Prologue: Wudang’s Lost Sword

Myth—stories that forge our paths and whisper lessons to the future. Some are forgotten, fading like dying embers. Others endure, etched into the soul of the world. And then, there are those that blaze so brightly, they become legend.

This is the myth of Wudang. A tale that will ricochet through the ages, shaping the destiny of Murim. A legend born in the ashes of an era's end—one that will not fade, but instead, become the brightest light Murim has ever known.

___________________________________

The scent of iron chokes the heavens, thick and cloying, mingling with the acrid breath of a world unmade. Blood weeps from the earth, staining the shattered battlefield where titans once stood. The sky, veiled in mourning clouds, bears witness to the fall of an age. Winds wail like spirits unavenged, carrying with them the last echoes of a dying era.

Mount Hua's swordsmen, whose blades once danced like starlight, lie as broken remnants of a forgotten dawn. Wudang's sages, who moved as one with the Dao, are now still as fallen leaves upon the soil. Shaolin's iron monks, unyielding as mountains, crumble into dust, their strength spent in vain. Kunlun's warriors, swift as the northern winds, have taken their final steps, their art lost to the grave.

This is not a battlefield. It is the funeral pyre of Murim. The last embers of its golden flame flicker… and die.

Yet, one man stands amidst the ruins, a lone ember in the void.

Each breath is agony, his qi flickering like a candle before the storm. His meridians scream in protest, his limbs heavy as stone. His right arm, once the bringer of unrivaled swordplay, hangs lifeless at his side, shattered beyond repair. Yet his fingers refuse to release their grip. His blade remains unyielding—not for hope, but for defiance.

And across from him, wreathed in crimson, stands the reaper of an era.

Cheonma, the Heavenly Demon.

His robes, as red as the setting sun, billow as if woven from the fabric of war itself, untouched by the filth of mortality. His midnight hair cascades over his shoulders, as if the heavens themselves had painted him in the hues of twilight. His hands, which moments ago laid waste to the greatest masters of an age, are steady, unhurried—sculpted with the precision of fate. His gaze, deep as an abyss without end, falls upon the last warrior—not with rage, nor with pity, but with certainty.

The gods have already decided. The story is already written.

Yet still, the warrior speaks.

"Cheonma…" His voice is a whisper, a final ember struggling against the wind. "Even if you strike me down… even if you burn Murim to its roots… you will never reign over its ashes."

A sound rumbles from within the demon's throat, neither laughter nor scorn, but something colder, something absolute.

"Murim?" His voice is a blade, its edge honed beyond mortal reckoning. "You speak as though it still breathes. What remains is but a withered husk, a dream long past its waking."

He steps forward, his movements unhurried, each footfall an omen. The earth itself does not dare resist him.

The warrior's fingers tighten around his sword. His knuckles whiten, the steel trembling in his grasp. His body is failing, but his will remains unbroken.

Cheonma's gaze shifts—not to his eyes, but to his sword.

And for the first time, something flickers in the demon's gaze. Not fear. Not hesitation. But recognition.

"…Interesting." His breath is measured, as if weighing the worth of a man's final stand. "Then come. Let your dying breath be more than dust on the wind."

The warrior closes his eyes, drawing one last breath, gathering the final embers of his spirit into his core. Wudang's way is not one of raw strength. It is harmony, the stillness within motion, the river bending yet never breaking.

His sword rises—not with desperation, nor with anger, but as a truth eternal.

Cloud Steps. His form lightens, transcending weight.

Flowing River. His blade moves—not as an attack, but as fate given shape.

With the grace of the celestial, with the unshaken stillness of the divine, his strike is no longer his alone—it is Wudang's, the culmination of every master before him. It bends with the world's rhythm, aligning with the Dao itself.

"May the sword of Wudang reach the heavens."

For the first time, the demon's expression changes.

The distance between them vanishes. The blade pierces past the mortal coil. It sings through the air, a final lesson, a forgotten scripture written in steel—a lesson he wished he had taught sooner.

A whisper of steel inches from divinity.

And then—darkness.

The last thing he hears is the demon's voice, distant, as if etched into the annals of time.

"Murim needed more men like you. Pity."

As the warrior's body falls, his blade does not shatter. Instead, it lingers—once, twice—before vanishing into legend, swallowed by the battlefield that bore witness to the end of an age.