The village of Hyeonjang, nestled between the eastern mountains, had transformed for the occasion. Banners fluttered in the wind, merchants shouted their prices, and warriors of all ages roamed the streets wearing uniforms that proudly bore the emblems of their sects or clans.
This tournament was only held once every five years. It drew the attention of the powerful, the ambition of rising talents, and the hopes of those who'd never had their chance.
Jin Woo walked among them, unnoticed.
Or rather, avoided.
Some eyes brushed against him and then quickly looked away. He didn't do anything to stand out. No colors, no crest, no master to speak on his behalf. Just him — and that strange, subtle aura that unsettled people without reason.
He moved forward with quiet certainty, like a shadow that no one dared acknowledge.
The registration line stretched across the village square. Disciples talked loudly, comparing their invitations, boasting about their schools. Jin Woo waited silently, arms loosely folded behind his back.
When his turn came, the man behind the desk barely lifted his head.
— "Name?"
— "Jin Woo."
The clerk dipped his brush into the ink and scribbled something down. Then, pausing a second, he frowned.
— "No insignia. No clan. What are you, a stray? A lone fighter?"
Jin Woo gave a small shrug.
— "Call it whatever you want."
The man let out a short, dismissive grunt and handed him a wooden token with the number 218 carved into it.
— "Tomorrow. Sixth bell in the main arena. Don't be late. No replacements. You show up, or you're out."
Jin Woo nodded once and stepped aside.
Nearby, three young disciples from the Purple Lotus Sect watched him, speaking just loudly enough to be heard.
— "Another 'lone one' trying to look mysterious."
— "Bet he won't even make it past the preliminaries."
One of them chuckled openly, but Jin Woo didn't react. He had heard worse.
Mockery bounced off him like wind against stone.
He spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the edges of the village. Some fighters trained in open courtyards. Others meditated or polished their blades. Everyone wanted to be seen, to be admired, to prove they belonged.
Jin Woo didn't care about any of that.
He watched. Listened. Took mental notes.
Later, a large crowd gathered in the village square as the bell rang. A senior master from the Murim Alliance stepped onto a raised wooden platform, dressed in flowing black silk.
— "Tomorrow, the Grand Selection Tournament begins," he announced, his voice calm and commanding. "Each trial will measure your true worth, and only strength — real strength — will matter."
A quiet tension spread through the crowd.
— "The victor will receive a celestial-rank martial technique, sealed for generations within the Alliance's archives. And, more than that — entry into the school of their choice, with no restrictions, regardless of origin."
Whispers rippled through the gathered disciples. Even the proudest of them looked shaken. A celestial technique… for many, it was a shortcut through a lifetime of cultivation.
But Jin Woo didn't flinch.
He hadn't come for glory.
And if he intended to stay invisible, it wasn't out of weakness — but strategy. Let the others be loud. Let them show their hands. He would remain in the background... until the moment they stopped watching.
Night fell, and the village slowly quieted.
Jin Woo sat alone beneath a tree at the edge of the square, gazing up at the stars. The wooden token spun slowly between his fingers.
Tomorrow, he would enter the arena.
Not to be seen.
But to move forward — one quiet, silent step closer to something none of them could begin to imagine.