The midnight oil burned low.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
The sound of pen against paper echoed through the chamber, uneven breaths and quiet hums weaving through the air. Piles upon piles of books surrounded a single figure, their shadows stretching endlessly across the walls.
Li Mu did not look up.
"Knowledge is the key…" he muttered.
The pen trembled in his grasp.
"Then why…"
It snapped.
Silence.
His ears rang. Slowly, his heartbeat rose to fill the void—steady at first, then louder.
Stronger.
"Why," he whispered, "does man turn to slaughter at the slightest disagreement?"
His eyes unfocused, thoughts spiraling inward. His breath grew ragged, dry, yet alive with something restless.
The rhythm of his heart quickened.
He stood.
Step by step, he moved toward the balcony.
The night air greeted him—cold, sharp.
Waiting.
His hand reached out.
A blade rested nearby.
He lifted it.
Its surface gleamed with quiet elegance, almost beautiful. Yet beneath that grace lay something colder—something ancient.
Killing intent.
But aimed at whom?
Swoosh.
The blade cut through the air.
The wind shifted, as if recoiling.
"Slaughter…" Li Mu murmured. "Essence, blood, and violence… is this knowledge in its most primal form?"
Swoosh.
"Is it wrong to kill?"
A pause.
"No… if the goal is achieved… the victor decides what is right."
The words lingered.
Heavy.
Unchallenged.
"So if slaughter is the only path left… does man remain alive under Heaven?"
Silence answered him.
The wind picked up, whispering against the blade.
Listening.
His grip tightened.
"Because…"
His voice faltered.
"…because Insight is a sin most men carry."
A breath.
"Conscience… is the burden that follows."
The blade fell.
—and stopped.
Caught.
Li Mu's eyes widened slightly as reality snapped back into place.
Before him stood a woman, clad in dark, form-fitting garments. Her face was hidden behind black cloth, only her eyes visible—sharp, unwavering.
She knelt on one knee.
"The Clan Leader requests your presence," she said calmly. "The elders await."
Silence stretched between them.
Li Mu lowered the blade.
"…Fifteen years," he said quietly.
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips.
"And the tiger remembers he has a son."
He turned away.
"Conscience…" he murmured.
"…is truly a burden