The world didn't scream.
It whispered.
Every leaf carried a secret. Every stone beneath his feet hid an era. Every animal cry, every rustle of grass, every breeze flowing between trees formed an invisible alphabet.
Ji-Hoon walked without a sound, barefoot, his breath synchronized with the wind.
He wasn't wandering at random.
He was traversing.
---
🜂 Air:
Slightly denser than Earth's. Filled with active particles. He could sense their vibration when inhaling deeply through the nose.
— High concentration of natural energy. Ambient Ki.
🜄 Earth:
Soft, yet rich. Red mushrooms growing in symbiosis with twisted tree roots. He recognized several medicinal species.
— Flora is useful. Environment is nourishing. First pillar of survival: forage.
🜁 Sky:
No aircraft, no satellites, no smoke trails. Slow-moving, well-formed clouds. Orientation possible via the sun.
— Solar calendar. Possibly pre-industrial. Classic Murim, undetermined era.
🜃 Sound:
Swords. Occasionally. Striking sounds. Training shouts. Repetitive.
No engines. No heavy metal.
— Nothing modern. Perfect consistency with an archaic martial world.
---
He climbed a low hill, laid down in the tall grass, and observed the valley below.
A domain.
Small. Fenced. Wooden.
Three houses, a storage shed, a training field, and a tiny shrine up the hill.
A martial family. Self-reliant. Structured.
He watched in silence for two hours.
Training routine
Guard shifts
Children's comings and goings
Visible hierarchy by posture: two adults command, the others obey
Nothing ostentatious.
No refined pavilion.
No sect arrogance.
— Minor family. Possibly a local clan, unaffiliated with a major sect.
---
He recorded the gestures, the movements.
He knew those forms.
Low Horse Stance
Three Breaths – Two Strikes – One Release
Red Tiger Style. Southern-western Murim influence.
He reviewed his mental map.
— I'm in a temperate forest region, far from major cities. Likely near the borders of the Nine Sects' territory.
He caught one name.
One name, shouted repeatedly by an injured boy in the yard:
"Patriarch Kang!"
Ji-Hoon blinked.
— Kang?
He searched his memory. The name wasn't rare, but he had read an obscure thesis on the Forgotten Branch of the Kang Clan, on a long-dead translation forum.
A family that never joined the Murim Alliance. Too discreet. Too independent.
And thus… perfect.
---
He slowly stood, then slipped back into the woods. He needed food.
He found a sweetblood chestnut bush—edible once roasted.
Collected roots he knew to be safe.
Filtered water using a pouch of boiled leaves.
His stomach protested faintly. Not yet used to the rhythm.
But his mind was calm.
He sat in the hollow of a fallen trunk and carved into the earth with a stick:
Day 0 – Observation
Environment = consistent.
Ambient energy = dense, alive.
Local faction = Kang, low apparent power.
Risks = low.
Opportunities = high.
Plan = remain invisible. Memorize. Wait for entry point.
Then he erased the message.
Always. Never leave a trace.
---
Night fell. The wind shifted.
He climbed a tree, tied branches together, formed a natural shelter.
And before closing his eyes, he instinctively touched his chest.
The medallion pulsed slowly.
Like a lantern in the dark.
But the library still didn't open.
Knowledge waits. The world tests.
I'm not ready to read. Not yet.
He fell asleep, dreamless.
And the forest, gently, accepted him.
---
To be continued…