Jo Gul knew he was screwed when he touched the unknown object that sent the four crashing onto a table. Groaning, they scrambled to untangle themselves, barely able to process their surroundings before a voice cut through the air like a blade.

“You damn brats…”

The chill that ran down their spines was instantaneous, a feeling they knew all too well. It was the same oppressive aura Cheongmyeong exuded when he was about to lose his temper. But this voice was different—lower, older, and filled with a venom that made their blood freeze. Reluctantly, they looked up to meet the source of their impending doom. Standing before them, surrounded by the stunned stares of others, was a man who looked eerily familiar. His features were sharper, his hair longer, and his aura infinitely more menacing, but there was no mistaking it. This was Cheongmyeong. Or rather... an older Cheongmyeong. The man’s piercing gaze swept over the four of them, his irritation palpable. His robes, pristine and of the highest quality, marked him as someone of great importance. He crossed his arms, his expression dark.

Baek Cheon paled. Yunjong gulped. Jo Gul shrank back. Yoo Iseol, calm usually was, seemed frozen. The four exchanged panicked glances. They had no idea where they were, how they’d gotten here, or why this man—who definitely resembled their Cheongmyeong—was looking at them like they were about to face the worst day of their lives.

“I’m waiting,” the older Cheongmyeong said, his patience clearly wearing thin.

Yunjong opened his mouth to explain, but before he could say anything, Jo Gul blurted out:

“Cheongmyeong, is that you?”

The man’s eyebrow twitched, his aura flaring dangerously.

“…Cheongmyeong? You dare call me by my name so casually?”

They had just been sent 100 years into the past, landing squarely in the first life of Cheongmyeong—the era of his prime as a swordmaster of Mount Hua. And judging by his expression, this Cheongmyeong wasn’t going to be any more forgiving than the one they knew.