NOVEL WEB Chapter 1: A Broken Clan
### Chapter 1: A Broken Clan
Dawn splintered through the ancient pines, painting the forest floor in fragments of gold. Kwon Yul moved like a shadow between these shafts of light, each footfall as uncertain as his place in the world.
Around him, the forest stirred with morning songs, but these melodies fell dead against his ears. His thoughts dwelled in darker places, in a night when fire devoured everything he'd ever known.
The Kwon clan had once stood immutable as the mountains themselves, their name etched in the bedrock of history.
Now they were less than autumn leaves scattered by winter winds—mere whispers fading into myth. Their legacy, built through centuries of iron will and handed-down wisdom, had vanished like morning mist before the sun.
The sword at his hip felt like a stranger's weight. This common blade was a poor shadow of the legendary weapons his ancestors had wielded, its lightness a constant reminder of all he'd lost.
His fingers tightened around the hilt, seeking comfort in its familiar touch. Too light, he thought, like my footprints on this world—temporary, insignificant, destined to be washed away by the next rain.
"I should have been stronger." The words fell from his lips like stones into a bottomless well, echoing with the weight of endless regret.
Once, strength had been the measure of all things in his world. Now he understood the bitter truth—strength meant nothing to the dead, and even less to those left behind.
He had been barely more than a boy, an untempered blade, when destruction found his clan. The night sky had worn the color of fresh blood as steel sang against steel, but the real horror came in the silence that followed. He ran—what choice did a half-trained apprentice have? To the watching world, he became nothing but a ghost, a reminder of failure.
"Coward," they would whisper, these phantoms of his imagination.
"Survivor," he answered, his voice hardening like cooling steel. Survival carried its own kind of strength, bitter as it might taste. He had nothing else now—no banners to raise, no family to shield. Only this common sword and the will to keep walking forward.
Years passed like shadows, with Yul drifting through the cracks of the martial world. He took whatever work would let him fade into obscurity—guarding merchants, hunting beasts that strayed too close to villages, tasks that kept him moving but never close enough to memory's edge. A ghost that even ghosts had forgotten.
The forest began to thin, giving way to the first signs of civilization. Ahead, smoke rose too thick for morning cookfires, twisting into the sky like a dark serpent. Yul's heart quickened its pace, and his feet followed.
Then came the sounds—steel kissing steel, and the unmistakable cries of lives being torn apart.
Yul stopped dead. Another wound. Another ending. But perhaps, this time, also a beginning.
### Discovery in the Ruins
Time consumes all things save truth—and in that ruined village, truth lay coiled like a serpent in waiting. Smoke rose like unanswered prayers while villagers moved through the wreckage, shadows haunting the shells of their former lives.
"I've arrived too late," Yul breathed to the uncaring wind. Empty words for empty homes, yet fate had drawn him here not for rescue, but revelation.
Through the veil of ancient trees, he spotted two figures locked in urgent conversation—a village elder bent like a wind-worn reed, and a robed man bearing an obscure sect's mark upon his breast. The emblem, though faded, caught Yul's eye—a minor sect, barely worth noting, yet significant enough to raise questions.
Their voices carried on the smoke-laden breeze:
"These beasts aren't mere animals gone wild," the elder's voice crackled like dry leaves. "Something stirs in the old ruins. The creatures grow bold, aggressive. I've seen such signs before."
"Weeks of searching have yielded nothing," came the reply, heavy with frustration. "Are you certain these ruins still exist?"
"As certain as the ground beneath your feet," the elder's words cut like a well-honed blade. "Find what lies hidden there, or your sect will face worse than rabid beasts."
Yul's interest sharpened to a knife's edge.
Ancient ruins? A forgotten technique, perhaps?
A minor sect's presence suggested something more valuable than simple treasure or common martial arts manuscripts. Such places promised both opportunity and peril in equal measure.
He followed the robed man at a distance, moving like mist between the trees. The path led deeper into the forest's heart, where few dared venture. Here, the trees grew dense as warriors in formation, the air cold as a blade's edge. Finally, they reached a clearing.
There it stood—a temple of forgotten ages, half-claimed by earth and vine, its stone walls defying time's endless march. The sect member knelt to make camp, unaware of his shadow.
Yul slipped closer, eyes drinking in every detail of the ancient structure. He needed no alliance with minor sects. This moment belonged to him alone. In the forest's deep silence, he could explore unhindered.
Without hesitation, he merged with the shadows and entered the ruin.
The air inside hung thick with centuries of dust, each footstep echoing like distant thunder. Faded murals lined the walls—warriors frozen in eternal combat, their techniques preserved in stone. This place had once been wisdom's sanctuary; Yul could feel it in his bones. His fingers traced one carving—a warrior drawing power from shadow itself.
He stopped breathing.
The etchings showed figures—beings of power and mystery—emerging from swirling darkness. His heart hammered against his ribs as he pressed deeper into the temple, where corridors narrowed like closing throats and the air grew cold as grave soil. This place held more than mere techniques.
A door, nearly invisible beneath nature's shroud, caught his eye. Kneeling, Yul cleared away years of debris. His fingers found a latch, rusted but stubbornly intact. With effort, it yielded.
The hidden chamber opened like a night-blooming flower, its stone petals groaning with age. At its heart waited an obsidian truth—small, dark, hungry. When flesh met stone, the universe drew a single, sharp breath.
Inside, the air crackled with ancient power, like lightning waiting to strike. Upon a central altar pulsed something both beautiful and terrible—a rough-hewn obsidian relic that seemed to drink in what little light reached this depth.
Yul approached as if in a dream, drawn by forces older than understanding. His hand reached out of its own accord and closed around the relic.
Agony exploded through his body like liquid fire, driving him to his knees. The relic burned against his palm, yet he couldn't release it. His vision fractured as ancient knowledge flooded his mind—faces, names, techniques, battles—a torrent too vast to comprehend.
Then, stillness.
Yul dragged air into burning lungs, the relic now quiet in his grasp. It had bound itself to him, its power thrumming through his veins like a second heartbeat. As he rose on shaking legs, understanding dawned like a cold sun.
This was no mere artifact. This was a key to power that had slept while empires rose and crumbled to dust.
Pain transformed into wisdom, agony blossomed into enlightenment. In that moment, Yul became both less and more than human—a vessel for power that had waited ages for the right bearer. The relic chose him as the ocean chooses its depths, as shadows choose their dancers.
Knowledge coursed through him like starlight made liquid. He had found more than power—he had discovered the answer to an ancient riddle: what lies between puppet and string? The obsidian whispered of shadows that could wear flesh, of emptiness that could forge form.
The power to summon was not just a gift—it was an awakening, a revelation that would rewrite the very story of his existence. In this tomb of forgotten wisdom, Yul had found not just power, but purpose.
And the world would never be the same.