Another Me in the Darkness

Tuk. Tuk. Tuk.

The sound of blood dripping spread quietly in the darkened room.

A sharp blade glinted in the shadows. The person holding the knife stood silently, wrapped in black clothing.

And at his feet.

A man lay collapsed. His lifeless body hung limp, no longer breathing.

The victim, who appeared to be in his early thirties, had his once-neat suit stained red, and a broken pair of glasses lay scattered nearby.

The man in the shadows, Avery, did not move an inch.

He let out a long breath—a sigh mixed with relief and resignation.

The breath of someone who had already completed an irreversible act.

"How many more do I have to kill?"

In the empty darkness, he murmured quietly.

But Avery was not just a mere killer.

No, perhaps he had never been "Avery" to begin with.

Not long ago, this body had belonged to another soul.

In the martial world, he was a figure of fear—an assassin who had lived in the shadows, bound by the ruthless laws of his organization.

And if he could just complete this final mission, he would gain his freedom.

Like a carrot dangled before a desperate horse, hope stretched out before him.

But fate was always cruel.

In the martial world, an assassin was fated to die as an assassin.

Those who were called the so-called righteous faction used beings like him to avoid dirtying their own hands.

While pretending to be clean, they made sure only his hands were stained with blood.

The order given to him was: "Retrieve the secret scripture of the Blood Monk Sect."

On the surface, it seemed like a simple mission. But he knew very well—

There was no such thing as an easy task in the martial world.

The moment he fled with the precious scripture in his hands, he already knew—

That a trap had been set before he could even see it.

The chains of the orthodox sect were tightening around him.

The path to escape had long since vanished.

He had been betrayed by those to whom he had sworn his loyalty.

"Night King! Your ruthless era ends here! The blood you have spilled will now be judged by justice!"

A sharp and resolute voice tore through the night sky.

Blue Plum Sword Hero.

A hero of the martial world, admired by many.

But the Night King did not bother to hide his sneer.

Justice?

That word was the most hypocritical of all.

They spoke of justice, but in the end, they were nothing more than traitors, no different from himself.

He had given fifty years of loyalty.

And in return, he desired only one thing—freedom.

But freedom was nothing more than an empty promise forever out of reach.

He no longer wanted to be entangled in the bloody battles of the martial world.

He simply wished to hide away in a quiet countryside, buy a small piece of land,

And live a peaceful life, cut off from the violence of the world.

But reality was always cruel.

Now, before him, more than a hundred orthodox martial artists had surrounded him.

All of them raised their weapons in unison, radiating an atmosphere of imminent conflict.

"What is justice, really? And what does true cruelty mean?"

The Night King, Yeomra, murmured under his breath.

"Heh, are you leaving behind some last words before you die?"

The youngest son of the Namgung clan let out a derisive laugh.

Yeomra chuckled and shook his head.

"No, I've simply realized something. Perhaps the Demonic Cult suits my nature better."

"Are you trying to repent for your sins now?"

Another sneer erupted from the crowd.

"No. At least they don't hide their evil."

Yeomra slowly looked around as he continued speaking.

"The Demonic Cult hates and kills. But at least they don't pretend otherwise. And what about you orthodox sects? You justify slaughter under the banner of righteousness and justice. The 'justice' you speak of is nothing more than a convenient excuse."

"Impudent fool! How dare you insult the orthodox sects?!"

The cry of Gwangmyeong echoed in all directions.

The orthodox martial artists all released their killing intent at once.

"As a representative of the righteous sects, I hereby sentence the Night King, Yeomra, to death! Execute him immediately!"

At that moment, Yeomra instantly recognized a familiar voice.

The one who had orchestrated this entire scheme.

The very person who had sent him to retrieve the secret scripture of the Blood Monk Sect.

Gwangmyeong.

For a brief moment, that face flashed through his mind.

And the eerie smile that hung on his lips.

Gwangmyeong had hidden his true desires behind the mask of justice.

The "justice" he so loudly proclaimed was nothing more than a convenient justification.

What he truly desired was only one thing—the secret scripture of the Blood Monk Sect.

The fear that Yeomra might reveal the scripture's secrets after his retirement was what drove him to act.

But he had overlooked one thing.

The Night King, Yeomra, was a being who ruled over the darkness.

Anyone who dared to face him would have to pay the price.

— Shuuuk!

Ten martial artists leaped in unison.

Swords and spears, imbued with cold killing intent, sliced through the air and struck down.

In that instant.

They were certain.

Now, at last, they had slain the Night King.

But Yeomra was no longer there.

As his form melted into the shadows and vanished, the martial artists' expressions stiffened.

And then—

— Pshuk!

In an instant, droplets of blood scattered through the air.

The ten martial artists collapsed to the ground without even a chance to scream.

"Do not underestimate me."

Yeomra's voice echoed from within the darkness.

He had no intention of falling just yet.

That was not an option.

Because the life he had dreamed of—one of freedom—was so close.

He had imagined it countless times.

A quiet countryside village.

Crops swaying gently in the soft breeze.

Livestock grazing leisurely.

He had already found a peaceful land and saved enough money to live there.

A life not filled with the stench of blood,

Where every morning, upon opening his eyes,

His only worries would be pests nibbling on his crops.

A life where his only concerns were the price of grain in the market.

It was a simple life.

But it was the life he had longed for more than anything else.

"You wretched fiend of the world!"

Gwangmyeong shouted.

His voice was laced with contempt.

"Those who rely on the power of darkness are no different from demons!"

Yeomra's eyes flashed coldly.

To them, he was nothing but a monster.

But in truth, the only thing he had ever wanted was one thing.

All he wanted was to escape their twisted sense of justice and find his own peace.

And he would not let them take that away from him.

At least not today.

There was no time for pointless arguments.

Gwangmyeong was a cunning strategist,

And what Yeomra needed now was not a meaningless debate, but escape.

His only ally at this moment—

Was the very darkness that enveloped him.

— Shuuuk.

He moved as if melting into the shadows.

Darkness was his, and he was a part of the darkness.

Whenever his pursuers closed the distance, he vanished without a trace.

Then he would reappear, silently eliminating them one by one.

In the shadows, he was a ghost, a whisper,

A fleeting shadow that could never be caught.

Thus continued the relentless chase.

Even after hours had passed, he remained confident.

As long as the night endured, he would never lose this battle.

But then—

The sky slowly began to brighten.

A faint red light stained the horizon,

Little by little, yet surely, stealing away his refuge.

Exhaustion, seeping into his very bones, began to consume his body.

With every step he took, it felt as if he were trudging through deep mud.

Even the sword that had always felt familiar now seemed foreign and heavy.

Each swing sent a numbing pain through his arms.

There was no time left.

"This is the end, Night King."

A cold and arrogant voice rang out.

Yeomra let out a bitter laugh.

The man standing in his way.

The leader of the orthodox sects, and the one who had betrayed him.

Gwangmyeong.

"…Why?"

He gritted his teeth as he asked.

Gwangmyeong smiled leisurely.

"Are you asking despite already knowing the answer?"

He added smoothly, yet mockingly.

"Surely, you wouldn't claim you weren't curious about the Blood Monk Sect's secret scripture?"

Yeomra clenched his fist tightly.

It was true.

The secret scripture of the Blood Monk Sect was a legendary text,

And who wouldn't be curious about its secrets?

However—

He had never betrayed his loyalty.

"Did you really think I would use it to threaten you?"

Yeomra asked in a low voice.

Gwangmyeong's lips twisted into a smirk.

"No, Yeomra. You're not the type of man to do that."

He scoffed and added.

"Because you're a loyal dog."

"Then why?"

"Some secrets are too powerful to be shared with the world."

Gwangmyeong answered calmly.

"It's better if that knowledge belongs to me alone."

The moment he finished speaking, his sword was drawn in a smooth and practiced motion.

The last thing Yeomra saw—

Was a sharp blade gleaming as it reflected the dawn light.

And then—

The world tilted, and darkness consumed him.

Without even being granted the time to close his eyes.

The next thing he remembered was a few weeks ago.

When he opened his eyes, he was no longer "Yeomra."

The body he awoke in belonged to someone entirely different.

"Avery."

A worthless man living an ordinary life.

Barely making ends meet, working for meager wages at a convenience store.

A life given to him anew.

A cramped, dreary one-room apartment.

A daily routine that left no room to even catch his breath.

For a brief moment, he wondered.

Had he finally escaped his hellish life?

But then—

The phone rang.

A voice spoke from within the darkness.

A secret organization made up of serial killers.

The nightmare was not over.

New faces,

Yet the same lingering fear.

He was now—

A member of a serial killer organization.