The child was an orphan. It was abandoned so early that it didn’t even have a name.
Until he met Bu Zhanyang, a funeral director who specialized in burying the dead.
– So you were hiding in the snow…
It was a bitter winter, the northern wind cutting like a blade.
Under a snow-laden tree, Bu Zhanyang extended his hand toward the child crouched beneath it.
– Do you want to follow me?
The child, sitting with lifeless eyes, slowly reached out their hand, pale as fish flesh from the cold.
He hence took on Bu Zhanyang’s surname and was given the name Eunseol.
***
Pyeongan Funeral Home
A small mortuary that mostly handled unclaimed or solitary deaths, responding to reports from the local authorities.
Inside Pyeongan, was the body of a middle-aged man placed on a wooden mortuary table. In front of him, stood an old man with white hair and a little boy, facing each other.
It was Bu Zhanyang, the mortician running the funeral home and Bu Eunseol.
“Hmm.”
Bu Eunseol looked at the body placed on the mortuary table with serious eyes.
“Seol-ah.”
“Yes.”
Bu Eunseol, who was carefully examining the body, opened his eyes. With skin as white as snow, and dark black pupils, if his thick eyebrows were trimmed into a crescent shape, he would have the appearance of a girl.
“Now tell me.”
“Let me take one more look.”
Unlike his beautiful appearance, Bu Eunseol’s voice was cold and low, like a midwinter wind.
“Hm.”
After clearing his throat, Bu Eunseol studied the corpse once more.
“He seems like a martial artist.”
“A martial artist?”
“Yes. The well-balanced muscles suggest that he trained in martial arts from a young age.”
Bu Zhanyang, with a faint smile, blinked knowingly.
“How so? His body is scrawny, and there are no calluses on his hands.” Shaking his head, Bu Zhanyang pointed to the corpse’s hands. “Swordsmen who practice sword techniques always have calluses on their palms. But this man shows no such signs.”
Those who train daily in swordsmanship naturally develop calluses on their hands from gripping the hilt.
But the corpse before them had soft hands, like those of a woman, with no traces of calluses at all.
“In the martial world, there are special hand techniques like Jade-Shattering Hand and Pure River Hand. When one masters such techniques, the calluses on their hands disappear.”
“Then are you saying this man is a master swordsman who has trained in some special hand technique?”
“No.” Bu Eunseol confidently shook his head. “This man did not train in any hand techniques.”
“Then why does someone who uses a sword lack the typical features found in swordsmen?”
“Because he’s a master of the Jidang Swift Sword.”
“Oh? And how do you know that?”
With a faint smile, Bu Eunseol pointed to the left thigh of the middle-aged man’s corpse.
“His left leg is abnormally developed, just like a master of kicking techniques.”
“Couldn’t he simply be a master of kicking techniques?”
“No. That kind of muscle development only occurs when one plants their lower body firmly on the ground to perform the Jidang Swift Blade. It’s a hallmark of that technique.” Bu Eunseol indicated the left leg muscles of the corpse lying on the table.
“If he were a master of kicking techniques, then the muscles around the buttocks and the front of the thigh—used for adding power to kicks—would be well-developed.” He then pointed to the bottom of the foot and the calf.
“But in this man, only the front part of the left calf is significantly developed. That’s clear evidence he trained in the Jidang Swift Sword.”
“Hahaha.” Bu Zhanyang affectionately patted Bu Eunseol’s head, amazed.
“There’s nothing more this old man can teach you.”
It was always like this.
The old mortician and the young assistant would clean corpses while discussing the cause of death and the fatal wound.
“Even a master of the Jidang Swift Sword couldn’t escape the Dark Flutter Dagger.”
Bu Zhanyang pointed to the corpse’s neck.
There, a deep wound spread open like the wings of a butterfly.
“They most likely timed the Dark Flutter Dagger to strike just as he unleashed his Swift Sword, severing his carotid artery in an instant. There were probably two assailants—both experts in concealed weapons and shadow arts.” Bu Zhanyang clicked his tongue and spoke softly.
“When wielding the Swift Sword that is meant to kill in a single blow, one must always be wary of the final counter.”
He and Bu Eunseol began gently cleaning the corpse as they exchanged small talk.
“Ah, this one looks like a crime of passion.” The body now on the embalming table was that of a young man, his face horribly mutilated.
“His grudge must have run deep. That’s how wounds like this come to be.” Bu Zhanyang and Bu Eunseol carefully began the embalming process.
Growl.
Aa soon as they finished preparing the body for the coffin, a loud stomach growl echoed from Bu Eunseol.
“Hahaha. Your belly clock is always on time, isn’t it?”
Embarrassed, Eunseol lowered his head while Zhanyang looked up at the sun high in the sky.
“How about we eat out at an inn tonight for a change?”
“No, let’s just have noodles. I’ll cook them for you.”
Eunseol quietly shook his head, and Bu Zhanyang’s face turned somber. They were morticians—those who prepared the bodies of the unknown and the unfortunate who had died alone and among morticians, they belonged to the lowest class—treated worse than common laborers.
On top of that, the stench of death from the corpses never truly left their bodies. People pointed fingers at them as harbingers of bad luck, and they were often turned away from inns without even being given a chance to speak. Knowing all this, Bu Eunseol rarely stepped outside the grounds of the Pyeongan Funeral Home.
“Alright then, let’s do that.”
The old master and young apprentice sat together on the porch and began eating noodles.
Though the only side dish was some pickled radish, Bu Eunseol found it delicious and ate happily.
Warm food like this had once been unimaginable during his orphaned childhood.
But more than the food, there was something even warmer—his grandfather, Bu Zhanyang, who looked at him with such gentle eyes.
“What are you staring at?”
“Ah… it’s nothing.”
For Bu Eunseol, it didn’t matter.
He was simply content.
He wished that these days would continue on, that this kind of life would last a long, long time.
***
Late at night.
A single lantern flickered in the small room of the Pyeongan Funeral Home. Bu Zhanyang sat at a wooden table, reading a book, while Bu Eunseol slept soundly in the corner of the room.
“You’re wrong.”
“Hmm?” Bu Zhanyang looked up from his book.
“He wasn’t stabbed from behind. I’m sure the weapon was fixed in place and the victim was pushed onto it.”
Even in his dreams, Bu Eunseol was performing the duties of a mortician and analyzing causes of death.
“This boy… he truly is a mortician sent from the heavens.” Bu Zhanyang smiled warmly as he watched.
A grandson so precious, he wouldn’t even feel pain if the boy took his eyes for his own. In truth, Bu Zhanyang had never married nor had children but ever since taking in Bu Eunseol, he had come to understand the true taste of life.
The happiness known as warmth.
Whoosh.
Just then, the sound of blowing wind at a distance was heard.
But Bu Zhanyang, whose hearing was razor sharp, instantly sensed it wasn’t ordinary wind—it was the slicing sound of someone moving with terrifying speed using qinggong. His face turned grim as he rose to his feet.
“The virtuous do not come, and those who come are not virtuous.”
Those with good intentions do not come uninvited—and those who do come uninvited rarely have good intentions.
Bu Zhanyang quietly extinguished the oil lamp and stepped out of the room without a sound. He opened the front gate and slowly walked outside.
Whhhhooooosh—
A chilling wind blew through, making the already dark sky seem even deeper and more ominous. Bu Zhanyang stood still in front of the gate, eyes closed.
He appeared to be deep in thought, but in truth, he was using a martial technique—Striking Void, Stealing Sound Art—to observe everything within a 300-zhang radius (approximately 1 km).
“So that’s what it is…”
When he opened his eyes again, a look of despair crossed Bu Zhanyang’s face as he muttered to himself. Then he quietly returned to the room and gently woke Bu Eunseol.
“Seol-ah.”
“Uh, yes…? Yes?”
“Shall we play with corpses again tonight?”
“In the middle of the night?”
Bu Zhanyang, in a soft voice, said to the sleepy-eyed Bu Eunseol:
“This time, it’s a different kind of corpse play. You must not, under any circumstances, come outside until the sun rises.”
“Not until sunrise?”
“That’s right. If you succeed this time… I’ll get you that ceremonial robe and peachwood sword you’ve been begging for.”
“Ceremonial robe and sword?”
Bu Eunseol’s eyes lit up. Because he was still young, he hadn’t been given a proper robe or sword, and had always pestered Bu Zhanyang for them. But Bu Zhanyang had consistently refused, saying he wasn’t old enough yet to use them.
“I’ll get started right away!”
When the excited Bu Eunseol tried to enter one of the regular coffins standing upright, Bu Zhanyang waved his hand.
“This time, you’re getting into the iron coffin.”
“The iron coffin?”
The iron coffin was, quite literally, a coffin made entirely of iron. A long time ago, when Bu Eunseol had asked what it was for, Bu Zhanyang had replied:
“That’s the coffin this old man will use when I die.”
“I don’t want to… The iron coffin…”
Sensing something was off, Bu Eunseol shook his head, but Bu Zhanyang gave him a warm, gentle smile.
“Don’t worry. This old man is just testing you so I can get you that ceremonial robe and sword.”
“Really?”
“Of course. When have I ever broken a promise?”
As Bu Zhanyang gently patted his head, Bu Eunseol grinned and nodded enthusiastically.
“Alright!”
Clang.
As Bu Eunseol climbed into the iron coffin, Bu Zhanyang’s eyes began to glisten.
‘That boy…’
Whoosh.
Just then, the sound of slicing air echoed once more, and the smile that had been on Bu Zhanyang’s face hardened into stone.
Step. Step. Step.
Wearing a cold expression, Bu Zhanyang walked out the front gate and stood still—like a guardian totem.
How much time passed? Then, a low voice whispered into his ear:
“Seven-Finger Demon Blade, Bu Zhanyang.”
“So… you’ve finally caught my trail.”
When Bu Zhanyang opened his eyes, a man in black robes stood upright, walking steadily toward him. It was truly an astonishing display of qinggong.
“The Seven-Finger Demon Blade…” Bu Zhanyang let out a deep sigh. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that name.”
The Seven-Finger Demon Blade, Bu Zhanyang.
A demonic swordsman, once feared as the Great Butcher Star. A martial fanatic who severed three of his own fingers in his pursuit to master a dominant and overwhelming blade style. He mercilessly slaughtered countless righteous warriors, and even sought out to butcher retired masters in hiding. This demon who had once thrown the martial world into chaos rose all the way to become Vice Lord of the Demon Palace, Majeon — an organization considered the center of the demonic martial arts world.
He was, without a doubt, a master who had achieved every possible glory a warrior could dream of.
“Is that the kind of life you wanted to live?”
The man in black looked at Bu Zhanyang with a cold smile.
“You abandoned your position as Vice Lord of Majeon, vanished without a trace, and now here you are… playing mortician in a back alley where even beggars wouldn’t set foot. Hiding like a rat. It’s laughable—even a dog would scoff.”
“Ha ha ha…” With a quiet chuckle, Bu Zhanyang shook his head. “I took up this mortician’s work… to atone for the sins I’ve committed.”
“Atone?”
“For the people who died by my hand, all under the pretense of ‘protecting the peace of the martial world.’” His voice trailed off, and silence filled the air around them. Bu Zhanyang’s gaze turned solemn, almost hollow.
“But now… the Martial Alliance has gone and created someone just like me again.” Bu Zhanyang could tell—the man in black was doing the very same things he had once done.
“Well, of course… As long as I’m alive, it’s a problem. After all, I’m a walking stain on the righteous sects’ history.”
“If you understand that much, then take your own life.”
“Eventually, you’ll be cast aside too. Just like I was—miserably.”
“How considerate of you.” The man in black smirked confidently.
“Do I look like I’d end up as a disposable tool like you, slaughtering righteous masters on someone else’s orders?”
“Hiding your true identity, wandering the martial world, assassinating great warriors… It’s the same fate for every spy, isn’t it?” In truth, Bu Zhanyang had not been the bloodthirsty madman the world had believed. He was a double agent, created by the Martial Alliance to infiltrate and destroy the righteous sects that opposed them from within.
“For years, the Martial Alliance created double agents like you and me—to eliminate their thorns in the side, the so-called righteous masters. They tailored the sects to their liking and ruled the martial world from the shadows.”
“You sure talk a lot.”
“I speak only because I’ve already walked the path you’re on.”
The man in black scoffed.
“Are you asking for some kind of seniority treatment?”
Bu Zhanyang gave a bitter smile and shook his head.
“Hardly. In the world of spies, there’s no seniority. Even now, I advise you to stop this madness.”
“How touching. I could almost cry.” Shaking his head, the man reached for something at his waist—and pulled out a token.
“Just because you were betrayed doesn’t mean others will suffer the same fate.” The token shimmered with iridescent colors.
Engraved on it were the characters for “Star Guard”—a badge identifying him as a member of the Star Guard Division, one of the Seven Great Battle Divisions of the Martial Alliance.
“I am not like you,” the man in black declared. “I do not hide my identity. I proudly pledged my loyalty to the Martial Alliance. I’ll go up in ranks—no doubt.” A smile full of ambition bloomed across his face. “Once I eliminate you, I might be promoted to Vice Commander… maybe even Commander of a battle division.”
“I see.” Bu Zhanyang exhaled a heavy, murky breath. “You truly are different from me.”
This man was indeed different.
Unlike Bu Zhanyang, who had been raised by the Martial Alliance and merely followed their orders, this one bared his fangs—ready to devour the Alliance itself for his own gain.
“If you understand that much…”
“Then die quietly.”
