Monsters were not born.
They were recognized.
Murim woke to Crimson's name carved into fear.
By noon, wanted notices were nailed to sect gates across the land. His silhouette—black mask, blood-soaked blade—was drawn by trembling hands. The bounty beneath it climbed with every hour.
Alive.
Dead.
Or broken.
Crimson watched one such notice burn.
He stood on a hill overlooking a minor sect compound, flames licking the paper until his name vanished into ash. The wind carried the sound of bells—warning bells this time, not alarms.
They were ready.
Too ready.
He touched his chest where Han Yeom's blade had pierced him. The wound was closed, but not healed. The Crimson Oath had sealed it at a cost—something inside him felt thinner, stretched, as if part of his breath belonged elsewhere now.
Power always collected debt.
Below, the sect gates opened.
They came out in formation.
Twenty disciples. Two elders. One master.
Orthodox robes. Clean blades. Faces tight with conviction.
Crimson counted calmly.
Enough.
He descended the hill without hiding.
When they saw him, the disciples froze.
Whispers rippled.
"That's him—"
"The one who faced Heaven's Blade—"
"He kills prisoners—"
The sect master stepped forward, voice amplified with qi.
"Crimson!" he shouted. "Lay down your weapon! Heaven has decreed—"
Crimson threw his blade.
It took the man in the throat mid-sentence.
Blood sprayed the banner behind him.
Silence followed.
Crimson kept walking.
The disciples broke first.
Some charged, screaming, righteous fury cracking into panic. Others fled instantly.
Crimson met the first wave head-on.
He didn't rush.
He didn't dance.
He advanced.
A blade through the abdomen. A knee shattered. A throat opened. Blood hit the ground in heavy, wet sounds.
An elder unleashed a technique—wind blades screaming toward Crimson's neck.
Crimson stepped into them.
Pain exploded.
The Crimson Oath answered.
The wind dispersed as if swallowed.
Crimson grabbed the elder by the face and slammed his head into the stone steps until the skull gave way.
He turned.
Only one disciple remained.
A boy.
Barely sixteen.
Sword shaking. Eyes wide with terror.
Crimson stopped.
The boy swallowed hard. "P-Please… I didn't— I don't want to—"
Crimson looked at him.
Really looked.
For a moment, Murim went quiet.
This was the moment readers waited for.
The test.
The line.
Crimson lowered his blade.
The boy exhaled in sobbing relief.
Then Crimson stepped forward and crushed his throat with one hand.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Decisive.
He let the body fall.
Crimson stood amid the dead, chest rising and falling steadily.
"No witnesses," he said aloud. "No exceptions."
Something inside him settled.
The debt grew.
By nightfall, the story had changed.
Crimson was no longer an assassin.
He was a calamity.
Sects closed their gates. Merchants rerouted caravans. Even demonic clans hesitated.
And Heaven listened.
High above Murim, within a palace of white stone and prayer seals, Han Yeom knelt.
"He killed a child," a voice said from behind a veil of light.
Han Yeom bowed his head. "Yes."
"Good," the voice replied. "The world will hate him now."
Han Yeom smiled faintly.
"And fear him."
"Prepare the Seven," the voice commanded.
Han Yeom's smile widened.
Crimson felt them before he saw them.
Seven presences.
Heavy.
Clean.
Untainted by doubt.
He moved through a ruined village at dawn, ash crunching beneath his boots. Bodies lay where they had fallen—villagers caught between warnings and punishments.
He stopped.
"You're late," Crimson said into the empty street.
The air rippled.
Seven figures emerged from concealment, forming a half-circle around him. White masks. Gold-threaded robes.
Heaven's Executioners.
One stepped forward.
"We are here to erase you," the Executioner said calmly.
Crimson tilted his head. "Which one of you dies first?"
They moved.
Together.
The world became pain.
Techniques slammed into Crimson from all sides—burning qi, crushing force, blades that sang with purity. His bones cracked. His vision bled red.
Crimson laughed.
The Crimson Oath ignited.
Pain fed it.
Fed him.
He broke formation by stepping into the strongest strike and tearing the Executioner's arm off at the shoulder.
Blood sprayed white robes red.
The others recoiled—just a fraction too late.
Crimson moved like something unchained.
One Executioner fell with his spine shattered. Another drowned in his own blood as Crimson crushed his lungs.
But Heaven learned fast.
They adapted.
A seal slammed into Crimson's chest, locking his meridians.
He screamed.
Not in agony.
In rage.
Crimson made a decision then.
The final one.
He tore open the Crimson Oath completely.
Something burned away inside him.
A memory.
A name.
A face he could no longer recall.
Power surged.
Crimson vanished.
When the dust settled, five Executioners lay dead.
Two remained.
Wounded.
Shaken.
Alive.
Crimson stood over them, mask cracked, blood pouring from his eyes.
"Tell Heaven," he said quietly, "that I accept."
He turned and walked into the ruins.
Behind him, Murim crossed a line it could never uncross.