Hard to track. Impossible to stop once the rhythm sets in. Looks like a dance. Feels like a blizzard of cuts.
It looks soft — but every strike hides a blade.
Form Six – Sinking Root Spiral.
A defensive anchor. Grounds the practitioner, absorbs the opponent's force, and redirects it through the legs and hips back into a devastating counter-kick or push.
It's like… borrowing their power. Turning defense into destruction.
Form Seven – Heart of Blooming Death.
The final form. A full-sequence assault combining the previous six in a fluid storm of movement, feints, internal disruption, and finishing blows. Beautiful. Terrifying.
This… this form alone could defeat most martial artists under Expert rank…
Maybe even some at Expert.
Jinmu opened his eyes.
The candle was still burning.
But the world around him felt different.
His body didn't just know the techniques. It remembered them.
His stance — more rooted. His limbs — lighter, yet stronger. His breathing — deeper, as if each inhale pulled in the world itself and refined it.
I didn't just learn this technique…
It's like I've been practicing it for ten years.
He stood slowly, testing the space around him.
No hesitation. His balance was flawless.
He shifted into Drifting Petal Stance, letting one foot slide half a step back, his shoulders loose, his spine curved just so. The posture looked like a mistake — until he moved. A sudden pivot. A hand swept forward, striking at invisible air. His footwork coiled under him, and in a flash he transitioned into Twin Lotus Coils, spinning around the edge of a phantom strike, redirecting the flow into a knee-level push.
It was elegant.
Effortless.
This is the strength of an Expert…
He didn't need someone to confirm it.
His senses were sharper. His ki — though faint — now flowed in deliberate paths instead of random flickers.
He could feel the air around him.
The distance between walls.
Even the grain of the wood beneath his feet vibrated differently.
A week ago I couldn't even throw a punch. Now I could probably slap that drunk caravan captain across the inn and flip his table while I'm at it.
He grinned to himself.
Then stopped.
No. I shouldn't get cocky. Not yet.
He exhaled, letting the candlelight calm him.
But even as his breath slowed, the realization crept in.
If one handshake gave me this much power…
What would happen if I copied something even higher?
He turned toward the door, ready to sneak back inside before anyone woke up.
But paused.
Looked at his hand again.
The one that had started it all.
The one that now itched — not in discomfort, but in anticipation.
He wasn't done.
Not even close.
If this is what my ability can do… then the real journey starts now.
He sat back down.
Crossed his legs.
Closed his eyes once more.
Time to refine it.
Time to prepare for the next step…
The steam rose from the boiling pot in the kitchen, fogging the tiny square window above the stove. Jinmu stirred slowly with a long wooden ladle, trying not to inhale the sharp vinegar aroma that clung to his shirt and hair. Behind him, his sister Yeon Seryeon was chopping radish with precise, angry motions.
"You cut them too thick again," she said, without even looking.
"I like them with texture," Jinmu replied.
"They're not for you."
"They're for people who appreciate bold radish."
"You're lucky Mother's in the garden right now or she'd slap you with a leek."
He glanced over his shoulder. "You'd do it instead, wouldn't you?"
Seryeon didn't even hesitate. "I already want to. Just give me the word."
He smirked and kept stirring.
The inn smelled like warm rice, stewed roots, and lightly fried sesame — enough to make a tired merchant forget the road and a weary guard lower his sword. Outside, morning chatter buzzed in the courtyard. Jinmu could hear the scuff of boots against gravel, the low hum of gossip from travelers eating under the peach tree.
It was a regular morning at the Peaceful Blossom Inn.
No martial fights. No sword threats. No blood on the floor.
Just life.
And Jinmu had started to enjoy it more than he ever expected.
This is what it means to have a home.
In his past life, home was just a rented room next to a construction yard. A space with four concrete walls, flickering lights, and a broken fan. His meals were solo affairs — plastic lunchboxes, greasy spoons. No one to eat with. No one to yell at him for cutting radish wrong.
But here…
Here, he belonged.
And he wasn't planning to lose that.
Not for anything.
When Jinmu stepped out of the kitchen to deliver a tray of food, he noticed the guest's room door wide open.
Room Three.
Empty.
He paused for a moment, balancing the tray with one hand, then turned to look inside.
No belongings. No bedding. Just a cleaned bowl on the side table and a few scattered flower petals near the windowsill — white and faintly pink. Probably from her sash or robe.
She was gone.
He lowered his voice and murmured, "Left without saying anything, huh?"
"Who?" Seryeon asked, suddenly behind him with a stack of napkins.
He glanced at her. "The quiet guest from yesterday. Bamboo hat. Weird calm."
"Oh, her." She tilted her head. "Did she even pay?"
"She paid three days in advance."
"Rich people are strange," Seryeon muttered. "They never eat anything but always leave early like ghosts."
Jinmu chuckled faintly. "Yeah. Ghosts that crush your hand when they shake it."
Seryeon didn't catch that last part.
But Jinmu's mind lingered.
She's from Yeonhwa Lotus Palace. She didn't even know what I did… and still, I gained this.
He flexed his fingers slightly. There was still a faint tingling warmth in his palm, like the imprint of her energy hadn't fully faded.
Even if she never finds out, I owe her.
The courtyard grew louder as noon approached. Jinmu and Seryeon carried trays in and out, refilled kettles, and bickered over who got to rest first. Merchants filled the tables, discussing trade routes and bandits. A couple of wandering artists painted peach blossoms on scrolls while sipping rice water.
All so normal.
Until the door creaked open.
The bell didn't ring this time. It was pushed aside, silent.
The room chilled slightly.
Even before Jinmu turned, he knew.
Something was off.
Two men stepped inside.
The first wore a long dark coat, shoulders broad, a deep red scarf tied loosely around his neck. His face had a thin scar that crossed the corner of his lips and chin — not enough to be ugly, but enough to show he lived through blades. His eyes were half-lidded, sleepy, but they didn't match his posture. They were sharp. Alert.
The second man was slimmer, but his presence was colder. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade — too casual. The way you'd expect a butcher to lean against his favorite knife.
Jinmu wiped his hands on his apron, walked over.
"Welcome to the Peaceful Blossom Inn," he said calmly. "Would you like a table or a room?"
The taller one didn't respond right away. Instead, he looked around the room. Slowly. Measured.
The tables quieted.
The merchants stopped talking.
Even the artists stopped painting.
Then the man finally spoke.
"We're not here to eat."
His voice was hoarse, but carried weight.
Jinmu nodded slightly. "Then you're here for?"
The man took a step forward. "We're looking for someone."
Seryeon appeared near the hallway, a napkin bundle in hand. Yeon Haerin stood behind the side curtain, arms crossed, but said nothing.
The shorter man walked along the edge of the room, passing by each table slowly. No words. Just eyes scanning.
The tall one continued, "She's in her twenties. Martial artist. Carries herself light. May wear a bamboo hat. She'd have arrived yesterday or the day before."
He paused.
"Did you see anyone like that?"
Jinmu blinked once.
So they're after her.
He kept his expression blank.
"A lot of people pass through here," he said. "We don't keep names unless they cause trouble."
"She'd have felt… unusual," the man said, voice lower now. "Quiet. But not ordinary."
"I wouldn't know," Jinmu replied evenly.
"You sure?"
Before Jinmu could answer, one of the customers leaned over to another and whispered just loud enough for it to carry.
"Those men…"
"They've got red scarves."
"Crimson Flow Blade Union."
A third voice chimed in, hushed. "Unorthodox path. That explains the killing intent."
"They say they duel for blood rights."
"They use sword styles that leave the flesh burning from the inside."
More murmurs spread like wildfire across the room. Eyes lowered. Shoulders hunched. No one wanted to be noticed.
The name alone had turned the inn from warm to ice.
Crimson Flow Blade Union wasn't a name thrown around lightly.
They weren't random thugs. They were killers with rules of their own — the kind who smiled before they split you open.
Jinmu exhaled slowly.
So they're serious.
They really want her. But she's already gone. There's no reason to drag my family into this…
He met the man's eyes again.
"Like I said," Jinmu answered calmly, "We didn't see anyone like that."
A long silence followed.
The tall man narrowed his gaze.
"You're lying."
Jinmu didn't blink. "That's your opinion."
"She was seen heading into this valley," the man growled. "This is the only inn along the way. You're protecting her."
"I'm protecting my floor," Jinmu said, gesturing toward the fresh-mopped wood. "And my customers' appetite."
The shorter man stopped near a family of three and gently tipped over a cup of tea with his blade. The little girl at the table whimpered as it spilled over her father's lap.
Then he turned.
"No more games."
He flicked his wrist.
A wind pressure followed.
The blade's energy flew across the room — and slammed into the corner table, sending wood splinters flying. The kettle exploded. One of the artist's scrolls caught fire and curled into ash.
Yeon Haerin moved instantly, shielding Seryeon with her arms.
The entire room screamed in unison.
Chairs scraped. Dishes clattered.
Customers dove under tables.
Jinmu stood completely still.
"Last time I'll ask," the tall one said. "Where is she?"
Jinmu looked at the wrecked table, then at his mother, then back at the man.
"Gone," he replied. "Like I said — if she was here at all, she's not now."
"You think this is brave?"
"I think," Jinmu said, "I'm not letting you ruin my family's inn for someone who's not even here."
The shorter man raised his sword again. "You'll regret this."
"You break one more thing in this place," Jinmu said, stepping forward, "and you'll find out what I regret."
He wasn't smiling anymore.
His tone wasn't brave.
It was final.
The tall one started to move.
But Jinmu's foot shifted.
Just half an inch.
A simple movement.
His knees bent. His weight leaned back, off-center. One hand lowered, the other rising gently near his shoulder.
Not martial-looking at all.
But deliberate.
Refined.
The first stance unfolded like a flower.
A quiet tension filled the air.
The sword-wielders frowned.
They recognized it.
"...That stance—?"
Jinmu didn't answer.
He wasn't thinking about explanations or names.
He was thinking about the seven forms now embedded in his bones.
Drifting Petal Stance…
Let's begin.