The rain had stopped, but the streets still smelled of wet ash and fish guts.
Jin Horyeong moved fast, clutching the bamboo case to his chest as if it were the only thing keeping him alive—which, as far as he could tell, it was.
Behind him, the shouts of the Eastern Blade Alliance grew louder. They weren't even trying to be subtle now. The thud of boots splashing through puddles echoed off the alley walls.
Horyeong ducked between two buildings, breathing hard. The alley ended in a brick wall slick with moss. He swore under his breath.
"You've run yourself into a corner, beggar."
The voice came from above. A man in a soaked blue robe crouched on the tiled roof, his sword gleaming in the faint light from the street. Two more stepped into the alley behind Horyeong, blocking the way out.
"Hand over the case," the man on the roof said, "and maybe we'll just break your arms instead of your neck."
Horyeong glanced at the wall. Too high to climb before they reached him. His eyes darted left, then right—nothing but stacked barrels and a sleeping dog.
He forced a grin. "You really think I'm scared of three guys in matching pajamas?"
One of the men at the alley's mouth charged. Horyeong sidestepped, aiming to slip past, but the man was faster than he expected. A callused hand clamped onto his shoulder and yanked him back.
Pain flared as the swordsman twisted his arm. "Last chance, beggar—"
It happened then. A strange, humming pressure built in Horyeong's chest, like holding his breath too long, but without the urge to exhale. The bamboo case in his arms seemed to pulse faintly, a warmth spreading from it into his skin.
Images flashed in his mind—movements, stances, breathing patterns—but in reverse. A kick that started at the end and rewound into the stance. A block that unfolded backward like an untying knot. His muscles tensed, then loosened in ways he didn't understand.
Before he could think, his body moved.
He stepped forward, but instead of striking, his arm bent back at an odd angle, his hand brushing his own shoulder. The swordsman's grip slipped, confused by the sudden shift, and Horyeong spun—not forward into the man's guard, but backward into his blind spot.
His heel came down sharply on the man's shin, not with the power of a clean strike but with an awkward, jarring weight that sent the man's knee buckling. The swordsman collapsed with a startled grunt, dropping his weapon.
"What the hell—?" the second man began, lunging forward.
Again, the reverse images filled Horyeong's mind, and he mimicked them without question. He stepped into the man's strike after it should have landed, twisting his torso in a way that seemed wrong to every instinct he had. Somehow, the blade scraped harmlessly along his sleeve.
Before the man could recover, Horyeong swept his leg—not to knock him down, but to catch his ankle mid-step. The man's own forward momentum sent him sprawling face-first into the muddy ground.
The one on the roof leapt down, landing with the grace of a cat. His sword flashed toward Horyeong's neck. This time, there was no clear image in Horyeong's head, no perfectly rewound technique. Only the pressure, the strange warmth, and a deep, stubborn refusal to die.
He ducked, feeling the blade pass through the space where his head had been, and shoved the bamboo case under his robe. Then he ran.
---
The alleys twisted like a maze, and Horyeong took every turn without thinking, letting his instincts lead him. At last, the shouts faded, replaced by the low murmur of the river.
He stumbled into a narrow quay where fishing boats bobbed in the dark water. A lone ferryman sat by a lantern, chewing on a piece of dried squid.
"Need a ride?" the man asked without looking up.
Horyeong hesitated. Getting on the river meant vanishing fast… but it also meant no way to change course if his pursuers guessed his route.
Before he could answer, the sound of splashing boots echoed again.
"Yes," he said quickly, tossing the ferryman a coin. "Now."
The ferryman shrugged, pocketed the coin, and pushed the boat away from the dock with a long pole. The lantern's glow faded into the mist as they drifted into the main current.
Horyeong sat hunched in the prow, his heart pounding. He pulled the bamboo case from his robe and stared at it.
The case was plain, unadorned, its bamboo slats bound with faded red cord. There was no lock, just a simple sliding latch.
He hesitated. Pung had told him to keep it safe, not to open it. But Pung was probably dead by now… and those strange movements in the alley hadn't come from nowhere.
He slid the latch open.
Inside was a single scroll, its silk wrapping frayed with age. The title was written in thin, spidery calligraphy:
"The Reverse Path Manual – First Scroll."
Beneath the title, smaller characters read: One must unlearn the world before learning the self.
Horyeong unrolled the first section. Instead of neat diagrams and instructions, the text seemed… wrong. Stances began with their final pose and worked backward into the opening move. Breathing patterns started with exhalation instead of inhalation. Even the illustrations were reversed, like mirror images.
He tried mimicking the first stance. His legs crossed in an awkward angle, weight balanced on the heel instead of the ball of the foot. It felt unstable—until he realized that any attempt to shove him forward caused his body to naturally roll back into balance.
The ferryman glanced at him over his shoulder. "Practicing dance moves?"
"Something like that," Horyeong muttered, rolling the scroll shut.
---
By dawn, they reached a smaller dock on the northern outskirts of the city. Horyeong paid the ferryman with the last of his coins and slipped into the trees before anyone could spot him.
He walked until the sun was high, then found a half-collapsed shrine to rest in. The roof was gone, but the walls offered some shelter from the wind.
He sat cross-legged on the cracked stone floor, the bamboo case in front of him. His stomach growled, but he ignored it.
Instead, he unrolled the scroll again and studied the first technique in detail.
It was called "Returning Step of the Crippled Crane." According to the scroll, the user must first imagine the moment after evading a strike, then let their body move in reverse to reach that moment naturally.
It made no sense. But when Horyeong closed his eyes and pictured himself having already dodged an attack, his muscles seemed to know where to go. He shifted his weight, slid one foot back, and felt the imaginary sword whistle past.
He practiced until his legs ached. Each repetition felt smoother, less like guessing and more like remembering something he'd forgotten.
---
The memory of Elder Pung's words gnawed at him: Sometimes the only way forward… is backwards.
It wasn't just a cryptic old man's rambling. It was the core of the technique. Move backward through the sequence, and you could bypass the natural hesitation, the time it took to decide. Your body simply was where it needed to be.
But why would the Beggar Sect keep something like this hidden? And why were powerful sects willing to kill for it?
The answer, he suspected, lay in the other scrolls—if there were other scrolls.
---
By the second night, Horyeong had made camp in the foothills beyond the city. The sky was clear, the stars bright. He sat by a small fire, roasting a stolen yam, when he heard movement in the dark.
He reached for a stick, cursing the fact that he didn't have a proper weapon.
A figure stepped into the firelight. It was Mistress Yeon.
"You run well," she said, looking him over. "Better than most beggars."
"How did you—"
"Find you?" She tapped her temple. "Information is a weapon. The Beggar Sect used to understand that."
Her eyes dropped to the bamboo case. "You opened it."
Horyeong didn't bother denying it. "Pung's probably dead. I figured it was worth the risk."
Yeon crouched beside the fire. "If you keep practicing that scroll, you'll grow strong fast. Strong enough to tempt yourself into thinking you can handle anyone."
"And I can't?"
"Not yet. And not alone." She glanced into the dark. "The Eastern Blade Alliance won't stop. Others will join them. You need allies—or a very deep hole to hide in."
Horyeong poked at the yam. "What about you? You helped me before."
Yeon's mouth curved in a faint smile. "Maybe I like underdogs. Or maybe I want to see if you can survive long enough to matter."
Before he could reply, a faint whistle cut through the night air. Yeon's expression sharpened. "We're out of time."
Shapes emerged from the darkness—half a dozen men, swords drawn, blue robes fluttering in the night wind.
Yeon stood, drawing twin daggers. "Stay behind me and remember your reverse steps."
Horyeong rose, heart hammering, as the swordsmen closed in. The warmth in his chest returned, stronger now, carrying the strange backward movements into his limbs.
For the first time, he didn't fight the feeling.
He stepped backward into the storm.