One day, in a small tavern hidden in a corner of Jianghu, life went on as usual with a calm and familiar rhythm.
Martial artists from various sects gathered there—some came merely to fill their stomachs with simple fare, others to gulp down wine while laughing freely before continuing their journeys. But most came with a different purpose: to listen to an old storyteller famous throughout the entire region. The man, with a long whitened beard and eyes full of the light of experience, had devoted his life to narrating the legends of Murim—soul-stirring tales that inspired, frightened, and taught wisdom to anyone willing to listen.
His resonant and wisdom-filled voice filled every corner of the tavern, echoing with a power that made every word feel alive. He told his stories with complete immersion, as if he himself had witnessed every event he described. From classic tales about the formation of the magnificent Murim Alliance, to stranger and more mysterious stories—like a shabby beggar selling a legendary martial arts manual to an orphaned child who then became a great master. Every story carried a message, every legend brought a lesson, and every word that came from his mouth was met with enthusiasm by the listeners.
Various reactions arose as he recounted these tales. Some laughed loudly when hearing the ridiculous story of a master deceived by his own wife. Some cried with emotion upon hearing of a hero's sacrifice who gave his life to protect his village. There were also those who sat in silence, contemplating the meaning of every word spoken. The tavern was filled with dynamic energy, with emotions rising and falling following the rhythm of the stories being told.
Until at one point, after finishing a dramatic tale about the splitting of Mount Thaisan—a sacred mountain that supposedly could never be destroyed by ordinary humans—the old storyteller stopped. He took a deep breath, then uttered one name in a voice that was almost a whisper, yet clear enough to be heard by everyone in the tavern.
"Heavenly Demon."
Instantly, the entire tavern fell silent.
No more laughter. No more clinking glasses. No more light conversation. Everything stopped as if time had frozen. Even the sound of breathing felt too heavy to release. Everyone in the tavern—whether they were martial artists who had wandered to various places, or ordinary people who had simply come to eat—they all fell silent with expressions difficult to describe. A mixture of deep respect, suppressed fear, and something darker: collective trauma embedded deep within every soul that had ever heard that name.
No, it wasn't just a name. It was a title. A designation attached to a legendary figure whose name had become part of Murim history for over a thousand years. A title for someone directly connected to the splitting of Mount Thaisan, for the founder and absolute ruler of the Heavenly Demonic Cult, for a figure who had united the entire Murim under his rule with an iron fist and unmatched power.
Everyone knew who he was. Everyone respected him. Everyone feared him. And the reaction happening now was something very natural—even mandatory, one could say—for anyone who heard that name spoken.
The old storyteller wiped the sweat beginning to dampen his forehead. His hands trembled slightly, not from age, but from a fear he couldn't hide. He knew full well that telling stories about the Heavenly Demon was dangerous, that even just mentioning his name could be considered an impudent act. But he also knew this story had to be told, because it was part of Murim history that must not be forgotten.
After gathering his courage, he began to speak again, this time with a lower voice, more serious, and full of reverence.
"Heavenly Demon," he began in a tone almost like a prayer, "the absolute ruler of Murim for a thousand years. King of all kings. Emperor among emperors. Leader and founder of the Heavenly Demonic Cult that has stood firm for a thousand years. That is he. He is the figure capable of splitting Mount Thaisan with one swing of his legendary Heavenly Sword, a sword supposedly made from materials not of this world. He is also the one capable of leveling the Forest of Ten Thousand Beasts—a place even the strongest masters feared to enter—with one slash of his terrifying Demonic Blade. And he..." The storyteller paused momentarily, swallowing with difficulty before continuing, "...he who has killed five Divine Beasts with his own hands. The five sacred creatures regarded as protectors of the world, considered invincible, fell before him. He is our leader, our king, our emperor, and also..." He stopped again, and this time his voice was almost inaudible, "...our greatest fear."
His story continued like a beautiful dark poem, narrating the legend of the Heavenly Demon to everyone there with details that made their hair stand on end. He told how the Heavenly Demon rose to the pinnacle of power in brutal and merciless ways. How he destroyed anyone who dared oppose him. How he united the entire Murim under the banner of the Heavenly Demonic Cult with blood and fire. How he became a symbol of absolute power that could not be shaken by anyone, not even by an alliance of all the strongest sects combined.
Everyone listened intently, without diverting their attention even slightly. No one dared move. No one dared breathe too loudly. They were all as if hypnotized by the power of the words spoken, by the image of a figure so powerful, so terrifying, yet also so magnificent.
Until finally, after what felt like hours but was actually only a few minutes, the old storyteller closed his tale with a prostration full of honor and fear. He knelt on both knees, touched his forehead to the cold wooden floor, and recited a prayer that had become a mandatory ritual for anyone who mentioned the Heavenly Demon's name.
"Praise the Cult Lord. Praise His Majesty the Great Heavenly Demon..."
The phrase resonated with full reverence, and instantly, everyone in the tavern followed suit. They all prostrated several times, with uniform movements full of deep respect. Even the martial artists who usually took pride in their own strength, even those from sects not affiliated with the Heavenly Demonic Cult, all of them prostrated without hesitation. Because they knew there was no other choice. Because they knew that name wasn't just a name—it was power, it was law, it was an undeniable reality.
Even without his presence, they still honored and feared his name. Such was the influence of that name in Jianghu—no, in all of Murim—that scenes like this became commonplace, both among ordinary people and among martial arts masters who had reached the peak of their cultivation.
---
Meanwhile, far from that small tavern, in the heart of Murim's power, within the magnificent and fearsome Heavenly Demonic Cult, precisely in the Grand Palace of the Heavenly Demon—an architectural structure so large and impressive that even emperors of mortal kingdoms would feel small before it—sat on his throne the Heavenly Demon himself.
The throne was made of black stone that gleamed with a dim red light, carved with intricate patterns depicting demons and dragons fighting each other. Upon it sat the figure who was the center of all power in Murim, the figure whose name had been spoken with trembling in the tavern earlier.
Below him, on the wide and cold marble floor, thousands of his followers did the same thing as the people in the tavern. They prostrated with honor and fear far purer, far more intense, because they stood before the ruler of Murim himself. They could feel the aura emanating from the figure on the throne—an aura so strong it made the air feel heavy, made breathing feel tight, made their souls tremble in deep fear.
Whatever was happening, a terrifying pressure filled the air in the form of a black-red aura that only a handful of people—those who had reached very high levels of cultivation—could see. The aura swirled around the throne like thick living fog, like a breathing creature watching everyone present. Its source? Of course, from the person sitting on the throne himself.
Cheon-Ma.
His face was perfect, as if carved by the gods themselves. No flaws, no signs of age, even though he had lived for over a thousand years. His hair was jet black, long and wavy, flowing like a dark waterfall down his back, tied with a small crown made of black gold with a blood-red crystal in the center that shone with mysterious light. He sat in perfect posture, with a straight back and hands placed gracefully on the armrests of the throne. His red eyes—eyes that supposedly could see through anyone's soul—were closed behind his perfect double eyelids.
He simply sat motionless for several moments, not moving, not speaking, as if he were a statue made of stone. Yet his presence was so powerful that not a single person in the room dared raise their heads. The silence created felt suffocating, choking, as if the weight of the world was pressing on all their chests.
Until finally, after what felt like an eternity, Cheon-Ma opened his mouth and broke the terrible silence with a voice that was calm, yet full of undeniable authority.
"You have all worked hard today," he said in a flat tone that nevertheless carried extraordinary power, "so rest now."
Instantly, thousands of his followers responded in unison, their voices merging into one perfect chorus. "At your command, Your Majesty."
And thus, within seconds, thousands of people dispersed from the room in a very orderly manner. No chaos. No noisy sounds. Everyone moved like perfectly programmed machines, with discipline that had been instilled in them from their first day joining this cult.
What remained in the large room now were only three people.
First, Secretary Muwon, a middle-aged man with a sharp face and ever-vigilant eyes. He stood to the right of the throne in perfect posture, his hands folded behind his back. He was Cheon-Ma's right hand in administrative and organizational matters, the one who ensured everything ran smoothly within the cult.
Muwon suddenly spoke in a slightly critical tone, "Their work is indeed good, but slow. I suggest you be harder on them, Cult Lord. We don't have time for sluggishness."
Second, Advisor Zhuge, an older man with a long beard and wise expression. He stood to the left of the throne, with a folded fan in his hand. He was the strategic brain behind many of the cult's important decisions, the one who gave Cheon-Ma advice on various matters.
Zhuge immediately dismissed Muwon's statement in a softer yet firm tone. "I disagree, Secretary Muwon. I think what our Lord has done is already excellent. If he were harsher, it would only create an unhealthy work environment. We need genuine loyalty, not loyalty born solely from fear."
And lastly, Cheon-Ma, who didn't react at all to their words. He simply sat quietly, his eyes still closed, as if he didn't hear the debate beginning to unfold before him. But then, with a voice calm yet carrying absolute power, he said, "Stop arguing, both of you."
Just that. Just a few words. But those words were able to settle the two who had already begun raising their voices. Instantly, Muwon and Zhuge fell silent, bowing their heads respectfully.
"Understood, Cult Lord," they both said in unison, their voices full of reverence.
Cheon-Ma then moved his hand slightly, a subtle gesture meaning they were both dismissed. Muwon immediately turned and began walking toward the exit with quick, efficient steps.
But Zhuge apparently still had something he wanted to ask. He stopped, hesitated for a moment, then finally gathered the courage to ask Cheon-Ma. "Before I leave, allow me to ask, Your Majesty."
Cheon-Ma finally opened his eyes. His sharp red eyes gazed at Zhuge with an intensity that made the old man almost step back. But he held his ground, though his body trembled slightly. "Speak," Cheon-Ma said in a flat tone.
Muwon, who had almost reached the door, stopped and turned back, curious about what Zhuge would ask.
Zhuge raised his body from a slightly bowed position, then said carefully, "Have you heard the rumors circulating lately?"
Cheon-Ma immediately answered without hesitation. "Yes. I've heard them. Cracks in the Northern sky. What about it?"
Zhuge bowed slightly, choosing his words carefully. "There's no major news, Your Majesty. It's just..." He hesitated momentarily, glancing toward Muwon who nodded encouragingly, then continued, "That crack is getting bigger. Today it was recorded that its size is already as large as a hill. And not only that, supposedly the Murim Alliance found something at the mountain near that sky. Something that... is strange."
Cheon-Ma raised one eyebrow, showing slight interest though his expression remained flat. "And what is it?"
Zhuge then produced a scroll sealed with the official emblem of the Murim Alliance—a phoenix encircling a sun—and presented it to Cheon-Ma with both hands and a respectful bow.
"Please see for yourself, Your Majesty. I cannot explain it with words, but from the illustration on that scroll, I can confirm that it's not a creature from this world."
Cheon-Ma nodded lightly, then took the scroll with one hand. He opened it with a graceful movement, and his eyes immediately focused on the illustration there. His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the image carefully.
"Black scales," he murmured softly, more to himself than to anyone else. "Red eyes. Sharp spines along the back. Long curved claws. And six pairs of eyes." He fell silent for a moment, then continued in a more serious tone, "This truly isn't a creature from this world, as you said."
Zhuge nodded respectfully. "Correct, Your Majesty. Can you, with your genius that has made you ruler of Murim for a thousand years, guess what creature this actually is? Forgive me if I'm being presumptuous with this question."
Cheon-Ma shook his head slowly, his expression remaining calm but with a slight furrow in his brow showing he was thinking hard. "I have no clue whatsoever. This is something completely new to me. In all my years of life, in all the battles I've fought, I have never seen a creature like this."
"I see..." Zhuge responded in a tone slightly disappointed yet also relieved that even the Heavenly Demon didn't know.
Suddenly, Muwon who had been silent and observing, immediately interrupted with a confident tone. "May I express my opinion, Your Majesty?"
Cheon-Ma and Zhuge looked at him. Zhuge gave him a slightly mocking look—he always felt that Muwon was too confident and often spoke without thinking first. But Cheon-Ma, with an expression remaining calm, permitted him with a subtle hand gesture.
However, before Muwon could open his mouth to speak, before he could express his opinion, something terrible happened.
The world suddenly became dark.
No, not just dark like an ordinary night. This was a deeper darkness, more frightening, more absolute. As if the sunlight had been forcibly extinguished, as if the entire world had been swallowed by endless darkness. All of Murim—from the small tavern in Jianghu, from remote villages, from large cities, from magnificent palaces—all were shrouded in suffocating darkness like a night without stars, without moon, without hope.
In the sky, which should still be bright with the midday sun, cracks began appearing one by one. These cracks weren't like ordinary cracks—they glowed with blinding blood-red light, and from within those cracks, something terrible began to peer out. Something that shouldn't exist. Something that came from somewhere else.
And this, with all the signs that had been given, became the omen of the Murim world's destruction.