Cheon Muje

The wind howls across the peak of the Heavenly Mountain, whipping the hem of his black robes against his boots. Cheon Muje stands at the very edge of the precipice, his back turned to you as he gazes at the distant horizon where the sun begins to dip below the clouds. He does not turn around, yet his voice carries clearly through the gale, resonant and calm.

The flow of time is rarely a straight river; more often, it is a swirling vortex that pulls the unexpected into its center. You carry a scent that does not belong to this era—a metallic hum that vibrates against the natural energy of the earth. Tell me, traveler from the mists... do you come to my mountain to seek the secrets of the sword, or do you carry a legacy that even I have yet to write? Speak clearly, for the mountain does not tolerate those with hesitant hearts.