The next morning passed like all the others.

  Wake. Wash. Move.

  Sometimes he cooked, bare meals, barely seasoned. On better days, he turned on the small television he’d carried from the warehouse. Most programs bored him, but for some reason, cartoons were easier to watch. They were simple. Loud. Ridiculous. Unlike people.

  People made him tired.

  He didn’t want to see them.

  The west region, with its broken roads and collapsed buildings, was as wild as he remembered. After the gates first came to the world, this zone had been deemed unstable. Most civilians had moved out. Abandoned homes were overtaken by weeds, rust, and dust.

  It was perfect.

  Especially because the gates still came—frequently.

  F-rank. E-rank. Some D- and C-ranks. On rare occasions, even B or A-rank ones, forming deeper inside the ruined blocks.

  Lee Aseok dealt with them all.

  Alone.

  He never went near the gates too far west. Leaving some untouched was intentional. Letting a few remain was a precaution. If too many vanished too quickly, someone would notice.

  Someone would come looking.

  He didn’t want that.

  There were patrols sometimes—hunters, city guides, scouts. Mostly low-rank freelancers hired by the Hunter Association for routine observation. But they always came in teams. Always glanced around, made notes on scanners, then left.

  None of them ever came close enough to notice the quiet building standing among overgrown trees.

  And even if they did, no one would imagine a person still living inside.

  Lee Aseok made sure of that.

  After arriving a year ago, he destroyed the SIM card. He didn’t want his aunt calling. Didn’t want to hear their voices, their excuses, their lies.

  He never told anyone where he went.

  Time passed strangely. He stopped counting days. Only noticed the seasons in the way wind changed temperature or how the overgrown ivy began to freeze. When it rained, he listened to the droplets on the roof and tried not to dream.

  Sometimes, pain hit him without warning—sharp, cold memories flashing behind his eyelids like blades.

  But he endured it all.

  Just like always.

  And with each gate he cleared, each dungeon he entered alone, his strength grew.

  Every time he absorbed a core, it added to him. Slowly, gradually. His mana swelled. His body strengthened. Muscles built themselves without intention. Movements became faster, sharper, more efficient.

  But even now... even after all of that...

  His status still read: Skill – ???

  Lee Aseok didn’t care.

  Not anymore.

  One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days without a word exchanged with another human.

  Not even one.

  And in that silence, Lee Aseok remained where no one looked for him.

  Alive.

  Breathing.

  But not living.

  Lee Aseok continued clearing gates in silence, his movements efficient and unfeeling.

  He didn't count how many he'd entered. F, E, D, even some C and B ranks. Sometimes, he came back bleeding. Sometimes, he didn’t even notice the injuries. But after absorbing the dungeon cores, the pain would fade, his mana would swell, and his body would recover faster.

  It always worked.

  And he kept going.

  Over time, his body changed.

  He didn’t notice.

  His hair, once cropped short, now fell freely past his waist, fine and black like soaked silk. His skin grew pale, almost translucent under the lack of sunlight. His bones sharper, his presence quieter. Almost ghostlike.

  Sometimes, when he passed a mirror in the hallway, he startled himself.

  He didn’t remember becoming this.

  But he didn’t cut his hair, either. He didn’t care enough to.

  His panic attacks were less frequent now.

  Not because they healed.

  But because he had grown used to the pain.

  His chest would tighten. Breaths would become jagged. Cold sweat would bloom along his neck.

  He no longer fought it.

  He just sat down.

  Waited.

  Let the storm pass.

  Then stood up again.

  As if it had never happened.

  His stock portfolio had long passed the billions mark.

  He didn’t check the exact figure anymore.

  The numbers went up.

  The alerts chimed.

  He muted them all.

  There was nothing to spend the money on, anyway.

  One evening, he slept through the afternoon and into dusk, curled up on the second-floor couch like a shadow.

  His phone buzzed.

  He didn’t move.

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  It buzzed again. Then again. A soft trill of urgent alerts.

  He rolled over, burying his face in the blanket.

  Only later, when he dragged himself to the kitchen for water, did he glance at the screen.

  He took one look

  …and froze.

  The water bottle slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a dull clatter.

  He didn’t notice.

  His eyes stayed locked on the glowing screen.

  BREAKING: Legendary Holy Object Detected in Northern Gate—Mu Yichen Brings It Out Unharmed!

  The Return of a Hero’s Bloodline: Mu Tianchi’s Son Awakens Hope for the “Hell Gate” Prophecy.

  Public in Frenzy: “Mu Yichen Is the Natural Chosen One.”

  Has the Holy Sword Chosen Its Next Wielder? Experts Predict History Repeats.

  Lee Aseok’s body trembled.

  His fingers, pale and thin, curled tightly around the edge of the counter.

  He couldn’t breathe for a moment.

  The name—Mu Yichen—stabbed into his mind like a hot needle.

  He tried to calm down. Counted his breaths. Focused on his surroundings.

  But his body betrayed him.

  His knees buckled slightly. He gritted his teeth and steadied himself.

  Memories blurred behind his eyelids. Ones he didn’t ask to see. Ones that clawed up from the silence no matter how deeply he buried them.

  That voice.

  That smile.

  That sword.

  That—

  He closed his eyes. Pressed his forehead to the cabinet door.

  The tremors wouldn’t stop.

  The world was celebrating.

  A new hero had been found.

  The “Hell Gate” was going to be challenged once more.

  And as always, the public was looking up at the shining sky, praying for salvation.

  But deep in the ruins of the west, alone in a dead building no one remembered—

  Lee Aseok whispered, barely audible:

  “…Why now?”

  He didn’t want to know.

  He didn’t want to remember.

  He just wanted to be left alone.

  But the world was already shifting again.

  And fate had started to turn its wheel.

  The screen still glowed faintly in the corner of the room, flashing headlines with bright fonts and triumphant cheers from strangers Lee Aseok never wanted to meet.

  Mu Yichen.

  That name pulsed like a heartbeat inside his skull.

  Lee Aseok forced himself to look away.

  He turned off the screen. Locked the phone. Shoved it under a pile of worn clothes.

  But it was too late.

  The name had already cracked open something inside him.

  He dropped onto the threadbare couch, his legs folding beneath him with no strength left. His arms trembled against the fabric. His jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

  "Mu Yichen..."

  Just thinking the name made it worse.

  He tried to take deep breaths. To count. To remind himself this was the present—not that moment, not that gate, not there.

  But the past didn’t care about his efforts.

  It returned anyway.

  He remembered the feeling of cold steel under his fingers.

  The impossible weight of the holy sword.

  The silence that followed when it glowed in his hand.

  He hadn’t wanted it.

  He hadn’t asked for it.

  It just… chose him.

  And everyone had stared.

  Including Mu Yichen.

  SSS-ranked, perfect, untouchable Mu Yichen.

  The man who was supposed to be chosen.

  The man who—

  Lee Aseok shut his eyes.

  His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow waves.

  He tried to stand. Failed.

  Tried again. His knees buckled.

  He slumped sideways on the sofa, face pale, body shaking.

  The warmth of Mu Yichen’s hand, gentle, understanding, quiet, flashed in his memory.

  Followed by the image of those same hands folded behind his back, expression unreadable, as Lee Aseok stood alone inside the Hell Gate, blood pouring from a thousand wounds, waiting to die.

  He hadn’t looked back.

  A cold wave hit him. His fingers curled into the worn couch cushions.

  His breathing stuttered.

  The light behind his eyes dimmed.

  Still, he made no sound.

  Only the steady, silent convulsion of a panic attack clawing through his chest.

  His mind screamed.

  But his face remained blank.

  Emotionless.

  Like a doll left in the dark.

  Minutes passed. Maybe longer.

  Eventually, Lee Aseok’s body gave up, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

  The only sound left in the building was the faint hum of a forgotten power line and the muffled news echoing through the phone under the clothes.

  “…Mu Yichen… holy object… hero… prophecy… Hell Gate…”

  While somewhere in the shadows of a forgotten city, Lee Aseok fell unconscious once again, the rest of the world burned bright with fevered excitement.

  The return of the Holy Object had set everything ablaze.

  News anchors spoke like prophets.

  Guild leaders whispered in private.

  The people celebrated like it was a second coming.

  And in the center of it all, stood Mu Yichen.

  The son of the hero.

  The living symbol of a legacy thought long buried.

  Mu Tianchi, the last wielder of the holy object and the only person ever known to enter the “Hell Gate” and clear it—had not returned alive. What happened inside was a mystery that died with him.

  His teammates had come out… changed.

  Their memories wiped, their voices hollow.

  None of them could recount what had happened inside that cursed place.

  Yet they lived.

  And the world moved on.

  They built their own guilds. Grew in power.

  But the shadow of Mu Tianchi always loomed over them.

  Back then, his wife had been heavily pregnant.

  Only months later, she gave birth to a boy with eyes like morning steel and a strange calmness in his gaze.

  From the moment he could walk, the world pointed at him and said:

  “That’s the son of the hero.”

  Mu Yichen didn’t flinch beneath the weight of that name.

  He never gave them reason to doubt.

  He awakened at the age of fourteen—SSS-rank.

  Not only that, but as a Knight-Class Awakened, a rank no one had seen in recorded history.

  The military offered to raise him.

  The guilds fought over him.

  The government watched him closely.

  But Mu Yichen wasn’t arrogant.

  He carried himself with an almost unsettling grace, disciplined, reserved, and respectful. He never sought attention, but attention clung to him all the same.

  Wherever he went, people followed.

  They cheered, they bowed, they worshipped.

  He accepted it all with a quiet nod and eyes that never quite revealed what he was thinking.

  And now, years later, the holy object had returned—no longer dormant, no longer hidden.

  They had found it buried deep in the ruins of the Eastern Sector.

  No mana response.

  No signs of life.

  Yet when Mu Yichen approached it, the dormant object awakened.

  The energy surged like a heartbeat.

  The artifact shifted…

  And took the form of a sword.

  A divine, radiant sword.

  Too heavy for any man to lift.

  Too holy for anyone else to approach.

  People watched in awe.

  Some are confused.

  Others are in fear.

  The Holy Sword had awakened—but still did not choose.

  The object had returned, yes.

  But it was still waiting.

  And in the days that followed, the name “Mu Yichen” filled every news cycle.

  “Is he the next chosen one?”

  “Will he inherit his father’s will?”

  “Has the Hell Gate returned?”

  The Holy Sword stood still. Majestic. Untouched. Unyielding.

  Ever since Mu Yichen had brought the object out of the ruins—where it had slumbered for who knows how long, it had taken the shape of a radiant sword, embedded in a glowing pedestal of mana.

  Not even Mu Yichen could touch it.

  The world called it a divine miracle.

  They called him the next chosen one.

  They lined up for miles, trying to lift the sword even an inch.

  And yet…

  It refused all hands.

  Sword-type awakeners, young hunters, noble heirs, everyone who could hold a blade now dreamed of becoming the next Hero.

  “If I touch it first, maybe it’ll choose me.”

  “I heard it reacts to pure-hearted people.”

  “Mu Yichen’s already brought it out, it has to be his!”

  The country was on fire with expectation.

  Meanwhile, at the Mu Residence, far from the noisy crowds and reporters, Mu Yichen sat quietly in the large reading room.

  A hardcover book lay open in his lap, but his eyes had long drifted away from its pages.

  The quiet tap of soft heels echoed down the hallway.

  “Still reading?” a familiar voice asked.

  He lifted his gaze.

  His mother, Qin Yue, walked in, her stride confident and her presence as commanding as ever. Though in her late forties, her beauty had not faded. Her eyes still carried the sharpness of a battle-hardened S-rank hunter.

  She sat beside her son and studied him for a moment.

  “You don’t seem nervous,” she said, folding her hands. “Tomorrow’s the official ceremony. Sword candidates will begin trying their luck.”

  Mu Yichen’s expression didn’t shift.

  He closed the book with quiet fingers and responded calmly, “If the sword chooses someone else, then I wasn’t meant to be the one.”

  Qin Yue clicked her tongue, displeased. “You’re too humble for your own good.”

  Her voice was full of pride, certainty, and something heavier, something unspoken.

  “There’s no one more suited than you,” she said. “The sword would be foolish to choose otherwise.”

  She didn’t mention Mu Tianchi.

  She didn’t need to.

  The room still carried remnants of his presence. old medals sealed in glass, a faded photo of him holding pregnant Qin Yue and the sword in the other.

  Mu Yichen looked at the picture briefly, then turned back to the window.

  “I’m not Father,” he said, softly.

  “No,” Qin Yue said. “You’re better.”

  A silence stretched between them. Heavy, but not suffocating.

  Qin Yue’s voice dropped as she looked at her son, her sharp features softening. “You know… he believed the sword would return someday. That it would call someone again.”

  Mu Yichen didn’t answer.

  But deep inside, something gnawed at him but he wasn’t sure what that feeling was.

  Mu Yichen sat in silence.

  His mother’s words lingered in the air—firm, full of certainty, almost soothing in their strength.

  “You won’t die in the Hell Gate,”

  “You’re much stronger than your father ever was.”

  Qin Yue patted his shoulder gently before standing up to leave, her steps as composed as her voice.

  But Mu Yichen remained still, watching her walk away.

  He had heard that phrase, “stronger than your father” many times in his life.

  From teachers.

  From reporters.

  From distant relatives.

  And now from the woman who still bore her grief with a straight back and perfectly ironed sleeves.

  His father, Mu Tianchi, was a hero.

  He had entered the Hell Gate and never returned.

  Only the news of his death came back.

  Even the holy object had vanished with him.