Chapter 1: A Day in the Life of a Second-Year Murim Warrior
“Isn’t life pretty much the same for everyone in the end?”
That was what the team leader always said whenever talk of successful people came up.
It could be about the youngest son of a wealthy family, an athlete who dominated the international stage, or even the guy from the adjacent team who struck gold with crypto and quit on the spot.
“Rich or poor, we all eat, sleep, and take a dump.”
It was a mix of resignation and sour grapes.
No matter how successful someone was, they were still just like us—eating, sleeping, and using the toilet.
The youngest son of a rich family? Eats, sleeps, and poops.
A global K-pop star? Eats, sleeps, and poops.
Even the top-ranked gamer who terrorized small production guilds with his Executioner’s Blade? Same deal.
A-Qing never agreed with that.
Those people got to eat the finest delicacies, sit on warm bidets, and sleep in beds worth thousands of gold taels.
Of course, she never said that out loud.
But now… she finally agreed.
It was a revelation.
Instead of looking up, look down.
Just as there was a sky beyond the sky, there was an underground beneath the earth.
At least, in the life of a single, low-ranking worker, work could be hell, people could be infuriating, and sleep deprivation was torture—but survival wasn’t an issue.
But in Murim?
Just staying alive was an ordeal.
Life here was a battle for survival.
And food? Forget about eating well!
Still, in the end, life was just life.
Somehow, she kept going.
No—she had survived.
A normal modern-day person who used to get out of breath just running for a blinking crosswalk had now lasted a whole year in Murim’s Sword Forest of Mount Dosan.
At first, she couldn’t even meet the eyes of some third-rate street gang member.
She had to steal potatoes and radishes, eating only what she could snatch before bolting.
But now, after two years in Murim, she was starting to live like a proper martial artist.
Just earlier, she had turned in a wanted criminal to the authorities and claimed the bounty.
Back in her first year, she would tremble, cry, and vomit just from stabbing someone.
Now? If someone picked a fight, she sliced through arms and necks without hesitation.
No matter the situation—
Who was she?
“The seasoned second-year Murim warrior, A-Qing.”
A-Qing’s heart swelled with pride.
She had barely spent a year in the Central Plains, yet her confidence was soaring.
This was exactly the stage where overconfidence kicked in.
Of course, she wasn’t counting the days like some kidnapped victim carving tally marks into a wall.
She had arrived in the warmth of spring, endured the harsh winter, and now, as the weather warmed again, she figured it was roughly her one-year anniversary.
Memories of humiliation flashed through her mind.
Ever since arriving in Murim, she had always been broke.
She had woken up in this world with nothing.
And money didn’t just sprout from the ground.
She couldn’t just go around smashing jars and looting chests in people’s homes.
Well, she could—there were people who made a living that way.
But burglary actually required a high level of skill.
Fortunately, people carried money.
Or more specifically, coin pouches called jeonnang.
But A-Qing was always broke.
Because she wasn’t a mindless killer.
She only targeted scumbags.
If she brought back a severed head, she could claim a bounty.
But the payout was never enough.
Once you left home, everything cost money—eating, sleeping, even breathing felt expensive.
Naturally, her lifestyle was as frugal as it could get.
But today was different.
Today, she could indulge.
It was her one-year anniversary!
“Hey, waiter!”
At A-Qing’s call, the waiter rushed over.
A massive mole sat right next to his nose, like a fly had taken permanent residence there.
That alone told her this wasn’t just any roadside inn.
In Murim, waiters’ moles were considered lucky signs.
The bigger and darker the mole, the more expensive the establishment.
“What’s the specialty here?”
“There’s nothing we don’t do well, but today’s recommendation is chicken, first steamed with fine rice wine, then deep-fried in oil and dark sauce. Since fresh fighting roosters just came in from the pits, the flavor is second to none.”
The waiter rattled off the dish with practiced ease.
Having started working at fourteen and now nearing thirty years of service, he could size up a customer at a glance.
Tattered martial robes with lingering traces of combat—clearly a struggling female swordfighter.
Dark circles under her eyes, but her expression wasn’t tired—meaning something good had happened to make her forget her exhaustion.
And given her humble attire, she’d prefer something hearty and greasy over a dainty portion.
As for the fighting pit story? That was nonsense.
The waiter didn’t actually know much about it either.
But hey, it was just chicken, not some rare delicacy.
A little bit of smooth-talking would make the customer feel good about their choice.
A-Qing, a mere two-year fledgling in Murim, had no idea what was going on in the waiter’s mind.
She was simply happy.
Chicken!
Fried chicken!
The soul food of Koreans!
“Would you like some liquor with that?”
“Yes! A bottle of huazhu! The strongest one you’ve got!”
“How about Bi Hong Zhu? It’s from a distillery behind here, still in its first generation, but it’s said to pack a punch. Even the elders of the Beggars’ Sect praise it highly.”
A first-generation distillery? That hardly inspired confidence.
And the bit about the Beggars’ Sect elders was absolute nonsense.
Those drunks would guzzle anything—what would they know about fine liquor?
It was all just clever marketing.
The waiter was a true professional.
“One order of Fragrant Crispy Chicken! One bottle of Bi Hong Zhu!”
The waiter shouted the order as he walked away.
Not to notify the kitchen.
Not to confirm with the customer.
But to announce to the entire tavern what had just been ordered.
The pricier the order, the louder the announcement. If a truly important guest arrived, the waiter would even step outside and yell it down the street.
But A-Qing’s order wasn’t quite grand enough for that.
The waiter had simply read her like an open book.
A poor customer’s desires were easy to predict.
Completely unaware of the waiter’s small kindness, A-Qing grinned brightly.
The other customers chuckled as well.
They all understood what was going on.
Everyone except A-Qing.
A-Qing. A proud two-year veteran of Murim.
--
There was once a legendary group of rogue warriors from a past era who had a favorite song.
Its opening line was rather outrageous.
Heroes don’t study.
But as time passed, martial academia took shape.
Martial arts, too, became a field of study.
And the higher one climbed, the more martial arts intertwined with the principles of the world.
Without delving into Daoism or philosophy, one could never reach the pinnacle.
Yet, a past grandmaster—no, the Number One Under Heaven of two generations ago—absolutely loved that song.
His title was Celestial Martial Emperor.
A terrifying name.
How dare a martial artist call himself an emperor?
That was like declaring war on the reigning monarch himself!
So, naturally, he did.
And the result?
Well, considering he was still called the Martial Celestial Emperor, there wasn’t much left to explain.
After crushing thirty thousand imperial guards and seizing the emperor by the collar atop the palace roof, he had rewritten the lyrics to his favorite song:
Heroes don’t care for etiquette.
The world lies beneath my feet, so why should I bother?
Even if my birth is lowly,
Who dares hinder my path?
In the end, the Martial Celestial Emperor ascended beyond mortality—achieving the highest honor a martial artist could.
He redefined the relationship between Murim and the imperial court, rising as the patriarch of all martial artists.
And as a bonus, he left behind the most beloved song in Murim’s history.
Truly, a man of legend!
But history has a way of twisting itself.
For every grand declaration, there would always be those who misunderstood it completely.
Some people took “Heroes don’t care for etiquette” and flipped it.
Which led to a rather ridiculous interpretation:
"Anyone who minds etiquette is not a hero."
And to some martial artists, that twisted logic morphed into something even dumber:
"If you hesitate, you’re not a hero."
And so, we come to Jogeaksan Gale, a man who fancied himself a hero.
And tonight, he was having dinner with his sworn brothers when he spotted a familiar face—An Seongil, the so-called Phantom of False Charity.
An Seong-il, the Phantom of Bloody Charity.
Despite his title, the man’s appearance was rather ordinary.
But his nickname had nothing to do with his looks.
It was his actions that were truly despicable.
His main business? Human trafficking.
On the side? Theft, robbery, murder, rape, arson, fraud—name a crime, and he’d done it.
A hero does not ignore evil.
…as long as the evil was weaker than them.
An Seong-il was known to be at the early Peak stage.
Ximen Gale was only at the late First-class stage.
But that was why sworn brothers existed.
Alone, he was weak.
But together, the Four Heroes of Ximen were strong.
And we could not let evil go unpunished!
A hero does not hesitate.
Even though hesitation, in this case, would have included considering the collateral damage of starting a fight in a packed tavern during dinner hours.
But such trivial concerns were nothing compared to the greater cause of justice!
So, he exchanged glances with his sworn brothers.
And in unison, they leaped into action.
