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Chapter 2 - Chapter 2: The Light That Burned

Flashback: Twenty Years Ago, At The Start of His Transmigation

The training grounds of the Orthodox Faction's Jade Lotus Sect were a mockery of peace, their cherry blossoms drifting like lies on the wind. Kang Woojin knelt in the dirt, his body a canvas of bruises, his ragged tunic stained with blood from a split lip. At sixteen, he was the sect's mongrel—a nameless orphan taken in out of pity, only to be reminded daily of his worthlessness. The senior disciples' laughter still echoed in his ears, their taunts of "dog" and "trash" cutting deeper than their fists. His hands clenched the earth, nails digging into the soil, as he fought the urge to scream.

A shadow fell over him, soft but commanding. He flinched, expecting another blow, but instead a voice cut through the haze—clear, sharp, like a blade tempered in starlight. "Why do you stay here, boy?" it asked. "They'll never see you as anything but filth."

Woojin looked up, his breath catching. Cheon Reonhwa stood before him, her black robes flowing like liquid night, her silver hair tied loosely, catching the sunlight. Her eyes, sharp and amber, held no pity—only curiosity, as if he were a puzzle she intended to solve. The 72nd Heavenly Demon Patriarch, a figure of terror whispered about in the sect's halls, was kneeling beside him, her presence a defiance of the world that crushed him.

"I… have nowhere else," Woojin muttered, wiping blood from his mouth. His voice was hoarse, bitter. "I'm nothing."

Reonhwa tilted her head, her gaze piercing. "Nothing?" She reached out, her fingers brushing his cheek, leaving a warmth that made his heart stutter. "You're alive. That's enough."

That moment marked the beginning.

Their first months were not of love but of learning. Reonhwa, defying the sect's elders, took Woojin as her disciple—not officially, for that would invite their wrath, but in secret, under moonlight in forgotten corners of the sect's grounds. She taught him the foundations of the Demonic Arts, not the forbidden techniques that had made her a legend, but the philosophy: defiance, resilience, the rejection of chains. "The Orthodox path is a cage," she told him one night, her voice low as they sat by a hidden stream. "They call it righteousness, but it's just control. True strength lies in breaking free."

Woojin listened, his heart pounding not just from her words but from her presence. She was a storm, fierce and untamed, yet her touch was gentle when she corrected his stance or adjusted his grip on a wooden sword. Her rare smiles, fleeting as a comet, became his anchor. He was a mongrel, unworthy of her attention, yet she saw him—not as a tool or a burden, but as a person.

Their bond deepened in stolen moments. A shared glance during a sect gathering, her eyes finding his amidst the crowd of sneering disciples. A brush of her hand when passing him a scroll, her fingers lingering a heartbeat too long. Woojin, who'd known only rejection, began to feel something dangerous: hope. He trained harder, not for the sect but for her, pushing his frail body to its limits. His qi, weak and stagnant, began to stir under her guidance, a faint ember where there had been none.

One night, a year into their secret lessons, they sparred in a bamboo grove, the moonlight casting shadows like blades. Reonhwa moved like a phantom, her wooden sword a blur, forcing Woojin to block or be struck. He stumbled, his breath ragged, but managed to parry a blow, earning a nod from her. "Better," she said, lowering her sword. "You're not hopeless."

He grinned, panting. "High praise from the Heavenly Demon."

Her lips twitched, almost a smile. "Don't get cocky, mongrel." But there was no venom in the word, only warmth. She stepped closer, inspecting a bruise on his arm from her strike. Her fingers traced it, light as a feather, and Woojin froze, his heart a drum in his chest. "You push yourself too hard," she murmured. "For what?"

"For you," he blurted, then flushed, cursing his stupidity. But Reonhwa didn't laugh or pull away. Her eyes softened, and for the first time, he saw vulnerability in the woman who'd faced down armies.

"Then don't die," she said quietly. "I'd hate to lose my only decent student."

Their love bloomed slowly, a fragile thing in a world that despised it. The Orthodox Faction loathed Reonhwa, tolerating her only because her power kept rival sects at bay. As the 72nd Heavenly Demon Patriarch, she was a necessary evil, a blade they wielded but never trusted. Woojin, the mongrel, was beneath contempt, and their growing closeness drew whispers. Disciples sneered, elders glared, and the air grew heavy with suspicion.

They stole moments where they could. A hidden alcove where they shared rice wine under starlight, her laughter soft as she recounted battles from her youth. A quiet meadow where she taught him the Shadow Veil Step, her body pressed close as she guided his movements. Each touch, each glance, was a rebellion against the sect's rules. Woojin's love for her was no boyish crush—it was a fire that consumed him, born from her belief in him when no one else cared. Reonhwa, for all her strength, was human beneath her legend, and he saw it in her quiet moments: the way her hands trembled after a duel, the way her eyes lingered on him when she thought he wasn't looking.

Their first kiss was desperate, born of fear. It was three years after they'd met, in a rain-soaked forest after escaping an ambush by Unorthodox Sect assassins. Reonhwa had fought them off, her Black Lotus Strike reducing their attackers to ash, but a poisoned dagger had grazed her arm. Woojin, frantic, bandaged her wound with his torn sleeve, his hands shaking. "You can't die," he whispered, echoing her words from years ago. "Not you."

She grabbed his collar, pulling him close, and kissed him, her lips fierce and warm against the cold rain. "I won't," she said, her voice a vow. "Not while you're here."

From that night, their love was a secret war. They met in shadows, their moments of passion stolen between training and battles. Woojin's qi grew stronger, his body no longer frail, his movements sharper under her tutelage. But the sect's eyes were everywhere. Elders whispered of heresy, of the mongrel tainting their weapon. Reonhwa's enemies—within and without—saw their bond as a weakness to exploit.

The end came swiftly, like a blade to the throat. Five years after they'd met, the Orthodox Faction's Council of Elders summoned Reonhwa to the Grand Hall. Woojin, now twenty-one and a disciple in name only, was barred from attending. He waited outside, his heart pounding, sensing the trap. Reonhwa had warned him the night before, her voice low as they lay together in a hidden cave. "They fear me," she'd said, her fingers tracing his chest. "They always have. But I won't bow."

He'd held her tighter, his voice fierce. "Then we fight. Together."

She'd smiled, sad and knowing. "You're not ready for their kind of war, Woojin. Not yet."

When the screams began, Woojin broke through the hall's doors, his qi flaring wildly. The sight stopped his heart. Reonhwa stood at the center, surrounded by a dozen elders, their swords drawn, their qi blazing. Blood dripped from her arm, her side, her lips, but she stood tall, her Black Lotus Blade in hand, its edge glowing with demonic qi. The hall was a slaughterhouse—bodies of lesser disciples littered the floor, proof of her defiance.

"Heretic!" Elder Han roared, his sword radiating celestial light. "You've corrupted our sect long enough!"

Reonhwa laughed, a sound of pure defiance. "Corrupted? I've only shown you what you fear—truth."

Woojin charged, his wooden sword snapping against an elder's blade. He was no match for them, not yet, but he fought anyway, his qi a weak flicker against their might. Reonhwa's eyes met his, a silent command: Stay back. But he couldn't. He wouldn't.

The elders struck as one, their combined qi a tidal wave. Reonhwa countered with the Demonic Tempest, a storm of black qi that shattered their formation, but there were too many. A blade pierced her chest, another her back. She staggered, blood pooling beneath her, yet still she fought, her Black Lotus Blade claiming two more lives before she fell to her knees.

Woojin screamed, his voice raw, and threw himself at the elders, only to be thrown back by a blast of qi. He hit the ground, his vision swimming, and crawled to her, ignoring the pain. Reonhwa's hand found his, her grip weak but warm. "Live, Woojin," she whispered, blood staining her lips. "Defy them. For me."

Her eyes, once so fierce, dimmed. Her hand went limp. The light that had saved him was gone.

Woojin knelt beside her body, the hall silent save for the elders' heavy breathing. They expected him to break, to beg. Instead, he stood, Reonhwa's pendant clutched in his hand, its silver chain stained with her blood. His qi, once weak, surged, a black flame born of grief and rage. The elders stepped back, sensing the shift.

"You took her," he said, his voice a low growl, no longer the mongrel's but something darker. "Now I'll take everything."

He turned and walked away, the pendant his only anchor. That day, Kang Woojin died. The man who left the hall was Cheon Hajin, and the Demonic Path was his only road.

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