My Cultivation System Runs on Karma

CHAPTER 6: Nullified Karma

I needed to move. The night was ending, and the sky above the cramped roofs of the slums was beginning to turn a bruised, dark purple. Dawn was approaching. 

Jang Mu-Rak was still out there. He had given me until morning. He knew I was severely weakened, and he would use the daylight to track me. Assassins preferred the dark, but Mu-Rak was a tracker; he could follow the scent of my blood and the drag of my footsteps anywhere. 

I navigated the labyrinthine alleys, heading north toward the neutral Merchant District. The borders between the districts were heavily patrolled by private guards. Mu-Rak would have a harder time acting openly there. 

My breathing was shallow, my body aching with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The Qi from the Karma conversion had healed my side, but it hadn't restored my physical stamina. I was a mortal man running on fumes. 

I stepped out of a narrow passageway into a small, abandoned courtyard behind a dilapidated teahouse. Weeds pushed through the cracked stone tiles, and a broken stone lantern sat in the center. 

It was quiet. Too quiet. 

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The subtle, rhythmic hum of the falling rain seemed to mute, replaced by a suffocating pressure in the air. It wasn't the sharp, venomous killing intent of an assassin. It was heavy, vast, and suffocatingly pure. 

An Orthodox master. 

Before I could reach for the rusted sword I no longer had, a small, dark object sailed through the mist, aimed directly at my head. 

My hand snapped up, catching it inches from my face. 

It was a small bamboo flask. The stopper was loose, and the sharp, sweet aroma of aged peach wine spilled over my fingers. 

"You have terrible habits, friend," a voice called out. 

It was smooth, carefree, and infuriatingly relaxed. 

I looked up. Sitting casually on the slanted, moss-covered roof of the teahouse was a young man. He wore frayed, mismatched robes that looked like they hadn't been washed in weeks, but the fabric beneath the grime was high-quality silk. A wide bamboo hat obscured the upper half of his face, but I could see the sharp, arrogant curve of his jaw and the relaxed smile playing on his lips. 

Resting across his lap was a straight sword in a scabbard of unpolished ash wood. 

He dropped from the roof. He didn't jump; he simply stepped off the edge and floated downward, landing on the cracked stone tiles without making a single sound. Not a splash, not a click of a heel. 

Lightness Skill. High level. "I watched you in the plaza," the young man said, taking a slow step forward. He didn't adopt a martial stance, but every muscle in his body was perfectly aligned. If I attacked, he would sever my hand before I crossed half the distance. "I must say, I am incredibly confused."

"I don't have time for a chat," I rasped, my fingers tightening around the bamboo flask. I assessed the walls of the courtyard. If I threw the flask at his eyes, I had a two-second window to scale the back wall. 

"You move like a ghost from the Unorthodox factions," the man continued, ignoring my words. "Your footwork is completely silent. Your strikes aim exclusively for fatal pressure points. You took a blade to the gut just to trap an opponent's arm—a textbook suicide tactic of the Shadow Assassination Hall." 

He stopped five paces away, tilting his bamboo hat up with his thumb. His eyes were bright, piercing, and completely devoid of hostility. 

Baek Jin-Woo. The Wandering Sword Genius. 

I recognized him from my past life. He was a rogue element in the Murim Alliance, a man who cared more about the philosophy of the sword than sect politics. We had crossed blades once, twenty years from now. It had ended in a draw only because I had poisoned his wine beforehand. 

"But," Jin-Woo said, his smile fading into a look of genuine curiosity, "despite having the aura of a man who has killed a thousand people, you deliberately pulled your strike. You spared a piece of trash that absolutely deserved to die, and you walked away from the silver you could have looted."

He pointed a slender finger at me. "Assassins don't show mercy. And righteous men don't fight like demons. So, what exactly are you?"

I stared at him, my mind racing. If I lied, he would know. His intuition was terrifying. If I fought him, I would die in three seconds. 

"I'm a man who wants to live to see tomorrow," I said coldly. "And you're standing in my way."

Jin-Woo laughed, a bright, clear sound that felt entirely out of place in the grim morning air. 

"Fair enough," he said. He reached down to his waist and unhooked a small, intricate wooden token. He tossed it through the air. 

It landed at my feet with a dull clatter. 

I looked down. Carved into the dark wood was the crest of the Heavenly Sword Sect, one of the leading pillars of the Orthodox Murim Alliance. 

"There's a man tracking you," Jin-Woo said, his tone finally dropping its playful edge. "A real killer. He passed through the next street over about three minutes ago. He smells like cheap tobacco and fresh blood."

Jang Mu-Rak. He was already here. 

"If you fight him now, you will die," Jin-Woo stated matter-of-factly. "Take that token. Present it to the guards at the Merchant District gate. It will grant you temporary asylum inside the Alliance's borders."

I looked from the token to his face. "Why?" 

In the Murim, nothing was free. Especially not salvation from an Orthodox genius. 

Jin-Woo placed his hand on the hilt of his ash-wood sword. The relaxed atmosphere in the courtyard vanished instantly, replaced by a sword intent so sharp it made the cuts on my face sting. 

"Because your path contradicts the Heavens," Jin-Woo whispered, his eyes locking onto mine with terrifying intensity. "A demon forcing himself to walk the path of a saint. I want to see if you actually achieve it, or if you break."

He drew his sword an inch from its scabbard. The silver steel gleamed in the dim morning light. 

"But if I ever see you take an innocent life," Jin-Woo warned softly, "I won't wait for your hunter. I will take your head myself."

Before I could respond, a wet, sickening thud echoed from the alley behind me. 

I spun around. 

Standing at the entrance of the courtyard, silhouetted against the breaking dawn, was Jang Mu-Rak. His face was a bruised, bloody mess from where I had shattered his nose, and his eyes were completely deranged. 

In his left hand, he held a severed head by its hair. 

It was the boss of the Black Dog Gang. The man I had just spared. The man who had earned me fifty Karma points. 

Mu-Rak tossed the head into the courtyard. It rolled to a stop right next to the Heavenly Sword token at my feet. 

"You left a mess in the plaza, Seven," Mu-Rak rasped, drawing his jagged, poisoned dagger. He didn't even look at Baek Jin-Woo. His bloodshot eyes were fixed entirely on me. "I told you I'd give you till morning. Time's up."

The blue system window erupted in front of my face, blinding me with a flashing, bloody crimson alert. 

[Warning! Target Spared by Host has been executed by a third party.]

[Karmic Action Nullified.]

[Karma -50]

[Current Balance: 0]

[Existence Erasure commencing in 60 seconds.]