The Central Plain stood vast and oppressive beneath the morning sky.
Stone roads carved by centuries of footsteps stretched endlessly between towering clan estates.
Banners fluttered high above tiled rooftops, each embroidered with symbols of authority, history, and blood-soaked legacy. Merchants shouted from open stalls. Escorts in uniform armor marched in disciplined lines. Martial artists passed openly, their Neagong pressure leaking unconsciously into the air, forcing commoners to lower their heads.
This was the heart of Murim.
This was where power decided everything.
At the innermost district of the Central Plain stood an enormous estate surrounded by layered walls of black stone and gold inlay.
The Cheon Clan.
Twelve halls rose like a small city within the walls, each radiating a different pressure. Sword intent cut through the air from the Sword Division. Silent killing aura seeped from the Poison Division. Heavy footsteps echoed endlessly from the Heavenly Guard Hall.
And at the very edge of this vast clan compound
A small, forgotten courtyard.
Cracked stone tiles. Faded wood pillars. Moss creeping up the walls. No banners. No guards posted at the gate.
Inside the courtyard, a young man sat quietly.
Cheon Ma.
He wore simple white robes, clean but unadorned. His long black hair was tied loosely behind his back. His features were calm, refined, and strikingly beautiful so much so that even passing servants unconsciously slowed their steps to glance at him.
The Beauty of Soeyang.
A title whispered throughout the clan.
A title that carried no respect.
Cheon Ma sat cross-legged, eyes closed, palms resting on his knees. His breathing was slow, controlled, disciplined—textbook perfect.
Inside his body, however, chaos reigned.
His Neagong refused to circulate.
No matter how carefully he guided his breath, no matter how precisely he followed the foundational circulation routes, the internal energy scattered like broken threads the moment it formed.
It was as if an invisible wall blocked every meridian.
A cripple.
Huu—
Cheon Ma exhaled slowly and opened his eyes.
No frustration showed on his face. No anger. No despair.
Only quiet acceptance.
Footsteps approached from outside the courtyard.
Heavy. Steady. Disciplined.
A man in dark guard armor stepped through the gate and dropped to one knee without hesitation.
Jang Sehon.
His presence alone carried pressure. His Neagong was stable, refined, and sharp. Though not a true master, he was unquestionably a seasoned martial practitioner.
"My young master," Jang Sehon said.
Cheon Ma stood smoothly.
"You don't need to kneel here."
Jang Sehon did not move.
"This subordinate follows clan law. Even here"Cheon Ma said nothing. He had long stopped arguing.
Another figure hurried in behind Jang Sehon, carrying a wooden tray with medicine and clean water.
Wang Sujon.
His movements were careful, respectful, practiced from years of service.
"Young master," Wang Sujon said softly.
"The medicine from the Heavenly Pavilion Hall… they reduced the dosage again."
Cheon Ma glanced at the bowl.
Thin. Pale. Almost transparent.
Useless.
"They didn't forget," Cheon Ma said calmly.
"They chose to."
Silence fell in the courtyard.
From beyond the walls, distant sounds echoed—clashing weapons, shouted commands, the roar of disciples training.
CLANG—!
HAA!
BOOM—!
The sound of progress.
The sound of advancement.
Jang Sehon clenched his fist.
"The clan competition will begin in three months," he said, voice low.
"All direct and indirect descendants are required to participate."
Cheon Ma already knew.
Every year, the Cheon Clan held its internal competition. A battlefield without mercy. Strength decided status. Victory decided inheritance. The future clan head would emerge from blood and broken bones.
Cheon Ma was a direct descendant.
And the weakest.
"They intend to make an example of me," Cheon Ma said.
Wang Sujon panicked.
"Y-young master, maybe the elders will reconsider—"
"They won't."
Cheon Ma's voice was steady.
"In Murim, a cripple has no value."
He turned his gaze toward the inner halls, where towering buildings blocked the sky.
Sword intent surged faintly from that direction, sharp and proud.
A world that worshipped strength.
A clan that discarded weakness.
At that moment—
Something shifted.
The air around Cheon Ma trembled.
Not Neagong.
Something deeper.
Something alien.
—DZZZT—
A sharp sound pierced his mind.
Cheon Ma froze.
His vision darkened for a split second.
Then A cold, mechanical voice echoed directly inside his consciousness.
[Invincible System initializing…]
Cheon Ma's pupils contracted.
[Host detected: Cheon Ma]
[Condition: Crippled Neagong — confirmed]
[Compatibility: Absolute — confirmed]
Jang Sehon took a sudden step forward.
"Young master?"
Cheon Ma raised a hand slowly.
"I'm fine."
But his heartbeat had accelerated.
Inside his mind, symbols formed. Information flooded in—not chaotic, but perfectly ordered.
[Core Function: Martial Mastery]
[Ability: Instant Memorization — unlocked]
[Ability: Flow Perception — unlocked]
Cheon Ma lowered his gaze to his own hands.For the first time He felt it.not Neagong.
Understanding.
The structure of movement.
The logic behind force.
The flow that governed every martial technique.
A faint smile curved his lips.
Very faint.
"Jang Sehon."
"Yes, young master."
"Bring me a sword."
Jang Sehon stiffened.
"…A real one?"
"Yes."
Wang Sujon's eyes widened.
"Young master, your body—"
Cheon Ma looked up, his gaze calm but unmistakably sharp.
"I won't cultivate Neagong."
Pause.
"I'll dominate it."
The courtyard fell silent.Far above the Cheon Clan, clouds drifted slowly across the sky.
The sword arrived moments later.
Jang Sehon returned carrying a standard Cheon Clan training blade. Plain steel. Balanced. Unadorned. It was the kind of sword issued to outer disciples—nothing special, nothing symbolic.
Yet the moment Cheon Ma's fingers wrapped around the hilt The world changed.
Not externally but internally.
The weight distribution.
The length of the blade.
The center of gravity.
The way air resistance would affect each swing.
All of it unfolded inside his mind with terrifying clarity.
[Weapon detected: Standard Sword]
[Analyzing structure…]
[Martial data assimilated]
Information did not rush.
It settled.
As if the knowledge had always been there.
Cheon Ma lifted the sword slowly.No Neagong surged.
No pressure leaked.
No killing intent erupted.
Yet Jang Sehon's eyes narrowed sharply.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Cheon Ma took a single step forward.
Then—
He moved.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just precise.
The sword traced a clean arc through the air.
SWISH—
A basic horizontal slash.
So basic that any third-rate martial artist could perform it.
And yet The sound was different, The blade did not whistle It did not drag.
It cut the air cleanly, leaving a brief vacuum in its wake.
Jang Sehon's pupils shrank.
That slash—
It was perfect.
No wasted movement.
No imbalance.
No excess force.
If Neagong had been added to it—
No.
Jang Sehon stopped the thought there.
Cheon Ma continued.
One step.
One swing.
SWISH
Another slash.
Another angle.
Another flawless execution.
He transitioned smoothly into a thrust.
THRUM—
The sword stopped a hair's breadth before the courtyard wall.
The stone behind it—
CRACK—
A spiderweb fracture spread outward.
Wang Sujon staggered back.
"T-that wall…!"
Cheon Ma lowered the sword.
His breathing remained calm.
Inside his mind, the system continued its cold assessment.
[Sword mastery: Initiated]
[Synchronization rate: 37%]
[Observation: Host lacks Neagong amplification]
[Optimization suggested: Technique refinement]
Cheon Ma closed his eyes.
The movements replayed themselves in his mind—not as memory, but as structure.
Where to shift weight.
How to align the spine.
How to let force travel naturally through muscle and bone.
This was not cultivation.
This was understanding.
He opened his eyes.
Again.
This time, he moved faster.
Step.
Twist.
Slash.
SWISH—!
SWISH—!
SWISH—!
Three consecutive strikes.
Each one flowed into the next without pause.
The courtyard filled with sharp cutting sounds, rhythmic and clean.
Jang Sehon unconsciously reached for his own weapon.
Not out of threat—
Out of instinct.
That sword path—
It was already at the level of a First Rate martial artist ,Without Neagong.
Cheon Ma stopped.
The sword tip pointed downward.
"Jang Sehon," he said.
"Yes!"
"If someone with Neagong used this sword the way I just did—"
He paused, considering.
"They would be wasteful."
Jang Sehon's throat went dry.
"Young master… what exactly did you gain?"
Cheon Ma looked at the blade.
"I can see it."
"See… what?"
"The lie."
Silence
"All martial techniques," Cheon Ma continued, voice even,
"are built on excess. Unnecessary flourishes. Traditions mistaken for truth."
The system responded.
[Flow Perception: Active]
[Inefficiency detected: 62%]
Cheon Ma tightened his grip.
"If I remove the excess—"
He stepped forward and swung.
This time, there was no sound.
No whistle.
No resistance.
The sword passed through the air—
And the wooden pillar behind him slid apart cleanly.
SHHKK—
The upper half collapsed seconds later.
Wang Sujon's legs gave out.
Jang Sehon felt a chill crawl up his spine.
That cut ,It carried intent.
Pure, condensed, terrifyingly sharp intent.
Cheon Ma exhaled.
Slowly.
"I don't need Neagong to start," he said.
"I need opponents."
The system pulsed faintly.
[New Objective Generated]
[Participate in Cheon Clan Competition]
[Reward: System Expansion]
Cheon Ma smiled.
Lanterns were lit along stone paths, their orange glow reflecting off polished tiles and towering halls. Patrols from the Heavenly Guard Hall moved in fixed routes, armor clinking softly as they passed.
From the inner courtyards, the sound of disciplined breathing echoed—descendants cultivating Neagong under strict supervision.
Strength was being forged.
Status was being decided.
In the forgotten courtyard—
Cheon Ma stood alone.
The broken wooden pillar lay split behind him, its clean edge catching the lantern light. Jang Sehon had already ordered servants to clear the debris, but even now his movements were distracted, his gaze repeatedly drifting back toward the young man holding the sword.
Wang Sujon hovered nearby, pale-faced, clutching his sleeves.
"Young master…" he hesitated.
"That cut earlier… if the elders—"
"They won't come," Cheon Ma said calmly.
He lowered the sword and returned it to its sheath with a smooth motion.
"They didn't feel it."
That was the most frightening part.
There had been no Neagong fluctuation.
No pressure wave.
No outward sign of danger.
To the sensors of Murim—
It was nothing.
Jang Sehon swallowed.
"With respect, young master… what you're doing violates every cultivation principle."
Cheon Ma looked at him.
"And yet?"
Jang Sehon had no answer.
Cheon Ma sat down on the stone steps and closed his eyes , Inside his mind, the world unfolded again.
Not as darkness—
But as structure.
Meridians.
Muscle fibers.
Joint rotation.
Balance points.
Attack trajectories.
Everything connected.
[Flow Perception: Sustained]
[Combat Simulation: Active]
Images appeared.
Not hallucinations.
Predictions.
A sword descending from the right.
A spear thrust from below.
A fist aimed at the throat.
Each motion slowed.
Each flaw highlighted.
Cheon Ma's fingers twitched unconsciously.
The system was not telling him what to do.
It was showing him what was wrong.
Suddenly A ripple Cheon Ma's eyes snapped open.
Someone was watching ,Not with killing intent without Neagong pressure.
But with scrutiny.
From beyond the courtyard wall.
Jang Sehon felt it a heartbeat later and stepped forward, hand on his blade.
"Who's there?"
Silence.
Then—
A pair of eyes appeared above the wall.
Cold.
Sharp.
Evaluating.
A young man vaulted lightly over the wall and landed soundlessly inside the courtyard.His robes were embroidered with silver threads.
Inner disciple.
Sword Division.
His Neagong flowed openly, sharp and proud, pressing down like a declaration.
Second Rate ,Close to First rate
His gaze swept over the broken pillar, the cracked wall, then settled on Cheon Ma.
"So it's true," the disciple said.
"The crippled heir plays with swords at night."
Wang Sujon flinched.
Jang Sehon stepped forward.
"This area is restricted."
The disciple smirked.
"And I outrank you."
He turned back to Cheon Ma.
"My name is Cheon Yu-jin," he said.
"Direct descendant. Sword Division."
A pause.
"I came to see if the rumors were exaggerated."
Cheon Ma stood.
Calm.
Unhurried.
"You've seen enough," Cheon Ma said.
Yu-jin laughed softly.
"You think a few tricks make you relevant?"
"You can't circulate Neagong. You can't reinforce your body."
He drew his sword halfway.
Steel rang softly.
"In three months, you'll step onto the competition stage."
Yu-jin's eyes gleamed.
"I just wanted to confirm something."
Cheon Ma tilted his head.
"What?"
Yu-jin released his Neagong.
The air grew heavy.
"Whether you'd break before then."
He stepped forward.
Fast.
Sword flashing toward Cheon Ma's shoulder.
SHING—!
Jang Sehon moved instantly—
But Cheon Ma moved first.
One step to the side.
Half a breath.
Minimal motion.
The blade passed through empty air.
Yu-jin's eyes widened.
Cheon Ma raised his hand.
Not the sword ,Two fingers.He tapped the flat of Yu-jin's blade.
TING!
A light sound.
Yu-jin's wrist jolted violently.
The sword flew from his grip and embedded itself into the courtyard wall.
THUNK—
Dead silence.
Yu-jin staggered back, clutching his wrist.
"What—?!"
Cheon Ma lowered his hand.
"I saw it," he said evenly.
"Your shoulder leads your strike."
Yu-jin's blood ran cold.
That was a flaw only elders pointed out.
"You should fix it," Cheon Ma continued.
"Or you'll lose your arm one day."
Yu-jin stared at him.
Fear crept in.
Not of power.
Of understanding.
Jang Sehon felt his scalp go numb.
That exchange—
It wasn't combat.
It was dissection.
Yu-jin retrieved his sword with shaking hands, He did not speak again And vaulted back over the wall and vanished into the darkness.
The courtyard remained silent.
Wang Sujon finally exhaled.
"Young master… that was an inner disciple."
Cheon Ma looked at the sky.
Moonlight reflected in his eyes.
"They're already looking," he said.
Inside his mind—
[Threat Level Updated]
[Murim Awareness: Increased]
Cheon Ma closed his eyes.