Chapter 1

The boy was an orphan.

Abandoned too young to possess even a name, he remained invisible to the world until he met Bu Jan-yang, a mortician who specialized in performing rights for those who died alone on the road.

“So, you were hiding in the snow…”

It was a winter of piercing northern gales. Bu Jan-yang stood before a snow-laden tree, looking down at the small shape huddled beneath it, and offered his hand.

“Won’t you come with me?”

The boy, his gaze empty and lost, extended a small hand, frozen as white as the flesh of a fish. And so, the child took Bu Jan-yang’s surname and received a name: Bu Eunseol.

***

Ping’an Mortuary.

It was a small, humble establishment that managed the rites for individuals reported by the constabulary—the unclaimed, the unknown, and those who had died far from home.

Inside the dim interior, the corpse of a middle-aged man lay upon the wooden embalming table. Standing before it, facing each other across the cold flesh, were a white-haired old man and a young apprentice: Bu Jan-yang, the master of the house, and Bu Eunseol.

“Hmm…” Bu Eunseol scrutinized the body, his gaze intensely serious.

“Seol-ah.”

“Yes.”

Bu Eunseol looked up, his eyes widening. With snow-white skin and jet-black pupils, his features were so fine that if one were to shape his dark eyebrows like crescent moons, he could easily be mistaken for a girl.

“Alright, tell me what you see.”

“Let me examine him just one more time.”

In contrast to his delicate appearance, Bu Eunseol’s voice was cold and low, carrying a dry, flat quality reminiscent of the biting gales of midwinter.

“Mmm.” Bu Eunseol hummed, his hands drifting over the body with practiced ease. “He appears to be a martial artist.”

“A martial artist?”

“Yes. Looking at the balanced musculature, it seems he trained from a young age.”

Bu Jan-yang, suppressing a smile, feigned surprise and blinked. “Why do you say that? His body is rail-thin, and he has no calluses on his hands.”

Shaking his head, Bu Eunseol pointed to the corpse’s palms.

“Swordsmen who train in the sword arts always have calluses here. But this man has no such marks.”

A swordsman who trained daily would naturally develop hardened skin from gripping the hilt. But this corpse’s hands were as smooth as a woman’s, bereft of any such trace.

“In the Murim, there are techniques like the Jade-Breaking Hands and the Heavenly Steel Hands,” Bu Jan-yang countered. “If you master a special hand art, the calluses disappear.”

“Does that mean this man was a master of the sword who also mastered a special hand technique?”

“No.” Bu Eunseol shook his head confidently. “This man did not train in hand techniques.”

“Then why does a swordsman lack the features of a swordsman?”

“Because this man was a master of the Ground-Prone Quick Sword.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

Smiling faintly, Bu Eunseol pointed to the middle-aged man’s left thigh. “This man’s left leg muscles are abnormally developed, much like a master of kicking arts.”

“Could he not simply be a master of kicking arts, then?”

“No. This development is proof that he mastered the Ground-Prone Quick Sword, which requires one to plant the lower body firmly on the ground to execute.” Bu Eunseol traced the muscle definition of the man’s left leg. “If he were a master of kicking arts, the glutes and quadriceps—the engines of a kick—would be the most developed. But this man…”

He pointed to the corpse’s sole and calf.

“…has development focused almost exclusively on the anterior muscle of his left calf. It’s definitive proof.”

“Hahaha.” Bu Jan-yang stroked Bu Eunseol’s head, his face radiating pride. “This old grandfather has nothing left to teach you.”

It was always like this. While cleaning the bodies, the old man and the boy would dissect the narrative of death, deducing the fatal wound and the life that led to it.

“Even a master of the Ground-Prone Quick Sword couldn’t evade a Shadow-Gale Dart in the end,” Bu Jan-yang mused, indicating the corpse’s neck. A wound gaped there, shaped like the wings of a butterfly. “They must have thrown it the moment he committed to his attack, severing the carotid artery instantly. I wager there were two assailants, both masters of hidden weapons.”

Bu Jan-yang clicked his tongue. “When one relies on a single, decisive strike, one must always be wary of the opponent’s final gambit.”

Chatting back and forth, the two began to meticulously clean the body.

“Oh dear. This one looks to be a crime of passion.” The next body laid on the table was that of a young man, his face mutilated with savage cruelty. “The resentment here must have been extreme to result in wounds like these.”

They began the reverent work of preparing the body.

Grumble.

Just as they completed the encoffining, a loud protest erupted from Bu Eunseol’s stomach, announcing the end of their labor.

“Hahaha. Your stomach clock is as precise as ever.”

Bu Jan-yang glanced at the sun high in the sky as Bu Eunseol lowered his head, ears reddening.

“How about we treat ourselves to dinner at the tavern tonight?”

“No,” Eunseol replied impassively, shaking his head. “Let’s just have noodles. I’ll cook them for you.”

At the boy’s flat refusal, Bu Jan-yang’s expression clouded.

A mortician who handled the unclaimed dead was considered the lowest of the low, treated as less than even a butcher. Worse, the pervasive stench of death clung to them, a miasma that never truly washed away. People pointed fingers, calling them bearers of bad fortune, and tavern-keepers frequently barred them from the door.

Knowing this, Bu Eunseol rarely ventured outside the Ping’an Mortuary.

“Very well. Let’s do that.”

The old man and the boy sat on the wooden bench and shared a simple meal of noodles. Though the only side dish was pickled radish, Eunseol ate with relish. It was a warm meal, something he could never have dreamed of during his days as an orphan ghost in the snow.

And even warmer than the food was the gaze of his grandfather watching him.

“What are you staring at, child?”

“Ah, it’s nothing.”

It didn’t matter. Bu Eunseol was simply happy. He hoped that these days would stretch on forever, that this life would last for a long, long time.

***

In the night, a single oil lamp glowed in the small room of the Ping’an Mortuary.

Bu Jan-yang sat at the wooden table reading a book while Bu Eunseol slept soundly in the corner.

“That’s wrong,” Bu Eunseol mumbled in his sleep.

“Hm?”

“He wasn’t stabbed from behind… clearly the weapon was held steady… he was pushed onto it…”

Even in his dreams, the boy was performing rites and analyzing causes of death.

“He truly is a mortician sent from the heavens.” Bu Jan-yang chuckled warmly. This was his grandson, dearer to him than his own eyes.

In truth, he had never married, nor had he ever fathered a child. But after taking in Bu Eunseol, he had finally learned the true taste of life.

The happiness of warmth.

Fwoosh.

At that moment, a sound like a distant gust of wind reached his ears. But Bu Jan-yang, whose hearing was preternaturally sharp, recognized it instantly. It wasn’t the wind; it was the sound of the air itself being torn apart by someone using a frighteningly swift movement technique.

“…”

Bu Jan-yang rose, his face turning cold as ice.

Those who come mean no good; those who mean good do not come.

“Hoo.”

Blowing out the lamp’s flame, Bu Jan-yang quietly left the room. He opened the main gate and stepped slowly outside.

Hwiiing.

A desolate wind blew, staining the dark sky an even deeper shade of black. Bu Jan-yang stood stiffly before the gate, eyes closed. He appeared lost in thought, but he was expanding his senses, using the supreme hearing technique—the Air-Striking, Eavesdropping Sound Art—to scour the area for three hundred jang in every direction.

“So, that’s what it was,” he muttered, opening his eyes. His expression was devastated.

He returned inside and gently shook Bu Eunseol awake.

“Seol-ah.”

“Yes… huh?”

“How about we play the ‘corpse game’ again tonight?”

“Now? In the middle of the night?”

Bu Jan-yang spoke in a gentle voice as the boy rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “This game is a little different from the others. You must not, under any circumstances, come out until the sun has risen. Do you understand?”

“Not until sunrise?”

“That’s right. If you succeed this time, I’ll finally get you that ritual robe and peach-wood sword you’ve been pestering me for.”

“The robe and the sword?”

Bu Eunseol’s eyes shot open. He was still too young, so there were no robes or swords in his size, a fact he had constantly lamented. His grandfather had always refused, citing his age.

“I’ll do it right away!”

Excited, Bu Eunseol moved toward one of the wooden upright coffins, but Bu Jan-yang held up a hand.

“This time, you’ll get into the iron coffin.”

“The iron coffin?”

The iron coffin was, as the name suggested, a vessel forged from solid metal. Bu Eunseol hesitated. He’d asked about it long ago, and his grandfather had told him, That’s the coffin this old grandfather will use when he dies.

“I don’t want to. The iron coffin is…” Sensing something amiss, Eunseol shook his head.

Bu Jan-yang’s smile remained benevolent. “Don’t you worry. This old grandfather is just testing you so he can buy you that robe and sword.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Has this old grandfather ever broken a promise to you?”

He gently stroked the boy’s head. Bu Eunseol grinned and nodded. “Alright!”

Clang.

As he watched Bu Eunseol climb into the cold metal box, Bu Jan-yang’s eyes clouded over.

My boy…

Fwoosh.

The sound of tearing air sliced through the silence again. The smile on Bu Jan-yang’s face vanished, replaced by hard granite.

Step, step, step.

With a cold look, he walked out the main gate and stood there, motionless as a statue.

How much time passed?

“Seven-Fingered Demonic Blade, Bu Jan-yang.”

A low voice cut through the night.

“We finally caught your tail.”

When Bu Jan-yang opened his eyes, a man in black robes was approaching, his posture ramrod straight. His lightness art was truly astounding.

“Seven-Fingered Demonic Blade.” Bu Jan-yang let out a deep sigh. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

The Seven-Fingered Demonic Blade, Bu Jan-yang.

The greatest blade master of the Demonic Path. A martial arts fanatic so obsessed with perfecting his tyrannical blade art that he had personally severed three of his own fingers. The Great Star of Slaughter who had hunted down and mercilessly butchered countless renowned heroes of the Orthodox Faction and reclusive masters alike.

This great demon, who had once thrown the entire Murim into terror, had risen to the position of Deputy Palace Master of the Demonic Palace. He was a supreme master who had achieved all the glory a martial artist could ever desire.

“Did you want to live that badly?” The man in black sneered, his smile cold. “To abandon your post as the Deputy Palace Master, to vanish… and to hide like a rat, doing the work of a mortician that even vagrants shun? It’s a farce absurd enough to make a dog laugh.”

“Hahaha.” Bu Jan-yang let out a low laugh and shook his head. “The reason I work as a mortician is to atone for the wrongs I’ve committed.”

“Atone?”

“For those who died by my hand, all in the name of protecting the peace of the Murim.” Bu Jan-yang’s eyes turned desolate. “But the Martial Righteous Alliance has… once again created someone just like me.”

He could guess that this man in black was now performing the exact same duties he himself had once carried out.

“I suppose my being alive is an inconvenience. I am, after all, the greatest shame of the Orthodox Faction.”

“If you understand that, then take your own life.”

“In the end, you too will be discarded, just like me. Pitifully.”

“You worry about strange things,” the man in black said, his face brimming with confidence. “Do you think I would be reduced to a mere tool for slaughtering masters of both factions, like you were?”

“The end is always the same for a spy who hides his true identity while wandering the Murim, isn’t that right?”

The truth was, Bu Jan-yang had never been a crazed killing star. He was a deep-cover double agent, cultivated by the Martial Righteous Alliance with all its resources.

“For a long time,” Jan-yang continued, his voice flat, “the Alliance has created double agents like us. All to slaughter the Orthodox masters who were thorns in their side. All so they could control the Orthodox Faction to their liking and reign over the Murim.”

“You really talk too much.”

“I’m only saying this because I walked the same path before you.”

The man in black scoffed. “What, do you want me to treat you as a senior?”

“How could I? There’s no seniority in this line of work.” Bu Jan-yang gave a bitter smile. “I’m just advising you to quit this kind of work, even now.”

“That’s so touching I could cry.” The man in black shook his head and pulled a token from his waist. “Bu Jan-yang. Just because you went through that, don’t assume others will suffer the same fate.”

The token shimmered with five colors, the characters for Star Guard carved into its surface. It was the mark of the Star Guard Corps, one of the Seven Great Combat Corps of the Martial Righteous Alliance.

“I am different from you. I haven’t hidden my identity; I am officially registered with the Martial Righteous Alliance. I am on the road to success.” The man in black sneered, ambition dripping from his smile. “If I take care of you, I’ll be made a Deputy Squad Captain at minimum… I might even receive the position of Corps Captain.”

“I see.” Bu Jan-yang let out a long, murky breath. “You truly are different from me.”

This man was not like him. He wasn’t just a tool raised by the Martial Righteous Alliance, blindly following orders. He was baring his fangs, intending to devour the Alliance itself.

“Now that you understand,” the man in black said, “do be so kind as to die.”