Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

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POV: Elder Hyun of the Wudang Sect

Location: Northern Wastes, Murim

The wind howled over the scorched earth like a mourner too late to grieve. Elder Hyun stood at the edge of a blackened plain—once the proud headquarters of the Murim Alliance, now nothing but ash and bone.

His wrinkled hand rested upon a burnt stone tablet, the carved characters barely legible through fire scars.

There was no monument here.

No shrine.

No banners of honor.

"Are the stories true?" the disciple behind him whispered. "That he killed everyone that day?"

Hyun's gaze did not waver from the ruin. "Yes. To his last breath, he made certain none of his enemies survived. What's strange… from our intelligence, before he was taken to the Cult, he was just an orphan from the streets."

The disciple paled. "Then… the Cult—?"

"They took him in," Hyun murmured, "not out of kindness."

The Demonic Cult, feared and reviled across Murim, did not recruit the loyal. They sought the forsaken, the vengeful, the feral. Among them, Junghyeok Baek rose like a blade in the dark.

They broke him. Again, and again. Fed him poison and iron. Had him fight blindfolded against wolves. Buried him for a week in a coffin with nothing but the sound of his own breath.

And he survived.

Not just survived—thrived.

By twelve, he had killed three instructors in sanctioned combat.

By sixteen, he commanded a cell of child assassins trained to slit throats without leaving a sound.

Hyun's voice lowered, as if the wind itself might be listening. "He was also a blacksmith. Not just skilled—flawless. The blades he forged were so perfect that after his death, sects turned on each other in secret wars to claim even one. Entire clans were erased from history over the chance to wield his work."

By twenty, his blades were known across the Wulin as Yeomcheon—the Flames That Reached the Heaven—forged in abyssal qi and bound by his will alone.

But his true strength was not in his sword.

It was in his mind.

"Where others sought victory," Hyun said quietly, "he sought destruction."

Even so, Junghyeok did not rise alone.

He gathered outcasts—each as dangerous as he was. A drunken monk who burned his own temple. A swordswoman cast out by her clan. A strategist raised in the slums.

For a time, they were called a family.

But families lie. And betray.

"They feared him," Hyun said. "And when he became something the Cult had never seen—a leader who would not kneel—they betrayed him."

What few outside the Cult knew was why. After years of conquest, Junghyeok had sought to end the endless wars. He spoke openly—within his inner circle—of peace. To the Demonic Cult, this was heresy. To them, power was taken, never offered, and war was the only crucible worth living in.

So they made a plan.

The Demonic Elders conspired with his closest allies, offering them a reward beyond rank or gold—a forbidden method said to grant immeasurable strength through the flesh and blood of the Heavenly Demon himself.

And they agreed.

The Demonic Elders tried to persuade him.

Instead, they drew steel.

Junghyeok with no hesitation slaughtered them all.

Word of the carnage spread quickly. The leader of the Murim Alliance and the heads of the Orthodox Union convinced themselves the Heavenly Demon had been weakened by the betrayal—drained of strength, surrounded by enemies. It was, they believed, the perfect moment to strike.

They called upon every great sect—Shaolin, Wudang, Tang Clan, Mount Hua, Emei, the Beggar's Union. Even the Sword Tomb opened its gates. For the first time in five centuries, the Orthodox stood united.

And still… they lost.

No poison worked. No formation held.

Junghyeok tore through master after master, drenched in blood and silence. His qi split the very sky. It was not graceful. It was not beautiful. It was absolute.

In his final stand—outnumbered, betrayed, half-mad—he laughed.

"They called him Heavenly Demon," Hyun said, "not because he ascended… but because he defeated every known master in Murim."

The disciple swallowed. "But… he died. Right? In the end?"

Hyun finally turned.

"Yes. But the cost was too great to bear."

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POV: Bae Wonyul — Former Master Smith of the Demonic CultLocation: An abandoned mountain forge, Murim

The coals had been cold for decades, yet the air still carried heat—the ghost of the man who once worked here.

Bae Wonyul, once the Forge Master of the Demonic Cult, stood before a dead anvil. His hands trembled—not from age, but from memory.

Many weapons had been forged here. Countless. But only one set had scarred history itself.

They weren't his.

They were Junghyeok Baek's, The Heavenly Demon.

"He watched me for a season," Wonyul said into the emptiness. "Then discarded my methods like a cast-off cloak."

Not from disrespect—out of necessity.

Junghyeok didn't just forge steel, he molded it to match his own level.

When the boy had first come to him—skinny, silent, eyes like dried blood—he had nothing but shackles and bruises. Another orphan. Another tool for the Cult.

But Wonyul saw the way he studied heat—not just the flame, but the intent behind it.

"He understood metal as if it were language," the smith murmured. "He listened to it."

Junghyeok mastered the hammer. He folded blades with qi so dense it bent iron like wax. Wonyul once saw him sit beside molten ore, shaping it without striking—a silent dance between will and steel.

"I thought I was the master," Wonyul said. "But he became something else. A legend."

No one knew how many weapons Junghyeok forged. Some curved like fangs. Others shimmered like moonlight on still water. All of them pulsed with a qi too potent to be replicated.

They were beautiful and Terrifying.

Made not for disciples, nor for display. They were meant for him alone—extensions of his martial soul.

When he died—when the world dared to believe it was free of the Heavenly Demon—those weapons became relics of myth.

First came rumors. Then tomb raids. Then midnight duels between sects that had once shared tea.

The Orthodox declared the blades must be sealed or be used for the greater good .The Unorthodox hunted them, believing even a fragment of his power could crown a new ruler.

Wonyul spat into the cold forge. "Fools. After getting their hands on his swords, they thought they could replicate them—but they all failed. The forging method was his creation alone, a craft born from his will and qi. Only he could make them, and now he's gone."

He had seen brothers murder brothers over fragments. Entire clans wiped out over forged scrolls that might—might—contain his techniques.

That was his legacy now.

Wind moaned through the broken slats.

A shadow filled the doorway.

"Are you the Blacksmith that taught him?" asked a hooded stranger, voice young—another seeker.

"Yes," Wonyul replied without turning.

"They say one of his blades is buried nearby."

"Then you'd best bury yourself beside it," Wonyul said flatly. "Because you'll never wield it. Only someone like him could."

The youth hesitated. "Maybe... That doesn't mean i will not try, So do you know where it is ?"

"No and I don't care" the smith said, eyes narrowing at the dead forge.

The stranger left without saying another word.

Wonyul remained. Alone. Beside an anvil that had once birthed weapons of legend. The forge was cold, and so was the world that had once feared its master.

The Demonic Cult, once a force that shook Murim under Junghyeok's banner, had withered back to the petty nest of vipers it had been before his rise—scheming, infighting, gnawing on scraps of power. Without the Heavenly Demon, they were nothing more than a shadow of his shadow.

And Wonyul knew, with bitter certainty, that they would never see his like again.