The wooden floor groaned under Itsuki's bare feet as he stepped out of the room, the thin door creaking behind him. Morning light streamed through the paper windows that lined the long corridor, casting pale golden rectangles on the smooth wood. The temple—if that's what it was—smelled like sandalwood, steel, and sweat.
He walked slowly, afraid he'd draw attention, unsure if he was supposed to greet someone or bow or—what did people even do in a martial sect?
As he reached the end of the hallway, a courtyard opened up before him. There were maybe twenty people in it, most dressed in similar robes, ages ranging from children to full-grown men. They were all practicing—punches in synchronized rhythm, blocks, kicks, circular footwork patterns that formed invisible diagrams in the dirt.
A few of them turned to look at him. Some gave short nods.
Others sneered.
"Look who finally woke up," one boy muttered loud enough for others to hear. His head was shaved on the sides, and his fists were wrapped in red cloth stained with use. "Trying to get out of morning drills again, Jinhwan?"
Jinhwan? Itsuki blinked.
So that was the name of the body he was in.
The name everyone else seemed to know him by.
"I—I wasn't feeling well," Itsuki mumbled.
The boy snorted. "What else is new?"
Before he could respond, a sharp clap echoed across the courtyard.
"All of you, line up!"
Everyone immediately dropped into formation. Itsuki awkwardly shuffled into the back row.
From the far end of the courtyard walked a man who looked like he'd stepped out of a myth. He was tall, imposing, draped in dark navy robes with silver trim. His hair was tied back into a high knot, and a curved sword hung at his side, yet it barely moved as he walked—like it feared him too.
His eyes scanned the group, cold and unreadable.
"That's Elder Yu," someone whispered beside him. "You're lucky you weren't late."
Yeah, Itsuki thought. Lucky. Right.
The elder stopped in front of the group and clasped his hands behind his back.
"Today we continue the third pattern of the White Crane Stance. If you cannot execute it properly by the end of the week, you will not advance."
Some disciples exchanged worried looks.
"Begin."
The courtyard exploded into motion.
Itsuki stood there like an idiot for two full seconds before copying the people around him. He mimicked their movements, trying to look like he knew what he was doing. His arms swung too wide, his foot placement was sloppy, and when he tried to pivot on his heel, he nearly twisted his ankle.
The boy next to him sighed. "You really did hit your head, didn't you?"
"Something like that," Itsuki muttered.
By the end of the session, sweat clung to his back like a second shirt. His legs were jelly. His arms ached. He collapsed onto a stone bench, trying to suck air into lungs that burned with every breath.
That's when the voice returned.
Not the same one that offered to turn back time—this was subtler, quieter. But unmistakably not from the world around him.
"This body is not yours. And soon, it will reject you."
Itsuki's head snapped up. He looked around.
No one else had reacted.
"What…?"
"You have borrowed a path that once belonged to another. But the road is stained. And it is not so easily walked again."
What the hell does that mean? he wanted to shout. But he didn't. Not yet.
Later that evening, he found himself summoned to the main hall.
An older man with gray in his beard and a long staff across his lap sat on a woven mat. He eyed Itsuki with mild suspicion and motioned for him to kneel.
"I am Master Hwan, head of the Eastern Cloud Sect."
Itsuki bowed clumsily. "Yes, Master."
"You have not been yourself lately," Hwan said. "Your movements are… confused. Your eyes unfocused. You do not speak as you used to."
Itsuki swallowed hard.
"I… I hit my head."
The master raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps. But I do not believe in coincidences."
There was silence. Itsuki didn't dare speak.
"Your dantian," the master finally said. "It is strange."
That word—it sounded familiar. In Murim stories, the dantian was the center of one's qi, the core through which martial power flowed. Itsuki had no idea what his even felt like, let alone how to use it.
"I haven't been able to cultivate lately," he lied.
The master studied him in silence for a long moment, then finally said, "Be careful. Even a river flowing in the wrong direction still appears peaceful—until it drowns you."
That night, Itsuki sat alone in the dormitory, staring up at the ceiling.
Everything felt wrong.
The body, the movements, the expectations.
And worst of all, he was starting to feel memories that weren't his. Flashes. Fragments. Sword fights in the rain. Blood in the snow. A woman's voice screaming someone's name—not his.
Jinhwan.
He could feel the name trying to sink into his skin.
"Whose life am I living?" he whispered.
And somewhere in the dark, the voice returned—whispering like wind through old bones.
"One turn of time does not erase the past. It only changes who bleeds for it."