Fire was never meant to destroy.
That was the first lesson Kang Hae-jin learned from the Gu Clan.
In the martial world, fire arts were feared. They devoured meridians, scorched organs, and shortened lives. Practitioners of flame techniques were often dead by forty, their bodies ruined by the very power they wielded. Because of that, most sects used fire only for killing.
The Gu Clan was different.
They taught Hwa-gi Hoheup, a breathing discipline that treated fire as warmth rather than violence. Their flames flowed inward, circulating gently through the dantian, guided by breath and restraint. It strengthened the body, soothed damaged meridians, and protected the weak.
But in a world that worshipped sharp blades and colder killing intent, such fire was considered useless.
Hae-jin grew up hearing the same words again and again.
Your flames are soft.
Your techniques lack edge.
You will never become strong.
He listened in silence.
At sixteen, when other disciples practiced explosive flame strikes, Hae-jin sat cross-legged in the snow, palms glowing faintly red as he practiced warmth control. His master never praised him. Only once did the old man speak.
"Your fire will never win you glory," the master said. "But one day, it may keep someone alive."
Hae-jin did not understand then.
⸻
The martial ceremony at Mount Seoryeong was meant to unite schools.
Instead, it became the place where Hae-jin learned how cruel the martial world truly was.
Representatives from dozens of sects gathered beneath frozen pines. Steel rang against steel. Qi clashed in the air. Talented disciples displayed their arts, earning cheers and admiration.
When it was Hae-jin's turn, the murmurs started immediately.
"Gu Clan?"
"Are they still around?"
"That fire school that refuses to kill?"
He stepped onto the stone platform, heart steady, breath slow. He performed his technique exactly as taught. Controlled. Gentle. Flames rippled across his palms, warm but restrained.
Laughter followed.
A disciple from a northern ice sect stepped forward first. Then another. Then another.
They did not call it a duel.
They called it a lesson.
Cold qi struck him from three directions. Ice crept up his legs, numbing his meridians. His fire responded instinctively, not to burn, but to protect. Heat surged inward, wrapping his organs, preventing fatal damage.
But protection did not stop pain.
He fell to one knee. Then both.
"You see?" someone mocked. "Fire that refuses to burn is nothing."
A final kick sent him crashing onto the frozen stone.
That was when the temperature dropped.
Not suddenly. Not violently.
It dropped the way winter settles into bone.
The air crystallized. Breath turned white. Even the northern disciples stiffened as a presence stepped onto the platform.
She wore white and pale blue. Her hair was tied simply, no ornaments. Her eyes were clear, cold, and painfully calm.
Seo Yoon-hwa.
Everyone knew her name.
She was a prodigy of Bing-mu, an extreme Yin martial art that refined cold qi to its purest state. Her movements were said to sharpen frost into blades. Her strikes froze blood before it spilled.
But what people did not know was that Bing-mu was not merely an art of ice.
It was an art of imbalance.
Extreme Yin devoured warmth. It eroded the body from within. Practitioners gained terrifying power at the cost of their own life force. Most died young, their hearts failing, their meridians crystallizing.
Seo Yoon-hwa had been practicing it since childhood.
She stopped the fight with one motion. No wasted movement. No killing intent. Just cold authority.
"Enough," she said.
No one argued.
When she turned to leave, her steps faltered.
Hae-jin noticed first.
Her shoulders trembled. Frost bloomed unnaturally across her sleeves. Her breath came shallow, uneven. Her lips lost color.
Yin backlash.
Bing-mu demanded warmth to balance it. Without it, the cold would crawl inward, freezing the organs one by one. The final stage was known as Frozen Heart Syndrome.
Hae-jin did not think.
He reached out.
His hands pressed against her chest, over her heart.
Gasps echoed around them.
Fire flared instinctively, but not outward. He softened it, guiding the heat through his palms, breathing slowly, carefully. Warmth flowed into her meridians like sunlight through ice.
Seo Yoon-hwa stiffened.
Then she exhaled.
The trembling stopped. Frost receded. Color returned to her face.
For the first time in years, the cold inside her did not hurt.
She looked down at him.
Not with gratitude. Not with surprise.
But with something far more dangerous.
Relief.
⸻
That moment bound their fates.
Hae-jin did not know it then. He only knew that when he pulled his hands away, the cold returned immediately, sharp and cruel. She steadied herself, masking the pain like she always did.
"You," she said quietly. "What was that technique?"
"Hwa-gi Hoheup," he answered. "From the Gu Clan."
She nodded once.
From that day on, Seo Yoon-hwa sought him out.
Not as a disciple. Not as a lover.
But as warmth.
Every meeting drained him. Balancing extreme Yin required constant fire circulation. His meridians burned. His lifespan shortened. The Gu Clan elders warned him.
"You are feeding a bottomless cold," they said. "One day, you will have nothing left."
He stayed anyway.
Because every time he warmed her, she smiled just a little.
And in that small smile, he found meaning.
⸻
Far in the future, when the cold finally claimed her heart, Kang Hae-jin would remember this day.
The day he learned that love was not always about saving someone.
Sometimes, it was about keeping them warm—
even when you knew the fire would never be enough.