The wind that howled across the **Vermilion Range** was sharp and hungry.
Below, a line of figures dragged themselves across jagged cliffs—wanderers, mercenaries, and blade-seekers all drawn by the same rumor:
A **sword tomb** had been found.
A place where ancient warriors once sealed their techniques. A place thought lost to time.
Tikshn stood alone at the edge of the ascent, watching them from the trees. He had heard the whispers days ago in a border town—a drunken elder had gasped the words before collapsing from poison.
"Blades… that remember blood…"
Most would think it legend. A trap.
Tikshn knew better.
He knew what kind of weapons history buried. He had held one. Slept beside one. Bled with one.
And now, something called to him again.
But this time, he was not alone in hearing it.
---
At the foothills, **disciples of the Iron Bloom Sect** arrived. Cloaked in jade and iron-threaded robes, they moved in formation—perfect posture, eyes like sharpened steel.
The outer world feared them for their cruelty.
Tikshn had seen worse.
Still, he kept to the shadows. He did not yet seek war.
He sought **understanding**.
For weeks now, his blade had pulsed at night—soft, low, like a distant heartbeat. As if the steel remembered something. Or recognized something.
He believed the tomb might have answers.
Not about Murim.
About himself.
And the sword.
---
At a clearing halfway up the cliffs, Tikshn found the first challenger.
A man in yellow wrappings, face covered in a rusted mask, sat atop a pile of broken weapons.
"Step no further," the man rasped. "All blades must offer proof."
Tikshn didn't speak.
The man rose.
"I see. A silent one. Then let us speak with edge."
The clash was quick.
But not simple.
This man moved like wind turned to knives. He did not step—he flickered. Every strike angled to cripple, not kill. But Tikshn's instincts—honed through beast and bandit and sorrow—read through the gaps.
He stepped into a slash. Accepted the pain. Let the blade cut shallow across his ribs.
And in that moment of surprise—he struck back.
His blade didn't sing. It whispered.
It whispered of fire and loss and promise.
And the masked man's blade shattered in his hand.
He knelt. Breathing hard.
"…You carry more than a sword," he muttered.
Tikshn said nothing.
Only walked past.
---
That night, deep in a frost-bitten ravine, Tikshn saw her.
**A figure in crimson. Standing on a stone. Sword drawn. Waiting.**
She was young—maybe his age. But her aura was immense, like a storm balanced on the edge of a whisper.
Her hair whipped in the wind. Her eyes held no fear.
When she spoke, her voice was calm.
"Three have died ahead. You're the fourth."
Tikshn didn't reach for his blade.
Not yet.
She tilted her head. "You're not from any sect. But your edge smells of old grief."
He said nothing.
She stepped forward. "I don't wish to kill you. But the path narrows from here."
Tikshn finally looked her in the eye.
And spoke one word.
"Try."
The frost split beneath them as they moved.
The swords met.
And the storm finally began