​Chapter 2: A Day in the Life of a Second-Year Murim Warrior

[14 Fated Stars Effects.araboja]

(T/L note - This is a system game prompt. Exposition though game guide)​

They just slap on some fake Dark Souls-style lore for these Fate Stars,
but don’t actually tell you what they do.
So later, the dev had to personally post the explanations in the Steam community.

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​

And that is why the Heavenly Slaughtering Star is top-tier.

By mid-game, you’ll be using Internal Energy Protection anyway, so your energy gets drained before your health.

The increased damage taken isn’t even a penalty.

The no-escape thing? That’s only a problem if you’re about to die, and Berserk mode drops at near-death, so you can run then.

The only downside is having to fight every random mob,
but if you’re aiming for a high kill count, you were going to massacre everything anyway...

​

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🌸

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​

A-Qing beamed for the first time in a long while. It was a bright smile, without a trace of falsehood.

Since her unexpected and rather forceful departure into Murim, such a radiant smile had been rare, barely countable on one hand.

Now, what was this? A stew? A roast?  Whatever it was, some kind of dish. Its appearance alone had already surpassed A-Qing’s expectations.

The crispy golden skin was a feast for the eyes, the sound of sizzling oil still crackling, and the rich, savory aroma filled the air, burrowing into her heart.

They say fine dining engages all five senses. She had seen, heard, and smelled it. One sense remained, and now it was time to taste.

A-Qing grabbed a drumstick and took a bite. The crisp skin contrasted with the tender meat underneath, juices flowing as if eager to escape. The drumstick practically melted off the bone.

This was bliss!

Ah, this is it. Life might be hard, but as long as things like this exist, it's worth living.

And then— 

CRASH.

The ceiling collapsed.

Scalding liquid splashed over her, immediately followed by the acrid scent of blood invading her nostrils.

Was this real? A-Qing blinked in disbelief, struggling to believe her eyes.
The table, the food, the wine she hadn’t even had the chance to taste—all gone. All that remained was the drumstick in her hand.

Well, at least the drumstick! A-Qing hastily checked its condition.

Bright red. Thick droplets of crimson trickled down.

The dish was golden-brown. This wasn’t sauce.

A-Qing exhaled heavily and wiped her face with her left hand, unwilling to let go of the drumstick. Her palm came away smeared with blood.

Not hers.

At her feet, amidst the shattered table and spilled food, a corpse lay—a man with his throat half-severed.

A wet, gurgling sound bubbled up from his punctured lungs as he convulsed, blood spurting in erratic bursts.

Just another day in Murim.

To put it bluntly, this was fucking ridiculous.

Not just Murim. Something much deeper was fundamentally wrong with the world itself.

A-Qing’s gaze swept across the inn.

Some cowered in fear. Some continued their meals as if nothing had happened. Some flailed and shouted for a physician. Some screamed. Some merely watched with eyes full of idle curiosity.

A hundred people, a hundred different reactions. Above each of their heads, numbers hovered. Numbers that only A-Qing could see.

Numbers marking their karma.

And then there was martial arts.

Accumulate cultivation points through training, reach the required amount, and advance a realm.

Along the way, earn free cultivation points, which could be freely allocated to enhance other techniques.

Moreover, the moment she acquired an intact martial manual, it would immediately register in her technique window, ready to be mastered with free points at any time.

Was this really how cultivation was supposed to work?

For the past year, none of the warriors A-Qing had met had trained this way.

This was character progression in a game. Not the path of a real martial artist.

Then what did that make her? A person? Or a game character? Were her actions and choices truly her own?

Or was someone, somewhere, controlling her with a keyboard and mouse?

If so, what about her emotions? Her experiences? Where even was she? Was this a real world? Or just a game?

“…Hah.”

A sickening feeling washed over her. One that couldn’t be summed up in mere words.

A-Qing felt utterly alone in this world.

This damned.

Status window.

The most revolting thing in existence.

With a final, sickly gurgle, the man at her feet fell still.

The corpse was now officially a corpse.

A-Qing wrinkled her nose at the stench of released bowels.

At the same time, a flicker in her vision marked a change in the quest log.

Her quest log updated.

…Ah. Now they were a Duo. Lost one already, huh?

Fine, then. Guess it was time to kill.

A-Qing let out a chuckle. The taste of iron seeping into her mouth sent an odd thrill down her spine.

This bizarre world, whether an ancient land, a Murim-inspired fantasy, or a game realm, was utterly fucked.

But at least it had one good thing going for it.

Here, there was no need to suppress her anger. No need to swallow her resentment.

Here, she could vent her frustrations in the most primal way possible.

A-Qing reached down, grabbing her fallen sword from where it lay amidst the wreckage.

Upstairs, the chaos raged on—crashing, clashing, the clang of steel.

She was about to add to the mayhem.

A-Qing’s blood-red smile deepened as she climbed the stairs, dragging her Moonlight Sword behind her, its scrapes trailing in her wake.

—

​

When defining realms in martial arts, swordsmen were always the standard.

Unfair to spearmen and fist fighters, perhaps. But there were simply more swordsmen than anything else. And the majority always dictated the rules.

Channeling energy through one’s sword to control its intensity was the foundation of the Qi-Infused Swordplay.

Anyone who could perform it was considered a first-rate martial artist.

Those who could wield it as naturally as breathing were in the late first-rate stage.

Beyond that realm, warriors could externalize their energy, shaping it into visible forms. This was known as Sword Qi Manifestation, the hallmark of a peak martial artist.

Between late first-rate and early peak level was just one step.
But for martial artists, it was a cliff.

Which was why the phrase “breaking through the wall” was commonly used.

And yet, peak-level warriors were surprisingly common.

Ever since the former Heavenly Emperor single-handedly overturned the imperial palace a few generations back, the government had lost its influence, ushering in a golden age for Murim.

Without official suppression, martial arts flourished. And as martial arts flourished, their overall level improved.

Now, as long as one possessed talent and learned proper techniques, reaching the peak stage before death was entirely possible.

Even inefficient, third-rate techniques were now accessible, reaching as far as small-town martial halls.

Because of this, Peak Experts weren't feared as they once were.
Especially not by late first-rate fighters..

"If we gang up, we can handle an early Peak Expert, right?"
"There are four of us ambushing just one. No way we lose.

Underestimating an opponent was a cardinal sin in Murim.

The Righteous Trio of Qinghe learned this the hard way.
Now they were the Righteous Duo of Qinghe.

Soon, they might be the Qinghe Solo Hero.

Or just… Qinghe.

Jo Gaksang, the Qinghaxia Gale Sword, let out a bitter sigh.

'Damn it… I didn’t realize the gap was this big! Did he hide his true strength? Could he actually be a mid-Peak Expert?! That sly, despicable bastard!’

If Ghostly Blade Demon An Seongil heard that, he would’ve felt wrongly accused. 

Because he really was just early Peak level.

So how had he taken down one so quickly? He simply saw the ambush coming.

A demonic cultivator always lived under threat. Those who survived long enough became naturally wary.

While the Qinghe trio were drinking and loudly boasting about Murim peace, righteousness, and the ideals of chivalry, they suddenly fell silent.

From that moment, An Cheng had been on full alert.

His vigilance paid off.

The moment a blade came slashing toward him,
he deflected it with his left hand, unsheathed his own sword, slicing through his attacker’s throat.

Then, with three more enemies closing in,
he stomped the ground, launching himself backward with his footwork.

CRACK

The weak floorboards collapsed beneath him,
forcing him to twist his body midair to land properly.

…Which was just a fancy way of saying he tumbled and ate dirt.

But hey, at least he kept his life.

The Blade Demon An Seongil roared.

“Who dares strike at the great Blood Sword Master from behind? Are you not afraid of the wrath of the Blood Martial Hall?”

Which loosely translated to:
"You sure you wanna do this? Can you handle the consequences?"

“Silence, you wretched fiend! Do you think the world does not know of your crimes? Today, I shall claim your head and restore justice!”

Which meant:
"Not telling you my name, just in case."

For Murim warriors, battle was part of social etiquette. Understanding these nuances was key.

At this point, words were meaningless.

Why waste breath when they had swords?

Such was the way of Murim.