The Ghost Caller stood in silence, gazing at the man who had appeared at his door in the dead of night.

As the master of the Gate of Spirits, and one who had survived the Blade Forest of Knives and Swords, he had faced countless intruders over the years.

They came in all kinds—brash ones, cunning ones, skilled fighters, schemers. Occasionally, someone would show up who was all of the above—bold, calculating, deadly, and deceptive. But not one of them ever left his manor alive.

This man was different.

There was a look in his eyes—the kind only someone who had tasted every bitter flavor of life could carry. A tired, heavy gaze, worn down by the world.

One thought crossed the Ghost Caller's mind.

Damn it. Is today the day I die?

Suppressing the unease tightening his gut, the Ghost Caller asked in a calm voice,
“Have we met before?”

“No.”

The man’s voice was low, but rich. Almost… pleasant.

“Then why come here, at this hour?”

Please don’t say something like, ‘It’s a good night to die, you miserable specter.’ Not with a voice like that.

“I came to ask you for a favor.”

The Ghost Caller, who had once stared down the gates of hell itself, felt a flicker of relief.
“Go on. Speak.”

And then, the man said something that shook him more than anything he had heard in his entire life.

“Send me to the past.”

Silence fell between them.

The Ghost Caller narrowed his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, laced with disbelief.

“How could a man turn back time?”

“I wouldn’t know. But you should—you’re the only one in this world who can use the Grand Regression Art.”

The Ghost Caller didn’t deny it.

“How do you know that?”

The Grand Regression Art was a secret technique, passed down solely within his bloodline for generations.

“Seojin.”

The Ghost Caller froze. That name struck him like a blade to the heart.

“My sister… How do you know her?”

“We were comrades, during my wanderer days.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s dead.”

“…Ah.”

A deep, painful sigh escaped him. For centuries, his family had poured everything into perfecting the Grand Regression Art. Even during their father’s time, the technique remained incomplete. He and his younger sister had devoted their youth to help finish it.

And then, ten years ago, she had left in the middle of the night, unable to take it any longer. Fled the family, the burden, the obsession. He couldn’t blame her. She had spent every moment of her twenties locked in the shadows of their so-called ‘great mission.’

“How did she die?” he asked.

“I avenged her,” the man said. “You don’t need to worry. But before she died, she made me promise to deliver a message. She said… she lived a life with no regrets. She hoped you could say the same. That you wouldn’t waste your life chasing the Grand Art alone. That you’d live for yourself.”

The Ghost Caller’s heart twisted with grief and guilt.

The man waited, letting him collect himself, before calmly asking the question that mattered most.

“Did you complete the Grand Regression Art?”

The Ghost Caller nodded slowly.

“Yes. In my generation… the Art was finally perfected.”

For a brief moment, a smile flickered across the man’s face—and it made him almost handsome.

“When can I return?” he asked.

“You don’t get to choose,” the Ghost Caller replied. “You might be sent ten years back… or thirty. You might end up a baby. Or you could be unlucky and land in yesterday.”

“I’ve always been lucky. I’m not worried.”

“So you think it’s that easy?”

A bitter smile crossed the Ghost Caller’s lips.

“It’s impossible. If it wasn’t, I would’ve done it already.”

“But you said the Art was completed.”

“I never gathered all the required materials.”

“I’ll get them.”

“I’m telling you, it can’t be done.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“There are ninety-nine ingredients needed for the Art. I’ve obtained all but five. And the very first is one you’ll never find. Have you heard of the Thunder Bell?”

“The sacred relic of the Wind Sky Sect?”

“That’s the one.”

The Wind Sky Sect was the spiritual successor of the Blood Sect—one of the most powerful forces outside the central martial realm.

“To perform the Regression Art, we need the resonant frequency that only the Thunder Bell produces when struck. But that bell is kept behind the seat of the Wind Sky Sect’s leader. You really think you can get your hands on it?”

The Ghost Caller hadn’t even dared ask to borrow it. Doing so would’ve invited annihilation. The Wind Sky Sect’s leader was a temperamental tyrant—asking for the bell would’ve brought the wrath of the entire sect upon his family.

“I’ll get it,” the man said.

Before the Ghost Caller could stop him, the man turned and walked away.

“…Is he insane?”

That’s what the Ghost Caller had thought at the time. He regretted not asking more about his sister.

Years passed.

Then, one sleepless night, he appeared again—like a dream from a sweltering summer evening.

He was carrying the Thunder Bell on his back.

The demonic carvings etched into the massive bell seemed even more grotesque, as if enraged from the long journey.

“Want to strike it?”

The Ghost Caller stared wide-eyed at the bell, then reached out, running his hands over its surface again and again.

“This can’t be real. No way. This can’t be real!”

But it was. The energy of the Blood Sect pulsed faintly from the metal. It was the genuine Thunder Bell.

“What the hell—how did you pull this off?!”

“When I say I’ll do something, I do it,” the man said, his eyes calm, his voice steady. “Now… what’s the next ingredient?”

The Ghost Caller exhaled slowly, both shaken and deeply impressed.

This man isn’t normal.

“But even if you managed to steal a divine relic from the Wind Sky Sect, the next one’s out of reach.”

“What is it?”

“The Divine Incense Burner. It belongs to the New Dragon Family. Without the incense from that relic, the Art cannot be completed.”

The New Dragon Family.

A newly-risen righteous sect—now the strongest force in the martial world. Even more powerful than the Wind Sky Sect.

“Understood. I’ll ask about the third ingredient once I’ve brought back the burner.”

“You’re just going to leave the Thunder Bell here? What if I run off with it?”

“I’ll tell the Wind Sky Sect you stole it.”

Leaving those words behind, the man disappeared once again.

Time passed.

Will this be the year he brings it back?

Each new year brought that same question. It repeated half a dozen times—until one crisp autumn evening, the man returned.

With the Divine Incense Burner in hand.

“You actually brought it…”

The Ghost Caller stared in disbelief, even as he held the artifact in his hands.

“How did you do it?”

“If I wrote it all down, it’d take six volumes.”

“Tell me. I’d read ten! I need to know!”

“No time,” the man replied simply.

What kind of man could turn the impossible into reality?

With this level of power, he could’ve ruled this life. So why…?

“Is this all for revenge?” the Ghost Caller asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re strong enough to take revenge here and now.”

“I’m not.”

“Who’s your target?”

The man spoke a name.

“Hwa Mugi.”

“…What?!”

The Ghost Caller gasped. That name alone knocked the breath from his lungs.

Hwa Mugi.

He was known by two titles. The first was Sambong—a name that sounded like it belonged to a wise old scholar or master of the arts.

But his 'bong' did not mean peak (峰), nor offering (奉).

It meant seal (封).

He had sealed:

The Ghost Caller’s face twisted with awe and dread.

This was no ordinary vengeance.

This was war against the man who sealed an entire era.

The three strongest pillars of the martial world—the Righteous Alliance Leader, the Demonic Alliance Lord, and the Heavenly Demon—had all fallen by his hand. Their families, their disciples, and any martial masters who refused to submit—he slaughtered them all.

And that is how he earned his second title:

The Greatest of All Time.

Hwa Mugi, the Unmatched Master of Past and Present.

The supreme being of this era.

After sealing the three great factions, Hwa Mugi declared his own household the new Supreme Martial Alliance. Thousands of elite martial artists gathered under his banner, pledging their swords and lives to him. Those who witnessed this unification of the martial world began to call him by another name:

The Undying Martial God.

“…Dear heavens. Even with regression, you couldn’t beat a monster like that.”

“I will kill him.”

“How? He’s the greatest martial prodigy in history.”

“I’ve heard the stories of his genius too.”

“He was born with a divine martial body! A gift from the heavens!”

“So was I.”

“…What? Just who are you?”

“The man Hwa Mugi killed… the Heavenly Demon… was my father.”

“!”

The Ghost Caller reeled from the revelation. It had never even crossed his mind that this man could be the son of the slain Heavenly Demon.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

He had known the man was no ordinary warrior—but this? This changed everything.

“Then… how did you survive?”

The man pulled back his robes.

Across his chest was a scar so deep, the Ghost Caller nearly screamed, “What the hell? Are you a ghost?!”

“When I woke up,” the man said, “I was buried beneath a pile of corpses. I clawed my way out… just before they covered me for good.”

“I see…”

“But I’m not hunting Hwa Mugi just because he tried to kill me. Or because he killed my father. Not even because he slaughtered my despicable older brother. When you’ve lived your whole life branded a demon, dying at someone’s hands isn’t all that surprising.”

“Then why?”

“That day,” the man said, his voice cold, “Hwa Mugi murdered everyone—men, women, children. He slaughtered the servants, the guards, even those who didn’t know a single martial technique. He killed the family dog. The cat. Every living thing in his path.”

“That’s… That can’t be true.”

“Whether you believe me or not isn’t my concern.”

And the Ghost Caller realized—he wasn’t lying. This man didn’t seem like someone who would invent such horrors for sympathy. There was something terrifyingly sincere in his words.

“Maybe Hwa Mugi is a hero in someone else’s story,” the man went on. “Maybe they see him as a great warrior who purged the demonic cults from the world. Maybe they applaud him for wiping us out.

“But to me, he’s just a butcher who murdered my family. A cold-blooded executioner without an ounce of mercy. And no matter how I calculate it, there’s no way I could ever kill him in this timeline. That’s why I need to go back. Even if it’s just to ask him—‘You, who were strong enough to defeat the world, did you really have to kill the children too?’”

The Ghost Caller stared at him, stunned. He had never imagined such a story lay behind this man’s eyes.

The man placed a hand on his chest.

“My bodyguard died protecting me. He took the blow right here. He’d never even had a real friend, never married. He spent his life watching my back, day and night. So don’t waste my time. Tell me—what’s the third ingredient?”

“…You really…”

“I’m busy. What’s next?”

For the first time since their meeting, the Ghost Caller let out a sigh that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul.

“No matter how capable you are… this time, you truly won’t succeed.”

“What is it?”

“The inner core of a Flame Carp. A ten-thousand-year-old one.”

“…What the hell kind of cursed ritual is this? I should cut you down right now for dragging me into this.”

“Please don’t.”

“I’ll hold back. I’ve come too far for that. Just wait. This one might take a while.”

“You think a Flame Carp just swims up to your hook and surrenders itself?”

“A carp’s still a fish. There must be one somewhere in this world’s waters. Wait for me. I’ll bring it back.”

As the man turned and strode off once more—toward the impossible—the Ghost Caller watched his back disappear into the distance.

And he realized something.

The name of the man, and even the story of his lost sister, didn’t matter anymore.

Not in the face of someone walking this path for vengeance—against a god.