The landslide came without warning.
Lee Minho had been standing near the edge of the trail, hands shoved deep in his pockets, watching his classmates take photos with their phones. The autumn leaves in Seoraksan were supposed to be beautiful this time of year—that's what Mrs. Park had said on the bus. But Minho hadn't bothered to look at them. He'd been too busy counting the minutes until they could leave.
Kim Junho had been mid-laugh, arm draped around Song Yuna's shoulders, when the mountain groaned. The sound was deep, primal—like the earth itself was tearing in half. Minho remembered turning, seeing the wall of mud and rock rushing toward them, and thinking, distantly, that this was a stupid way to die.
Then there was nothing.
Then there was everything.
He'd woken in a forest that smelled wrong. The air was thick with something he couldn't name—not just humidity, but a kind of pressure that made his bones ache. The trees were too tall, their trunks twisted in ways that defied geometry. And when he'd stumbled to his feet, legs shaking, he'd found his classmates already moving.
They hadn't waited for him.
Junho had been at the front of the group, naturally. Even in death—or whatever this was—he'd taken charge. "We need to find civilization," he'd said, voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. "Stay together. Help each other."
He'd looked right past Minho when he said it.
The others had followed Junho's lead. They always did. Park Minjae, who'd copied Minho's homework for two years without ever saying thank you. Choi Sera, who'd once told the entire class that Minho smelled like old kimchi. Lee Hyunwoo, who'd tripped him in the hallway just last week.
They'd gathered their things—backpacks, phones that no longer worked, a first aid kit—and started walking. North, Junho had decided, because that's where he thought he'd heard water.
Minho had stood there, watching them leave. Waiting for someone to notice he wasn't following. Waiting for someone to call his name.
No one had.
So he'd gone south.
-----
The sect had been dead for a long time.
Minho had found it three days later, half-delirious from hunger and thirst. The entrance was collapsed, buried under decades of creeping vines and moss. But there was a gap—just wide enough for someone desperate and small—and Minho had squeezed through without thinking.
Inside, the air was cool and still. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light that pierced through cracks in the ceiling. The main hall was vast, with pillars carved from black stone that seemed to drink in the shadows. Statues lined the walls—warriors in fierce poses, their faces worn smooth by time.
At the far end, on a throne of crumbling marble, sat an old man.
He was skeletal, his robes hanging loose on a frame that looked like it might collapse at any moment. His hair was white and wild, his beard reaching nearly to his waist. But his eyes—his eyes were sharp and dark and alive.
"You're late," the old man had said, his voice like gravel scraping against stone.
Minho had stared at him. "I… what?"
"I've been waiting three hundred years for a disciple, boy. You're late."
And that had been that.
The old man's name was Cheon Ma—the Heavenly Demon. He'd been the sect leader of the Heavenly Demon Sect, once the most feared power in the murim. But that was before the purge, before the righteous sects had banded together to destroy everything he'd built. They'd killed his disciples, burned his manuals, shattered his cultivation base. They'd left him here to rot, thinking death would claim him before he could recover.
They'd been wrong.
Cheon Ma had survived through sheer spite and a cultivation technique so forbidden that speaking its name could get you killed. And now, after centuries of waiting, he had Minho.
"You have good bones," Cheon Ma had said on that first day, reaching out to grasp Minho's wrist. His fingers were cold, impossibly strong. "Meridians like rivers. A mind unburdened by righteousness." He'd smiled then, revealing teeth stained yellow with age. "Yes. You'll do."
Minho hadn't understood what any of that meant. But he'd been hungry, and alone, and the old man had offered him food and shelter and purpose. So he'd said yes.
That had been ten years ago.
-----
The Wulin Alliance army stretched across the valley like a stain.
From his position on the ridge, Minho could see their banners fluttering in the morning breeze—white and gold, the colors of righteousness. There were thousands of them, maybe tens of thousands. Disciples from the Mount Hua Sect, the Shaolin Temple, the Wudang Clan, the Qingcheng Sect. Every major power in the murim had sent their best.
They were all here to kill him.
Behind Minho, the Heavenly Demon Sect stood in perfect formation. His sect. His disciples. Men and women he'd trained himself, forged in blood and fire until they were sharp enough to cut the world. They wore black robes trimmed with crimson, their faces hidden behind demon masks. There were fewer of them—maybe five thousand at most—but they didn't need numbers.
They had him.
"Supreme Leader," said Baek Yeon, his second-in-command, as she approached. She was tall and lean, with a scar that ran from her left eye to her jaw—a gift from the Mount Hua Sect's sword saint, before Minho had killed him. "The scouts report the Empire's forces are approaching from the east. They'll be here within the hour."
Minho nodded, not taking his eyes off the valley. The Empire had stayed neutral for most of the war, content to let the sects tear each other apart. But now that the Heavenly Demon Sect controlled half the murim, they'd finally decided to act. Better late than never, he supposed.
"Let them come," he said. "We'll kill them all the same."
Baek Yeon didn't respond. She knew better than to question him. But Minho could feel the weight of her gaze, could sense the question she wouldn't ask: *Can we win this?*
The answer was yes. Because Minho had never lost.
He'd spent ten years under Cheon Ma's tutelage, learning techniques that had been lost for centuries. The Heavenly Demon Divine Art, which allowed him to absorb the qi of his enemies and make it his own. The Thousand Transformations Palm, which could shatter mountains with a single strike. The Blood Shadow Step, which let him move faster than the eye could follow.
But those were just the foundation. Minho's real talent—his true gift—was adaptation. He could watch a martial art once and understand its principles. He could fight an opponent and learn their techniques mid-battle, then surpass them. He could create new arts on the spot, combining styles in ways that shouldn't be possible.
Cheon Ma had called him a once-in-a-millennium genius. The murim called him the Supreme Demon.
Minho just called it survival.
"They're moving," Baek Yeon said, pointing toward the valley.
The Wulin Alliance was advancing. Their front line was a wall of shields and spears, behind which marched the sword cultivators. Minho could see the clan leaders at the center—the Wudang Clan's patriarch, the Shaolin abbot, the Mount Hua Sect's new leader.
And at the very front, riding a white horse, was Kim Junho.
He'd changed since their school days. Gone was the baby fat, the easy smile, the casual cruelty of a teenager who'd never known hardship. Now he was hard, lean, his face carved from stone. He wore the white robes of the Alliance Leader, a golden phoenix emblazoned on his chest. His sword hung at his side, its hilt wrapped in blue silk.
He looked like a hero.
Minho felt his lips curl into a smile.
"Should we meet them on the field?" Baek Yeon asked.
"No," Minho said. "Let them come to us. Make them climb."
The ridge they held was steep, the approach narrow. The Alliance would have to funnel their forces through chokepoints, negating their numerical advantage. It was basic tactics, the kind of thing Minho had learned from Sun Tzu back when he still had access to his phone.
Baek Yeon bowed and withdrew, shouting orders to the formation leaders. The Heavenly Demon Sect disciples shifted, adjusting their lines, readying their weapons. Minho could feel their qi thrumming in the air—five thousand hearts beating as one, five thousand wills bent to his command.
He'd built this. From nothing, from the ruins of a dead sect, he'd created the strongest power in the murim. And now the world wanted to tear it down.
Let them try.
-----
The battle began at noon.
The Wulin Alliance came in waves, their disciples charging up the slope with weapons raised and war cries on their lips. The first wave died within minutes, cut down by the Heavenly Demon Sect's archers. The second wave made it further, reaching the defensive line before being pushed back. The third wave broke through in three places, and for a moment, the ridge was chaos—steel on steel, blood on stone, screams swallowed by the roar of battle.
Minho watched from above, standing on a outcropping of rock that gave him a clear view of the field. He didn't move. Didn't need to. His disciples were well-trained, disciplined, efficient. They killed without hesitation, without mercy, because that's what he'd taught them.
Mercy was for the weak. And the weak died.
"MINHO!"
The voice cut through the din like a blade. Minho turned, looking down toward the center of the battlefield, and saw Junho pushing through the crowd. His sword was drawn, its edge slick with blood. His robes were torn, his face twisted with rage.
Behind him came the elite of the Wulin Alliance—the best fighters from every major sect. They moved as a unit, cutting through Minho's disciples like wheat before a scythe.
"Clear a path," Minho said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The command rippled out through the sect, passed from disciple to disciple through a technique that Cheon Ma had taught him. Within seconds, his forces pulled back, creating a corridor that led straight to where Minho stood.
Junho didn't hesitate. He charged forward, his sword blazing with white light—the qi of the righteous, pure and untainted. The Alliance elites followed, their weapons raised.
Minho waited until they were close enough to see his eyes. Then he moved.
The Blood Shadow Step carried him down the slope in an instant, his body a blur of black and red. He appeared in front of Junho, one hand already moving in the opening form of the Thousand Transformations Palm.
Junho's sword came up to block, but Minho's palm struck the flat of the blade with enough force to shatter steel. The sword held—barely—but the impact sent Junho flying backward, his body tumbling through the air before he hit the ground hard enough to leave a crater.
The Alliance elites attacked as one. Three sword strikes, two palm techniques, one leg sweep—all perfectly coordinated, all aimed to kill. Minho flowed between them like water, his body moving in ways that shouldn't be possible. He caught one sword between his fingers, snapped it in half, drove the broken blade into its owner's throat. He deflected a palm strike with his elbow, then countered with a punch that caved in his opponent's chest. He twisted around the leg sweep, caught the attacker's ankle, and threw him into two of his companions.
Five seconds. Seven dead.
The survivors backed away, fear finally breaking through their training. Minho stood among the corpses, his robes unstained despite the blood coating the ground. He hadn't even used his full strength.
"Pathetic," he said.
Junho climbed to his feet, spitting blood. His sword was still in his hand, though Minho could see the cracks spreading through the blade. "You monster," Junho said. "Do you have any idea how many people you've killed? How many families you've destroyed?"
Minho tilted his head. "Do you?"
"What?"
"You and your precious Alliance," Minho said, walking toward him slowly. "You've burned villages because you suspected them of sheltering my disciples. You've executed entire sects because they refused to join your crusade. You've killed children, Junho. Children who had nothing to do with this war."
Junho's jaw clenched. "That was… collateral damage. Necessary sacrifices for the greater good."
"Ah," Minho said. "The greater good. Is that what you call it?"
He was close now, close enough to see the sweat on Junho's brow, the tremor in his hands. Close enough to kill him.
"You want to talk about morals?" Minho continued. "About right and wrong? In this world, Junho, there is only one rule: the strong live, and the weak die. That's it. Everything else—honor, justice, righteousness—those are just stories the strong tell themselves to sleep better at night."
"You're wrong," Junho said, his voice shaking. "There has to be more than that. There has to be—"
"There isn't."
Minho's palm shot forward, faster than thought, and struck Junho in the chest. The impact sent a shockwave rippling across the battlefield, and Junho's body lifted off the ground, suspended for a moment by the force of the blow.
Then he fell, gasping, blood trickling from his mouth.
"Do you remember the field trip?" Minho asked, standing over him. "Do you remember how you all just… left me? Not one of you looked back. Not one of you asked if I was coming."
Junho stared up at him, eyes wide. "Minho, I—"
"You were always like this," Minho said. "Even back then. You only cared about people as long as they were useful to you. As long as they could make you look good." He crouched down, bringing his face level with Junho's. "You haven't changed. You're still the same selfish little bully you always were. You've just found a way to dress it up as heroism."
"At least I'm trying," Junho spat. "At least I'm fighting for something."
"You're fighting because you're scared," Minho said. "Scared that I'm stronger than you. Scared that everything you believe is a lie." He stood, looking down at Junho with something that might have been pity. "But don't worry. You won't have to be scared much longer."
He raised his hand, qi gathering in his palm. Black lightning crackled between his fingers, and the air grew thick with the scent of ozone.
"No mortal is my equal," Minho said.
Junho's eyes hardened. Blood dripped from his mouth as he smiled—actually smiled. "What about an immortal?"
Minho froze.
The sky fractured.
That was the only way to describe it. One moment the heavens were whole, blue and cloudless and vast. The next, they were broken—jagged lines of golden light spreading like cracks in glass, radiating out from a single point directly above the battlefield.
The fighting stopped. Every warrior, from both sides, looked up in horror and awe as the cracks widened, as something behind them began to emerge.
A man.
He descended slowly, as if walking down invisible stairs, his robes rippling in a wind that didn't exist. He was beautiful in the way a sword was beautiful—sharp, perfect, untouched by anything as mundane as age or wear. His hair was black and fell past his shoulders, held back by a silver circlet. His eyes glowed with inner light, pale gold like the sun at dawn.
He wasn't just powerful. He was *beyond* power. The qi radiating from him was so dense that Minho felt his knees buckle, felt the weight of it pressing down on him like the hand of god.
A cultivator.
Minho had heard stories, of course. Legends about immortals who transcended the mortal realm, who could fly without wings and live for thousands of years. But they were just that—legends. Myths. The kind of stories old masters told to impress their disciples.
Except now one was standing right in front of him.
The cultivator looked down at the battlefield, his expression serene. When he spoke, his voice carried across the valley without effort, clear as a bell.
"The Heavenly Demon Sect has grown too strong," he said. "This cannot be allowed to continue."
He raised one hand.
Minho moved on instinct, channeling every technique he knew, every scrap of qi he possessed, into a defensive barrier. Black light erupted around him, layer upon layer of protective formations that could have stopped anything the murim could throw at him.
The cultivator flicked his wrist.
The barrier shattered like glass. The force of the technique—Minho didn't even know what to call it—hit him with the weight of mountains. His bones cracked. His meridians ruptured. Blood poured from his mouth, his nose, his eyes. He felt his body being torn apart from the inside, felt his qi scattering like smoke in the wind.
He hit the ground hard enough to leave an impact crater. Around him, his disciples screamed. Some tried to run. Most died where they stood, crushed by the cultivator's technique, which spread across the battlefield like a wave of golden light.
Minho tried to stand. Couldn't. His legs wouldn't respond. He could barely breathe, each inhale sending spikes of agony through his chest.
The cultivator descended until he stood just a few feet away. Up close, he looked even less human—his skin was flawless, unmarked by scars or blemishes, as if he'd never known pain or hardship.
"You fought well," the cultivator said, his tone almost kind. "For a mortal."
"Fuck… you…" Minho managed to gasp out.
The cultivator smiled faintly. Then he placed one finger on Minho's forehead.
Everything went white.
-----
Minho died cursing.
He cursed the cultivator, for being a cheat, for existing at all. He cursed Junho and the Wulin Alliance and every righteous sect that had ever drawn breath. He cursed this world, this stupid world that he'd thought he understood.
Murim. He'd thought this was a murim world, where strength was measured in martial arts and qi techniques, where the strongest could carve out their own destiny through will and skill.
He'd been wrong. This was a cultivation world, where people could ascend beyond mortality, where the rules he'd learned meant nothing. And no one had told him. No one had warned him that there was another level, another tier of power so far above his own that he might as well have been an ant.
His last thought, before the darkness took him, was one of pure, impotent rage.
*It's not fair.*
Then nothing.
Then—
-----
Pain.
Minho gasped, his eyes flying open. He was lying on his back, staring up at a ceiling made of dark wood. The air smelled different—cleaner, somehow, tinged with incense and something floral. His body ached, but it was a dull, distant ache, nothing like the agony of his death.
He sat up slowly, his hands sinking into silk sheets. He was in a bed—a very expensive bed, he noted distantly—in a room that was larger than the entire dormitory he'd shared with his disciples. Scrolls hung on the walls, depicting mountains and dragons and battles between heroes. Jade ornaments lined the shelves. A bronze mirror stood in the corner.
The style was familiar. Minho had seen rooms like this before, in the manors of wealthy merchants and minor nobles. The kind of people who lived on the edges of the murim, who had money but no real power.
Minho stumbled out of bed, his legs shaky, and made his way to the mirror.
The face staring back at him was not his own.
It was younger, softer, with delicate features and skin so pale it was almost translucent. Long black hair fell past his shoulders, and his eyes—his eyes were a strange reddish-brown, like amber touched by firelight.
He was wearing robes of deep blue silk, embroidered with silver cranes. They fit perfectly, tailored to a body that wasn't his.
Minho opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"What the fuck," he said.
The voice that came out was higher than his own, more refined, with an accent he didn't recognize.
Before he could process any of this, the door burst open. A young woman rushed in, her face pale with worry. She wore the simple robes of a servant, and her hair was pulled back in a practical bun.
"Young Master Wu!" she said, falling to her knees. "You're awake! Thank the heavens, you're awake!"
Minho stared at her. Young Master Wu? He knew that name. Wu. One of the Seven Royal Families of the Empire—powerful clans that ruled territories the size of small kingdoms. They stayed out of murim affairs for the most part, dealing with politics and trade instead of martial arts. Minho had heard of them, even encountered a few merchants who claimed connections to the families, but he'd never paid them much attention.
They were just rich people. Nothing more.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked.
The woman's eyes widened. "Young Master, it's me—Mei Ling. Your personal attendant." She hesitated, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Do you… do you not remember?"
Remember what? Minho wanted to ask. But before he could speak, a flood of memories that weren't his own crashed into his mind.
Wu Chen. That was this body's name. Youngest son of the Wu Clan, one of the Seven Royal Families that ruled the empire alongside the imperial court. The Wu Clan controlled the eastern provinces, their wealth built on trade routes and iron mines.
But there was more. Hidden beneath the surface of merchant princes and political marriages was another truth: the Wu Clan were cultivators. Not powerful ones—they were trapped in what Wu Chen's fragmented memories called the "Lower Realm," unable to ascend to the higher planes where true immortals dwelled. But they cultivated nonetheless, practicing techniques passed down through generations, hoarding spiritual stones and rare herbs.
It was a secret. The common people of the empire, the martial artists of the murim—they didn't know. To them, the Seven Royal Families were just wealthy nobles who stayed in their mansions and played political games. They didn't know about cultivation, about spiritual roots, about the invisible hierarchy that separated mortals from those who could touch the heavens.
Three months ago, Wu Chen had made a mistake.
He'd been at a banquet hosted by the Zhao Clan, another of the Seven Royal Families. He'd gotten drunk on spirit wine—wine infused with qi that would have killed a normal person—and tried to impress Zhao Mei, the Zhao patriarch's daughter. He'd said some things he shouldn't have, made some promises he couldn't keep, and ended up challenging her betrothed to a duel.
The betrothed was Zhao Lin, a genius cultivator at the Foundation Establishment stage. Wu Chen had only just reached the third level of Qi Condensation.
The duel had lasted less than a minute. Zhao Lin had crippled Wu Chen's cultivation, shattering his dantian and scattering his qi. It wasn't just a physical injury—it was a spiritual death sentence. Without a functioning dantian, Wu Chen could never cultivate again. He was, for all intents and purposes, a mortal now.
The Wu Clan had been furious. Not because their son was hurt, but because he'd brought them shame. They'd banished him to the outer courts, stripped him of his position as a potential heir, and made it clear that unless he could somehow repair his dantian—an impossibility, according to every text Wu Chen had ever read—he would never be welcome in the main family again.
Wu Chen, unable to face the humiliation, had drunk poison two days ago.
And now Minho was here, in this body, in this world that had killed him once already.
"Young Master?" Mei Ling asked, her voice trembling. "Are you alright?"
Minho looked at her, at this stranger kneeling before him, at this room that wasn't his, at this life that wasn't his.
He thought about the cultivator who'd killed him. About the power gap that had rendered all his training, all his achievements, meaningless. About how he'd died without even understanding what world he was really in.
And now he was back. In a world with cultivators. In a body that belonged to a cultivation family—even if they were weak, even if they were stuck in some "Lower Realm." He was back in the same type of world that had killed him, this time with knowledge of what truly existed beyond the mortal martial arts.
He thought about starting over from scratch, in a body that was apparently crippled, in a family that had already given up on him.
And then, despite everything—or perhaps because of it—Lee Minho began to laugh.
It wasn't a happy laugh. It was the laugh of someone who'd been told the same joke twice and still didn't find it funny. The laugh of someone who'd just realized the game was rigged, but decided to play anyway.
Mei Ling stared at him, clearly terrified that he'd gone mad.
Maybe he had.
"Young Master Wu Chen," Minho said, testing the name on his tongue. It tasted wrong, but he supposed he'd get used to it. He looked down at his hands—soft, uncalloused, useless. "Tell me something, Mei Ling. How long was I unconscious?"
"T-two days, Young Master," she stammered. "Since you… since the poison."
Two days. Wu Chen had been dead for two days, and Minho had been dead for… how long? There was no way to know. Time might work differently between death and rebirth, or maybe the cultivator's technique had simply obliterated him so thoroughly that there was nothing left but consciousness, waiting for a new vessel.
"And my family?" Minho asked. "Have they visited?"
Mei Ling's expression answered before her words did. "The Patriarch sent a physician to ensure you survived, Young Master. But he… he said it would be best if you recovered in privacy."
Translation: they didn't care. As long as he didn't die and bring them more shame, they were content to ignore him.
Minho nodded slowly. "I see."
He walked back to the bed and sat down, his mind racing. Wu Chen's memories were fragmentary, incomplete—the poison and the trauma had damaged them—but he had enough to understand his situation.
He was crippled. His dantian was shattered, his cultivation destroyed. In this world, that made him worse than useless. He was a burden, a reminder of failure, a stain on the Wu Clan's reputation.
But Minho had been in worse situations. He'd started from nothing once before, when he'd stumbled into that ruined sect, alone and abandoned. He'd built himself into the strongest power in the murim through sheer will and talent.
And now he knew the truth. Now he knew that the murim was just the surface, that there were cultivators hidden in the shadows, that the real power in this world came from something beyond martial arts.
"Mei Ling," he said. "Bring me everything this estate has on cultivation. Books, manuals, anything. I don't care if they're basic or outdated. I want to read them all."
The servant girl blinked. "Young Master, you cannot cultivate anymore. The physician said—"
"I didn't ask what the physician said," Minho interrupted, his voice cold. "I asked you to bring me books. Can you do that, or do I need to find someone more capable?"
Mei Ling flinched at his tone. The old Wu Chen had been weak, pathetic, prone to crying and self-pity. This was different. This was the voice of someone who expected to be obeyed.
"I… yes, Young Master," she said, bowing quickly. "I'll bring them immediately."
"Good," Minho said. "And Mei Ling? Don't tell anyone about this conversation. If the family asks, tell them I'm still recovering and prefer not to be disturbed."
She nodded and hurried out, closing the door behind her.
Alone again, Minho lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.
He was in a cultivation world. A world where people could shatter the sky and kill with a gesture. A world where the rules of the murim meant nothing.
But he was also in the body of Wu Chen, a disgraced young master with a shattered dantian and no future.
Most people would give up. Most people would accept their fate, live out their days in quiet obscurity, maybe find some comfort in a normal life.
But Lee Minho had never been most people.
He'd clawed his way up from nothing once. He'd become the Supreme Demon, the strongest martial artist in the murim, feared by thousands.
And if cultivators thought they were beyond his reach?
Well.
They'd thought that about the Heavenly Demon Sect too.
Minho smiled in the darkness of Wu Chen's room, his new face stretching in an expression that would have terrified Mei Ling if she'd been there to see it.
He'd died once to ignorance. It wouldn't happen again.
This time, he'd learn the rules. He'd master cultivation, even with a broken dantian. He'd climb higher than any of these so-called immortals.
And when he reached the top?
He'd find that cultivator who killed him.
And he'd return the favor.