Return of the Moyong Clan's Prodigal Master

Return

And then, the pain snapped off.

Like a light switch.

Gasp!

Air. Real, cold, dusty air rushed into lungs that were too powerful, too efficient. They expanded violently, cracking joints in his chest that had just finished forming.

Moyong Ha-jun bolted upright, his hands clawing at his own throat, his chest heaving. His eyes were wide, feral, and bloodshot.

He wasn't in the Death Forest. He wasn't surrounded by fire and ash.

He was sitting on a thin, sweat-stained straw mattress. The smell of mildew and old wood filled his nose, the smell of the outer disciple barracks of the Moyong Clan.

Moonlight streamed through a torn paper window, illuminating hands that gripped the rough blanket. They were not the scarred, calloused hands of a forty-year-old veteran warrior. They were smooth. They were young.

And they were trembling with the aftershocks of a thousand deaths.

Before he could process the impossible reality of his surroundings, a translucent blue screen chimed softly in his peripheral vision, its light cool and indifferent to the hell it had just put him through.

[Reconstruction Successful.]

[Welcome back, Host. The blade is sharp. The debt is due.]

The echo of the System's welcome, 'The blade is sharp. The debt is due,' was not met with gratitude. It was met with the feral snarl of a cornered beast.

Moyong Ha-jun scrambled backward, his heels digging into the rotting straw of the mattress until his back hit the cold, rough-hewn wood of the wall.

His chest heaved, lungs sucking in air with a violence that threatened to crack his ribs, though these new, adamantine ribs would not crack so easily.

"Show yourself!" Ha-jun roared, his voice cracking. It was the voice of a boy, but it carried the killing intent of a general who had slaughtered thousands. "Which coward from the Hidden Crow Pavilion is using the Soul-Transmission Art? Come out! Face me like a warrior, you gutless curs!"

He swept his gaze frantically around the room, his eyes wild and bloodshot. His hands, trembling not from fear but from the residual electrical storms of his reconstruction, formed into rigid claws.

He fell into the Stance of the Wounded Tiger, a defensive posture designed to rip out throats at close range.

But there was no assassin; no Moyong Chen was holding a rapier either. There was only the cramped, suffocating interior of a disciple's quarters.

The peeling plaster, the smell of unwashed bodies and mildew, the moonlight cutting a jagged rectangle across the dust-motes dancing in the air.

[Alert: Host mental state unstable. Adrenaline levels critical.]

[Clarification: This entity is the 'Great Swordmaster System'. I am not a demonic construct. I am the architect of your return.]

"Silence, demon!" Ha-jun screamed, clutching his temples. The blue text box floating in his vision felt like an intrusion, a stain on his retina. "Get out of my head! I will not be a puppet for your dark arts! If you want my soul, come and take it with a blade!"

Bang! Bang!

The flimsy wooden door of the hut shuddered violently, the rusted hinges groaning under a heavy impact.

Ha-jun froze. His eyes snapped to the entrance. The "demon" in his head was forgotten instantly, replaced by a tangible, physical threat. This he understood. This, he could kill.

The door flew open, bouncing off the interior wall with a deafening crack.

Three silhouettes filled the frame, blocking out the moonlight. They were large, looming shapes, smelling of cheap grain alcohol and roasted pork.

"Oi! Crazy bastard!" The voice was deep, wet, and thick with arrogance. "Who is screaming like a pig being gelded in the middle of the night? Some of us are trying to sleep before the morning drills!"

A massive figure stepped into the room. He had to duck to clear the doorframe.

He was a mountain of adolescent fat and muscle, his face greasy, his eyes small and pig-like, buried in flesh. Behind him, two lackeys snickered, cracking their knuckles.

Ha-jun blinked. The red haze of his rage paused for a microsecond, the gears of his memory grinding against the rust of forty years.

He knew this face.

It was younger, less scarred, and lacked the beard he remembered, but the cruel set of the jaw and the mockery in those eyes were unmistakable.

Jang "The Boulder" Myung.

The memory hit Ha-jun with the force of a physical blow.

Age 20.

The Sparring Arena. A rainy Tuesday.

Ha-jun had been winning. He was faster, sharper. Then, a signal from the observing Elder. Jang Myung had "slipped."

His massive iron mace had swung low, "accidentally" shattering Ha-jun's right shinbone into powder. While Ha-jun lay screaming, Jang Myung had stepped on his arm, snapping the radius.

"Oops," Jang Myung had laughed, looking up at the Elders for approval. "The branch was too brittle."

That injury had cost Ha-jun everything. He spent six months in bed. His meridians atrophied. He missed the Selection Ceremony.

He was demoted to the servant corps, forcing him to claw his way back up for twenty years just to be looked at as a human being again.

This man... this walking pile of excrement... was the first domino in the ruin of his life.

"You..." Ha-jun whispered. The sound was low, vibrating in his chest like a subterranean tremor.

Jang Myung didn't hear the danger in the tone. He only saw a skinny, fifteen-year-old Moyong Ha-jun, the "runt" of the outer disciples, cowering on his bed.

"Yeah, me," Jang Myung sneered, stepping further into the room. The floorboards groaned under his weight. "You having a nightmare, runt? Dreaming you were actually worth something? Shut your trap, or I'll break your jaw to help you stay quiet."

One of the lackeys laughed. "Maybe he pissed the bed, Boss. Look at him shaking."

[Observation: Targets identified as hostile. Threat level: Negligible.]

[Advisory: Host is currently unarmed. Recommend engaging 'Tutorial Mode' to learn basic hand-to-hand combat mechanics tailored to the new vessel.]

Ha-jun just ignored the blue text.