"...Ugh..."
His throat was dry. The first sound he made came out like gravel scraped against metal.
His eyes opened to the ceiling of an unfamiliar wooden room.
The scent of herbs, dust, and warm broth filled the air.
Where… the hell… am I?
Is this… a hanok? Why am I in a traditional Korean house…?
He sat up slowly, groaning as his muscles ached like he hadn't moved in days.
Footsteps approached—soft, careful ones.
The door slid open.
A girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, peeked in with narrowed eyes.
"You're up? Hah. You're seriously awake?"
He blinked. "...Who are you?"
The girl stared at him like he'd grown horns.
"Are you kidding? I'm your sister, you idiot. Jinmu, don't scare people like that."
Jinmu...?
His mind spun.
Then—
A flood of memories burst inside him.
Not visions, but actual knowledge. Clear, seamless.
His name was Jinmu Yeon.
He was twenty years old.
He lived near Hwagok City in Jeonghwa.
His family ran a small inn called Peaceful Blossom Inn.
His mother, Yeon Haerin, was strict but warm.
His father, Yeon Baekho, was quiet and cooked the best duck soup in town.
And the girl in front of him… Yeon Seryeon — his sharp-tongued, younger sister.
But those memories came with others.
Skyscrapers. Yellow helmets. Rain pounding on concrete.
A rusty thermos. A dead phone battery.
And a collapsing beam.
"…I died," he muttered.
Yeon Seryeon frowned. "What?"
"I… I remember dying."
His hands trembled.
He could still feel the chill of steel on his back. Could still hear the panicked shouting of his co-workers. Could still see the sunlight flickering behind thick dust clouds.
"Did you hit your head or something?" she asked, stepping closer.
"…I'm not the Jinmu you know," he whispered.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Her eyes narrowed. "You're talking weird."
He stared at her face, now oddly familiar.
Not because he knew her. But because Jinmu did.
I… took over this guy's body. A twenty-year-old from a Murim world…
He swallowed hard.
Why me? Why this place?
He looked at his hands — calloused from work, but thinner than he remembered.
No. These aren't my hands. These are his.
A sharp pain pierced his temples.
Then came the voice.
No — not a voice.
A technique.
Words flowed into his mind like molten metal being poured into a mold.
"Heavenly Copy-Paste Technique"
☯ The Martial Record of Infinite Emulation
☯ What you touch, you may COPY.
☯ What you COPY, you may PASTE.
☯ What you PASTE, you may PERFECT.
His eyes widened.
What the hell is this…? A technique?
The words burned themselves into his memory.
More than words — they were instructions. A manual.
He didn't know how, but he understood every word.
A martial art that… copies?
"Oi, are you seriously okay?" Seryeon asked again, now standing closer. "You're scaring me."
He looked up at her.
"...What day is it?"
"Eighth day of the fifth moon," she said slowly, watching him carefully. "Why?"
He let out a shaky breath.
"I think I just reincarnated."
She blinked. "You what?"
Before she could say more, his stomach growled.
She snorted. "Tch. Reincarnated or not, you're still an idiot. Sit tight, I'll go get mom."
As she turned to leave, Jinmu leaned back against the wall.
He shut his eyes.
Jinmu Yeon… huh. I guess that's me now.
Let's see what this "Heavenly Copy-Paste Technique" can do.