Smoke. Screams. Blood on snow.
Jin Seol's brother stood in the firelight, back to back with him, their crude staves barely holding off the approaching killers.
"Run, Seol!"
"I said run—!"
The blade went through his brother's chest like paper. His body folded. Eyes wide.
Jin Seol tried to scream, but the memory faded before he could.
⸻
He woke beneath the crumbled moon bridge, sweat freezing on his neck despite the summer heat.
The herbs he'd gathered were still there, tucked safely beneath stone and cloth. But the nightmare clung to him heavier than any burden he'd carried as a beggar.
"That memory… it was from the last year of the plague wars. My brother… Jang Seol…"
"I forgot his voice until now."
⸻
Jin Seol shoved the grief down.
He had no time for ghosts.
Today, he began his rebirth.
⸻
He ground the White Flame Root into a fine powder, mixed it with rainwater in a bowl of copper. The taste was like acid and fire, clawing down his throat and setting his insides ablaze.
Then came the pain — and not from the root.
He bent his knees. Lower. Deeper.
He started with Horse Stance, just like the low-level disciples in outer sects did.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
Muscles trembled. Joints screamed. He didn't rise.
⸻
He added in stretches next. His old body had been ragged and worn when he died. This one was fresh — but weak. The limbs didn't move the way he needed them to. That had to change.
By the second hour, his robe clung to him with sweat.
He made no sound.
⸻
Then came the real work.
He tied heavy stones to his arms and legs, copying a body-hardening method he'd glimpsed in his past life — one used by assassins who trained in dark mountain sects.
He struck the stone wall. Over and over. First open-palm. Then fist. Then edge of hand.
His knuckles split by the thirtieth strike. But he did not stop.
⸻
When the pain became too much, he swallowed a pinch of Black Date powder. Blood flow quickened. Muscles clenched tighter.
He vomited once. Wiped his mouth.
Started again.
⸻
By nightfall, his limbs barely moved.
He dragged himself to the shallow stream beneath the bridge. The cold made his vision blur, but the water washed away the blood and filth. He stared up at the stars, eyes unblinking.
"This world owes me answers."
"I'll rip them out of its throat if I have to."
⸻
As the moon rose, a shadow watched from the ridge above the stream.
A tall figure, arms folded, concealed in travel-worn robes. His face was hidden, but his eyes gleamed with recognition.
"That idiot really came back from the dead…"
The man turned and vanished into the trees.
⸻
End of Chapter 4
Next Chapter – Chapter 5: The Man Who Once Called Me Brother