The air had a texture.
Not a smell. A texture.
Ji-Hoon inhaled slowly, eyes half-closed, and for the first time, felt the inside of the air. There was, in the act of breathing, an unfamiliar density. Each breath carried traces of grass, soil, oiled skin. But more than anything… energy.
A living energy. Not technological. Not mystical.
Organic.
He opened his eyes.
Morning light filtered through the tall leaves of an unknown tree. Birds—or something akin to birds—sang in the distance, in tones his exhausted brain couldn't quite recognize.
But it wasn't the light or the sounds that held him captive.
It was his hands.
---
He raised them in front of him.
Young. Unscarred. Smooth, yet slightly calloused. Hands of a teenager who had handled something—tools? Weapons? Pens?
His fingers were long, slender, flexible. The joints moved without popping.
He curled his fingers. No pain.
Then he pressed his palms to his chest.
His breathing was calm. Rhythmic. His heart beat like a precise drum. He felt his muscles… respond effortlessly.
He sat up cross-legged in the grass. No dizziness. No back pain. No cracking knees. His spine stood straight as an arrow.
— This is… impossible.
He closed his eyes and performed the simplest test every Murim practitioner knows: the reversed breath.
Inhale through the nose. Mentally guide the breath down to the navel. Hold. Exhale slowly, visualizing the flow returning toward the heart.
If he had a Dantian, he would feel a point of warmth forming.
He felt it.
A point.
Tiny.
But alive.
---
Ji-Hoon smiled.
Not with joy. With analytical relief.
— So it's true. I have a Dantian.
He stood. His body obeyed instantly. He tested his balance: one step forward, a pivot, a light jump. He moved his arms in slow, circular arcs, sketching the shape of a martial form.
— Pre-trained body. Not a blank slate. Likely one or two years of martial exercise.
His muscles didn't betray him. No excess weight. No fatigue. No lactic acid buildup. A nervous system… sharp.
— Estimated age: twelve? Thirteen?
He searched around for a reflection.
A small stream flowed nearby. He approached it and leaned down.
The face reflected in the water was… strange.
Not Korean. Not entirely.
Skin pale but sun-warmed. Eyes slightly slanted, black, deep, almost animal-like. Long hair tied in a low ponytail, held by a simple leather cord.
— The body was prepared for me.
He stood upright.
Everything about this vessel suggested he hadn't possessed an existing person, but rather entered a form designed, perhaps summoned, perhaps awakened for him. A shell in waiting. A receptacle of consciousness.
But there were no memories. No emotional imprints. No lingering sensations.
It was an empty body.
---
A sound.
Far off. A shout. No… a command.
Then the sharp crack of a sword against wood.
He turned.
On a grassy ridge, a group of young boys trained. Bare-chested, linen wraps around their fists, each wielding a bokken—a heavy wooden training sword. One of them collapsed, wind knocked out, as an instructor barked orders.
Ji-Hoon watched silently from the treeline.
Low stances: beginner forms.
Breathing under control—but not synced with their strikes.
None have awakened their Ki yet.
— Basic school. Entry-level training camp. Not a major sect.
He memorized every movement, every name shouted. The accents. The tones. The stances. Anything might be useful.
But now was not the time to approach. He had no name, no past, no faction.
He turned back.
And disappeared into the forest.
---
His objective was clear: understand before acting.
Observe before interacting.
Catalog before speaking.
The forest thickened. The trees were ancient, their trunks etched with invisible symbols. Wild herbs grew in clumps. He recognized a few from his studies: crescentgrass, split-moon root, dragonmint.
— Even the flora aligns with the Murim canon. This world isn't just a backdrop. It's alive.
He sat beneath a tree.
Closed his eyes.
And spoke the first rule of his survival:
"Remain unseen. Remain unbelieved.
As long as I am a child, I am a witness.
The moment I speak… I become a target."
He ran a hand along his chest, feeling for a hollow.
He found it—just beneath his left clavicle, a tender point.
The medallion was there. Invisible to the eye. Embedded in his flesh.
And yet… he could feel it pulsing.
He touched it mentally. A vibration. An interface. A whisper.
The Library of the Soul.
---
It didn't open yet.
But it answered.
With a single thought. A single phrase.
"Knowledge only exists if it is classified."
Ji-Hoon smiled.
And began to walk, slowly, in the direction opposite the training camp.
---
To be continued...