The Boy Who Survived

The wind howled through the desolate village, carrying the scent of blood and ash. The flames had long since died, leaving only charred remains of what was once a home. A boy—no older than ten—stood in the wreckage, his bare feet covered in soot, his tiny hands trembling as he clutched the remains of his mother's robe.

His name was Baek Mu-Jin.

And he had just lost everything.

The night before, his village had been nothing extraordinary—a quiet settlement on the outskirts of the martial world, untouched by the grand conflicts of sects and warriors. The people were simple, farmers and merchants with no ambition for power.

Yet power had come to them nonetheless.

A group of masked men had descended upon the village under the cover of darkness. They weren't ordinary bandits. No, their movements were too precise, their methods too ruthless. They had come with a purpose—to wipe the village from existence.

Baek Mu-Jin had hidden beneath the floorboards of his home, pressing his hands over his mouth as the screams of his family filled the air. He had watched, through the thin cracks in the wood, as his father was cut down, as his mother was dragged away. He had remained there, frozen, as the massacre unfolded.

By the time dawn arrived, the village was nothing more than a graveyard.

And he was the only one left alive.

---

The first few days were a blur of hunger and grief. Mu-Jin wandered the ruins, eating whatever scraps he could find. He called out for his mother, for his father, for anyone who could answer. But there was only silence.

Then, on the fifth day, they returned.

The same masked men.

Mu-Jin had no idea why they came back, but this time, he did not hide. He was too weak, too desperate. He staggered toward them, his small frame barely holding itself together.

One of the men turned, his blade still stained with the dried blood of Mu-Jin's people.

"A survivor?" His voice was devoid of emotion.

Mu-Jin didn't beg. He didn't cry. He simply stared at them with hollow eyes.

And then, something unexpected happened.

The leader of the group, a tall man with a voice as cold as winter, laughed.

"He has the eyes of a ghost," the leader murmured. "Interesting."

Rather than killing Mu-Jin, they took him.

Not out of mercy.

But because they were curious to see how long he would last.

---

For the next eight years, Mu-Jin lived in hell.

He became a slave to those who had destroyed his home, a nameless orphan among dozens of others. He was given no food unless he fought for it, no shelter unless he earned it. The weak were left to die, and the strong were only kept alive to entertain their captors.

Mu-Jin learned quickly—to survive, one must become a beast.

He fought. He clawed. He killed.

He rose through the ranks of the captives, earning the grudging respect of his tormentors. They called him the dog that wouldn't die.

And in the shadows of that wretched place, Mu-Jin plotted.

He would not die a dog.

He would become something else.

Something they feared.

---

One night, when the opportunity finally came, Mu-Jin took it.

The leader—the man who had laughed at him years ago—had lowered his guard, confident that Mu-Jin was too broken to rebel.

But Mu-Jin had been waiting.

He struck without hesitation, driving a stolen blade through the man's throat.

The others awoke to chaos, but by then, it was too late.

The camp burned.

And Baek Mu-Jin walked away, leaving behind the ashes of his past.

---

Years passed, and Mu-Jin carved his own path through the martial world. He became a name whispered in the dark, a warrior who fought without allegiance. He had no sect, no master, no family.

Only one thing remained within him.

Hatred.

Hatred for those who played with the lives of the weak.

Hatred for those who saw human lives as disposable.

And now, standing before Jin Tae-Hyun, he saw the same kind of enemy once more.

This was not just a battle for power.

For Baek Mu-Jin, this was personal.