murim · system · cultivation · rpg · martial arts · cold · ruthless · stats · progression
The forest is still but for the rustle of leaves underfoot. Dust motes dance in shafts of light piercing the canopy. A low growl rips the silence. A beast, eyes gleaming with hunger, charges from the shadows. You freeze. In the murim, the line between ant and monarch is drawn in blood. What do you do, you?