Hatred was not taught as emotion.
It was taught as inheritance.
Morning doctrine began before sunrise. The hall was cold, the stone floor unforgiving beneath folded legs. Lanterns burned low, their light steady and indifferent. No one spoke unless permitted. Even blinking felt excessive.
"The Tang Clan," the elder read, voice calm and unhurried, "practices poison as art."
Brushes moved in unison.
"Poison," he continued, "is intent without confrontation. It is murder without acknowledgement. It denies Murim the dignity of resistance."
Yeon-seo copied each character carefully. Her strokes were even. Her breathing matched the rhythm of the room.
Poison denies dignity.
"Hatred toward the Tang Clan is not prejudice," the elder said, closing the text. "It is preservation."
No one asked how hatred preserved anything.
Later, during paired training, the lesson was repeated without words.
A boy hesitated.
His wooden sword slowed before impact, stopping just short of his partner's shoulder. The pause lasted less than a heartbeat. It was enough.
The instructor's staff cracked against his wrist.
"Why did you hesitate?" the instructor demanded.
The boy swallowed. "I imagined… I imagined he was Tang Clan."
The staff struck again.
"You imagined," the instructor said coldly. "Hatred is not imagination."
The boy dropped to his knees, pain and confusion twisting his face.
"You do not learn hatred," the instructor continued. "You inherit it. You carry it so you do not have to think when the moment comes."
The boy bowed until his forehead touched the stone.
Training resumed as if nothing had happened.
That night, Yeon-seo opened her doctrine book and copied a new sentence, written in ink darker than the rest.
Hatred clarified is loyalty preserved.
She did not remember where the sentence came from.
That was what made it true.