Murim did not declare war.
It never did.
War announced itself through disappearances, through silence where laughter once lived, through sect gates that opened at dawn to reveal bodies nailed to their own banners.
Crimson felt it before the orders arrived.
The mountain breathed differently.
Assassins moved faster through the halls, voices lowered, blades checked twice instead of once. Even the Crimson Vein Sect—born from shadows—was tightening its grip.
Then the bell rang.
Once.
That bell had not sounded in decades.
Crimson stood among the assembled assassins, black robes blending into a sea of darkness. Masks hid faces, but tension leaked through posture alone.
The old man stepped forward.
"Murim has united," he said.
A ripple passed through the crowd.
"Seven major sects," he continued. "Orthodox. Unorthodox. Even demonic factions."
A pause.
"They have formed the Heaven-Binding Alliance."
Crimson's fingers curled slowly.
An alliance meant fear.
Fear meant they were winning.
"They have one purpose," the old man said. "To erase us."
A low murmur spread.
The old man raised his cane.
"They will fail."
The murmuring stopped.
"But," he continued calmly, "they will try very hard."
A map was unrolled across the stone floor.
Red marks dotted Murim like open wounds.
"These are ambush zones," the old man said. "These are kill corridors. These are bait villages."
Crimson's eyes narrowed.
"They're sacrificing civilians," he said.
"Yes," the old man replied without hesitation. "They always do."
Crimson felt something cold twist in his gut—not sympathy.
Recognition.
"They want us visible," Crimson said. "They want patterns."
The old man smiled thinly.
"Good," he said. "Then we give them chaos."
He turned.
"Crimson. Step forward."
Crimson obeyed.
"You will lead a disruption unit," the old man said. "Deep territory. No extraction planned."
Several assassins stiffened.
"A suicide mission?" someone whispered.
The old man didn't deny it.
Crimson knelt.
"Objective?" he asked.
The old man leaned down, voice low enough that only Crimson could hear.
"Find the traitor."
Crimson's eyes flickered.
"There is a leak," the old man continued. "Someone inside Crimson Vein fed the Alliance our routes."
Crimson felt a pressure behind his eyes.
"Names?" he asked.
"None yet," the old man said. "That's why you're going."
He straightened.
"Kill everyone else."
They moved at night.
Six assassins. No insignia. No names spoken. Only hand signals and shadows.
The target was a mountain pass used by the Heaven-Binding Alliance as a staging ground. Hundreds of cultivators camped there—too many to fight directly.
So Crimson didn't fight them.
He unmade them.
They poisoned the water source first.
Not lethal.
Just enough to weaken.
Then Crimson infiltrated the command tent.
Inside, three sect elders argued over maps.
Crimson listened.
Waited.
Then he threw a severed head onto the table.
The screaming was immediate.
Crimson moved like a specter.
One elder died with his jaw ripped open. Another had his eyes crushed before his throat was slit. The third tried to flee.
Crimson pinned him to the tent pole.
"Who told you our routes?" Crimson asked calmly.
The elder sobbed.
"I—I don't know—"
Crimson twisted the blade.
"I don't ask twice."
The elder screamed names.
Three.
Crimson memorized them.
Then he removed the man's tongue and left him alive.
Outside, chaos erupted.
The disruption unit struck simultaneously—fires, screams, collapsing tents. Cultivators stumbled, weakened by poison, blades sloppy, coordination shattered.
Crimson moved through them, methodical.
Throat. Kidney. Spine.
Blood soaked the ground.
Then an arrow pierced his shoulder.
Crimson stumbled.
Too slow.
Someone was watching him specifically.
A figure stepped from the smoke.
Black robes.
Crimson Vein markings.
An assassin.
One of theirs.
"You're predictable," the assassin said, mask tilted.
Crimson straightened.
"You fed them," he said.
The assassin laughed softly. "Murim is changing. The old man is blind."
"You sold us out," Crimson said.
"I chose the winning side," the assassin replied. "You should have too."
They clashed.
Steel screamed.
The traitor was skilled—too skilled. He knew Crimson's habits, his angles, his timing. Blades cut flesh. Blood sprayed.
Crimson took a deep slash across the ribs.
The traitor took a blade through the thigh.
They separated, breathing hard.
"You're still hesitating," the traitor mocked. "That's why you'll—"
Crimson threw the black needle.
It struck the traitor's neck.
The man froze.
Then he screamed.
Not from pain.
From memory.
Crimson stepped forward slowly as the traitor collapsed, convulsing, reliving every torture Crimson had ever endured.
"You forgot something," Crimson said softly. "I don't hesitate anymore."
He ended it.
Clean.
Only two of Crimson's unit survived.
They retreated into the mountains, bloodied, hunted.
By dawn, the pass was a graveyard.
Murim screamed.
The Heaven-Binding Alliance burned three villages in retaliation.
Crimson watched the smoke from afar.
Something shifted inside him.
Not anger.
Resolve.
"This won't end," one assassin whispered.
Crimson wiped blood from his blade.
"No," he said. "It escalates."
He looked toward the heart of Murim.
"Next, we cut the head."