The city didn't notice him.
Lee Ju Min walked alone through the crowded streets, lost in a place that never cared. Towering buildings stretched to the sky, casting long shadows that felt heavier than his own. His dark eyes held the weight of too many memories, filled with sorrow and determination. He was just another face in the crowd, but inside, he carried a storm.
Orphaned at a young age, Ju Min had lived on the edge of survival. His parents—gentle people who believed in kindness—had been executed by powerful cultivators. Their crime? Weakness. In a world where strength meant everything, compassion was punished. Ju Min, only a boy then, had been forced to grow up with that image carved into his heart.
Now sixteen, he moved like a ghost among the living. Every corner of the city whispered danger. Cultivators walked openly, their weapons gleaming, their pride untouchable. Ju Min had nothing but his will to endure, and even that was wearing thin.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the skyline, Ju Min found himself in a quiet alley tucked behind an old bookstore. That's where he saw him—a man wrapped in a tattered cloak, standing so still he seemed part of the wall. His eyes, ancient and sharp, studied Ju Min with unsettling intensity.
"You look like someone searching for more," the man said.
Ju Min hesitated. "I'm not looking for anything."
The old man smiled faintly. "Good. That's when the truth finds you."
He introduced himself as Maerun, though the name meant little. What mattered was what he offered: a path to something forgotten. Magic. Real magic, not the brute force of cultivators, but an art older than the city itself. Ju Min didn't believe it at first, but there was something in Maerun's voice—calm and knowing—that tugged at his curiosity.
In the weeks that followed, Ju Min trained in secret. Maerun led him to hidden places beneath the city, places filled with strange symbols and flickering lights. He learned to feel energy in the air, to shape it with his thoughts. At first, it came slowly. A spark here, a breeze there. But with time and pain and effort, it grew.
Magic was not easy. It demanded emotion, memory, control. Ju Min relived his parents' death more than once during practice. But through that pain, he built power.
One afternoon, while running errands for Maerun, Ju Min was challenged by a young cultivator named Dae Kwan. Cocky and cruel, Dae Kwan mocked him, calling him a street rat. A crowd gathered quickly—duels were entertainment here.
Ju Min hesitated. He wasn't ready.
But Maerun's words echoed in his mind: "Your fear is your leash. Cut it."
The duel began. Dae Kwan's strikes were fast, brutal. Ju Min dodged, barely staying ahead. Then something clicked. Ju Min stopped running. He closed his eyes, felt the energy flow through him, and let it out.
A blast of magic exploded from his palms, sending Dae Kwan flying. The crowd gasped. For a moment, silence.
Then whispers. Awe. Confusion. A street orphan had bested a cultivator. Ju Min stood over Dae Kwan, chest heaving, hands trembling. He didn't smile. He didn't feel proud. Only aware that something had just changed.
That night, Maerun looked at him differently. "You've shown them a glimpse," he said. "Now they'll want to know what else you're hiding."
And so the real danger began.