The Riftborn Heir

Chapter 3

The Heavenly Sword Sect was dying.

For a thousand years, its warriors had stood at the peak of Murim, their techniques unmatched, their influence absolute. But tonight, the once-great sect stood on the edge of collapse.

Their gates were battered. Their warriors exhausted. Their elders, once untouchable, were now desperate men scrambling for survival.

And yet—on this night, as flames consumed the battlefield…

A man walked through their gates unchallenged.

---

The first to see him were the outer disciples.

Two young men stood guard near the entrance, their spears in hand. They had been whispering about the war, about the Golden Sect's inevitable victory, when the temperature around them dropped.

A chill ran down their spines.

Then, they saw him.

A lone figure walking up the stone path, his black robes billowing in the wind. His long, braided white hair gleamed under the moonlight.

One of the disciples took an instinctive step back.

The other gripped his spear. "You there! Halt!"

The figure didn't stop.

He didn't even acknowledge them.

His eyes—golden, cold, ancient—stared straight ahead, as if they didn't exist.

The disciple with the spear felt a strange pressure on his chest.

It wasn't fear. It wasn't just killing intent.

It was something greater. Something ancient.

His legs buckled beneath him.

He collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. His fellow disciple turned to him in horror.

"W-What's wrong?!"

The collapsed man shook his head violently, unable to speak. He felt as if his very soul was being crushed under an unseen force.

By the time he looked up again, the figure was already gone.

---

Deeper inside the sect, more warriors froze in place.

Some were eating in the mess hall, some were training in the courtyards, others were tending to their wounded comrades—but they all felt it.

A presence. A force.

An unknown entity walking through their home as if it belonged to him.

A high-ranking disciple near the main hall narrowed his eyes. "What is this feeling…?"

The lower-ranked disciples, however, reacted instinctively.

They fell to their knees.

Some clasped their hands together, whispering prayers to the gods, as if a deity had stepped into the mortal realm.

Others turned and ran.

They didn't know why.

They only knew that they needed to get away.

---

Inside the sect's grand temple, a group of elite disciples gathered. These were men who had trained their entire lives under the sect's greatest masters—warriors who had stood on the battlefield against the Golden Sect.

Yet even they…

Felt the shift.

The room was buzzing with unease.

One of them, a tall man with a jagged scar across his cheek, turned to his fellow disciples. "Did you feel that?"

Another nodded, his hand trembling over the hilt of his sword. "Something… is coming."

They had spent years fighting against powerful enemies.

But this wasn't the aura of a normal warrior.

This was something else.

Something far worse.

Then, the great doors to the inner halls opened.

And he stepped inside.

---

In the sect's grand hall, the elders sat in silence.

They had felt it too.

The air had shifted. The very foundation of the sect trembled beneath them.

They knew, before even laying eyes on him, who it was.

The boy they had tried to erase.

The heir they had abandoned.

Elder Gwan's fingers dug into the armrest of his chair. His face was pale, sweat dripping down his temple.

"No… No, this is impossible."

Elder Hwan clenched his fists. "He should not be alive."

But then—

The great doors swung open.

And Haneul stepped into the hall.

---

He walked with unwavering steps, as if this place had never changed.

His long white hair, braided neatly, swayed with every movement. His black and gold robes carried the weight of an untold past, the air around him bending subtly—distorted by his mere presence.

He did not glance at the guards.

He did not acknowledge the lower-ranked elders.

He walked until he stood before the grand table, before the men who had betrayed him.

The room was deathly silent.

No one spoke.

No one could.

Then, finally, his voice cut through the silence.

"You all look… older."

It was not a greeting.

It was not a threat.

It was simply a statement.

And yet—it sent shivers through the elders' bones.

---

At the far end of the room, sitting on the throne, Baek Ji-han finally moved.

For years, he had been the sect's puppet. The elders had controlled him like a pawn, making him appear as nothing more than a weak, incompetent ruler.

But now…

He finally lifted his head.

For the first time in twenty years, his sharp golden eyes met Haneul's.

And then—he smiled.

"Welcome home, brother."

In that moment, everything changed.

His posture shifted.

His presence expanded.

The elders felt the truth sink in like a blade to the gut.

They had spent twenty years controlling Ji-han.

But he had never been their pawn.

He had been waiting.

For this moment.

And now, as he sat on the throne, smiling at his brother—

The elders finally realized how much they had miscalculated.