The temple stood in silence, hidden deep within the Forgotten Plains. Moss clung to the broken statues of warriors long dead, and the wind whispered through shattered tiles like ghosts refusing to rest.

  In the center courtyard, a boy knelt with a bloodstained cloth in hand. He scrubbed patiently, eyes lowered, as though the red marks weren’t reminders of violence—but duty.

  “Mu-Won!” a voice called from within the hall. A young monk appeared, out of breath. “Bandits. Five of them. The Master said… not to interfere.”

  Jin Mu-Won wrung the cloth dry and stood slowly. His gaze lifted—calm, unreadable.

  “I won’t fight.”

  And with that, he walked past the statues, vanishing into the mist.

  Five men surrounded a cowering merchant, their blades drawn, laughter echoing through the clearing.

  One of them flicked the man’s coin pouch into the air. “Too easy.”

  A rock struck the leader’s head.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The laughter stopped.

  They turned. A boy stood at the edge of the trees, holding nothing but a broom.

  “What’s this? A little monk here to pray for the dead?”

  Jin Mu-Won said nothing.

  The leader sneered, stepped forward, and raised his sword. “Leave. Before I paint the ground with your ribs.”

  Mu-Won didn’t move.

  The leader charged. His sword swung wide, sure of an easy kill.

  Then—clang.

  His blade shattered mid-swing.

  Before he could register what happened, his arms went numb, like his Qi had drained into the void.

  Mu-Won remained still, eyes fixed on him. The only sound was the faint breeze returning to the trees.

  The second bandit lunged. The boy stepped—not back, but through. The man stumbled, Qi disrupted, knees giving out.

  The third ran. Smartest of the bunch.

  Later, Mu-Won returned to the temple. The blind master sat by the fire, sipping tea, his face unreadable.

  “You used the Void again,” he said.

  “I didn’t attack,” Mu-Won replied.

  “No. That’s what makes it dangerous.”

  The master reached into his robes and produced a scroll—old, frayed, sealed by wax bearing the crescent moon of a long-dead sect.

  “The world buried this art because it feared what it couldn't control. And now, it will fear you.”

  Mu-Won took the scroll in silence.

  That night, he stood alone beneath the stars. The scroll hummed faintly, resonating with something inside him.

  His voice was quiet.

  “I don’t want revenge.”

  He opened the scroll.

  “I just want to understand... what silence really means.”

  [To Be Continued]