"Without internal energy, only through techniques. Let’s prove that our martial arts are no less refined than those of Ipwang Fortress."
When So Jinrang challenged Jeong Yeon-shin to a duel, Jeong Yeon-shin accepted without hesitation.
It was a decision made with Gal Saryang, the Fiendish Sword, in mind—a high-level master worthy of opposing the black-clad force from Ipwang Fortress.
The Manjong Honwon Gong (The Chaos of Ten Thousand Essence Arts) from Sipjeonmun was said to lack the distinct characteristics of demonic martial arts.
Perhaps that was why victory wasn’t guaranteed, even at the starting level of Neungbeop Gwangryun-gi (Cyclic Light Technique).
Warnings pricked at Jeong Yeon-shin’s upper energy center and the cyclic flow of his internal energy.
Not So Jinrang, but Gal Saryang—he should focus on him.
At that moment, So Jinrang spoke.
"That confidence... Were you born with superhuman talent? I suppose you’ve never envied the lineage of noble families."
Step.
So Jinrang advanced, his face calm, though his aura was anything but.
The tempered atmosphere surrounding him felt like a sharpened blade. From his gleaming eyes to his composed gait, he exuded the peak of martial refinement.
"At your age, wearing the black robe of a master—I understand. No martial art would be too difficult for you to cultivate."
He spoke as he took deliberate steps forward.
Without using internal energy, there was no leap forward through energy bursts—only deliberate movement.
Jeong Yeon-shin stood silently, waiting for him, uninterested in the words spilling from his mouth.
Undeterred, So Jinrang continued to approach.
"Ipwang Fortress must have raised you as a living weapon. How many rare elixirs have you consumed? How many exquisite secret arts have you been taught? I imagine you’ve studied all seventeen martial arts of the Shingeom Dan."
"..."
Jeong Yeon-shin scanned So Jinrang’s lower body. His movements pressed heavily into the ground—a technique meant to concentrate force at the Yongcheon Point (Gushing Spring Acupoint) at the soles of his feet.
Even his posture as he unsheathed his sword carried weight.
Srrng.
The act of drawing his blade seemed to carry the weight of countless years.
With a crescent blade strapped across his back, So Jinrang raised a single sword, smirking.
"I might lose to you in a contest of techniques. But the enduring power of noble lineage will instill fear in you. That will be enough—because you will one day face formidable enemies aligned with Sipjeonmun."
Such audacious words, Jeong Yeon-shin thought, raising his sword in silence.
"Noble bloodlines..."
Jeong Yeon-shin spoke slowly as he took a single step forward.
"They talk too much."
The grip on the hilt of the Ipwang Sword tightened with an audible creak.
The strength coursing through his hands was undeniable.
This was strength forged through the Jeong Family Dynamic Gong—his martial art of internal energy cultivation.
Even without energy, he achieved the unity of sword and body, creating a harmony akin to Shingeom Hapil (Sword-Body Integration).
His hand and the blade became one.
Thud!
A light step was all it took. The ground beneath him felt solid and immovable.
Even without internal energy, the force of his movement resonated through his body like a heavy drumbeat.
In the same moment, Jeong Yeon-shin twisted his waist, swinging his sword horizontally in a spinning motion.
The air split with a sharp screech as the force of his movement spiraled upward, concentrating into his strike.
Clang!
A shockwave rippled outward—a Chukma Gyeong, an advanced form of energy projection, unleashed without internal energy.
The blow intercepted So Jinrang’s overhead slash, sending the older swordsman reeling.
"Hngh—!"
So Jinrang felt the full weight of the Ipwang Sword as it pressed against his blade.
The force traveled up his arms and into his shoulders, but he didn’t resist. Instead, he bent his elbows, stepping back diagonally.
Pivoting on his foot, So Jinrang spun away, narrowly avoiding the edge of Jeong Yeon-shin’s blade.
Their shoulders brushed as their robes fluttered in the aftermath of the exchange.
"The art of flowing like water... Precise control, even without energy."
Jeong Yeon-shin noted this with interest.
So Jinrang was not bound by the limitations of energy-based techniques. His mastery of the sword was a product of years of dedication.
Unlike Jeong Yeon-shin, who had refined his craft through necessity, So Jinrang’s technique bore the marks of meticulous effort and innate talent.
Clang!
Their blades collided again in a seamless, circular exchange. The Ipwang Sword and an unnamed blade from Sipjeonmun rang out in harmony.
Vibrations traveled through the length of both swords, their resonances meeting in perfect balance.
"This is..."
Jeong Yeon-shin narrowed his eyes.
So Jinrang had blocked the attack with the flat of his blade instead of the edge.
The Ipwang Sword, which had been aimed directly at his shoulder, stopped short as it met the other blade’s flat surface.
The Extreme Moon Sword.
The name alone embodied versatility—sword, spear, axe. It was a moniker suited to Sipjeonmun’s successor.
The sect, known for weaving energy into its mastery of all eighteen martial arts, stood at the pinnacle of adaptability.
And yet, there was no energy emanating from So Jinrang.
Despite this, his improvisation and technical skill were enough to justify his audacity in challenging Jeong Yeon-shin.
"How easy has your life been?"
So Jinrang murmured, holding back the Ipwang Sword with his blade’s flat.
His legs trembled under the weight of the blade, yet his stance held firm—a testament to the pride of a demonic swordsman.
"Seomye Jeong Yeon-shin."
"..."
"A prodigy recognized as the master of the Tang Clan leader. Your martial path reeks of arrogance and shallowness. Like a hero from a foolish tale, your achievements are exaggerated and fleeting. How far do you think you’ll rise? You’ll falter at the threshold of the supreme realm. Someone like you, exceptional in one area, will never unify your essence, energy, and spirit into a single harmony."
His words dripped with venom.
The middle energy center near So Jinrang’s heart throbbed, filled with envy and malice.
His eyes locked onto Jeong Yeon-shin’s, searching for any reaction.
But the boy’s gaze remained calm, unaffected.
So Jinrang realized that his words had no effect—empty insults, akin to the curses thrown by desperate warriors in the throes of battle.
Still, he didn’t mind. Venting his frustration was enough.
The boy standing before him had slain the Blade Fist Demon of Sunmaryeon.
Blocking such a master’s technique had allowed So Jinrang to salvage some measure of dignity.
Though his mind buzzed with the sensation of eating a forbidden elixir, he resolved to speak even if it meant dying.
If he could strike a nerve with his words, it would suffice.
**"When a blade honed over decades attains enlightenment, it evolves into a divine technique. That is the essence of martial arts among the righteous sects.
It’s what I call the strength of dedication. You, however, know nothing of time’s value. You will never understand."**
So Jinrang hurled his final insults at a master he could not hope to overcome.
A strange sense of satisfaction washed over him. He closed his eyes briefly, ready to accept whatever fate awaited him.
"..."
Their eyes met. In that instant, So Jinrang felt a surge of fear as intense as when the Blade Fist Demon had been slain.
The boy, calm and composed like a monk trained in Shaolin arts, now revealed something entirely different.
His gaze burned with a piercing intensity.
Was it the internal energy left within his optic veins?
No—it was something deeper.
For a fleeting moment, Jeong Yeon-shin’s composed expression cracked, revealing a sliver of madness.
It was a quiet, concealed chaos—a storm of anxiety, unease, fear, hatred, and rage.
This chapt𝒆r is updated by frёewebηovel.cѳm.
It was the face of someone pursued relentlessly by the inescapable.
For So Jinrang, the realization struck like a lightning bolt.
"Did I truly see that?"
So Jinrang found himself questioning his assumptions. Though curiosity briefly sparked, he shook his head inwardly.
This boy in black was already a grandmaster. He seemed to hold the entire world in his grasp—a delusion, perhaps.
And then, it happened.
"...!"
The Ipwang Sword, which had been pressing against the flat of So Jinrang’s blade, suddenly shifted.
The blade moved in perfect synchronization with the faint rise and fall of So Jinrang’s breathing chest.
It was instantaneous. The seamless transition in grip was nothing short of astounding.
The flat sides of their blades aligned. A simple upward strike would send So Jinrang's head flying.
Once the sword’s trajectory was altered, resistance was no longer an option. His posture left no room to counter.
Typically, altering a sword grip mid-combat was unthinkable—it dispersed force and left openings.
Unless it was a divine skill, so precise that it harmonized with the opponent's own breath and internal energy rhythm, such a feat was impossible.
"I’m going to die."
The realization hit So Jinrang like a hammer. No matter how he responded, it was too late. Without internal energy, escape was impossible.
Pride or survival? At the critical moment, So Jinrang made his choice as a scion of Sipjeonmun, one of the Thirteen Heavens.
Though he had spoken boldly to the boy, his life came first.
The strength accumulated through countless rare elixirs surged forth.
Before he could even think, his dispersed internal energy coursed through his meridians.
At that moment, his body was enveloped in tremendous power.
Boom!
A heavy impact drove into his abdomen—Jeong Yeon-shin's foot. The strength concentrated in the tip of his shoe was overwhelming.
"Hrk!"
A gasp escaped So Jinrang's lips as his upper body curled inward slightly.
Even as the air was knocked out of him, his eyes remained locked on the boy's face.
There, he saw an expression.
"This bastard."
Jeong Yeon-shin's lips twitched faintly. The slight furrow of his brow was terrifying.
For a swordsman like Jeong Yeon-shin, who rarely showed emotion, this was unmistakably anger.
Clang.
So Jinrang's instincts were correct. Jeong Yeon-shin let go of his sword entirely.
It wasn't that he had planned to spare his opponent. Rather, the act stemmed from a sudden hesitation, the fear of crossing a line he hadn’t intended to.
He recalled the blood-soaked battlefield—the deaths of countless comrades and the severed arm of his uncle.
His inner sanctuary, meant to serve as the foundation of his spirit, had been shattered.
Despite the rising terror pressing against his Baihui Acupoint, Jeong Yeon-shin had forced himself to push it aside. But this man had scratched at his very soul.
Crack!
Closing the gap between them, Jeong Yeon-shin seized So Jinrang’s wrist.
The grip that had held So Jinrang's blade faltered, his sword yanked free with pitiful ease.
At the same time, Jeong Yeon-shin’s Neungbeop Gwangryun-gi surged through his lower body and left shoulder.
His right hand, however, bore no internal energy—only raw emotion.
Anger suppressed for far too long, a wrath born from fear of fate.
Thwack!
His fist collided with So Jinrang’s abdomen.
The solid resistance of So Jinrang’s abs greeted him, yet Jeong Yeon-shin’s lips curled slightly upward.
The sensation was akin to striking an unyielding sky with bare hands.
Even as So Jinrang’s defensive energy shield came into existence, Jeong Yeon-shin struck again.
Crack!
The distinct, thin yet sturdy sensation of Hoshin-gi, the protective energy of internal armor, scraped against his fist.
But it didn’t matter.
There was an almost sadistic satisfaction in the act. Holding So Jinrang’s sword arm in a firm grip, Jeong Yeon-shin prevented any counter.
If So Jinrang attempted any retaliatory stance, Jeong Yeon-shin’s foot immediately smashed into his shin.
The only choice left for So Jinrang was to endure the blows.
"True Wall."
Jeong Yeon-shin’s second technique, True Wall—the second form of Sihwa Muguk-su—repeated itself relentlessly.
Wall after wall. The strikes, inspired by Ma Se-in’s brutal fist techniques, burst forth without any need for internal energy.
It was a natural instinct, perfectly suited for disrupting So Jinrang’s balance and sealing his swordsmanship.
This, too, was a power earned through the cost of time—the preciousness of years, as So Jinrang had called it.
Jeong Yeon-shin thought bitterly of his own body: cursed.
“...”
The once noisy boulevard had fallen into an eerie silence.
Only the sound of Jeong Yeon-shin’s fists battering the successor of Sipjeonmun echoed in the stillness.
The rustle of fabric and the muffled groans of So Jinrang completed the scene.
The pride of the Thirteen Heavens was shattering into pieces.
If internal energy was excluded, Jeong Yeon-shin’s martial prowess was unparalleled on the boulevard.
Watching from the rear, Gal Saryang—the Fiendish Sword—understood this completely.
Jeong Yeon-shin had transcended natural instinct, entering a realm that defied common sense.
Since the beginning of the duel, Gal Saryang had been studying him.
"I have to kill him here. If I don’t, there won’t be another chance."
Gal Saryang silently began drawing upon his internal energy.
Visualizing his trajectory, he grasped his sword as if preparing to launch it in an instant.
The grip was reversed—a Hidden Blade. His intent was clear: to strike Jeong Yeon-shin with everything he had.
He analyzed the boy again. Jeong Yeon-shin had yet to achieve the state of Three Flowers Converging at the Crown.
His body, mind, and energy had not reached perfect unity. Instead, he wielded his martial arts through raw talent and innate instincts—an arrogant strength.
Still, this was his opportunity.
"The pride of Sipjeonmun or the sapling of a future threat... If I must choose, it’s the latter."
But Gal Saryang’s focus was no different from So Jinrang’s earlier lapse.
He contemplated Jeong Yeon-shin’s Three Flowers Convergence, judging the boy’s status as if it were a calculation.
Still, it was no small task to slay a black-clad master.
He lowered his posture, concentrating his energy into a single, sharp point.
In his sights, the boy stood out clearly, clad in black robes as he battered So Jinrang.
"It’s risky... Will it work? If I don’t kill him in one strike, it’s over. I’ll stake my life on this."
Srrng!
The path of Gal Saryang’s blade took on a razor-sharp trajectory. It was the essence of Hidden Blade Technique.
As the sword’s edge drew in all of Gal Saryang’s concentration, his mind echoed with the spirit of a swordsman who had once dominated the martial world of Sichuan.
The sword was drawn, ready to launch—
Cha-rararak!
Suddenly, a storm of silvery butterflies engulfed the air.
Without warning, the brilliance of Mancheon Hwawu (Flowers of Steel Rain), the supreme technique of the Tang Clan, illuminated the battlefield.
In an instant, countless shimmering shards rained down with explosive force.
Boom!
Gal Saryang’s entire body erupted in a spray of blood, hundreds of metallic fragments piercing him from head to toe.
It was both devastating and breathtakingly beautiful.
In that moment, the blooming petals of blood marked the end of Sipjeonmun’s pride.