Even in exile, the stars watched him — cold, distant, and endlessly patient.
The valley was a wound in the mountains, carved long ago by rivers that no longer flowed. Mist clung to its ridges like a memory that refused to fade. It was a place untouched by time, hidden far from the wars and sects that tore at the mainland's peace.
Here, Ryu Jin grew.
Each morning, he rose before the first light of dawn. The air was sharp and thin, stinging his lungs as he breathed. He would kneel beneath a crooked pine, its roots breaking through old stone, and draw his sword in silence. The blade gleamed faintly beneath the dim sky — the same blade that once belonged to his father.
He trained until the sun bled over the peaks, his movements echoing with a quiet rhythm. It was not mere swordsmanship — it was the Heavenly Star Art, a style that mirrored the constellations. Every motion was deliberate, flowing like starlight through darkness, weaving beauty and destruction as one.
Ji Ro had once said, "The sword of the stars is not meant to kill, but to illuminate. Those who draw it in anger will only blind themselves."
But anger was all Ryu Jin had left.
Even so, he followed the teachings — slow, precise, patient. He learned to listen to his breathing, to the whisper of wind through the pines, to the faint hum of the sword as it cut through the air. His heart ached, but his blade grew steady.
---
Ji Ro often watched from the ridge, leaning on his staff, his expression unreadable.
"You move too heavily," he would say.
"The stars do not struggle to shine, Jin. They simply exist."
Ryu Jin would nod silently and begin again.
When the boy faltered, Ji Ro's hand would rest on his shoulder, steady but distant.
"You carry too much weight for one so young. Your father wished for peace, not vengeance."
And Ryu Jin would answer, barely above a whisper,
"I don't seek vengeance. I seek understanding."
Ji Ro would sigh softly, as though he had heard those same words before, long ago.
---
Months passed into years. Seasons turned like slow pages in an ancient book.
The valley became Ryu Jin's entire world.
He learned to hunt the silent deer that wandered the slopes, to brew medicine from bitter herbs, to meditate beneath frozen waterfalls until his body no longer trembled from the cold.
At night, he would gaze up at the stars and wonder if his father's spirit lingered among them. Sometimes he imagined that the brightest one — the lonely star that hung above the northern ridge — flickered a little longer when he spoke aloud to it.
> "Father… the world still calls you traitor," he would whisper.
"But I will remember. I will make them remember too."
And though the night never answered, the wind would shift, carrying the scent of pine and snow — like a quiet reassurance.
---
Every two moons, Ji Ro would leave.
He would descend the hidden trails that wound through the mountains, bound for the mainland. He said it was to gather supplies — food, medicine, sometimes scrolls or tools. Each time, he promised to return in a few weeks.
Before leaving, he would always say the same thing:
"Keep your heart still. The world beyond is not yet ready for you."
And Ryu Jin would bow, watching his master vanish down the misted path until even his shadow disappeared.
The days during Ji Ro's absence were the hardest.
The valley, once filled with quiet routine, would become unbearably silent.
Even the birds seemed to avoid it.
Ryu Jin would spend his time training — always training — until his body ached and his breath came ragged. Sometimes, when exhaustion overtook him, he would sit before the ruined shrine Ji Ro had built for his father. It was nothing more than a small altar of stone and starlight moss, but to Ryu Jin, it was sacred.
He would place a single candle there, light it, and whisper:
> "The stars endure, even when the sky forgets them."
---
When Ji Ro returned, he brought more than supplies.
He brought stories.
Through his quiet, measured words, the boy glimpsed the world beyond the mountains — a world that had moved on.
"The Murim world is shifting," Ji Ro would say, his gaze far away. "New sects rise, claiming justice. Old ones fall to greed. The Council of Whispers grows in shadow."
Ryu Jin would listen silently, sharpening his blade as his master spoke.
"Do they still speak of the Skywatch Order?" he once asked.
Ji Ro hesitated before answering.
"They do not speak. They have forgotten. The name is buried — too dangerous to remember, too shameful to say."
A pause. Then softly, almost like a confession:
"Some believe your father truly betrayed them. Others say he sought to challenge the Council itself. The truth has been drowned beneath the noise of time."
Ryu Jin's hand tightened on his sword.
"Then I will unearth it."
Ji Ro's eyes hardened.
"And when you do… will you find peace, or only more pain?"
The question lingered long after Ji Ro fell silent.
---
Years continued to flow — gentle, relentless.
Ryu Jin grew taller, stronger. His once-soft features sharpened into those of a warrior. His movements became art — every swing of his sword a seamless blend of grace and power.
He could now feel the rhythm of the Heavenly Star Arts — the pulse of energy that flowed through every stance, every breath. The technique was no longer just motion; it was a song, sung between him and the heavens.
Yet beneath that beauty, there was sorrow — the quiet kind that never leaves.
He had no disciples. No brothers-in-arms. No laughter to echo through the valley.
Only the whisper of wind through stone.
Sometimes, he wondered if this solitude was what his father had endured before the end — the knowledge that the world can forget you while you still breathe.
---
On the twelfth year of exile, Ji Ro left again.
It was winter. Snow covered the valley in white silence.
"I will return before the next full moon," Ji Ro said, his voice firm but kind.
"There are things I must confirm in the mainland — old whispers that have begun to stir again."
Ryu Jin bowed.
"Be careful, Master."
Ji Ro smiled faintly. "I have lived too long to do otherwise."
And then he was gone.
---
Days passed. Then weeks.
The snow melted. The streams ran again. The pines began to bloom.
But Ji Ro did not return.
At first, Ryu Jin waited patiently. He tended the valley, repaired the old shrine, and continued his training. But as moons turned and the sky changed, unease began to gnaw at him.
Each night, he lit a candle on the shrine and prayed for his master's return.
The wind carried no answer.
The valley — once a sanctuary — now felt like a cage.
He stood at its edge one night, looking toward the dark horizon. The mainland lay beyond those mountains, vast and distant. The world that had forgotten his name — and the truth of his father's death — awaited there.
The stars above burned cold and bright.
He felt their light upon his skin like a silent calling.
> "Master…" he whispered.
"If you do not return… then I will come to find you."
---
That night, before he descended, he drew his sword.
But not his father's blade — that relic had long been lost to the ashes of history.
The weapon he carried now was one he had forged himself in silence — a handless blade, tempered by solitude and sorrow. Its name was The Fallen Star.
He stood upon the peak, the wind roaring around him, and began to move.
Each swing followed the pattern of the heavens — slow, radiant, inexorable.
As the final form of the Heavenly Star Art unfolded, the sky seemed to tremble.
Light burst from the tip of his sword, cascading across the mountains.
The earth groaned.
Stone shattered.
The valley — his home, his prison — split open as if the heavens themselves had struck it down.
When the dust settled, half the mountain was gone.
And Ryu Jin stood alone amidst the ruin, his breath calm, his blade dimming like a dying star.
He looked once more at the heavens, then sheathed the Fallen Star.
---
That night, for the first time in twelve years, Ryu Jin descended from the mountains.
The fallen star had begun to move.
> "The world may have buried the light of the Skywatch Order… but the heavens remember their own."