"The sword is not for glory. The sword is not for vengeance. The sword is for the weak who have no shield, for the innocent who cannot fight. If I must fall, let my life be the wall between them and the storm."
— Jin Mu-Won, the Sword Saint of Murim
---
The Valley of Broken Heavens had once been a place of pilgrimage. Monks and martial artists from across the lands came to meditate under the thousand waterfalls that cascaded from its jagged cliffs, each drop of water said to carry the echoes of the heavens. It was said that the ancients had first learned to wield qi here, listening to the whispers of the stars that fell upon the valley floor.
Now it was hell.
The waterfalls still roared, but they were stained with blood. The earth was scorched, the ancient statues toppled, and the banners of evil sects fluttered where once pilgrims had left incense. Crimson skulls, black serpents, chains wreathed in flame — their emblems mocked all that had been sacred. The air was thick with the stench of smoke and the coppery tang of blood.
And at the valley's heart, one man stood alone.
Jin Mu-Won, the Sword Saint, the last scion of the Northern Heavenly Sect, the man whose name was whispered as both savior and doom. His robe was torn, darkened by blood not all his own. His long black hair whipped in the wind, his eyes calm and unyielding. In his hand was his blade — Heaven's Fall — a sword that shimmered faintly with the weight of his qi, as though the stars themselves bent toward its edge.
Around him lay the bodies of hundreds, their weapons shattered, their armor broken. Yet for every fallen foe, a dozen more pressed forward.
Across the valley, atop a ridge, the masters of the evil sects watched with cruel delight.
The Blood Serpent Patriarch, his skin covered in scales of crimson qi, hissed. "Look at him, still standing. One man against all the heavens. How arrogant."
The Black Flame Monk, his staff burning with unholy fire, sneered. "He has slain hundreds of our disciples. But he bleeds. He tires. The lion's claws grow dull when the jackals bite long enough."
Others muttered in agreement. The Poison Widow with her talons dipped in venom. The Shadow Viper, whose blade flickered like smoke. The Iron Tyrant, whose fists could break mountains. Each was a calamity unto themselves, feared across Murim. And together, they had come to end him.
Yet Jin Mu-Won stood, unmoving, his blade resting lightly in his hand. His breath came steady, his gaze never wavering.
"Arrogant?" His voice carried across the valley, clear even over the roar of battle. "You mistake me. This is not arrogance. This is duty. I stand because none else will."
He lifted his blade, pointing it skyward. The air around him trembled. "I am the sword of the people. The shield of the innocent. And until my last breath, I will not yield."
---
The Storm Unleashed
They came for him then. Thousands. The disciples of every dark sect surged forward like a tide, weapons raised, qi blazing in colors foul and unnatural. Arrows darkened the sky, fire rolled across the ground, poison mist spread like a creeping fog.
Jin moved.
He was no longer man but storm. His qi flared, filling the valley like the roar of the ocean. The blade in his hand blurred, each stroke carrying the weight of mountains, the speed of lightning.
Arrows shattered in the air before they reached him, torn apart by the pressure of his aura. Fire bent away, curling into harmless smoke. Poison dissolved, ripped apart by the purity of his qi.
He stepped forward once, and the ground cracked. He swung his blade, and a score of men fell, their weapons broken, their armor split. He turned, and another fifty scattered, hurled aside as though by a hurricane.
The sky itself seemed to bend to him. The stars shone brighter above, the wind howled in chorus with his strikes, the waterfalls roared as though bearing witness.
The disciples screamed in terror. "He's not human!" one shouted before Jin's blade struck his weapon and shattered it like glass.
"He's the Sword Saint!" another cried, fleeing — only to be cut down by his own master's lash.
Still Jin moved, flowing like water, striking like thunder. He spared none of the sect leaders' disciples. Yet for every man he felled, another came. For every group broken, another pressed in.
Blood streaked his side. His breaths grew heavier. His robe clung to him, torn by blades, burned by fire. And still he fought.
---
The Masters Enter
At last, the masters themselves descended from the ridge.
The Blood Serpent Patriarch struck first, his qi forming a thousand serpents that lunged with fangs dripping venom.
Jin raised his blade. "Heaven's Fall — First Form."
The blade sang, slicing through the air. A silver arc cut across the valley, and every serpent was severed, dissolving into mist. The Patriarch staggered, blood spilling from his lips.
The Black Flame Monk roared, bringing down his staff in a column of fire that split the valley floor. Jin met it head on.
"Heaven's Fall — Second Form."
His qi surged upward, a tidal wave against the flame. The fire shattered, scattering into harmless embers. The Monk was thrown back, his staff cracked, his arms bleeding.
The Shadow Viper darted in, his blade flickering with killing intent. Jin's sword moved once, so fast the eye could not follow, and the Viper froze — his weapon shattered, his arm hanging limp.
One by one they fell back, wounded, furious, disbelieving.
But for each one struck, Jin bled more. His side burned with poison. His shoulder sagged from a shattered strike. His vision swam, his qi flickering as his reserves thinned.
Still, he stood.
---
The Last Vow
The masters regrouped, surrounding him. A dozen remained, their disciples forming a ring, chanting dark mantras that poisoned the air.
Jin fell to one knee, blood dripping into the dust. His blade trembled in his hand. He could feel his body failing — wounds too many, qi too drained.
And yet his eyes burned with the same light as when he began.
"If I must fall," he whispered, his voice low but steady, "then let my fall be the wall that holds the storm back. If I must die, let my death buy one more dawn for those who cannot fight."
He raised his sword one last time.
"Heaven's Fall — Final Form."
---
The Passage
His qi erupted. The heavens split.
The valley blazed with light, brighter than day, brighter than flame. His body burned with agony, his blade shattering into fragments that rose into the sky like stars torn from the heavens. The masters staggered back, shielding their eyes as the very air screamed.
The disciples fell, clutching their heads, their dark qi unraveling like cobwebs in fire.
And above it all, the heavens themselves opened. A rift tore through the night sky, stars swirling, light cascading down like rivers. The roar of the waterfalls turned into thunder. The valley shook as though the world itself would break.
Jin felt his body giving way, his blood boiling, his bones cracking. Yet he smiled, faint but true.
"Let it be enough."
And then the light swallowed him.
---
Arrival
When he awoke, it was to silence.
He lay upon grass, cool and damp, beneath a sky of unfamiliar stars. His wounds still bled, his qi flickered like a candle in the wind. His blade was gone, nothing but the broken staff of its hilt in his hand.
He staggered to his feet, breathing heavily. The world smelled different. The air was thicker, the land heavy with life. In the distance, torches flickered along stone walls, a castle of black stone rising like a broken tooth against the horizon.
Jin Mu-Won closed his eyes, steadying his breath. His qi was weakened, his body battered. Yet he still lived.
Another world. Another chance.
And if this world too held tyrants, war, and suffering — then so be it.
"I will be the shield once more," he whispered.
The wind carried his vow into the night, across the hills of Westeros, where history was already trembling.