Thunder split the skies above Chengdu.

  For three days and three nights, the gates of Sichuan had not closed. The Heavenly Demon stood beyond them, black flames licking the air. Tang Yoryeon stood before him, calm as the storm. Between them, the earth was a graveyard of shattered stone.

  “Yield,” the Demon said, voice like a funeral bell.

  Yoryeon did not answer. He stepped forward. And the sky bent.

  Mountains quaked. Rivers recoiled. The air trembled with the clash of wills. For three days, neither man yielded.

  When the battle ended, the Demon withdrew. The gates opened. Inside the Tang great hall, another storm awaited.

  “You will marry the daughter of the Sword Saint of Namgung!” Yoryeon’s voice shook the walls. “You cannot simply run off with a wench you met at a bar!”

  Jinho remained kneeling, head lowered. “I love her, Father. I will not marry a woman I’ve only met twice.”

  “You would discard an alliance that strengthens this clan for a tavern girl?”

  “She is not a tavern girl,” Jinho said. “She is the woman I love.”

  An elder stepped forward. “Young Master, you shame—”

  “Silence!” Yoryeon’s word struck like steel. He rose, fists clenched. “Is she worth exile?”

  “She… she is… pregnant, Father!” Gasps filled the hall.

  "Everyone leave...now!" Yoryeon demanded.

  As the elders left the great hall Yoryeon’s hands relaxed. “I am going to be a grandfather?” His face softened. “I have met this woman. She has refused my gold, my anger. And chose you anyway. You have chosen well, son.”

  “Father?” Jinho looked at him, confused.

  “Do you know why I am strong?” Yoryeon asked quietly. “It is for you, your mother, and all of the Tang Clan. So you may be happy and choose your own path. You will be removed as young leader. Shunned. Removed from the clan. But I will always love you. And I will protect you, no matter what. Go. I will have a house arranged just outside Chengdu. Go.”

  Jinho left the clan that day.

  For ten years, he worked as a caravan escort, a protector of merchants traveling through dangerous lands. His wife stayed at home with their five children. Yoryeon visited when he could, training and sparring with Jinho in secret. Only one set of eyes ever watched...the boy, Tang Jiung, sneaking behind a storehouse wall.

  Ten years old, wide-eyed, absorbing every movement. His dream of martial arts was born.

  “Grandfather! Please, teach me martial arts!” Jiung fell to his knees, hands pressed to the floor.

  “I cannot, my grandson,” Yoryeon said.

  “Why? Why will no one allow me?” anger burned in Jiung’s voice.

  “You are not affiliated with the Tang Clan. If that day comes, I will train you. Until then, it is your parents’ wish that you not step into this side of Murim.”

  And so Jiung watched, copying movements in secret, crude and unrefined, but alive.

  The knock came at dawn.

  Not from Yoryeon. A stranger wearing a merchant’s crest, stained with blood.

  “There were no survivors,” the man said. Jiung did not understand.

  His mother fell to the ground, weeping. “Jinho… your father… he is dead.”

  Weeks passed. She searched for answers, asking townspeople, merchants, even bandits rumored nearby. Each lead ended in frustration. Each day, hope bled away. One evening she returned, face pale, trembling. "They took the body...burned it." She whispered to Jiung. Each day grew heavier, every night Jiung slept with one eye open, keeping tabs on his mother. He began to shadow her, watching her silently as she moved throug halleys and markets, learning what desperation looked like.

  Then one fateful evening, Yoryeon arrived at the house. His face was grave, eyes heavy. “Grandfather? Why are you here?” Jiung whispered.

  “I’m sorry, Jiung,” Yoryeon said. “Your mother… she has been murdered. I will do what I can to protect you and your siblings.”

  Yoryeon stepped down as patriarch, taking responsibility for the grandchildren, for the mistakes of the past.

  Years passed without words about the clan. Jiung worked tirelessly cleaning dishes and taking care of his siblings. At night he would sneak out and watch Yoryeon train as he had always done. The old man moved like a ghost, faster than Jiung's eyes could follow. "Old my ass." he muttered often. He thought if he could mimic even a fraction of what he had seen, he might carve a path of revenge for his mother and father.

  When So-Yeon begged to attend a martial academy, Jiung understood. He could not have what he wanted, but he would not deny it to her. Together, with Yoryeon’s help, they enrolled her.

  Yoryeon saw the regret on Jiungs face as he had watched his sister return daily from the academy for months. He watched her train and spar. It broke his heart. "Jiung, tonight after the others are in bed, come outside and find me." Yoryeon demanded.

  That night Jiung stood under a willow tree, his grandfather staring off into the stars.

  "There is much I regret," he said. "I couldn't change the rules for your father. And now, watching you take his place in raising his children... perhaps this is how I atone." Yoryeon exclaimed. "You've done enough grandfather. You owe me nothing."

  "Even so," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I will teach you what I can. I will give you the Tang Clan’s breathing technique, and the basic martial arts passed through our bloodline—daggers, poisons, hidden weapons. The foundation. The rest will be up to you."

  Jiung's face lit up for a moment, then reality struck. "How...i know nothing, im responsible for my siblings. Im not affiliated with the Tang clan either." Jiung spoke softly, realizing this dream of his may have came to late for him.

  "You are my grandson, the son of Jinho, a man of the Tang clan. Take pride grandson. And I will help with your qi circulation. And training. My time is short, but this, I can leave behind."

  From that night onward, we trained under the stars. Grandfather taught me to breathe, to feel the flow of qi in my body, to mold it, to sharpen it. I learned what it meant to be third-rate. I read manuals late into the night, practiced the stances until my legs gave out, and carved my path without shortcuts.

  He never called himself my master.

  "I’m just a grandfather," he said once, laughing. "Fulfilling a promise before I go."

  He passed away months later.a

  The Tang Clan held a grand funeral. Lanterns stretched across the streets of Chengdu. Warriors of every sect paid their respects. Jiung watch from afar, hidden in the crowd, knowing we were still exiles despite our blood.

  My siblings and I mourned in our own way. But life continued. It had to. Death had become too familiar. I kept training. So-yeon advanced quickly in her school. The younger ones found their own passions.

  By the age of twenty, everyday seemed to pass like the one before. Molded by grief, taught by sorrow. Jiung forged his own path as the head of his family now. Believing the worst was behind them.

  That was until the day the sky turned blood-red.