The ground beneath his feet was cold, but his heart… it burned.
Not with fear, not with anger—but with a fire he couldn't explain. Daeshim stood at the very place he had once been swallowed by the cursed swamp. The same air, the same silence… yet nothing felt the same. His eyes searched the horizon, scanning above, below, all around—as if the truth might be hiding somewhere in the shadows.
He clenched his fists. How did I end up here? And how do I get back?
A wild thought flashed through his mind—What if I jumped? Could I escape this place?
As if answering his silent plea, the earth slipped away from his feet. A simple hop turned into a sky-breaking leap. He soared above the jungle canopy, higher and higher, until the entire world shrank beneath him like a painted map.
Then gravity pulled him back.
He crashed hard—but when he looked at himself, not a single wound marred his skin.
Not a scratch.
He blinked. Once. Twice. What… kind of power is this?
With growing curiosity, he closed his eyes and imagined a weapon. In an instant, a hatchet of glowing steel appeared in his grip. He walked over to a thick, fallen tree. One swing—thud!—and the hatchet lodged deep inside.
He frowned. Too clunky. He whispered, "A sword would've been better…"
Before the thought fully formed, the hatchet vanished. In its place, his arm glowed—and a radiant sword shimmered into existence. Elegant. Balanced. Deadly.
He smiled faintly, then sliced the tree in two like it was made of paper.
Next, he tested speed.
He ran.
And the forest blurred.
The wind screamed past his ears. The world became streaks of green and brown. His feet barely touched the ground. Not once did he feel exhaustion. Not once did he slow.
His body was… built for this.
He tried combining speed with strength—dashing forward and swinging mid-run—but miscalculated. Branches tore into his body. He tumbled across the forest floor and groaned in pain.
Can I heal?
Lying still, he closed his eyes and focused. He commanded his body to mend. Small cuts faded. Bruises lightened. But deeper gashes lingered.
He tried again. And again.
But only minor wounds healed.
His breath became heavy, but he didn't quit. His mind whispered: You need to grow. You need control.
Then… it came.
A voice.
Low. Sinister. Ancient.
"Why struggle? Why break your bones? When you can just… take power. From others. Their pain… your strength."
Daeshim's blood turned cold.
That voice—it slithered inside his mind like venom.
He whispered, "No... I've heard you before... You haunted my father."
The shadows around him thickened.
"Join me," the voice hissed, "and you'll never feel weakness again."
He clenched his fists so tightly, blood trickled from his palms.
"I will never become like you," he growled. "Never."
The darkness recoiled.
The next morning, with resolve hardening in his chest, he went straight to the Seraphin King.
"I don't want to just observe," he said. "I need to train. I want to fight. I want to defeat Necravores."
The King studied him for a long moment. In Daeshim's eyes, he saw something… familiar. A glimmer of something long lost.
Then, he nodded slowly. "Then go," he said. "To Master Seo Jin-Woo."
Even the name carried weight—like thunder waiting to strike.
The temple was ancient. Wooden, silent, yet alive with an unspoken force. As Daeshim stepped inside, a chill wrapped around his spine. And then he saw him—Master Seo Jin-Woo.
A man of few words. Wrapped in robes of dusk and fire. Eyes like frozen lightning.
"Why are you here?" the Master asked, not turning around.
Daeshim stood tall. "I want to become someone no enemy can defeat. I want to be the fear in the hearts of Necravores."
For a moment, nothing.
Then the Master turned. A single nod. "Then begin."
The days that followed broke him.
His muscles screamed. His body bled. But he never stopped.
Balance. Endurance. Blade control. Fighting blind. Combat in water. Combat without weapons. Combat with wind, with lightning, with nothing but intent.
He fought shadows under moonlight. Fought illusions of himself. Fought failure.
And every time he fell, Master Seo would whisper, "Falling is not failure. Not rising again is."
Daeshim rose. Again. And again. And again.
Weapons came to him now like breath to lungs. He didn't summon blades—they appeared because he was the blade.
His speed blurred space.
His thoughts moved faster than lightning.
He began hearing wind speak. He began commanding energy with nothing but will.
Three months passed.
The swamp-born boy was gone.
A warrior had risen in his place.
And then came the final trial.
"If you defeat me," Master Seo said, standing in the moonlit clearing, "you are ready."
The battle began.
Daeshim struck first—fast, fluid. But Seo was faster. Each blow from the Master was a lesson, each dodge a reminder.
Daeshim faltered. Lost balance. Nearly gave in.
But then… he remembered.
His mother's voice.
His father's sacrifice.
His vow.
He breathed in—not air, but clarity.
As Master Seo lunged with the final blow, Daeshim raised his arms in instinct.
And light exploded.
One blade appeared in his right hand.
Another in his left.
Twin swords, pulsing with power.
He moved like lightning wrapped in purpose. He parried, he spun—and struck.
Master Seo's sword shattered like glass.
Silence fell.
The Master dropped to his knees.
"From this day on," he said, bowing low, "I am yours to command, Prince Baek Daeshim."
Daeshim stepped forward, lifted him gently.
"No, Master. You are my teacher. I honor you… as I honored my parents."
The Master's eyes softened. "Then I shall remain your Master. Until the end."
Daeshim looked up toward the sky—his eyes calm, but burning with destiny.
That night, under stars that shimmered like prophecy…
Prince Daeshim had returned.