The mountains of Hwangjin Province stood like jagged teeth against the dawn. Mist rolled through the valleys, carrying the faint scent of pine and steel. Somewhere within that haze, a single figure struck the same stance for the thousandth time.
His breath was steady. His body trembled.
Jin Tae-won drew his fist back — slow, deliberate — and drove it forward again.
The air cracked faintly with each strike, yet no shockwave followed.
Only silence.
He gritted his teeth. "Again."
Sweat ran down his back as he repeated the movement until his knuckles split open. The training field was empty now; even the morning birds had grown tired of watching.
From the training hall above, laughter echoed — bright, effortless.
The senior disciples of the Iron Shadow Sect sparred on polished stone, their Ki blazing visibly in the sunlight. Their movements were fast enough to blur.
Tae-won paused, wiping his bloodied hand on his robe.
> "Eight years," he muttered. "And I still can't form a visible Ki aura."
---
The Weakest Disciple
He wasn't untalented — at least, that's what the elders said.
But in a world where talent was measured in how brightly one's Ki burned, Jin Tae-won was a dim candle among roaring flames.
He worked harder than anyone. He rose before dawn, trained after dusk, and meditated until his legs went numb.
But no matter how far he pushed, the wall never cracked.
Some disciples were born with Ki flowing like rivers.
Tae-won's Ki was a trickle.
Barely enough to coat his fist for a single strike.
---
Master Hae's Words
That evening, as the mountain turned gold, Master Hae, the elder of the Iron Shadow Sect, found him still practicing.
The old man watched for a while, his expression unreadable.
"Still here, Tae-won?"
The young man stopped mid-strike, bowing deeply. "Yes, Master. My Ki control is still unstable. I—"
"You've said the same thing for eight years," Master Hae interrupted gently. "Tell me, do you believe effort can replace talent?"
Tae-won hesitated. "If I work hard enough… it should."
The old man sighed. "Then you will die trying. There are limits Heaven places on all things. The sooner you learn to accept them, the longer you'll live."
He turned to leave, but paused.
"Tae-won, sometimes… effort without direction is just self-destruction."
The words lingered long after Master Hae walked away.
---
The Whisper
That night, Tae-won sat alone in meditation.
The mountain was silent — not even the wind stirred.
He focused inward, tracing the faint Ki current flowing through his body.
Slow, sluggish, weak.
He tried to force it open, to expand the meridians through sheer will.
Pain rippled through his chest. Blood filled his mouth.
But he didn't stop.
> If Heaven gave me no path, I'll carve one myself.
The air began to hum — faintly at first. A vibration, too low for hearing, but deep enough to be felt in the bones.
The ground trembled. His heartbeat echoed louder and louder, until it no longer sounded like a pulse… but like chains rattling.
Then—
Crack.
A sound split the silence. Not from outside — but from within him.
The hum vanished. The world stilled.
And for a fleeting second, Jin Tae-won felt it — something beyond Ki, beyond flesh, a rhythm that pulsed in harmony with the mountain itself.
Then the pain returned, sharper than before, and he collapsed.
---
When dawn rose, the training ground was quiet once more.
Tae-won awoke to find blood crusted on his lip and the echo of that impossible sound fading from his mind.
He clenched his fist, confused, afraid, and yet — strangely at peace.
Somewhere deep inside, past the broken meridians and bruised muscle, something had shifted.
He didn't know it yet, but the first chain had already begun to break.
---