I had died in Murim.
But I woke up in a hospital bed, surrounded by machines and strangers calling me "Blue."
At first, I thought it was a dream. Then a punishment. A chance to start again—or a cruel trick from the heavens.
The body was young. Ten years old. The family claimed I'd collapsed from pneumonia. No signs of martial trauma. No qi deviation. Nothing to suggest the warrior I had been.
The world I woke into was Earth.
No qi. No clans. No monsters. No Murim.
For weeks, I lay in silence. Observing. Studying. Trying to make sense of it. Trying to understand what I'd become.
The ceiling blinked with lights. Machines beeped beside me. People wore white coats and masks instead of robes and armor. They spoke quickly, kindly, but I couldn't understand most of it. The energy of this world was different. Dead. The air held no weight. No tension. I felt like I'd drowned and surfaced in a mirror of reality where nothing resonated.
I wanted to hate them—David and Mary, the parents who called me "son" and wept at my bedside. But they were kind. Honest. And slowly, over months, their warmth softened something in me.
Still, I couldn't forget who I had been.
Tang Jiung. A brother. A wanna be warrior. A disappointment.
And the last thing I remembered before dying—So-Yeon, screaming as monsters poured through the red gate.
A flash of poison. A burst of qi. Then darkness.
The dreams came often. Fire. Screams. Blood. Sometimes it was the moment I died—pierced by that black blade, the monster in the horned helm looming over me. Other nights, I saw So-Yeon again. Standing in the burning courtyard. Crying out. Reaching for me. Always just out of reach.
And then there was the voice. It didn't speak often. But when it did, it echoed through the dreams like thunder in a canyon.
["When you get to where you belong… we'll begin."
The first time I heard it, I thought it was my grandfather. The second time, I thought I was going mad. The third time, I stopped thinking about it at all. "Just my imagination," I told myself. "A relic of the past." The name "system" appeared once in a dream, etched into fire, but faded before I could grasp its meaning. I ignored it. I treated it like a passing fever dream. The more I clung to it, the harder it was to stay grounded in this life. Instead i just tried to live.
Earth was bizarre.
The streets were loud and wide. Steel beasts rolled by on black roads, honking and coughing smoke. Glass towers rose into the clouds, and lights blinked from every corner. There were no sects, no guards at the city gates, no martial houses or sparring courtyards. Just stores. Machines. Screens that shouted at you from walls.
The first time I took a shower, I nearly jumped through the wall. The water came from a silver serpent's neck with a twist. I thought it was enchanted. I called it a spirit pipe. David laughed until he cried. Mary showed me how to use it, again and again, patient and warm. She taught me how to brush my teeth, how to open food containers, how to use something called a microwave. I watched her carefully. I copied her. But inside, I felt lost.
The doctors told them I'd been in a coma for weeks. That I might not remember anything...names, routines, even parts of myself.
"Be patient," they said. "Let him find his way back." So they waited. Gently. Painfully. Treating me like fragile glass that might crack if pressed too hard.
They thought I was lost. But the truth was worse.I wasn't the boy they'd raised. I was someone else entirely. And yet… they loved me anyway.
The bed was soft. Too soft. I used to sleep on mats. On the floor. Sometimes on dirt. They bought me toys. Games. A small TV. I didn't know what to do with any of it. I would sit in front of the screen for hours, stunned, watching characters fight with lasers and superheroes save cities from aliens. It reminded me of Murim. But also mocked it.
When I started school, I barely spoke. I watched everyone. I listened. I learned quickly, but I was different. My posture. My gaze. The way I carried myself. One boy asked if I was a foreign exchange student. Another called me "Blue-bot" because of how quiet I was. But I didn't care. I kept to myself. Until I met her.
She had purple hair and purple eyes. Quiet. Always sitting by herself. There was something about her—like she didn't belong here either. Her name was Eve. She didn't speak to many people. Didn't smile often. But she noticed things. Like me, she was always observing. One day, a boy tried to trip her in the hallway. She didn't react. Just kept walking. That same boy came after me next. Called me a freak. He swung. I moved without thinking...sidestepped, twisted his wrist, and dropped him with a soft thud. No injuries. Just pain.
Everyone stared.
They left me alone after that. Eve started walking with me. Sitting near me at lunch. Watching me train behind the school. She never said much, just copied my stances, breathing when I breathed. I never told her about Murim. Never shared who I truly was. But we fell into rhythm. Pizza after school. Long walks through the suburbs. Quiet evenings playing video games she insisted I try. She became my best friend. My anchor.
My parents—David and Mary—did their best. I never called them Mom and Dad out loud, but I thought it once, quietly, after Mary stayed up with me during a fever. After David built me a wooden dummy so I could practice. It wasn't until David had converted the basement into a training area for me, realizing how much i loved martial arts, he had taken that wooden dummy and placed it in the center of the room. Mary look on with excitement telling me i should always follow whatever path makes me happy in life. Thats when i first said it. "Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad."
At night, after homework was done and the house was quiet, I trained.
I moved the coffee table aside and rolled out the old yoga mat Mary had given me. It wasn't much, but it was space—and that was all I needed. I stood in the center of the room, breathing slow and deep, the way Grandfather taught me. Inhale. Draw the energy inward. Visualize the meridians. Focus on the dantian, just beneath the navel. The qi was barely there. A spark. Smaller than a pea. But it pulsed. Real. Alive. It responded when I called.
I flowed through basic stances—low, deliberate movements that forced my legs to burn. The air around me grew still, heavy with silent focus. Each motion aligned breath and intent, each breath drew in a little more strength. Sometimes, Eve watched from the porch.
She never said much—just leaned on the railing, purple hair tucked behind her ear, a curious look in her eyes. I knew she had questions. I always knew.
"What are you doing?" she asked one night, her voice low.
"Breathing," I said.
"That doesn't look like breathing."
I gave a small shrug and shifted into the next stance. Another time she asked, "Is it a martial art?"
"Sort of," I said, not looking at her.
"Just something my grandfather taught me." She accepted that answer, like she always did. Never pushed. Never pried. But she kept coming back, always watching. I think she knew I was holding something back. But she never made me feel like I had to explain. So I let her stay.
By high school, I was stronger than anyone my age. Faster. More precise. My reflexes were beyond natural. But I never showed it. Never needed to.
Until one day, a boy cornered Eve behind the gym. Said something disgusting. Reached for her wrist. I was already there.
"Let go," I said. He laughed. Then he flew. Ten feet into a locker. Nothing broken...but the message was clear. Eve didn't thank me. She just nodded once, solemn and silent. The same way So-Yeon once did after I stopped a thief in the market.
That night, I stood in my room, breathing slowly.
Calm. Still. My dantian pulsed faintly. The qi was growing. Maybe Earth didn't have Murim. But I carried it inside me all the same.