Long ago, humanity stood fragile beneath the heavens.
At a time when yōkai roamed freely, when spirit beasts hunted openly, and when countless unknown horrors stalked the land, humans were little more than prey.
To survive, they created martial arts — crude at first, desperate techniques forged through bloodshed and extinction-level fear. These arts were not born from ambition or pride, but necessity. They were humanity's answer to annihilation.
However, eras changed.
As generations passed, yōkai faded into legend, spirit beasts retreated into the deep mountains, and the most dangerous entities were either sealed, slain, or driven into obscurity. Humanity no longer stood on the brink of extinction. And so, martial arts changed as well.
What was once a means of survival gradually became a method of killing with efficiency. Techniques grew more refined. A single crude movement fractured into countless specialized forms. Through cultivation, practitioners learned to refine their inner vitality — the invisible force that came to be known as Qi. Over time, those who mastered it transcended ordinary human limits.
Martial artists banded together, forming associations, sects, and lineages. Techniques were passed down through bloodlines or entrusted to carefully selected disciples. As these arts evolved across generations, martial artists grew further and further removed from common people.
Eventually, they surpassed them entirely. They could shatter boulders with bare hands, cleave towering trees with a single sword strike, and leap across rooftops as though gravity itself had loosened its grip. Some could even soar through the sky for brief moments, riding their Qi like wings.
These beings became known as Murim Warriors. Their world was called Murim, or Jianghu — a realm where martial artists rose and fell according to their own strength and ideals, largely beyond the direct authority of the Four Great Nations.
Yet power never satisfies.
As martial artists sought even greater strength, clans and sects emerged, eventually forming vast factions defined by belief, ideology, and ambition.
Those who upheld justice, honor, and order called themselves the Orthodox Heaven, more commonly known as the Murim Alliance.
Those who pursued power, fame, and personal freedom without regard for moral restraint were labeled the Unorthodox Heaven, or the Unorthodox Creek.
But balance did not last. Three additional factions emerged, far more extreme, each embracing the brutal philosophy of survival of the fittest while worshipping entities that defied conventional belief.
Those who sought to drown the world in blood became the Blood Heaven, or the Blood Cult.
Those who desired transcendence beyond mortal agony and suffering formed the Demonic Heaven, or the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult.
And lastly — the most feared of all — the Death Heaven, formally known as the Heaven's Death Religious Order.
It emerged eight hundred years ago and shook the world to its core. Its followers wielded martial arts not merely to kill, but to force the world to confront pain, despair, and mortality itself — believing that only through understanding suffering could the world be reshaped into something better.
Today, Murim is a boiling cauldron of clashing ideologies, where all factions stand in tense opposition, each believing their path to be the only correct one.
"HUUUUUUH?!" I shouted, my voice cracking as I stared at the mirror, unable to process what I was seeing, my hands trembling as I reached for my face.
"What is this?! I'm young again!" I exclaimed, shaking my head as if that could make the illusion disappear.
I couldn't believe the strange situation where I now looked like my younger self for reasons unknown. I examined myself from every angle, searching for any discrepancy to prove my eyes wrong, only to find none.
"There's no denying it… this was my appearance when I was young," I said softly, awe and disbelief mingling in my tone.
Confusion lingered over my mind as I wondered how this happened, recalling anything that could explain it.
'Did that scroll really hold the miraculous power the Founder left behind?' I thought, furrowing my brow.
Although my eyes were blurry as I was dying and losing the strength to keep them open, the last thing I saw and heard was the scroll — floating in the air, glowing text blooming across its blank parchment, and the strange light that latched onto me as the masked men tried to interfere.
'It must have been the miraculous power left by the Founder within the scroll. That's the only explanation that makes sense,' I reasoned, a shiver running down my spine.
'To think that seemingly useless scroll brought me back to my youth!' I thought, astonished, my pulse quickening.
Still dumbfounded, I glanced around the familiar small room, observing the place I found myself in.
'This room is familiar… where am I exactly? Did someone save me? No, no… there's no way anyone could save me from those wounds,' I thought, trying to convince myself that the scroll was still just a blank parchment, so I wouldn't feel guilty for treating such a valuable item carelessly.
But deep down, I knew I couldn't delude myself. Those wounds were far too fatal for anyone to save me except the Divine Doctor.
The small room felt very familiar, as if I had been here many times before. Then, as I took a closer look and observed the entire place, a sudden realization struck me.
'This was my room twenty years ago!' I thought, mind spinning with disbelief.
I was stunned. Not only had the scroll reverted my appearance, it also brought me to a place identical to my old room from two decades prior.
'Wait… perhaps it wasn't that my appearance was changed and I was placed in a copy of my room, but instead I had regressed back to my youth!' I concluded, a thrill of possibility coursing through me.
'Wait! If I'm truly in the past, then perhaps…' I thought eagerly, a spark of hope igniting in my chest.
If I had regressed, that meant I was truly back in the past. I wasted no time and headed toward the door, excitement bubbling in my stomach.
But as I rushed toward it, my bare foot stepped on something wet, stopping me in my tracks.
"Blood?" I muttered, kneeling to inspect the puddle spreading across the floor, my voice low and uncertain. It felt cold, as if it had been there for quite some time.
"That's weird… why would there be a puddle of blood in my room?" I whispered, confusion knitting my brow.
I noticed a book lying near the cold puddle, slightly stained with blood.
'A book?' I thought, picking it up carefully, my fingers brushing the wet pages.
"Nine Suffering Expression?" I asked aloud, disbelief and a tinge of fear in my voice.
The Nine Suffering Expression was the Heaven's Death Religious Order's basic cultivation technique, taught to all members. I had read it many times in my youth, so I vaguely remembered its contents. Seeing it again after so many years startled me, but it didn't answer any of my questions.
I began scanning the room for more hints to explain the puddle of blood. That was until I heard faint footsteps slowly approaching the door.
'Footsteps!?' I thought, my body tensing, instinct screaming at me to hide.
Without thinking, I dashed toward the bed, dropped the book, lay down, and pretended to sleep with my breathing steady and natural.
'Why did I do that?' I wondered, confusion sharpening my senses.
'I guess after the life-or-death chase I endured before my regression, it's normal to act like this,' I reasoned, realizing my body acted purely on instinct.
After a moment, the footsteps stopped just outside the door. A few knocks sounded. When no reply came, the door slowly creaked open.
CREAK!
A gray-haired old man with weary eyes entered, wearing servant attire. He stood upright with a towel slung over his arm and a bucket in his hands.
"Haah… Honestly, Young Master, why would you continue to force yourself to cultivate when you know it's killing you?" he said, kneeling beside the bed with a worried frown, his voice tinged with frustration.
"You and I both know that cultivating is impossible for you. Your body can't even harness Qi. For your own safety, please just stop and gi—" He stopped abruptly, swallowing hard, unwilling to say the rest.
After calming himself, the old man stood up and walked away, but not before giving one last lingering look at me.
"Young Master, the Life and Death Doctor has yet to arrive, so please endure until then," he said softly before kneeling to clean the puddle of blood, his movements precise and careful.
This took a while, so I had to continue pretending to sleep. I stayed silent, so silent I didn't even speak in my own mind.
CREAK!
After a while, Geonu finished cleaning and left the room. Only then did I sigh in relief, exhaling slowly as the tension in my shoulders eased.
I looked at the door — not at the door itself, but at the old man who had just left.
Geonu.
The old man was Wang Geonwoo, or Geonu, what I liked to call him, my personal bodyguard assigned by my father, the 28th Cult Leader of the Heaven's Religious Order. He was the person I was rushing to see before getting distracted by the puddle of blood. He had practically raised me from a young age after my mother died when I was seven. He was more like a father to me than my real father, who never once came to see me.
Hearing his voice eased my tense, survival-driven instincts. His presence alone brought a sense of protection.
I recalled what Geonu said while I pretended to sleep, and it gave a major clue as to why there was blood and a cultivation manual on the floor.
'Wait… Geonu said something about me forcefully cultivating! Is he referring to that incident?' I thought, a shiver running down my spine.
That incident was one of my insane attempts at cultivation — the first of many during my youth. I had found a Qi herb out in the woods and attempted to forcefully open my clogged meridians. But it failed. The Qi went rampant inside my body, causing severe internal injuries, and I coughed blood onto the floor.
'That would explain the blood and the book lying on the floor,' I realized, my hands trembling slightly.
That wasn't the worst part. Due to the severity of the injuries, I fell into a coma for an entire month. When Geonu found me with severe internal injuries, he quickly sent a message to the Life and Death Doctor for help. I don't remember anything from my coma, but I heard that the Life and Death Doctor came, treated me, and left before I woke up.
This not only explained the blood, it also gave me a rough idea of the time period I had regressed to.
'I see… This was after my first insane attempt at cultivation,' I thought, weighing my situation.
While I didn't know exactly how many days had passed since my attempt, I at least had a rough estimate. And even this rough knowledge opened up a great opportunity for me.
With my knowledge from my life before regression, I could turn things around. As the Head Scholar of the Xuanwu Dynasty's History Division, I had studied decades of history from past, present, and the upcoming future. I knew secrets, alliances, and opportunities no one else at this time could know.
'Great! With this knowledge I can gain opportunities meant for others and take them for myself!' I thought, heart racing.
But my hope quickly faltered as I realized a crucial issue I had ignored.
'Right… even if I knew future opportunities… I can't benefit from them. I still can't cultivate,' I thought, frustration creeping in.
I was born incapable of cultivation; my body could not harness Qi in general, which was needed for cultivation. Because of that, I had a frail body prone to illness and disease, resulting in me always being sick every few days. To martial artists, I was what they mocked as a cripple, despite not being handicapped by loss of limb, sense, or mental ability.
Most of the knowledge I remembered involved cultivation, and those future opportunities required cultivation. Even with a second chance and new opportunities, I lacked the ability to use them.
'At least I can now see Geonu… and perhaps I can turn some of my scholarly knowledge into something beneficial,' I thought, attempting to settle for a compromise.
I was about to be content with what I regained, that was until my gaze fell onto something.
The Nine Suffering Expression cultivation manual rested on the table, placed there after Geonu cleaned.
"This book…" I muttered, a strange tension gripping me, my palms sweating.
And then —
A sharp, intrusive force crashed into my consciousness like a storm shattering a fragile dam. It was not simple desire. Not ambition. Not greed. It was something far more invasive — a presence that did not belong to me, yet coiled through my thoughts as if it had lived there all along.
Power… strength… no matter the cost…
The whispers were not voices, yet they carried meaning. Urgent. Insistent. Unrelenting.
My knees buckled, striking the floor as both hands flew to my head. The room seemed to distort at the edges of my vision. Shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls, as though the world itself bent under the weight pressing against my mind.
My thoughts were no longer quiet. They were drowned.
A thousand urges overlapped — cultivate now, force it, risk it, break yourself, sacrifice anything. The craving did not promise power. It did not grant strength. It only pushed. Pushed without reason. Pushed without limit. Pushed until consequences lost meaning.
I knew this feeling. I recognized it instantly.
The craving.
In my previous life, it had been fused with me, indistinguishable from my own will. I had never noticed it. I thought my obsession with cultivation was mine. I believed every reckless attempt, every near-death gamble, every refusal to stop… was simply my determination.
But it wasn't. It had been steering me.
Now, after regression, it was separate — an intruder instead of a master. I could feel its boundaries. Its pressure. Its hunger.
And for the first time…
I could resist.
Pain flared through my skull as if invisible hands were crushing it. My body trembled violently. Sweat broke across my back. My heartbeat pounded so hard it hurt. Every instinct screamed to give in — because surrendering would make the pressure stop.
But I remembered where surrender led.
Not power. Ruin.
The craving did not make me strong. It made me reckless. It would drive me to force cultivation even if my body shattered, to step over morality, over people, over reason — all for the single idea of gaining strength. It did not care whether I lived to use it.
I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms, grounding myself in pain that was mine. Slowly, agonizingly, I pushed back. Not destroying it — that was impossible. But forcing it to the back of my mind.
The storm dulled. The whispers faded into a low, hateful murmur. Still there. Still watching. Still waiting.
I inhaled sharply.
Control. Partial, fragile control.
'It drove me before… but not again,' I thought, defiance sharpening my mind.
I gave it direction. Not power. Not obsession. A boundary. Protection.
Geonu's face surfaced in my mind. The people I would lose. The future tragedy I remembered too clearly. If the craving wanted to push me forward, then it would do so under my terms. Not for power's sake. But to survive what was coming.
Even suppressed, it strained, testing the leash I forced upon it. My hands trembled. A dull headache pulsed behind my eyes. It whispered of shortcuts, of forcing progress, of abandoning caution.
I ignored it.
Slap!
The sharp sting on my cheeks snapped my focus back to the present. My gaze fell on the Nine Suffering Expression manual resting on the table. Memories surfaced — not of success, but of failure. Of theories I never dared attempt. Of a method so dangerous I had discarded it as madness.
My heart began to pound.
'…That method,' I thought, resolve hardening within me.
Not driven by the craving — but chosen despite it. A calculated risk. A deliberate gamble. One where the danger was understood, not blindly rushed into.
I studied it closely. Every diagram, every annotation, every note I had left myself from prior research — it all screamed danger. The method was designed to push a human body beyond what it should endure.
Meridians could rupture. Bones could crack. Organs could fail. The mind itself might splinter under the stress of forcing cultivation in a body not meant to handle it.
Yet despite every warning etched in memory, it was the only way. The only chance.
If I failed, death was guaranteed.
If I hesitated, the people I cared for would perish.
The craving throbbed, sensing the possibility of power, urging me to act, but I kept it restrained. It could push me to obsession — but this time, I would choose the boundaries.
'Better to die trying than to live in regret,' I thought, bracing myself.
I inhaled sharply, the air colder, heavier, almost vibrating with tension. My pulse thundered in my chest as I prepared to risk everything.
Every fiber of my being screamed. Fear, resolve, pain, hope — all mixed into a chaotic storm that threatened to shatter me.
But this was not mere fear. This was purpose. This was control. This was my gamble.
And with that, Jeonsa's gamble of life and death began.
Even as my body trembled, and the knowledge of the risks weighed on me like a mountain, I felt something I had never experienced before in my previous life: hope.
Hope that this time, I could act differently. Hope that I could protect Geonu and the people I cared for. Hope that I could overcome the regrets, the mistakes, the pain of my prior existence.
I breathed deeply, feeling the faint warmth of possibility spread through my chest.
The path would not be easy. Every day would be a challenge, every choice a test. But I was no longer a passive player in the cruel design of fate.
I had the craving at my back, restrained but ready, a dangerous companion to wield. I had knowledge of the future, the insight to navigate opportunities others could not even perceive.
And most importantly, I had the determination to turn all of that into a chance for a better life.
A life where I can live free from the regrets that once plagued me.