The sound of a heavy thud echoed ominously.
The silent body of the Zhibu Daein collapsed to the ground, her life extinguished by a single lethal sword wound.
Was it because her intentions in life had been hypocritical?
Her once pristine navy official robes, now splayed carelessly, were soaking in blood, darkening to an almost natural shade.
To the commoners, the scene seemed almost fitting.
"Great Hero, thank you...!"
"A representative of the Mount Hua Sect at Ipwang Fortress—it's like a dream come true!"
The freed villagers, now unshackled by Hyeon Won-chang’s swift actions, bowed their heads or clasped their hands together in deep gratitude.
Amid the overwhelming praises, voices expressing gratitude and reverence poured out.
However, these words of thanks were difficult to accept cheerfully. The sorrow etched on the faces of those who had lost their homes and families overshadowed any sense of joy.
This was the harsh reality of the current world.
"Let's go."
The boy in the black longcoat spoke. After a brief pause, Yu Hyeon approached him tentatively.
"Heading to the Martial Alliance together? Not that it’ll be hard to find, but that place is bustling right now."
"Sure."
Jeong Yeon-shin replied curtly, taking the lead with his group. Alongside them were the commoners who had been used as tools by their oppressors.
Hyeon Won-chang occasionally cracked jokes to guide the group forward, saying things like how the presence of the Ipwang Sect would ensure that no unruly martial artists dared wreak havoc again or offering his hero's bandana to a crying child as consolation.
Among the boats operated by the Zhongyang Trading Company, one stood out—large enough to carry fifty passengers.
Jeong Yeon-shin and the commoners boarded the boat in one unified motion.
Since the village's weakened men lacked the strength, Tae Yeom-ryong and Hyeon Won-chang took up the oars.
Standing by Tae Yeom-ryong’s side, Jeong Yeon-shin urged him to pick up the pace.
"You're slow. Surely you're not planning to daydream here?"
"One day, when I return, I’ll be at Blue Rank. Out of sheer resentment, I swear."
When they finally set foot back in the village they had initially stopped at, the disciples of the Jeomchang Sect greeted them with faces as if they had seen ghosts.
"That child... has disappeared."
So Geomhwi, the Small Sword Queen, spoke grimly.
She referred to the village boy who had informed Yu Hyeon and Jeong Yeon-shin’s group about the village’s distress.
In retrospect, the boy had been luring martial artists into a tiger’s den. Without a word about the Zhibu Daein’s troops or hostages, he had effectively offered bait to the predators.
Most martial artists possessed more wealth and resources than commoners.
In today’s chaotic world, the phrase “greenwood bandits” referred to brigands who would even rob martial artists they encountered on desolate mountain paths—inescapable predators in these troubled times.
However, this time, it was the Zhongyang Trading Company that fell victim to a true predator: Ma Gwang-ik, the devourer.
That village boy stood as proof of a world in turmoil. But evading the attention of the Jeomchang Sect masters and vanishing altogether was a different matter.
"He must have been a martial artist. Likely trained in techniques specializing in concealing qi and endowed with exceptional talent."
Jeong Yeon-shin dismissed the matter succinctly, his gaze fixed on the mountain range stretching toward Hanjung.
Rather than dwelling on the boy, his thoughts lingered on the ones he had slain. Among them were individuals who weren’t martial artists—government troops and officials complicit in the exploitation of commoners.
The Zhibu Daein herself had accepted death and handed him a letter for the Martial Alliance.
It was a different kind of first kill. Much like when he had slain a martial artist of the Blade Specters at the Jeong Clan Manor.
From burying the bodies of his enemies, including the Zhibu Daein, to the present moment, Jeong Yeon-shin had been distancing the weight of these actions from his consciousness.
It was a familiar habit. One he had cultivated ever since he became a martial artist in pursuit of the Heavenly Tree’s fruit.
"I am Ma Gwang-ik Lord."
The boy closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. His pupils, momentarily flashing with a blue glow, returned to their calm state.
"Mu-geom, bring the writing tools."
Tae Yeom-ryong grimaced as he set up the brush and inkstone. Jeong Yeon-shin, seated on the spot, wrote a letter.
"To Myeongdo, personally. From Ma Gwang-ik Lord of Ipwang Fortress."
It was addressed to the Dongchang.
"Your calligraphy is steeped in the way of the sword. Truly, a martial artist's script," Tae Yeom-ryong remarked with quiet admiration as he observed the elegant brushstrokes.
"I figured as much when I heard all that talk about your Seomye lineage. You must’ve dabbled in secret martial texts in your youth—oh, wait, this is your youth."
"Take care of it."
Ignoring Tae Yeom-ryong, Jeong Yeon-shin addressed a white falcon perched nearby.
The bird, tilting its head briefly, soared into the sky with the letter firmly attached to its leg.
"Let’s go."
Jeong Yeon-shin spoke as he watched the falcon ascend.
The villagers, who had been staring blankly at the majestic creature, quickly bowed their heads and raised a clamor.
"Great Hero, please give us a chance to repay you!"
"At least share a meal with us... or..."
A woman in a tattered skirt trailed off mid-sentence. Offering a proper meal was impossible in the devastated village.
Reconstruction had to come first.
"I’ll stop by again on my way back. If this village is rebuilt by then, I’ll accept a meal and savor the reward of your hard work."
Jeong Yeon-shin spoke kindly. The villagers, tears welling in their eyes, each took a moment to hold the boy’s hand.
A fleeting warmth amidst the chaos of the times. Even Hyeon Won-chang found himself surrounded by villagers of all ages, taking some time to break free.
"When we reach the Martial Alliance, we’ll have to meet the Alliance Leader first."
So Geomhwi remarked, her gaze lingering on Jeong Yeon-shin with an odd intensity.
The boy nodded silently, mounting his steed. Tae Yeom-ryong, Hyeon Won-chang, and Namgung Hwa-shin took their places at his sides and rear.
Behind them, the villagers bowed deeply with clasped hands or performed the respectful gestures of Daoism and Buddhism, as if paying homage to a divine being rather than a person.
Jeong Yeon-shin felt a strange sentiment. As a warrior of Ipwang Fortress, he had simply done his duty.
Yet hearing the villagers’ gratitude directly was a first. His missions had always demanded immediate movement and action.
He was fortunate the Heavenly Tree’s fruit was tied to Ipwang Fortress. To experience this warmth while amassing achievements was a rare privilege.
Waving once toward the village, Jeong Yeon-shin turned his horse.
"The Alliance Leader is called the Sword Saint, isn’t he?"
The boy thought to himself. It was time to return to his original mission.
"A person called by a title like ‘Sword Saint’? Just how skilled must they be with a blade?"
His mind wandered to his Lightburst Sword Style, a technique rooted in the cliffs of Mount Zhongnan. Many martial artists had witnessed his sparring with the Namgung Clan.
With his sword art’s forms known across the land, he would need to discreetly refine it further.
The martial world was a place full of mysteries. Victory at the Sect Establishment Tournament was not something he could afford to overestimate.
Even if he triumphed, he could not embarrass himself during the Alliance Leader’s demonstration duel as Ipwang Fortress’s representative.
"Yullyeong Unit Leader’s guidance was helpful. Let’s incorporate every inspiration into the sword art. From now until the tournament’s end."
***
The Martial Alliance headquarters in Hanjung was basking in the pinnacle of grandeur.
The oppressive heat that had clung to the summer grass dissipated into the clear, transparent air, perfectly complementing the magnificent pavilions and the energy of the gathered crowds.
“Lord Zhuge, have you returned those items to the Namgung family?”
“Yes, they were borrowed items to begin with. We’ve retrieved everything we needed.”
“Were there any discernible traces?”
“Of course. There’s Mount Mao (茅山) in Namjikrye, isn’t there? It seems the Namgung family immediately summoned Taoist sorcerers from the Mao Sect (茅山派). Thanks to their rituals, none of the corpses decomposed, making it easy to examine the sword marks.”
“Hm...”
“The Sword Corps Captain’s swordsmanship truly is unparalleled—peerless and unmatched. Even the cuts on the bodies were at a level that bordered on the realm of secret techniques. Without the family’s teachings, analyzing them would have been nearly impossible. Additionally, Ma Gwang-ik Lord Seomye’s techniques... upon closer examination, they are anything but ordinary. He’s certainly deserving of his position as the youngest Lord of Ipwang Fortress.”
“...It’s said that the Namgung family’s Elder Council Head was the only direct descendant who refrained from dueling. Such chilling vengeance... Delivering the bodies of both his son and grandson so willingly was no different.”
“The Namgung family has already been consumed by its branches. This must be their last desperate struggle.”
Middle-aged men, their swords strapped to their waists, strode confidently across the grounds.
The paths paved with smooth stone stretched out in cardinal directions like a palace, with golden sand shimmering at intersections.
There was even a hermitage built to host monks from Shaolin, though it now belonged to the younger generation of martial artists.
“To be honest, I only learned about the so-called ‘Dull Sword’ here at the Alliance. It’s not something we have in our region. If you’re referring to the concept of striking late to dominate, it sounds like mere affectation.”
“I agree. If one has the ability to subdue an opponent despite striking late, why wait for the opponent to attack first? That would imply a mastery far beyond the opponent. Such a technique would render conventional comparisons meaningless.”
Men and women, radiating vitality, sat casually and debated martial arts.
Their weapons, polished to a radiant shine under the sun, lay scattered across the ground, while their multicolored silk martial robes shimmered with exquisite patterns.
These individuals, dignified by their noble lineage, were impeccably groomed, their refined skin a testament to both their wealth and rigorous martial cultivation.
Regardless of gender, they all appeared pale and elegant, almost otherworldly.
“Some claim techniques exist that defy common sense, such as the ‘Thousand-Jin Hammer.’ How could a human body generate such weight?”
“That’s likely an issue of nomenclature. In the Guangxi martial world, it refers to a secret technique that stabilizes the lower body. It’s a method integrating stances, steady steps, and qi control. I’ve also heard that Wudang’s Taiji techniques center on maintaining one’s balance while disrupting the opponent’s. Am I mistaken?”
The men and women engaging in conversation were all strikingly beautiful, their appearances untouched by the famines ravaging the outside world.
The Martial Alliance gathering was an unprecedented meeting point, a special banquet for the most noble martial artists.
The martial world was vast, and it was rare for renowned masters from esteemed clans across Zhongyuan to convene.
Up until now, they had been too preoccupied playing royalty in their expansive homelands.
But now, here they were, meeting their equals, unable to contain their excitement.
It was then that someone spoke.
“Isn’t it about time we got moving? The elders have given us our tasks.”
The speaker was Mo Yong-myeongjun (慕容明俊), a scion of the prestigious Mo Yong family in the northern regions of the Yangtze River, known for their refined swordsmanship.
He was privately the heir apparent of the Mo Yong family.
“I received word an hour ago that the savage Huang factions have stepped onto Hanjung soil. Let us rise.”
“I’m the one assigned the task,” said a scholarly young man with a delicate appearance as he stood. His green scholar’s robe suited him remarkably well, exuding a grace that seemed to bring spring to the autumn air.
This elegance captivated several women who had been discussing martial arts with him.
He was Zhuge Hyeon (諸葛賢), the ‘Fan Dragon’ (扇龍).
The source of this c𝐨ntent is freeweɓnovēl.coɱ.
“I’ve been instructed to observe Seomye’s swordsmanship. I didn’t expect to be sent as a sacrificial stone on the board,” Zhuge Hyeon murmured.
A boy with a piercing gaze flashed a wry smile.
“Well, it’s likely because the elders don’t want to risk the Alliance’s dignity by having a senior be defeated in a duel against Seomye. And honestly, Zhuge, your techniques and acumen are exceptional. Who knows? You might manage to hold your own, even for a moment.”
“Doubtful,” Zhuge Hyeon replied with a bitter smile.
“Regardless of age, my opponent is the Lord of Ipwang Fortress. Given his reputation and the fact that the meticulously disciplined Daebang Sect wouldn’t appoint a weakling to such a position, I’ll surely lose. Just make sure to come by a quarter-hour after the duel starts. I’d prefer not to show everyone my disgrace.”
With that, he stepped onto the second-floor railing of the hermitage.
Step.
As soon as he took a step forward, the wind seemed to carry him away, his form vanishing as he glided gracefully into the distance.
It was a stunning display of martial movement. Even those indifferent to his presence couldn’t help but marvel.
“He’s shattered the boundary between lightness techniques and body arts. Truly the ‘Fan Dragon.’ I doubt he’ll lose so easily.”
“After conceding to the Jeongwang Sword Form, he trained rigorously in seclusion. He must have achieved something remarkable.”
Others merely watched, unfazed. Mo Yong-myeongjun muttered internally, cursing the man’s luck.
‘So, he’s a key figure directly connected to the Alliance elders. I, too, must earn my father’s trust.’
Despite their differing thoughts, they were all part of the righteous faction.
Respecting their fellow martial artists as disciples of the orthodox path, they agreed to wait a quarter-hour before proceeding.
As the young martial artists reached the main gate of the headquarters, they noticed a peculiar atmosphere.
“What is this...?”
An enormous crowd had gathered, blocking the gate.
The gate was massive, easily ten times the size of an ordinary fortress entrance, yet it seemed almost overrun.
Merchants, porters, and civilians from Hanjung mingled with the Alliance warriors.
“What’s going on?”
“Is that... a person?”
Despite the sheer size of the crowd, the murmurs were surprisingly subdued. Everyone’s focus was entirely fixed on the scene before them.
Mo Yong-myeongjun instinctively leapt upward, landing on the high wall surrounding the gate.
He wasn’t alone. Many others had the same idea.
Even on the wall, there were already dozens of people at eye level, all utterly ignoring Mo Yong-myeongjun’s presence—a rarity for someone of his stature.
Lowering his gaze, his eyes widened in disbelief.
“...!”
Standing atop Zhuge Hyeon’s fan was a striking boy, exuding an aura of absolute composure. His demeanor screamed mastery, an unmistakable aura of a supreme martial artist.
It was almost impossible to believe what he was seeing.
Given Ipwang Fortress’s hierarchy, Ma Gwang-ik Lord Seomye was already far beyond the level of a typical rising star.
Yet Zhuge Hyeon’s fan techniques were renowned across Hanjung. His Boundless Wind Fan Techniques (會風無窮扇法) had once been rumored to rival Namgung Se-jin’s Jeongwang Sword Form.
‘That was before he lost in twenty moves during the Yongbong Gathering...’
Despite that loss, Zhuge Hyeon was no novice. With his accomplishments and reputation, he was among the most respected young martial artists of his generation.
‘But this... this looks like he’s being toyed with!’
Mo Yong-myeongjun activated his family’s secret vision technique, instantly sharpening his perception.
To his shock, the boy’s black-robed form stood out in surreal clarity.
“What the...!”
Jeong Yeon-shin, the Ma Gwang-ik Lord.
His every muscle seemed to contract and relax in rhythm, generating countless subtle but profound movements.
His entire body was cloaked in a faint breeze, his black robes fluttering gracefully.
Small bursts of qi radiated from his form, distributing weight and maintaining balance.
It was a sight akin to a celestial being. What kind of technique was this?
“Ma Gwang-ik Lord! What are you doing...!”
A middle-aged man carrying a spear shouted as he ran toward the scene. Likely a member of the Shandong Yue Family, an elder of the Alliance had finally intervened.
Yet despite Zhuge Hyeon furiously waving his fan beneath him, the boy’s foot, poised like a crane’s leg, remained unwavering.
The stark, majestic contrast of Ipwang Fortress’s black-clad lord left the onlookers in awe.
Even his movements radiated elegance, as if transcending belief.
“The Alliance’s rising star requested a duel from the Lord of Ipwang Fortress...”
The young Ma Gwang-ik Lord cast a fleeting glance down at the approaching elder.
“...and I am delivering a lesson.”