“Yongcheon? That’s hardly anything special.”
Jeong Yeon-shin clasped his hands behind his back and muttered. A brief silence followed.
The Simmuryun warrior, who had been flung a full jang from the watchtower, landed on the ground. His breath escaped in a stunned gasp, mingled with disbelief.
He fell like a bird that had lost its wings, powerless. Yet, the single strike had not been enough to kill him.
His energy was still faintly discernible, though it wavered precariously.
‘Naturally.’
The boy mused.
It hadn’t been Yi Gi Yu Geom, the legendary technique of controlling a sword with qi. Such a pinnacle of swordsmanship was not something even Jeong Yeon-shin had encountered. For now, it remained a realm he could only speculate about.
The way the blade moved had only mimicked the illusion of Yi Gi Yu Geom, owing to the subtlety of the Mancheon Hwawu technique. Inspired by the idea, he had used it on a whim. The absence of an imbued qi force confirmed that it was no more than a simulation.
Moreover, it hadn’t been a concentrated barrage of projectiles meant to sever veins one by one. The attack lacked the lethality to snuff out the life force of a high-level martial artist in an instant.
That was intentional.
“The blade’s edge is sharp. You’ve taken good care of it.”
The boy remarked casually.
As Ma Gwang-ikju, the young master tilted his chin toward the fallen Simmuryun warrior in the distance.
At the same time, he shot a glance at Mo Yong-myeongjun, who was staring at him in stunned silence. The gesture was clear—go retrieve the blade and bring the sprawled opponent back with you.
Inwardly, Jeong Yeon-shin muttered. Looking at you makes my head hurt.
“What...!”
Mo Yong-myeongjun’s eyes widened in disbelief. Born into a noble family of Xianbei descent, he had been raised as the heir of a prestigious martial household.
He had rarely bowed to anyone outside his family elders. Even among the Martial Assembly, the heads of smaller sects treated him with reverence.
To experience such humiliation at the hands of a boy who wasn’t even fully grown—it was unthinkable.
‘I shouldn’t have hosted that banquet.’
Alongside his indignation, a nobleman’s cold reasoning surfaced. His mind settled like ice.
It had been Mo Yong-myeongjun who organized the banquet, personally renting the venue and sending out invitations, intending to test Ma Gwang-ikju’s character. It appeared that act had instead earned the young master’s wariness.
Outside the Assembly’s headquarters, Jeong Yeon-shin was a different person altogether. He carried himself as a supreme master of entirely different stature.
Reluctantly, Mo Yong-myeongjun took a step forward, feeling a cold and arrogant gaze drilling into the back of his head.
‘Let’s see if you behave the same way back at the Assembly.’
Suppressing a sigh, he hoisted the groaning Simmuryun warrior onto his shoulder.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a nod from another infuriating figure—Hyeon Won-chang. The man’s signature headband, said to change design daily, was firmly in place. Known as Ipwang Fortress’s so-called "Heroic Champion," he never missed an opportunity to aggravate others.
“Our Daeju says he’s more impressed than apologetic for borrowing your blade in the heat of the moment. The treasured sword of the Mo Yong family certainly lives up to its reputation. After all, it broke through that man’s protective qi barrier with nothing more than the propulsion from the repulsion technique.”
The tone was polite but unmistakably mocking. It was also a way to praise his master while subtly reminding everyone of Jeong Yeon-shin’s prowess.
With no qi imbued into the strike, a single blow had subdued the Simmuryun warrior. The message was clear: do as you’re told, without complaints.
“...”
Mo Yong-myeongjun remained silent as he returned, laying the injured Simmuryun warrior on the ground. He had not removed the blade, concerned about further blood loss.
Jeong Yeon-shin stood over the man, looking down. His condition was visibly poor.
The only thing keeping him alive was the inherent vitality of a martial artist, barely holding out against a fatal wound.
At that moment, the ambushed enemies surged forward.
Thud!
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The sound of feet striking the ground echoed harshly from all directions. The vibrations were powerful, the movement techniques exceptional.
Clad in leather armor, they rushed in with the force of charging warhorses.
The shockwaves generated by their qi, expelled from the Yongcheon point on their soles, created rippling impacts with every step. The continuous resonance resembled the pounding of hooves.
They were Simmuryun warriors, part of the Marquis of Ban’s trained martial army.
After a brief chase, the full confrontation began. Jeong Yeon-shin’s mind briefly wandered to his memories of Namgung Se-jin.
He recalled the sight of Se-jin executing the Cheokma Myeolsageom technique, the essence of righteous swordsmanship, cutting down Simmuryun warriors without hesitation.
It was vivid—Namgung Se-jin, wielding the Imperial Sword Form, beheading enemies with ruthless precision.
It had left no doubt in Jeong Yeon-shin’s mind. The Simmuryun deserved to die.
The Azure Qilin, Namgung Se-jin. Would he have been here now, had his family not pressured him into other duties?
The boy’s lips moved quietly.
“Leave two alive.”
Tae Yeom-ryong and Hyeon Won-chang reacted instantly. It was time for combat. Without a word, they moved forward.
The nameless warriors of Ipwang Fortress, clad in white, faced off against the Simmuryun’s interception squad.
Boom!
Energy waves erupted on both sides. The oppressive qi radiated heat and killing intent. A scream rang out first from the direction Tae Yeom-ryong was covering.
The stench of burning flesh followed shortly.
On Hyeon Won-chang’s side, the sound of air splitting from a precise slash echoed through the air.
Meanwhile, Jeong Yeon-shin tilted his head slightly downward. The man impaled by the borrowed sword from Mo Yong-myeongjun gasped for air.
It didn’t look like he would survive long. The blade had pierced through his abdomen, slicing the stomach and liver before emerging from his back. Among a gathering of martial artists, there was no chance of survival.
The remnants of his internal energy barely sustained his life.
The man seemed to understand his situation. Though his chest heaved, his pupils were calm.
It was the look of a martial artist confronting the Styx. Even in the face of death, the warrior’s spirit remained unyielding.
Jeong Yeon-shin finally spoke.
“I hear you’ve been honing your martial skills while filling your bellies with plunder. In times of famine, walking the path of martial arts must be no easy task.”
“Kill... me,” the man rasped, his breath remarkably steady for someone so gravely injured. Perhaps he had cultivated his internal techniques to a high degree.
The boy regarded him silently for a moment before replying.
“You were defeated by Ma Gwang-ikju of Ipwang Fortress. Remember that.”
Jeong Yeon-shin stood tall, his posture commanding. The man on the ground looked up at him.
The boy lowered his gaze only slightly to meet his eyes.
“I am the last direct disciple of the Fortress Lord. Tell me, how does it feel to be pierced by the true Yi Gi Yu Geom? It’s a technique you’ll never master in your lifetime.”
“A Black Rank... at your age... and with that sword technique...” the man muttered with a faint smile. His words were disjointed, scattered like fragments of a broken thought.
“So, the Ma Gwang-ikju of legend truly exists.”
“I’ve honored you. Are you willing to answer my questions?”
Jeong Yeon-shin’s tone was calm.
For the first time, a flicker of emotion crossed the man’s face. Ma Gwang-ikju had revealed his name and his supreme technique.
It was a rare gesture of respect, especially from a martial artist of such renown. For someone who walked the path of the unorthodox, it was an honor he might never experience again.
“Ha...”
A faint exhale escaped the man’s lips, almost like laughter.
In the face of death, an indescribable sense of awe arose. Even a monstrous figure of the Thirteen Heavens was, in the end, both a martial artist and a human being.
Slowly, the man opened his mouth to speak.
“I’m on my way out... I have no military code to uphold anymore. What do you wish to know?”
“Your routes.”
“There are two. The Western Peak Road and the Sevenfold Gorge...”
“The numbers? Report for each.”
“One hundred fifty for the first, two hundred for the second.”
“Which group is the Sword Demon of Yongcheon with?”
“I don’t know.”
“What?”
“The Sword Demon comes and goes from the mountains as he pleases, focusing solely on his training. He has little interest in leading. His two disciples decide the destinations. I cannot say which group he has joined.”
His voice grew smoother. The final clarity before death.
The last remnants of his internal energy flowed out along with his life force. Jeong Yeon-shin mentally compared the Sword Saint’s documents with the man’s account.
The details matched. He decided it was credible.
For a moment, the boy looked down silently at the dying man.
The man’s breathing grew fainter, his life slipping away. Despite the natural human yearning for survival, he seemed content as a martial artist.
Jeong Yeon-shin thought of his uncle, Ma Jin, the Nallaksal. His uncle’s reputation in the martial world was immense, a force to be reckoned with.
Before Jeong Yeon-shin joined, it had always been so. Ma Gwang-ikju was a renowned figure across the entire martial world.
His Ma Gwang Sword Techniques, unparalleled weapon mastery, and reputation as a chivalrous protector of the common people solidified his fame.
This was why the Simmuryun warrior closed his eyes with a satisfied expression.
A noble figure had graced his final moments.
‘They plundered others’ grain, destroyed families, and showed no mercy to the lives of the innocent.’
Jeong Yeon-shin suddenly recalled the Blade Specter Lord and spoke calmly.
“It wasn’t really Yi Gi Yu Geom.”
“What...?”
“It was just a basic dispersal technique. I suppose you have no intention of apologizing to the villagers here. When you open your eyes in the Sword Tree Hell (Geom Su Jiok), remember that you were bested by a boy not even in his twenties.”
“...!”
The man’s eyes widened.
Jeong Yeon-shin’s cold gaze swept over the man’s upper body. His finely honed muscles were constricting around the penetrating wound.
He had cultivated his external techniques to a considerable level. Such a physique could only result from regular, ample meals—a luxury built on the blood and tears of the powerless.
An inhuman existence that thrived on the suffering of others.
Jeong Yeon-shin spoke again.
“A body forged from plunder. Worthless.”
His tone was ice cold.
The judgment of Ma Gwang-ikju held immense significance to any martial artist.
The Small Sword Queen (So Geomhwi) beside him inhaled sharply, while the man’s eyes lost their focus for a brief moment.
Thwack!
Tae Yeom-ryong, who had returned unnoticed, delivered a sharp kick to the man’s head. A faint cracking sound echoed from the bridge of his foot.
It was an instant kill. The man’s neck twisted unnaturally, and he died on the spot.
“Well, I guess my foot’s dirty now. Daeju, you better give me credit for this one,” Tae Yeom-ryong said with a sly grin.
His demeanor suggested he had experienced countless battles during his time as a scion of the Hwangbo family. He showed no hesitation in killing a defenseless enemy.
Despite his joking words, there was an air of decisiveness in all his actions.
It occurred to Jeong Yeon-shin that when the time came to restructure Ma Gwang-ikju’s forces, Tae Yeom-ryong might have to take the vanguard, whether he liked it or not.
‘Can someone rise two ranks at once, from Nameless to Blue Rank? I might have to intervene.’
The boy pondered. It was a matter worth considering. He said nothing aloud but gave a curt command.
“...Clean it up.”
“Clean it up,” Tae Yeom-ryong echoed, glancing at the young martial artists from the Martial Assembly. This was a place meant to honor the villagers who had perished.
His tone implied that since he had done the killing, they should handle the cleanup of the Simmuryun corpses. Hyeon Won-chang nodded lazily beside him.
A tense silence lingered.
Ahn Yelim’s reaction was visibly displeased. Her slightly furrowed brow betrayed her thoughts.
She had never been fond of Jeong Yeon-shin.
Mocking a defenseless opponent was not something she could condone.
However, she was the only one frowning.
Zhuge Hyeon and Mo Yong-myeongjun remained composed. Their broad perspectives, honed through martial arts and scholarly studies, allowed them to guess at the boy’s intentions.
‘A lofty sense of chivalry? The clan head would disapprove.’
‘If his swordsmanship reflects his temperament, Ma Gwang-ikju would best be countered with techniques heavy on feints.’
They mentally recorded the boy’s actions, as if laying brush and ink to parchment. How this moment would be used depended on the paths taken by the Martial Assembly, the Zhuge Clan, and the Mo Yong family.
“You can use Mancheon Hwawu like that? How do you focus the energy of absorption into a single point?”
The Small Sword Queen, So Geomhwi, spoke as if muttering to herself but was clearly asking aloud.
Her drowsy, half-closed eyes sparkled with curiosity. She had no other motive but a genuine interest in martial arts.
Her gaze met Jeong Yeon-shin’s.
From Sichuan to now, the boy had consistently ignored the Small Sword Queen of the Jeomchang Sect.
So Geomhwi only ever smiled faintly at the neglect, persistently seeking guidance.
Without ceasing. Endlessly.
Jeong Yeon-shin suddenly recalled the Sun Piercing Sword Technique (Sailgeombeop) of Jeomchang—a style famed for its ability to pierce through the sun with its strikes.
It was a legendary skill known across the martial world. The boy mused. The Radiant Sword Style lacks any thrusting forms.
“Oh? Want to try it? My sword energy is always ready,” So Geomhwi asked brightly. Her intuition was sharp as ever.
Jeong Yeon-shin felt a flicker of interest. He was in the process of weaving new sword techniques.
If it were a traditional martial art from the old sects, it could be immensely helpful. After assassinating the Sword Demon of Yongcheon, it would be worth giving serious thought.
“Later.”
The boy shook his head and spoke.
“Two routes: Western Peak Road and the Sevenfold Gorge. We’ll split up. Prioritize assassinating the Sword Demon of Yongcheon...”
At that moment.
“Mo Yong-gongja.”
Gongsun Min stepped forward. He was staring intently at the sword Mo Yong-myeongjun had just pulled from the corpse.
There was greed in his expression. The sparkling light in his eyes seemed almost unfitting, like thunder in clear skies. His desire was evident.
“Sell me that sword.”
“What?” Mo Yong-myeongjun asked, confused.
“How much is Mo Yong family’s treasured sword worth...? I brought plenty of gold with me,” Gongsun Min said, his tone brimming with excitement.
“What are you saying?”
“I know everything. That’s the sword imbued with Ma Gwang-ikju’s Mancheon Hwawu. If word spreads that it was wielded by Seomye, the Flame King of Huazhong, every wealthy collector will want it. It’s an extraordinary piece.”
“...”
“Please, let me have it. I’m begging you.”
A commotion broke out at an unexpected moment.
They said that many martial artists in the world lived in their own realities. The vastness of the world and the diversity of their education left little room for uniformity.
Even if the teachings of the Four Books and Five Classics were esteemed, the values of aristocratic warriors who transcended humanity through martial cultivation varied dramatically.
Some were refined; others, barbaric and self-centered. It was a chaotic age.
The absurd expressions on Mo Yong-myeongjun’s face and the determination of Gongsun Min, who had already grabbed the sword’s hilt, were proof of this.
Even among the Martial Assembly’s elites, it was impossible to predict the behavior of each individual.
‘To develop a new sword art while assassinating the Sword Demon of Yongcheon, and then to face the Sword Saint in the Sect Tournament...’
Without the Martial Assembly’s warriors, perhaps it could be more enjoyable.
Jeong Yeon-shin briefly considered. Perhaps he would only take Zhuge Hyeon and the Small Sword Queen.