The night outside the mountain felt wrong.
Hyeon Mu noticed it the moment he stepped beyond the hidden gate of the Crimson Vein Sect. The air was too still. The moon hung low and swollen, its pale light smeared by drifting clouds like a wound that refused to close.
He wore black.
Not robes—wrappings. Tight cloth bound his limbs, muffling sound, hiding movement. A mask rested against his chest, tied loosely. He had not earned the right to wear it yet.
An instructor stood beside him, tall and thin, carrying no visible weapon.
"Breathe through your nose," the instructor said quietly. "Fear tastes sweet to prey."
Hyeon Mu nodded once.
They moved.
The forest swallowed them instantly. Leaves crunched beneath careless feet somewhere in the distance—guards, laughing, unaware. A small outpost lay ahead, built near a trade road. A righteous sect had claimed it as a temporary resting point.
Temporary meant careless.
"Your target is inside," the instructor whispered. "A messenger. He carries names."
Hyeon Mu felt the blade at his side pulse faintly.
"Rules?" he asked.
"One," the instructor replied. "No witnesses."
They disappeared.
The outpost was lit by torches and arrogance.
Four guards lounged near the entrance, weapons resting against the wall. They spoke loudly, joked crudely, drank wine. The scent of it carried on the wind.
Hyeon Mu crouched in the shadows, watching.
Observe first.
He counted their breaths. Their movements. The gaps between their laughter.
The instructor vanished without a sound.
A moment later, one guard stiffened.
A thin line appeared across his throat.
Blood sprayed.
Before the others could react, Hyeon Mu moved.
He sprinted forward, low and fast. His blade slid between the ribs of the second guard, piercing the heart. He twisted and yanked free, already turning.
The third guard screamed.
Hyeon Mu threw his knife.
It embedded in the man's eye, dropping him instantly.
The fourth tried to run.
Hyeon Mu caught him in three steps.
He grabbed the man's hair and slammed his face into the wall. Teeth shattered. Before the scream could form, Hyeon Mu slit his throat and lowered the body gently to the ground.
Silence returned.
His heart pounded—but his hands were steady.
The instructor reappeared, nodding once.
"Inside," he said.
The interior smelled of incense and sweat.
Hyeon Mu moved first now, blade raised, footsteps silent. Two cultivators slept on thin mats, snoring softly.
He killed them in their sleep.
Quick. Efficient.
Blood soaked into fabric, dark and quiet.
The main chamber lay ahead.
A man sat at a table, writing. Scrolls surrounded him, sealed and marked. His cultivation aura flickered faintly—nothing impressive.
The messenger.
Hyeon Mu stepped into the light.
The man looked up.
Their eyes met.
Recognition sparked.
"Wait—"
Hyeon Mu lunged.
The messenger reacted faster than expected, flipping the table and drawing a dagger. Panic twisted his face.
"You don't understand!" the man shouted. "These orders—these names—they're—"
Hyeon Mu slashed.
The blade cut deep across the man's abdomen, spilling blood and organs. The messenger collapsed, screaming, hands scrambling uselessly to hold himself together.
Hyeon Mu stood over him, breathing evenly.
The man sobbed, choking on blood.
"Please… I'll tell you everything… I swear…"
Hyeon Mu knelt.
He leaned close enough to smell the man's fear.
"You already did," he said.
The blade plunged into the man's throat.
Silence followed.
Hyeon Mu wiped the blade clean on the corpse's robes.
Then he searched the scrolls.
Names.
Routes.
Dates.
Sect leaders. Disciples. Entire villages marked as acceptable losses.
Something cold settled deeper inside him.
The instructor entered.
"Well?" he asked.
Hyeon Mu handed him the scrolls.
The instructor skimmed them and nodded approvingly.
"Good," he said. "Now burn it."
Hyeon Mu hesitated. "The bodies—"
"Leave them," the instructor replied. "Let Murim see."
They set fire to the outpost.
Flames climbed greedily, devouring wood, flesh, silk. Smoke rose into the night like a signal.
As they vanished into the forest, distant shouts echoed.
Too late.
They did not return to the mountain immediately.
Instead, the instructor led Hyeon Mu to a ravine overlooking the road. Below, a small group approached—merchants, guards, a woman carrying a child.
Hyeon Mu stiffened.
"They're not targets," he said.
The instructor tilted his head. "Are they witnesses?"
"They didn't see us."
"Yet."
The instructor handed Hyeon Mu a second blade.
"Kill them."
Hyeon Mu's grip tightened.
"They're civilians."
The instructor's voice hardened.
"Murim has no civilians. Only those who haven't paid yet."
Silence stretched.
Hyeon Mu looked down at the group. The child laughed, unaware.
Something stirred—faint, unwanted.
The instructor noticed.
He stepped close and whispered, "Hesitation is treason."
Hyeon Mu moved.
He descended the ravine like a shadow.
The first guard fell without a sound. The second tried to draw his sword—Hyeon Mu severed his hand, then his throat.
The merchants screamed.
The woman turned to run.
Hyeon Mu caught her.
Her eyes widened as she saw his maskless face—young, blood-smeared, empty.
"Please," she whispered, clutching the child.
Hyeon Mu slit her throat.
The child fell.
Cried.
Hyeon Mu stared down.
The instructor watched from above.
Seconds passed.
Then Hyeon Mu raised the blade.
Blood soaked the dirt.
When it was over, he stood motionless, chest rising and falling.
No tears came.
No shaking.
Only a dull pressure behind his eyes.
The instructor descended.
"Congratulations," he said quietly. "You passed."
He handed Hyeon Mu the mask.
"From tonight on, you are no longer Unit Seventeen."
He tied the mask onto Hyeon Mu's face.
"You are Crimson."
Hyeon Mu looked up at the moon.
It looked red.