The storm did not end.
It simply lost its voice.
Ash drifted through the ruins of the Mount Cheonroe like falling snow, coating shattered temples, broken weapons, and bodies that no longer resembled the proud warriors they once were. Lightning no longer roared from the heavens. What remained was worse—an oppressive silence so heavy it crushed the lungs.
The Heavenly Clan was gone.
Where once storms bent to command, only scorched earth remained. Stone spires had collapsed into jagged graves. Ancient arrays lay shattered, their runes burned black as if struck by divine punishment.
Murim would later call this place The Forbidden Wastes.
For now, it was a slaughterhouse.
Namgoong Il-Seon stood atop a pile of corpses, his robes torn, his breathing uneven. Blood—some his, most not—stained his sleeves. Around him, righteous elders surveyed the devastation with pale faces and hollow eyes.
Victory tasted like rot.
"Confirm the bodies," he said hoarsely. "Every last one."
"Yes, Patriarch."
Teams dispersed, moving among the dead with ruthless efficiency. Heads were severed. Dantians crushed. Souls scattered using talismans meant to prevent post-mortem cultivation.
There would be no remnants.
No ghosts.
No legends reborn.
A Sky Pillar elder knelt beside the shattered remains of a lightning-charred corpse and frowned.
"This one's cultivation…" she murmured. "It's gone. Completely erased."
Namgoong Il-Seon stiffened.
"Who?"
"Noesin Jin."
The name fell like a curse.
Silence spread again.
After a long moment, Namgoong Il-Seon nodded.
"Good," he said. "Then it is finished."
But his heart disagreed.
Because something still felt… wrong.
Far beneath the ruins, darkness breathed.
Noesin Cheon lay curled on cold stone, his small body trembling violently. The seal on his chest burned like molten iron, suppressing the storm within him so brutally that even unconsciousness offered no relief.
He dreamed.
Not of lightning.
Not of battle.
But of screams.
Hands reaching for him through smoke.
Faces without eyes.
Blood soaking into stone while the sky burned red.
"Live."
The word echoed endlessly.
Noesin Cheon whimpered, fingers curling into his chest as if trying to claw the pain out of his body.
Then—
The stone shifted.
A narrow crack of light pierced the darkness.
A hand reached through.
Strong. Steady.
"Easy," a voice whispered. "I've got you."
The chamber opened just enough for a man to slip inside.
Master Pung Hyeon.
His robes were torn, soaked in blood and ash. His hair hung loose, streaked with gray that had not been there before tonight. His aura was tightly suppressed—but beneath it simmered a grief so intense it threatened to crush the chamber.
He knelt beside Noesin Cheon instantly.
When he felt the faint pulse beneath the boy's wrist, his breath shuddered.
"Thank the storm," he whispered.
Noesin Cheon stirred weakly.
"Father…?" he murmured.
Pung Hyeon's jaw tightened.
"He fought," he said softly. "Until the end."
That was all he could say.
The truth would kill the child.
Pung Hyeon lifted Noesin Cheon carefully, cradling him against his chest. The suppression seal flared angrily, reacting to the sudden movement.
Noesin Cheon screamed.
Pung Hyeon gritted his teeth.
"I know," he whispered. "I know."
The mountain trembled again.
Above them, righteous elders continued their purge.
Pung Hyeon moved.
By dawn, Mount Cheonroe was declared cleansed.
Namgoong Il-Seon stood before the assembled coalition, his expression solemn, righteous.
"The Noesin Clan is no more," he announced. "Their bloodline has been severed. Their storm extinguished."
Murmurs of relief spread.
Some elders bowed.
Others smiled.
A Shaolin monk pressed his palms together.
"For the sake of Murim," he intoned.
"For balance," echoed another.
"For peace," said a third.
No one mentioned the children.
No one spoke of the Six Storm Guardians.
No one questioned the Demon Clan's sudden disappearance.
Murim buried its sins quickly.
Miles away, beyond known sect territories, Pung Hyeon collapsed beside a frozen river.
He fell to one knee, clutching Noesin Cheon tightly as the boy convulsed again, blood leaking from his lips.
The seal was destabilizing.
Noesin Jin's final protection was reacting violently to distance, fear, and trauma.
Pung Hyeon acted without hesitation.
He slammed his palm into Noesin Cheon's chest.
The world blurred.
Lightning screamed.
Pung Hyeon channeled his Qi directly into the seal, reinforcing it with his own life force. His veins bulged. Blood poured from his nose.
"Calm," he commanded. "Sleep."
The lightning resisted.
Then obeyed.
Noesin Cheon went limp.
Pung Hyeon collapsed backward into the snow, chest heaving.
He laughed weakly.
"Damn you," he whispered to the dead Patriarch. "You always leave impossible burdens behind."
He looked down at the unconscious child.
The heir of a dead clan.
A storm that should not exist.
Three days later, Murim rumors spread.
The Heavenly Lightning Clan has been erased.
Their heir died in the ruins.
Even the Demon God retreated wounded.
No survivors.
Each rumor was carefully shaped.
Carefully planted.
Murim needed closure.
And so it accepted the lie.
But lies rot.
In a remote village at the edge of the world, far from sect maps and righteous banners, an old healer frowned as she examined a small boy covered in lightning scars.
"I've never seen wounds like this," she muttered.
Pung Hyeon stood behind her, his aura suppressed to the point of near-nothingness.
"He was struck by lightning," he said simply.
The healer snorted.
"Lightning doesn't do this," she said. "This looks like something trying to tear its way out."
She glanced at Noesin Cheon's face.
His silver-white hair had dulled slightly, tinged with ash-gray. His expression was peaceful—too peaceful for a child who had survived hell.
"He should be dead," she said bluntly.
Pung Hyeon nodded.
"Yes," he replied. "He should be."
That was the point.
That night, as snow fell gently outside the village, Noesin Cheon woke screaming.
Lightning surged briefly from his chest before the seal crushed it back down.
He gasped for breath, tears streaming down his face.
"They're dead," he whispered. "They're all dead."
Pung Hyeon sat beside him silently.
Noesin Cheon turned, eyes wide and broken.
"Why am I alive?"
Pung Hyeon had no answer.
So he told him the only truth that mattered.
"Because the storm chose you."
Noesin Cheon clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly—far too distant to be natural.
Somewhere in Murim, something stirred.
The boy who should not exist had survived.
And the storm—
Was learning how to hate.
End of Chapter 5