CHAPTER 171: THE UNFAIR

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Jin didn’t realize he was dreaming. Not at first.

He floated—not through space, but through nothing. No ground beneath his feet. No sky above. Just an endless horizon of dull gray light, like fog layered on more fog. The air had no weight, no scent, no temperature. It simply was.

He didn’t move. Not because he couldn’t—but because there was nowhere to move to.

And then, sound.

Voices.

They didn’t echo. There was no space to carry the sound. But Jin heard them. Sharp. Clear. Like someone had dropped them directly into his thoughts.

"Did you make contact?"

The voice was male. Not deep, but heavy. Measured. Like every syllable carried a verdict. Jin couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see anything at all—until the world shifted.

The fog peeled away—not fast, but in a slow spiral, like silk unraveling. And standing in the center of it all was a man shrouded in darkness so complete it didn’t even cast a shadow. His form was tall, posture unbending, and across his chest, faint silver lines moved like veins of liquid metal.

The other man stood opposite him.

Or at least, Jin assumed it was a man.

The mask came first—white porcelain, smooth and expressionless. Theater-style, old-fashioned. A crack curved down one cheek, like something had once hit it and left its mark. Robes fluttered around him as though moved by a breeze that didn’t exist, and his entire body shimmered faintly, like heat distortion.

Jin recognized him.

The Undefined.

That cocky voice. That fluid body. The man who had smiled while bending rules like wire.

Now, though, the mask on his face showed no smile. It was flat. Blank.

"Yes," the Undefined replied at last. "I made contact."

The dark figure didn’t react.

"And?"

The mask twisted—just a little. The mouth curled down in an exaggerated frown. The eyes narrowed to slits.

"He’s strong," the Undefined said. "Stupid strong. Potential overflowing like a barrel cracked open too early."

The frown deepened.

"And yet..."

"And yet," the Undefined continued, voice filled with tired amusement, "he hasn’t even dipped a toe into the ocean sitting under his feet. He swings swords. Follows rules. Thinks with structure. Even now."

The masked man crossed his arms, robes still dancing around him in slow motion.

"It’s kind of sad, honestly," the Undefined muttered. "To have that much power in your marrow and still act like a player in a tutorial zone."

"So he’s not ready."

The figure’s words were quiet. Not judgmental. Just... final.

The mask shifted again—now showing a flat-lipped line. Not a smile. Not a frown. Just... tired.

"He’s getting there," the Undefined replied. "But slowly. Too slowly."

"Then we wait."

"Always," the masked man murmured. "Always waiting. Always watching."

He tilted his head slightly.

"You know, for someone called The Unfair, you’re awfully patient."

The dark figure finally moved—just a single step forward.

"Patience," he said, "isn’t fairness. It’s precision."

The mask twisted again—eyes narrowing, mouth grinning wide now. The face of a jester.

"Cute line," the Undefined said. "Did you practice that before I showed up?"

"I’ve had time."

Another pause.

Then the dark figure turned slightly. Not away. But dismissively.

"That’s all, then. You may go."

The mask didn’t move.

But the aura did.

Tension rippled through the air—like silk being ripped by invisible claws.

The mask shifted slowly—turning angry.

The once-jester grin inverted into a sneer. The eyes burned bright behind white porcelain. Crimson light flickered around the shoulders, slow and pulsing.

"You’re dismissing me?" the Undefined asked, voice low now. Less playful.

"I’ve given you your task. You’ve completed it. Go."

Jin could feel it.

This wasn’t a dream anymore.

Or maybe it never was.

The Undefined’s head tilted down. He stepped forward, slow, controlled.

"You want a repeat of last time?"

The dark figure remained still.

"Do you want to lose again?"

"You didn’t win," the Undefined snapped. "You didn’t even fight fair."

That word again.

Fair.

It hit the air like a strike.

The shadowed man finally turned back, his voice cool.

"Because I never said I would."

Then everything shifted.

No build-up. No chant. No flashy light.

Just power.

A ripple tore through the space between them, like someone had folded the dream itself in half. The ground—the fog—the everything beneath them split, revealing an ocean of light and pressure.

And in the same moment, both moved.

One launched with robes trailing like a second shadow—mask now grinning like a madman.

The other raised a hand—palm open, threads of silver twisting down his fingers like lines of judgment.

They clashed.

No weapons.

No spells.

Just force.

And the instant their bodies met, the world ruptured.

Light exploded outward, but not like fire—not even like aura. It was pure distortion. Rules tearing at the seams. Jin felt it in his bones—the impossibility of what he was witnessing.

This wasn’t a fight between cultivators.

This wasn’t even a clash between two beings.

This was a contest between exceptions.

Between those the system didn’t rule.

He woke up with a gasp.

The world snapped back in pieces—sky first, pale and gold from the creeping edge of sunrise. Then the smell of dew. The whisper of the breeze. The soft creak of vines against rooftop stone.

Jin sat up slowly in the hammock, breath shallow, eyes still unfocused.

Back in the territory.

Back in his body.

But the feeling in his chest was wrong. Off. Not pain. Not fear. Something else. Like the air was too light. Like gravity hadn’t come back all the way.

His fingers flexed against the edge of the hammock. The vines held. Steady. Real.

But that dream—that hadn’t felt like a dream.

It was too sharp. Too vivid. The voices were still echoing.

"He hasn’t even dipped a toe into the ocean under his feet."

"What a waste of potential."

Jin’s jaw tightened.

They were talking about him.

There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. Not now.

The Undefined had met him once. Briefly. But long enough to know something was different. The system had confirmed it later. Transcender. Jin hadn’t understood it fully. Still didn’t.

But those words... "waste," "potential," "not ready"...

He gritted his teeth and swung his legs over the side of the hammock.

If that was a dream, he thought, why do I feel like I just survived a storm?

He stood slowly, letting the dawn wind press against his face. From up here, the sky stretched wide and unbothered, but Jin could feel the weight of it. The pressure left behind.

And more than that—he could feel the meaning.

That wasn’t just a chat between anomalies. That was a meeting. A check-in. About him.

One of them—the one wrapped in that impossible black veil—had power Jin couldn’t even imagine. He hadn’t needed to raise a voice or throw a punch. His presence had done enough.

And then there was the Undefined.

Chaotic. Slippery. Theatrical. But there was weight behind the madness. Power. Control. Confidence that came from knowing he didn’t have to play by anyone else’s rules.

And they were waiting.

That was what haunted Jin most.

"Then we wait."

"He’s not ready."

Not ready for what?

The future?

The crown?

Or something worse?

Jin walked toward the edge of the roof, hands sliding into his coat pockets. The sun had just cleared the horizon now, casting long lines of gold across the forest below. The school grounds were still and silent—no footsteps, no clanging of weapons in the training yard yet. Even Seul hadn’t started cooking.

Good.

He needed the quiet.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the forest breathe. The trees were no longer just scenery. He could feel them now, almost like their awareness grazed his every step. Not words. Not thoughts. Just... presence. And it responded to him.

Maybe that was what the spirit meant. Surviving with the world. Not just carving through it.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not yet.

Jin dropped down from the ledge, landing in a crouch on the second-floor balcony, then stepping down the winding vine-covered staircase toward the school courtyard.

He kept moving.

Down past the cafeteria windows. Through the overgrown hallway where moss curled along the lockers like ivy in an abandoned temple. Past the sparring ring where Echo had spent an hour yesterday throwing sound-discs against trees "for rhythm."

No one else was up.

Perfect.

He made it to the clearing near the southern path—one of the only wide-open sections not swallowed by roots or reclaimed by flowering brush. The area had once been a tennis court. Now, it was flat, empty, and clean.

He stepped into the center, shrugging off his coat and letting it drop to the ground beside him.

No Muramasa today.

His hand hovered near the sheath strapped to his back—then pulled away.

The blade stayed where it was.

Not yet.

He rolled his shoulders, took in a slow breath, and exhaled through his nose.

His thoughts spun back to the dream.

"He hasn’t even dipped a toe."

That phrase wouldn’t leave him alone.

It wasn’t just insulting. It was true.

Jin had survived off instinct, discipline, and pain. He fought with all he had, bled harder than anyone else, and rose again because he had to. But all his skill had gone into a single lane: the blade.

He was a weapon.

But the world was filled with fighters who bent weapons. Who became them. Who ignored them.

If he wanted to beat someone like Seo...

If he wanted to stand at the peak when this Crown War ended...

Then he couldn’t just be a master of the sword.

He had to become a master of the battlefield.

His body. His awareness. His instincts. His environment.

All of it.

Every part of him needed to evolve.

Jin took another breath, slower this time.

Then he dropped into a stance.

Not one tied to Muramasa. Not a kata from his sword forms.

A basic one.

Rooted.

Open.

Hands forward.

This was the stance he learned in the early days. In self-defense class. Before the world changed. Before monsters and trials and fragments and god-killing blades.

He closed his eyes.

And moved.

His feet shifted, body rotating through slow, deliberate forms.

Palm strikes.

Kicks.

Rolls.

Pivots.

He ran through every movement he knew—ones Seul had drilled into them during early-stage team combat exercises. Jin had never focused on them. Not really. He remembered the motions, the angles. But not the intent.

That changed now.

Each step, each strike—he focused not on the power, but the flow.

He imagined different terrain. Mud under his boots. Rain in his eyes. Ice slicking the ground. Opponents twice his size or half his speed.

He adapted in motion.

Letting his body find answers.

Letting his instincts breathe.

Minutes passed. Then an hour.

Sweat rolled down his jaw.

The vines at the edge of the court swayed, almost like they were watching.

By the time the first sound of life stirred from the school—light footsteps near the garden side—Jin had already completed three different training circuits. All without drawing his sword once.

His breath was measured. His eyes were focused.

And for the first time in days, the static pressure inside him felt aimed.

He stood in the middle of the clearing, fists loose, stance balanced.

And as the sun climbed higher, Jin Yeong looked up toward it and made a quiet promise—no oath, no grand speech.

Just a thought.

If they’re waiting on me...

I won’t disappoint.