Chapter 3

The Orthodox Faction, which systematically taught martial arts and cultivated disciples, had produced outstanding figures for generations. In contrast, the sects of the Demonic Path, driven by profit and power struggles, were perpetually fragmented. Although supremely powerful masters occasionally emerged, capable of dominating the world alone, their factions inevitably lagged behind those of the Orthodox Faction in terms of overall influence.

In response, the Ten Demonic Sects, hailed as the very heavens of their dark path, forged a coalition to reshape the martial world.

The Demonic Palace.

Functioning as the dark mirror to the Martial Righteous Alliance, it modeled itself after the Orthodox structure, establishing itself as the central pillar for all sects walking the Demonic Path.

Around noon, a vast crowd formed a serpentine line at the entrance of the Demonic Palace. The queue showed no signs of shortening, stalled by the requirement that every entrant sign the guest register.

“They’ve gathered like locusts,” Mo Gwang, a gate guard, sighed under his breath, wiping sweat from his brow.

His companion, Jang Sam, shook his head. “Of course. The Palace is offering to teach demonic martial arts regardless of faction, provided one has talent. Who would be foolish enough to miss such a chance?”

“Damn it. If only I were younger, I’d apply for the Ten Demonic Successors program myself.”

The Ten Demonic Successors Project.

Observing the Orthodox resurgence, the Martial Righteous Alliance had begun cultivating eighteen joint successors under the title Masters of Great Righteousness. Not to be outdone, the Demonic Palace announced its own counter-initiative.

“Regardless of faction affiliation, we shall select ten exceptional talents and impart the martial arts of the Ten Demonic Sects!”

The announcement had sent ripples of hysteria through the martial world. The Ten Demonic Sects were the pillars supporting the sky of the Demonic Path. The chance to freely learn their world-shaking, heaven-rending techniques was irresistible. Disciples from established demonic sects and scions of noble families—who usually held the central Palace in low regard—now flocked to its gates.

Consequently, the gate guards were stuck performing their duties without a break until their shifts ended.

“Another day gone,” Mo Gwang muttered, watching the sun dip toward the horizon.

Jang Sam nodded. “It should be quieter starting tomorrow.”

Just then, a small figure appeared in the distance, silhouetted against the bleeding sun. A skinny boy trudged toward them, emerging from the heat haze like a specter.

“Huh?” Mo Gwang squinted.

The boy’s hair was a tangled bird’s nest, his clothes torn into rags that barely clung to his frame. His shoes were worn through, the soles of his feet caked with dried blood and road dust. Yet, it was his attire that gave pause—the robe of a mortician used for funeral rites. Strapped to his back were a bamboo box for tools and a peach-wood sword.

“Did someone die?” Jang Sam wondered aloud.

“Who died? Don’t be daft. The competition hasn’t even started yet,” Mo Gwang retorted, then lowered his voice. “Besides, who in the Demonic Palace would hire such a young mortician?”

“R-right?” Jang Sam stammered, baffled. “But look at him. He looks like a walking corpse himself.”

The boy’s wild hair obscured his eyes, and his lips were cracked and bleeding. He looked as though he had walked non-stop for months, fueled only by some unseen obsession.

Drag. Drag.

Moving with slow, heavy steps, the boy finally reached the main gate.

Looking up at the imposing iron doors of the Demonic Palace, Bu Eunseol clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.

Grandfather.

His previously hazy eyes burned with a blood-red light.

It starts now.

***

After burying his grandfather in a sunny spot, Bu Eunseol had returned to the Ping’an Mortuary to sort through their meager belongings. Aside from the ritual implements, all that remained were Bu Jan-yang’s own robe, his peach-wood sword, and the bamboo box used to carry their trade tools.

“Hm?”

As Bu Eunseol packed the box with his grandfather’s only keepsakes, he noticed a smaller box neatly placed next to it.

“What’s this?”

Opening it, he found a ritual robe perfectly sized for his own small frame and a pair of small peach-wood swords.

“…”

Bu Jan-yang had already bought them. For Bu Eunseol’s upcoming birthday.

Happy Birthday.

Staring at the single, short note, Bu Eunseol broke down.

“Grandfather…”

Clutching the box to his chest, he sobbed, the sound raw and tearing in the empty mortuary.

His grandfather, the kindest man in existence. The one who had filled this cold, gray world with warmth. His most beloved Bu Jan-yang was gone, extinguished like a candle in a gale.

“Revenge… I will have revenge.”

As Bu Eunseol cried out, his tears dried, replaced by a crimson stain in his eyes. The boy who had possessed an almost childlike, untainted purity had been incinerated by his grandfather’s murder. In his place stood something warped—innocence twisted into vengeance and madness.

Having finished organizing everything, he donned the ritual robe his grandfather had left him and shouldered the bamboo box.

I need to learn martial arts.

The fiend who killed his grandfather was clearly a master of the Demonic Path. That meant he had to go where demonic practitioners gathered. He needed to learn an art capable of shattering demonic techniques.

The answer was clear.

The Demonic Palace.

The repository of dark knowledge, the gathering place of monsters. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

***

“What brings you here?”

The guard’s low voice snapped Bu Eunseol out of his reminiscence.

“I came to participate in the Ten Demonic Successors competition.”

Mo Gwang looked down at the small boy in the ritual robe, sighed, and pointed to the book on the table. “Sign the guest register.”

Bu Eunseol picked up the brush and wrote only his name.

“Write down your sect affiliation as well,” Mo Gwang instructed.

Sect… He had never formally learned martial arts, let alone belonged to a clan. After a moment’s thought, Bu Eunseol picked up the brush again and wrote with swift strokes:

Jan-yang Faction, Bu Eunseol.

Mo Gwang and Jang Sam glanced at the register, exchanging wry smiles. Another disciple sent from some unknown backwater sect. Since the announcement, disciples from third-rate sects in remote villages had flocked here in droves. The reason the inner grounds weren’t completely overflowing, however, was precisely because of the next step.

“Alright, read this and put your thumbprint on it.” Mo Gwang pushed a sheet of paper forward.

Bu Eunseol took the document.

…[Beginning omitted]… To eliminate potential disputes, the entire body of any applicant for the Ten Demonic Successors shall belong to this Palace. Therefore, even if one loses their life… [remainder omitted]

In short, it was a waiver forfeiting all rights to one’s existence. Once applied, whether beaten to death by instructors or killed during training, no one would have grounds to protest.

He’ll never sign it, Mo Gwang thought, smirking. Countless drifters had turned away after reading the waiver. Unless one was utterly insane or consumed by obsession, who would sign away their own life?

Crunch.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Bu Eunseol bit into his own finger, tearing the skin. Blood welled up, and he pressed his crimson thumbprint onto the paper.

He’s… he’s insane. Meeting Bu Eunseol’s cold, still gaze, Mo Gwang felt the hair on his neck stand on end.

“May I go in now?”

“G-go ahead.”

Once inside, Bu Eunseol took a deep breath. So this is the Demonic Palace.

He had imagined a den of monsters, a pandemonium. But the interior was grand and imposing, carrying an atmosphere as solemn as a remote mountain temple.

Murmur, murmur.

Following the sound of voices, he arrived at a vast training ground. Countless people were lined up like statutes, and at the far end stood a high platform.

On it stood a muscular old man with a mane of hair like a lion’s, and behind him, a middle-aged man with refined features stood tall.

Gong—!

A low, resonant sound vibrated from a large gong. As the chatter subsided, the muscular old man standing ramrod straight spoke, his voice calm but heavy.

“I am the Head Instructor, Hyeok Ryeon-eung.”

A stir went through the crowd.

Golden-Armed Blood-Eyed, Hyeok Ryeon-eung.

He was the Hall Master of the Law Enforcement Hall, but for this project, he had lowered his status to Head Instructor. This alone demonstrated the Palace’s seriousness.

“This is the place where we will select the greatest talents of the Demonic Path.”

Hyeok Ryeon-eung’s voice wasn’t loud, but imbued with profound internal energy, it bored clearly into the ears of every participant.

“In other words, only those who pass all the trials set by this Palace can officially become candidates.”

He swept his gaze over the participants densely packed into the training ground. “From now on, the masters of the Medicine King Hall will examine your physical foundation.”

Dozens of physicians emerged from behind the platform.

“And only those chosen by them can become Ten Demonic Successors.”

His words sent a wave of shock through the crowd. Scions of renowned families began to openly protest.

“Examining physical foundation is the trial? That’s absurd!”

“Just hold a martial arts tournament instead!”

Ignoring the uproar, the physicians began systematically assessing the children, discarding those without promise. Soon, a thin physician approached Bu Eunseol.

“…!”

The physician started, noticing the ritual robe. “A disciple of the Funeral Sect?” Frowning, he scanned Bu Eunseol’s body, briefly touching his shoulders, back, and legs.

“Unsuitable.”

The physician muttered the verdict and moved past him without a second glance.

As expected. Bu Eunseol narrowed his eyes. The only thing he had ever learned was how to clean corpses. It would have been more surprising if he had been judged to have a martial foundation.

But this can’t be the end.

Bu Eunseol was certain. The selection process wouldn’t end here. If that were the case, there would have been no need to collect the waivers and gather everyone in this manner.

“The first trial is complete!”

As the selected few were separated, a deathly silence fell. From the vast crowd, barely two hundred children had been chosen.

“How can this be!” cried a boy near the front, voice trembling with indignation. “If you’re selecting based solely on foundation, why didn’t you just send physicians to the various sects? Why bring us here?”

“There are two reasons,” Hyeok Ryeon-eung replied calmly, looking down at the boy. “First, physical foundation is critical. We sought to discover exceptional talents unaffiliated with any faction.”

“But—”

“The second reason,” Hyeok Ryeon-eung cut him off, “is to select those talents who can master martial arts despite a lacking foundation.”

At that, the faces of the rejected boys and girls brightened. A second chance.

“We will now begin the second trial.” Hyeok Ryeon-eung grinned, a predatory expression that promised violence. “From this moment on… fight. And survive.”