The portal world still hummed around Kang Jinhyuk as he staggered to his feet, the weight of the Crimson Demon's legacy pressing down on him like molten iron. Pain wracked his muscles, every fiber screaming in protest, but there was no time to rest. Jeok-Ma's voice, sharp and unyielding, cut through his exhaustion.
Do you think merely stepping through the portal earns you power, boy? You are nothing! A whining child clutching vengeance like a shield. If you cannot wield strength, it will devour you.
Jinhyuk gritted his teeth, fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. The pain in his arms and shoulders was unbearable, his lungs burned with every breath, but rage and grief were already coiling through him like a living thing. He could almost hear Min-Seo's laughter, see the small hand of his child reaching for his own, and the memory fueled him further.
I am not nothing, he muttered, jaw clenching. I will survive… I will grow stronger… I will rise.
Words are wind, Jeok-Ma sneered, and wind cannot strike an enemy down. You will learn. Now, move.
The first exercise was deceptively simple: weapon mastery. Jinhyuk raised his sword, feeling the weight of it not just metal and wood, but the invisible pulse of energy running through his veins, feeding off his anger. He swung, each strike slicing through the empty air, but the Crimson Demon's critique came immediately.
Pathetic! You strike like a farmer chopping wood, not a warrior. Where is the precision? Where is the kill intent? Do you think rage alone can win against the Murim masters who will try to crush you?
Jinhyuk gritted his teeth and swung again, faster, sharper, feeling every fiber of his body move as one. Sweat poured from his brow, muscles screamed, but still, Jeok-Ma's voice rang in his mind, tearing him down, forcing him to rebuild with every failed strike.
Hours, days...he could not tell blended together. Each swing, each step, each pivot became a test of endurance, of patience, of cunning. The portal world reshaped itself around him, an ever-changing battlefield where Jinhyuk had to anticipate attacks that did not exist, dodge blows that only manifested in his imagination, and strike with precision that blurred the line between thought and action.
Focus on the void between strikes, Jeok-Ma barked, your mind must be sharper than your blade. Kill intent is nothing without clarity of purpose. You will not survive by fury alone!
Jinhyuk's breath came in ragged gasps. His fists shook. His knees buckled. Yet every memory of Min-Seo and his child, every flicker of betrayal from the Namgung and Murong clans, drove him onward. Pain was temporary. Rage was infinite. And power… power was his only path forward.
The next stage of training was internal energy control. Jeok-Ma guided him to feel the currents of his own body, the flow of qi that pulsed through sinew and bone. At first, Jinhyuk could not perceive it—he was too focused on his anger, too consumed by the desire to strike. The energy scattered, chaotic, wild, unrefined.
You are weak because you cannot feel yourself! Jeok-Ma's voice slashed through him. Your rage is a storm, yes—but a storm must be directed, or it destroys everything around it, including you. Control it, or die trying.
Jinhyuk fell to his knees, gripping the rocky ground. The energy inside him surged, like fire in a furnace, and he almost screamed with the intensity of it. Pain lanced through his chest, his head, his entire being—but he refused to give in. Slowly, inch by inch, he began to direct it. Each breath synchronized with the flow. Each thought disciplined the surge.
This… I can feel it, he murmured. Power… rage… focus… one.
The first small breakthrough sent shivers through him. The air around his body shimmered. He could feel the resonance of his own energy like a heartbeat in the world. It was intoxicating, terrifying—and exhilarating.
Yet Jeok-Ma was relentless.
Ha! That is not mastery, the voice mocked, sharp as a whip. That is a child fumbling in darkness. You have the strength to destroy, yet you cling to morality like a wet cloak. Tell me, boy… would you have spared those who burned your village? Huh? Those who stole your wife? Your child?
Jinhyuk froze, fists clenching. The memory hit him like a wave: Min-Seo's scream, the little hand of his child slipping from his grasp, the fire consuming everything he loved. Rage surged uncontrollably, a dark river threatening to drown him.
I… I…, he stammered, heart pounding. I… I cannot lose myself to anger. Not yet. Not like that.
Then you are weak, Jeok-Ma sneered. Rage is your weapon, and you treat it like a feather. Discipline it, or it will destroy you before your enemies even draw a sword.
The voice was cruel, unyielding—but Jinhyuk understood. Anger alone was not enough. Strength alone was hollow. Only strategy, discipline, and ruthlessness in tandem could forge a weapon capable of cutting through Murim itself.
Training turned brutal. Jinhyuk fought against phantom opponents, imagined ambushes, and even Jeok-Ma's spectral form, a crimson silhouette that mocked his every move. Each strike tested his precision. Each defense tested his patience. He fell repeatedly, bones and muscles screaming, until exhaustion blurred the line between reality and vision.
Yet in that chaos, a spark of brilliance emerged. He noticed patterns—how attacks flowed, how misdirection could be used, how anticipation was more powerful than reaction. Tactical insight bloomed within the crucible of suffering.
I can do this, he thought, teeth gritted, sweat and blood mixing on his skin. Pain is temporary. Rage is a weapon. And every failure… is a lesson.
By the end of the cycle, his body moved like water, striking with deadly precision, dodging with preternatural reflex, and channeling energy through every motion. He had reached the Third Rate stage—a level sufficient to survive against ordinary Murim fighters, yet still a fraction of the power needed to confront the architects of his past pain.
Jeok-Ma's voice, though harsh, carried a trace of approval.
Not bad, he admitted grudgingly. You may survive. Perhaps. But mark this, boy: Third Rate skill is only the beginning. The enemies who await you… they will not yield. Do not grow arrogant. You have taken the first step onto a path of shadows, where strength is measured by wit as much as by sword.
Jinhyuk sank to one knee, chest heaving, sweat and blood mixing with the dirt beneath him. For the first time, he allowed himself a small, grim smile.
I will not stop here, he whispered to the void. I will grow stronger. I will master this power. And one day… I will take everything back. Everything they stole from me. And they will feel the weight of my vengeance.
The portal world remained silent, watching, testing—but Kang Jinhyuk had begun to awaken. Not just as a warrior, but as a strategist, a survivor, and a force that would one day tear through the Murim world with precision, fury, and unyielding purpose.
The Third Rate Awakening was only the beginning. The darkness ahead promised pain, betrayal, and unimaginable foes—but for the first time in years, Jinhyuk felt ready. Pain and rage had forged him into something far more dangerous than even he could yet comprehend.