Tyrion lay unconscious on the cold stone floor of the hidden chamber. His body, broken and battered from days of torment and the near-death escape through the SS+ dungeon, finally gave out the moment he had spoken his name.

  Cheon Woo-Kan stood silently above him, eyes scanning the boy’s ruined frame. His aura, once suffocating and oppressive, softened just slightly.

  “This boy… no magic, no aura, and yet he survived here? He reached this place… by will alone?”

  Kneeling, Woo-Kan extended a hand. His fingers pulsed with a crimson energy — foreign to this world. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t aura. It was something deeper, forged in war, sharpened by solitude.

  He placed his palm on Tyrion’s chest.

  The boy’s body arched in pain, veins glowing faintly red as the demonic energy surged through him. But the intent wasn’t destruction — it was healing. Wounds sealed. Bones knitted. Poisonous fear and exhaustion purged from deep within.

  It took hours. Then silence.

  Tyrion’s breathing steadied.

  Woo-Kan turned away and returned to his meditative stance at the heart of the chamber — where he had waited in darkness for centuries.

  Four days passed.

  When Tyrion’s eyes finally fluttered open, he was met not with death, but a strange warmth radiating from the stones above — glowing faintly blue. His body didn’t ache. He sat up suddenly, panic flashing across his face — until he saw him.

  The man still sat, unmoving.

  “You live,” Woo-Kan said, not as a question, but a fact.

  Tyrion’s voice was dry. “...Why did you save me?”

  The silence stretched.

  “You remind me of someone,” Woo-Kan said at last. “A boy I once knew. Small. Fragile. Broken. But with eyes that refused to die.”

  Tyrion lowered his gaze, unsure how to respond.

  “Tell me, Tyrion Icehart. What is it you want?”

  The question echoed in his mind.

  What do I want?

  He clenched his fists.

  “I want… strength,” he said. “I don’t want to be pitied. I don’t want to be stepped on. I want to stand — on my own.”

  Woo-Kan’s eyes narrowed.

  “You seek vengeance.”

  Tyrion hesitated, then nodded.

  “Then forget your world,” Woo-Kan said, rising to his full height. “Forget magic. Forget aura. They are shackles you no longer need. My path is different — forged in suffering, discipline, and blood.”

  He extended a hand.

  “Swear to abandon your weakness. Swear to walk my path. And I will forge you into something the world will fear.”

  Tyrion saw the memories — the abuse, the dungeon, Elara’s cold gaze, the sneers of nobles, the helplessness in his bones.

  He reached out — and clasped Woo-Kan’s hand.

  “I swear.”

  A grin like tempered steel crossed Woo-Kan’s face.

  “Then rise, disciple of the Heavenly Demon.”

  As he turned, torches along the chamber lit with a soft crackle. Strange runes carved into the walls glowed faintly — runes from another world.

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  Tyrion sat there in awe.

  “How did you end up here? In my world… in this dungeon?” he asked.

  Woo-Kan paused, placing his hand on a glowing symbol etched deep with pride and sorrow.

  “My story is one of war, betrayal, and fate.”

  He turned back, eyes gleaming with memory.

  “I come from a realm called Murim — a land ruled by martial sects and sacred arts. I was the Lord of the Heavenly Demon Sect, the final inheritor of its doctrine. Feared. Hated. Hunted.”

  Tyrion’s breath caught.

  “I didn’t seek war. I sought unity. But peace is dangerous to those who profit from chaos. The orthodox clans, afraid of losing power, allied against me. Even my own disciples betrayed me.”

  His voice darkened.

  “On the eve of our victory, they struck. And in that moment… I did not fall. I tore a hole in space — a desperate attempt to survive. That tear brought me here. To this cursed dungeon.”

  Tyrion’s heart pounded. “You’ve been trapped here all this time?”

  “Three hundred years. Time is twisted between worlds. But I watched. I learned. I saw this realm’s power — aura, magic, circles, rankings.”

  He studied Tyrion.

  “You’re an aura user. Your rank?”

  “Third Rate…” Tyrion muttered, ashamed. “My family — they’re all stronger. Even academy kids surpass me. Mages manipulate circles from 1st to 9th.”

  Woo-Kan raised a brow. “Nine circles… like stages of cultivation. Hmph.”

  Tyrion asked, “And your world? You don’t use magic or aura?”

  “No. We draw power from within. Through breath, spirit, pain. From Outer Core to Peak Heaven-Realm. And above that… was me — the Heavenly Demon, who shattered all limits.”

  Tyrion’s mind raced. To think… a whole system, more ancient than ours… one that had nothing to do with titles or bloodline.

  Woo-Kan saw the spark — curiosity tempered by desperation.

  “You lack talent. But you have pain. Pain is the greatest forge.”

  He stepped forward.

  “From this day, forget what you knew. You are not an aura user. Not a noble’s child. Not a weakling. You are a blank slate. I will teach you to rebuild — from bone, from blood, from soul.”

  Tyrion’s eyes lit with purpose.

  Woo-Kan’s voice dropped to a thunderous whisper.

  “And when you leave this prison… the world that cast you aside… will kneel.”

  Tyrion’s breathing steadied, but his eyes flicked toward Woo-Kan again, confusion still lingering.

  “You said you escaped death… but how are you still here after three hundred years?”

  Woo-Kan didn’t answer at first. He turned away, gazing at the ancient symbols carved into the dungeon wall — marks of sealing, not of choice.

  “No,” he said finally. “I did not escape.”

  He touched one of the runes, his fingers brushing it like an old scar.

  “I was sealed.”

  Tyrion’s breath caught.

  “They couldn’t defeat me. Not truly. In the end, even united, they lacked the strength. So they used a forbidden art, drawn from the foundations of space and reality itself — and sealed me here, in this dungeon your world calls SS+.”

  He turned, a dark gleam in his eyes.

  “This dungeon… it wasn’t made to trap monsters. It was built to hold me.”

  Woo-Kan walked to a small crevice in the stone, and from within, he retrieved a worn, bamboo-wrapped bundle. He set it down in front of Tyrion.

  Inside: dried meat, rice cakes sealed in leaf wrappings, and several small pouches containing bitter-smelling herbs.

  “You’ll need strength to walk my path. Eat. Then chew these herbs — they’ll mend your blood vessels, calm the nerves, and open your inner meridians.”

  Tyrion took the food with trembling hands. Every bite was dry, but it felt like heaven. The herbs were revoltingly bitter — but within minutes, a strange warmth began circulating through his body.

  Woo-Kan sat across from him.

  “You’ve heard of aura and mana,” he began. “But what flows within the warriors of Murim… is internal energy — ki.”

  Tyrion looked up, curious.

  “Ki is life refined through suffering. Every breath you take, every drop of pain, every ounce of will — it fuels the ki. We don’t chant. We don’t rely on wands or circles. We cultivate from within.”

  He gestured to his chest.

  “Right below the heart is your danjeon — your energy core. All internal energy gathers there. From there, it flows through your meridians — like rivers through a land. Most people’s paths are clogged, undeveloped. But with training, you can open them.”

  He reached into a leather scroll tied at his belt and unrolled it slowly. The faded ink depicted a man’s body covered in lines — energy pathways.

  “This is the Heavenly Demon Technique,” he said. “My clan’s supreme art. Forbidden, destructive, yet pure. It devours weakness and leaves only strength.”

  He looked Tyrion dead in the eyes.

  “You will learn this.”

  Tyrion swallowed hard. “Isn’t it… dangerous?”

  “Everything powerful is,” Woo-Kan replied. “But it is not just violence. It is control, breath, harmony between destruction and clarity. The body must be reforged. Muscles torn and rebuilt. Organs strengthened. Bones tempered. You will become a demon in flesh — not a monster, but a warrior forged in absolute discipline.”

  He stood, shadows dancing behind him as his presence flared.

  “There are many martial arts in Murim. Sword styles like the Azure Serpent Dance, palm techniques like the Falling Heaven Hand, stealth methods, movement arts, energy concealment…”

  He paced slowly, each step echoing.

  “But you, Tyrion, will walk the Heavenly Demon Path. Not just as a disciple — but as my sole inheritor. The Ultimate Demon. A level below me — yet still a calamity to your world.”

  Tyrion’s eyes widened.

  “In your world, the strongest are called Superhumans. Grandmasters of aura. Archmages of the Ninth Circle.”

  Woo-Kan’s voice was steel.

  “You will surpass all of them — and become their nightmare.”

  Tyrion clenched his fists, his heart pounding in his chest.

  “I’m ready.”

  Woo-Kan gave a small nod — neither approval nor kindness, but acknowledgment.

  “Then finish eating. And tonight… we begin.”