The boy ran all day.
Not on horseback, but using his qinggong techniques. The assassination of the Simmuryun elders was not something to be taken lightly.
He had to stake his life on concealing his presence to approach his target.
Namgung Hwa-shin was left behind at the main stronghold. It was a precaution in case something unfortunate happened to Jeong Yeon-shin.
One envoy from Ipwang Fortress had to remain with the Martial Alliance. Even temporarily, only someone of Blue Rank or higher could fulfill the role of a Black Rank substitute.
Namgung Hwa-shin was ranked directly below Jeong Yeon-shin in the hierarchy. He was also the most trustworthy companion.
“He’ll likely keep a close eye on the internal workings of the Martial Alliance as well.”
Jeong Yeon-shin had a high opinion of the White Qilin’s martial prowess, adaptability, character, and reputation.
The Simmuryun elders were formidable opponents. The masters of the Daebang Sect were not ones to be taken lightly, and victory could not be guaranteed.
One had to consider the possibility of the entire party being annihilated or time being delayed. That was why Namgung Hwa-shin stayed behind.
“Why not just avoid going altogether? Facing the Thirteen Heavens is no ordinary task.”
Tae Yeom-ryong spoke, tapping his chest. At some point, he had sidled up beside Jeong Yeon-shin.
A bundle of opium poppies, hastily purchased two days ago, was tucked into his jacket. Jeong Yeon-shin shook his head.
He felt Namgung Hwa-shin’s absence acutely—it had been reassuring to have him around.
“To avoid disgrace, I must confront this. Without a swordsmanship honed in real battles, I cannot endure the techniques of that person. At this rate, the prestige of Ipwang Fortress’s Black Rank will crumble.”
The boy’s voice was resolute. Tae Yeom-ryong bit into a single poppy stem, his expression casual.
“Is it truly disgraceful to lose to the Sword Saint? He’s no middling master.”
“It doesn’t matter, even if the opponent is the Martial Alliance leader. If I’m seen losing pathetically, that itself would mean the mission’s failure. Instead of asserting our authority, we’d leave having received a lesson.”
“The Martial Alliance foresaw this and crafted their ploy. Even after conceding the Sect War, they ensured their dignity remained intact.”
It was Hyeon Won-chang, who had straightened his back and was now speaking sharply. He glared needlessly at the Martial Alliance warriors walking ahead, all while subtly holding onto Jeong Yeon-shin’s shoulder cloth with one hand.
Boldly running his mouth, he shielded himself with the young Daeju. Jeong Yeon-shin wordlessly shrugged off his arm.
Tae Yeom-ryong’s lips curled upward.
“Well, refusing a ‘lesson’ might indeed look strange. The Sword Saint offering pointers to the master who conquered the Sect War...”
“With Gwanghwa Swordsmanship, I wouldn’t last a second against the Sword Saint. It’s a technique that already falters against the Yullyeong Daeju’s sword strikes.”
“Even Sihwa Muguk-su wouldn’t work, would it? Even against something like Hwanik Gang, for example.”
Tae Yeom-ryong asked. Jeong Yeon-shin gazed at him for a moment, silent.
Though lethargic in demeanor, this man seemed to understand his personal martial arts deeply. Despite their first meeting involving a derisive comment about his talent, Tae Yeom-ryong was particularly sharp regarding martial techniques.
The boy slowly nodded.
“The distance is the issue. If I close in using Gwonjangbeop, my arms would be severed before I could strike. Hoshin Ganggi can’t withstand the Sword Saint’s strikes.”
“So, in the end, it seems skillful blade techniques are the only answer. My family, the Hwangbo Clan, has a fairly decent sword technique. It’s called Namhwa Sword Domain Form, and after my great-grandfather mastered it, he was celebrated as the top swordsman in Shandong for a decade. There’s a famous tale where he drove back over a dozen spears from the masters of the Ak Clan with a single sword.”
“Ridiculous nonsense!”
A clear, commanding voice cut in.
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“That’s not how it happened! Your ancestor shamelessly wielded his strength against younger, less experienced opponents. You, as the young master, surely wouldn’t be ignorant of that?”
It was Ak Ye-rim, clad in a sleek white martial robe. A long spear was slung across her back.
Her braided hair swayed along with the spear’s shaft with each step she took. The spear techniques she practiced were of the Ak Clan in Shandong.
The Ak Clan had long vied for prestige with the Hwangbo family, also based in Jinan of Shandong Province. Until the forces of Ipwang Fortress swept through the land, the Ak Clan had been at a disadvantage. They had benefited greatly from the downfall of the Hwangbo family.
Ak Ye-rim’s voice and presence carried a heavy weight, but Tae Yeom-ryong responded with a smirk.
“And did your clan act with integrity? From what I’ve seen, that’s far from the case.”
“What?”
“You openly challenged our Daeju, who’s nearly a decade younger than you, during a banquet. Everyone knows how much you admired Se-jin, and yet you stooped to such theatrics. If I ever dreamed of behaving like that, I’d bite my tongue and end it the moment I woke up.”
“You...!”
Ak Ye-rim’s eyes blazed with anger but suddenly fell silent.
Her gaze shifted briefly toward Jeong Yeon-shin, her thoughts complicated.
Ak Ye-rim’s sharp gaze bore into him but then abruptly softened as she closed her mouth.
Her eyes shifted, landing briefly on Jeong Yeon-shin. In that fleeting glance, a storm of conflicting emotions swirled.
She had brought up a sensitive topic openly among many young martial artists, unfiltered and without hesitation.
No one had expected the boy to defend the White Qilin at that moment—not anyone present.
His words about equality regardless of status or origin had become a topic of conversation among them for a while.
‘Was he sincere?’
That alone didn’t quell Ak Ye-rim’s resentment. Unlike the inhumanly impartial White Qilin, she was not guided by unshakable fairness.
Nor was she a unique figure like her great-aunt Ak Su-rim, who had abandoned her family name for the sake of the common people.
She was a noble warrior from a prominent martial household, but still an ordinary person among the masses.
‘Ma Gwang-ikju, the White Qilin.’
It was confusing. Unlike Namgung Mi, Namgung Se-jin had been a good elder brother to the White Qilin.
Why did he travel the martial world alongside the one who had killed his own brother?
Ak Ye-rim didn’t see Ipwang Fortress as a haven for righteous warriors. To her, it was the military arm of the martial world.
After all, wasn’t there only one reason Ipwang Fortress protected commoners?
To stabilize the tributes flowing into the imperial court.
Originally, Ak Ye-rim had planned to meet the White Qilin alone. She wanted to ask face-to-face.
Was Ma Gwang-ikju, along with Ipwang Fortress, truly any different from her family? Did they think themselves a righteous faction, free of corruption?
She might have done just that if warriors from Ipwang Fortress hadn’t barged in with a mandate from the Martial Alliance leader.
“So, where are we headed?” she asked.
Her question wasn’t directed at Ma Gwang-ikju.
To speak to the Daeju of Ipwang Fortress, she would need to use honorifics, but Ak Ye-rim preferred addressing Hwangbo So-ga-ju instead.
Yet Tae Yeom-ryong was mischievous. He kept his mouth shut, refusing to answer.
His smug silence revealed that he could see right through Ak Ye-rim’s brash exterior. Instead, his attention drifted to the sight of two young boys engaged in conversation.
Beside the young Daeju, a newcomer from the Gongson family had approached.
“My fiancée is quite interested in you. And so am I. Back during the battle at Cheongya Valley, we were there too, you know. When Ipwang Fortress and the Namgung Clan fought.”
The boy’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. He stood at nearly the same eye level as Jeong Yeon-shin.
Gongson Min.
He was the young master of the Gongson family, one of the Eight Noble Clans. He seemed to enjoy wandering from place to place, driven by curiosity.
He exuded vibrant energy, his slightly worn white silk martial robe oddly suiting him.
“Cheongya Valley?”
Jeong Yeon-shin repeated, recalling the memory. The gorge had been surrounded by a crowd—both martial artists and ordinary folk alike, an audience far larger than expected.
Gongson Min nodded enthusiastically.
“Yes, it was quite the spectacle. Honestly, I wasn’t there to see you, though—I came to witness the martial prowess of the Singeom Danju and the head of the Namgung Clan. But, separate from their grandeur, your duel with the White Qilin was incredibly striking.”
“What?”
“It was a duel with so much to learn from. Despite the seamless flow of movements, every exchange of techniques was incomprehensibly precise. And seeing how you wrapped your hand around the Qilin’s extended sword strike and reversed it into a reinforcement for your palm technique? That scene was awe-inspiring!”
The admiration on his face was unmasked, his thoughts transparent in his expression. It was a refreshing attitude Jeong Yeon-shin hadn’t encountered during his time in the Martial Alliance.
The Martial Assembly was said to comprise hundreds of sects, and it seemed indeed to attract all sorts of individuals.
“Graves...”
Jeong Yeon-shin turned his head, making an effort not to show any discomfort.
It was a moment when tension was necessary. The group had entered a village. Splinters of what was once a wooden stockade crumbled under their every step.
Smoke rose from between the houses, reminiscent of the incense burned in bundles to honor the dead. The atmosphere was desolate, oppressive.
“There are no survivors.”
The chilling wind carried the unmistakable sign of a massacre. It was as though the faint trace of life lingering in the village had been buried along with the hastily dug graves.
It felt like stepping into another world. The stench of decaying corpses was overwhelming.
It was a sight all too familiar to martial artists enduring the hardships of famine.
The powerful took what they wanted, stealing food and tightening their grip on the throats of the weak.
It was a truth as old as time itself. Those who wielded martial skills often turned them toward survival at the expense of others.
The Simmuryun was no different.
In Henan, where their sect was based, acts like this would have angered their patron, the Marquis of Ban. That was why they had come to Shaanxi—plundering, eating, drinking, and honing their martial arts outside their territory.
If they could tarnish the reputation of the righteous sects' alliance in the process, all the better.
That much was outlined in the Sword Saint’s letter. Jeong Yeon-shin found it a reasonable assumption.
“There are many graves here. Who could have made them?”
“Perhaps a wandering hero or the villagers themselves,” Tae Yeom-ryong replied casually, engaging in conversation with Hyeon Won-chang.
Jeong Yeon-shin finally spoke, his voice steady.
“We’ll retrace the Simmuryun’s steps. Kill every one of them we find and take the head of the force leader responsible for this raid. According to the document from the Sword Saint, it’s one of their elders: Baek Seo-goon, the Sword Demon of Yongcheon.”
Dressed in his black cloak, he spoke as Ma Gwang-ikju.
At his words, Mo Yong-myeongjun, who had been silently following as though lost in thought, immediately raised his head.
“The Sword Demon of Yongcheon? Is it the one I know?”
Dressed more elegantly than anyone present, he looked uncharacteristically uneasy.
Despite his brightly colored pink martial robe, a shadow hung over his expression.
“I’ve heard the rumors of his Yi Gi Yu Geom technique, commanding the sword with qi. They say his blade swims through the sky. During the Marquis of Ban’s sixtieth birthday celebration in Henan, he fended off a hundred archers’ arrows with a single sword. The Marquis was so impressed he granted him the title ‘Sword Demon,’ declaring his skills beyond human comprehension.”
Mo Yong-myeongjun’s voice was measured, but his gaze remained fixed on Jeong Yeon-shin.
Unlike Ak Ye-rim, he maintained perfect decorum when addressing the boy, yet his polite demeanor masked a hint of hidden tension.
Jeong Yeon-shin didn’t respond.
“I’ve heard of him too,” Gongson Min added. “Even a swordsman of Shaolin couldn’t block the Sword Demon’s flying blade. Since the Simmuryun’s main base is in Henan, I’m sure the masters of Mount Hua or Zhongnan would know more. The smaller sects can’t be relied upon for this...”
He trailed off, frustration evident.
None of the smaller sects besides Mount Hua and Dian Cang had sent representatives to the Martial Assembly. Their absence made the lack of counsel glaring.
The mission to eliminate a Thirteen Heavens elder commanding a military force weighed heavily on their minds. The more Gongson Min thought about it, the more insufficient their lineup seemed.
The young heir speculated that the Martial Alliance leadership had conspired to send Ma Gwang-ikju to his death.
“I know,” Jeong Yeon-shin said, his voice calm.
Tae Yeom-ryong smirked, seeming satisfied with the boy’s short reply.
“Of course. There’s no point worrying about a flying sword. Even if it really is Yi Gi Yu Geom, it’s the same. Listen, Gongson. For swordsmen famous throughout the martial world, they’re most dangerous when they’re wielding their blade directly. When their palm is gripping the sword, their energy is at its peak. Unless they’ve mastered some extraordinary method.”
“If the Sword Demon’s flying blade relies on a specific technique, then it’s not truly legendary Yi Gi Yu Geom, is it? Let’s leave the Sword Demon to the Daeju,” Hyeon Won-chang added, nodding.
By then, a shared curiosity began to arise in the minds of the Martial Assembly warriors.
Jeong Yeon-shin stood at the center of their attention—under the scrutiny of figures like Zhuge Hyeon, Gongson Min, and Mo Yong-myeongjun, as well as So Geomhwi of Jeomchang.
Even Ak Ye-rim’s gaze lingered on him, unrelenting as though she intended to capture every flaw and strength he had.
Each of them harbored different thoughts.
Yet they shared one unspoken question: How strong was the new Ma Gwang-ikju?
They were the future leaders of the Martial Assembly, destined to cross paths with the young Daeju for the rest of their lives. Assessing his capabilities wasn’t just Jeong Yeon-shin’s burden—it was theirs as well.
Would his character hold up under pressure?
How would his martial skills perform under the harshest conditions?
And, just as critically, did he possess any glaring weaknesses?
“Their eyes are like daggers,” Jeong Yeon-shin thought to himself. Merely playing a game of fan-tossing with Zhuge Hyeon wouldn’t be enough to answer them.
He recalled the mission’s purpose. It was Ak Su-rim’s plan: disrupt the Martial Assembly and pour cold water over the Martial Alliance’s rising momentum.
The boy had not forgotten his true objective.
“Show yourselves.”
His voice was sudden. His Neungbeop Gwangryun-gi picked up on the distinct inner energy signatures of Simmuryun practitioners.
The Simmuryun forces that had pillaged the village hadn’t left behind a single grain of rice. Instead, they had stationed a few guards. A small contingent.
Their presence was clear: crouched behind the foliage three paces ahead, stationed on the rooftop of an intact house, and, most boldly, standing atop a watchtower, one foot planted on its edge, gazing down at them.
Jeong Yeon-shin raised his head, locking eyes with the man on the watchtower.
Draped in yellow, the man stood tall, legs and back straight, a sneering grin plastered on his face.
He exuded a powerful aura of martial arts. His unmoving stance betrayed his mastery of a profound sensory technique.
Were they tasked with blocking pursuers?
The boy didn’t say another word. He simply extended his left hand downward.
His palm pointed toward the sword strapped to Mo Yong-myeongjun’s waist.
With a subtle shift, Jeong Yeon-shin activated two distinct techniques on the meridians of his palm.
Attraction and Repulsion. The opposing forces intertwined momentarily.
Suddenly.
Mo Yong-myeongjun’s sword was drawn from its sheath on its own.
The metallic shring of the blade echoed softly, sending silent shockwaves through the air.
Even the seasoned martial artists—including Mo Yong-myeongjun, Gongson Min, and the Simmuryun guard atop the watchtower—widened their eyes in disbelief.
With one fluid motion, Jeong Yeon-shin flicked his sleeve, and a radiant light briefly flickered across the sword.
His black cloak billowed dramatically as the blade transformed into a piercing beam of light.
A dazzling white arc shot into the sky.
Thwack!
The man atop the watchtower doubled over, his body flung backward by force. The blade had pierced his abdomen, sending him hurtling into the air.