The Boy Who Had Nothing

The battlefield burned, but Wu-Jin's mind was elsewhere.

For the first time in decades, he let himself remember—not as a hardened sect leader, not as a tyrant, but as the boy who once had nothing.

---

Wu-Jin never knew his parents. Maybe they abandoned him, or maybe they died before he was old enough to remember. It didn't matter. What mattered was that he had been born into a world that didn't care whether he lived or died.

The slums of the Eastern Wastes were a graveyard for the weak. No laws, no justice—only the rule of power. If you were weak, you didn't eat. If you were weak, you didn't sleep safely. If you were weak, you didn't survive.

Wu-Jin had been weak.

His earliest memories were of starvation, of curling up in the cold with an empty stomach, of watching older kids steal food while he shivered, too small to fight back.

He learned quickly—strength was everything.

His first kill came when he was only eight years old.

A thief had stolen his only piece of bread, and something inside Wu-Jin snapped. He picked up a rusted knife, lunged forward, and stabbed the man in the throat. He hadn't expected to succeed. He hadn't even planned to kill.

But when the thief collapsed, choking on his own blood, Wu-Jin felt something for the first time.

Power.

It was intoxicating.

And in that moment, he made a choice.

He would never be weak again.

---

The years that followed were a blur of blood and survival. Wu-Jin fought for every scrap of food, every safe corner of the streets. He learned how to kill, how to lie, how to manipulate others into lowering their guard.

By the time he was twelve, no one in the slums dared to cross him.

But power came with its own dangers.

The slums had their own rulers—the crime lords, the bandit chiefs, the self-proclaimed kings of filth who saw Wu-Jin as nothing more than an insect rising too high.

They sent men after him.

Wu-Jin killed them.

They sent more.

Wu-Jin butchered them, one by one.

Until, at last, they stopped.

And then came the moment that changed everything.

A wandering martial artist passed through the slums. An old man with nothing but a broken sword and a presence that made the air feel heavy.

Wu-Jin had thought himself strong.

That night, the old man crushed him in a single strike.

But he didn't kill him.

Instead, the old man looked down at the beaten boy and asked a single question.

"Do you want to learn how to truly survive?"

Wu-Jin spat blood and glared up at him. "I don't need your help."

The old man smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes. "No. But you need power. And I can give it to you."

Wu-Jin hesitated.

He hated the idea of following someone, of bowing to another.

But he hated weakness more.

So, for the first time in his life, he knelt.

---

The old man never gave his name. He simply called himself "Master."

And Wu-Jin learned.

Pain became his teacher. Blood became his ink.

Every lesson was brutal, every mistake punished with wounds that took weeks to heal. There were no second chances—fail, and you die.

Wu-Jin did not fail.

He absorbed every technique, every strike, every philosophy his master drilled into him. He abandoned hesitation, abandoned kindness, abandoned everything that did not serve him.

And when his master deemed him ready, he gave him one final lesson.

"Power is borrowed time," the old man said, his voice like grinding stone. "You are only strong until someone stronger comes along."

Wu-Jin met his master's gaze, the weight of those words sinking deep into his soul.

"So what do I do?" he asked.

His master grinned. "You make sure no one stronger ever comes along."

Wu-Jin understood.

And that night, he tested his strength against the only person who had ever been stronger than him.

The battle was long, brutal, and merciless.

When dawn arrived, Wu-Jin stood alone.

His master's body lay at his feet, blood pooling beneath the broken sword.

And Wu-Jin never looked back.

---

He left the slums that day, stepping into the world beyond with nothing but his fists and the certainty that he would never bow to anyone again.

Years passed. He climbed, killed, conquered.

He built the Black Moon Sect from the corpses of his enemies, burned his name into the world with blood and fear.

He made sure no one ever dared to challenge him.

Because the moment he stopped moving forward…

He would fall.

---

Now, standing amidst the ruins of his empire, Wu-Jin exhaled.

So this is what it felt like.

He had spent his entire life running from weakness.

And now, here he was—facing a man stronger than him.

Just like his master warned him.

Wu-Jin's fingers tightened around his sword.

Jin Tae-Hyun was watching him, waiting.

Wu-Jin smirked. "You think this is over, boy?"

Jin tilted his head. "Isn't it?"

Wu-Jin chuckled. It was a bitter sound, but there was something else buried within it.

Acceptance.

"The weak get crushed," he murmured. "And today, I'm the weak one."

He lifted his sword, firelight glinting off its bloodstained edge.

"But I've never been one to go down easy."

Jin's eyes sharpened.

Wu-Jin charged.

And the past crashed into the present—one final time.