All participants of the Gepa Daetjeon martial contest were regarded with the phrase, "A single move suffices."
Such words as Decisive strike carried weight rarely encountered in the orthodox martial world.
Few battles are as fraught with variables as those between masters.
In a short-term duel, fortune becomes as important as skill—luck interweaves with martial arts, the compatibility of techniques, and even the state of acupoints.
Not every contest ends in a single exchange, of course.
Yet, Ma Gwang-ik, with one sword strike, demonstrated the sheer magnitude of his skill. The boldness of his claim left no room for objection.
“......”
The silence delivered by Ma Gwang-ikju, the Sovereign of Darkness, was profound.
For a fleeting moment, even the whispers among the audience faded away, replaced by the soft rustling of the wind, which felt strangely out of place.
The oppressive stillness was nearly unbreakable, even in a gathering filled with the most distinguished figures of the martial world.
Step.
Near the pole firmly planted by Hyeon Won-chang, the renowned master of Ipwang Fortress, a black hem stirred slightly.
The young Sovereign of Darkness, clad in a pitch-black long robe, clasped his hands behind his back and lowered his eyelids. He stood beneath the fluttering white banner of the wilderness.
At last.
His extraordinary presence, martial prowess, and composed elegance drew admiration from all around. Murmurs began to spread through the crowd.
"Such an inhuman air about him. Who would’ve thought a youth like him existed in the martial world?"
"They say the former adversary of the Mount Hua Swordmaster was Ma Gwang-ik himself. And here stands the Black Sovereign of Ipwang Fortress. He ranks among the divine masters of the orthodox schools. How rare it is to witness such a figure in one’s lifetime—are there even a hundred like him across the vast Nine Provinces?"
"At his age... I can hardly believe my eyes!"
Nearly a thousand gazes locked onto the young swordsman. Some stared in awe, others in disbelief, and a few in envy.
Even in this interconnected era, where information traveled slowly, witnessing such martial mastery firsthand was astonishing.
Carrier pigeons were rare, and spirit beasts bred to deliver messages were privileges of only the most elite clans.
For the masses, rumors spread by travelers were the only source of information. Amid such skepticism, the mere sight of a youth wearing black robes did little to convey his martial mastery without direct demonstration.
“He must be a swordsman beyond the reach of mere elixirs. His skill is unfathomable in its refinement.”
"I’ve heard tales of his feats in Sichuan, but still..."
Even those who had glimpsed Seomye, the Sovereign of Darkness, in Cheongyagok near Namjikrye, struggled to grasp the rapid ascent of his martial prowess.
Barely a year had passed since his duel with Namgung Mi, the Flower of Changryeong, and Namgung Se-jin, the Azure Qilin of the Namgung Clan.
A mere few months had elevated his abilities to a degree that defied common reasoning.
Amid the gathered crowd, a swordsman murmured to himself, “Did he spend decades in the frozen paradise of Peach Blossom Spring?”
“Step down.”
The calm voice of Jeong Yeon-shin, the young Sovereign, rang out. His words were directed at Seop Un-cheol, whose disheveled hair and staggered posture betrayed his defeat.
The once-radiant eyes of Seop Un-cheol, known as the Radiant Zen Sword, now looked hollow. He seemed drained, as though his very soul had left with his severed locks.
There was no sign of protest in his expression.
One could only wonder what emotions Ma Gwang-ik’s blade had stirred within him during their match.
“...True martial artistry...”
Seop Un-cheol finally spoke, his voice deliberate and slow.
“...Thank you for... showing me.”
He raised his hands, still gripping his sword, and overlapped them in a gesture of respect—a slight tilt to the side.
The light glinted off the blade that had narrowly missed his neck. This gesture, modified from ancient military customs by the later Yuan Dynasty, was now used in martial circles to express deep satisfaction with a duel.
For a moment, the young Sovereign’s eyes widened slightly.
When they had first crossed paths, greed had marked Seop Un-cheol’s face. He seemed like just another ambitious figure from one of the elite clans.
But now he appeared transformed, his bearing dignified and serene.
Could anyone, even the greatest masters of the orthodox martial world, maintain such composure when faced with martial perfection?
“Conserve your strength. May fortune favor you in battle.”
Step.
The short blessing delivered by Seop Un-cheol marked his exit. Without waiting for Ma Gwang-ik’s response, he sheathed his sword and descended from the stage.
His earlier demeanor seemed shameful in retrospect.
It was said that the insights gleaned from a master’s sword could profoundly alter the spirit and mind of a lesser martial artist.
Jeong Yeon-shin wondered.
What had Seop Un-cheol seen in the nameless sword technique—the trajectory that even Yeon-shin himself didn’t fully understand?
‘It didn’t seem like false humility.’
Perhaps their paths would cross again. A warmth emanated from the Baihui Point, centered in his Sangdanjeon, as though reassuring him that this might be a fortuitous bond.
He surveyed his surroundings.
Warriors, merchants, escorts, the weak, beggars—all circled the dueling platform. From every direction, high-ranking martial artists observed from watchtowers, each clad in distinctive garb.
These were people truly living in the moment.
Never before had Jeong Yeon-shin witnessed such a vast assembly.
As his gaze swept across the crowd, their varied expressions reflected admiration, envy, and disbelief.
Strangers’ jealousy and praise brushed past him, resonating faintly with his internal energy.
‘All these people... Fifty years, a hundred years of life...’
The praise felt burdensome, the jealousy trivial.
For Jeong Yeon-shin, their reactions mirrored the truths of mortality—a reminder of fleeting lifespans.
Ironically, the deepest insecurity lay within him.
What would it feel like to live life without limits? Even in a world where few lived to fulfill their days...
He blinked slowly, closing and opening his eyes.
“...This lord shall not rest until the sun sets. Let the next warrior step forward.”
The commanding tone of Ma Gwang-ik resounded.
Standing firmly on the platform, his black robes rippled with faint energy currents.
His movements were almost imperceptible, yet the invisible force of his Shinbeop Pungsin caused many to flinch.
Without direct confrontation, one could already tell—this was the work of an ascendant martial art.
Swallowing his thoughts, the young Sovereign of Ipwang Fortress took his position.
The crowd’s expressions shifted.
Excitement sparked like wildfire. The atmosphere now suited the spirit of a grand festival.
Ipwang Fortress, after all, held stronger ties with the common people than even the Nine Great Sects.
Unless aligned with the Murim Alliance, few would begrudge the sight of the young lord of Ipwang Fortress proudly displaying his mastery.
“I am So Jun,” a voice declared.
The Hero of Yeoju stepped forward, his appearance perfectly fitting the occasion.
It was the natural flow of events. Meanwhile, Zhuge Cheon, the acting general commander of the Murim Alliance, retreated into the shaded pavilion of the Alliance leaders.
In the deepening shadows, the crowd's attention remained solely on the dueling platform.
Jeong Yeon-shin gazed calmly at So Jun, who couldn’t quite mask his dismay.
The Hero of Yeoju, now faced with Ma Gwang-ik’s overwhelming presence, had seen the duel between the young Sovereign and Seop Un-cheol up close. He seemed to fully grasp the disparity in their martial levels.
Yet retreat was not an option.
With measured composure, So Jun clasped his fists in a respectful salute. His conduct was befitting of an orthodox martial artist respected by many.
“I hail from Yeoju in Shanxi, trained at the Kunlun-affiliated One Origin Martial Hall. A humble disciple of Kunlun's lesser branch.”
“From Hanam Province’s Shinya County. Successor to the Martial Legacy of Ipwang Fortress.”
The boy offered a brief response.
He revealed no more than necessary.
It was better to leave them guessing, to let them search fruitlessly for the weaknesses of a martial art that had never truly existed, rather than confirming his techniques were rooted in poison-based martial arts.
Among the forty or so mid-level masters he would eventually face, two names stood out: The First Fist of the Un Clan and The Swordmaster of Mount Hua.
These titles carried tremendous weight, names he had heard even before the Jeong family faced its annihilation. They were renowned as warriors capable of rivaling the Black Sovereign of Ipwang Fortress.
The Swordmaster of Mount Hua, Cheon Joo-jin, had once been a match for Ma Jin himself.
For a newly appointed young lord of Ipwang Fortress to contend with a mid-level supreme master of the orthodox schools, he would need to push his innate senses to their very limit.
‘The key lies in how little of my true martial arts I reveal before I reach them.’
To achieve that, overwhelming victories were necessary.
The boy focused his gaze. So Jun, the Hero of Yeoju, was approaching with a peculiar footwork technique.
Tap. Tap.
Each time his heel touched the ground, the flow of energy shifted. Dust rose faintly around his feet, swirling in response to the waves of internal energy emanating from him.
The movement was subtle yet profound, as if declaring his mastery over any direction and his ability to strike with lethal precision wherever he chose.
Before its downfall, the Kunlun Sect had been one of the Nine Great Schools. Everyone knew this.
The martial arts of Kunlun's secular branch were not to be underestimated.
The decisive moment would come when his irregular steps fully harnessed his inner strength. That was when a deadly strike, paired with an unsheathing of his sword, would follow.
Thwack!
A faint wind swept across the duel platform, silencing the audience, who watched the bout with bated breath.
Flash!
In that instant, a glint appeared in So Jun’s eyes. The accumulated energy from his Kunlun-inspired footwork erupted with overwhelming force.
White dust billowed around the platform, spiraling outward. From Jeong Yeon-shin’s perspective, So Jun’s form suddenly loomed larger.
He had already drawn his sword, fully infusing his weapon with his concentrated energy.
This was undoubtedly the skill of a mid-level master. His seasoned prowess shone through, his movements embodying the accumulated experience of a true martial artist.
‘The next chapter,’ Jeong Yeon-shin thought, recalling the Pabaek Chongram, his mental compendium of martial techniques.
As he observed So Jun’s footwork, he calmly took a step forward, just as his opponent prepared to move diagonally across the front.
In his mind, he mapped out the trajectory of So Jun’s legs and the direction of the energy waves, sketching a complex diagram of intersecting lines.
It was a predictive realm that fractured the Eight Trigrams' directional flow into minute components. Yet, his Baihui Point and Sangdanjeon remained tranquil, like still water.
On this calm mental surface, the imprints of So Jun’s steps appeared clearly.
Step.
He moved precisely, channeling energy into the Liangqiu and Shangyangguan points of his legs.
Beneath his thighs, along the large femoral muscle, the small muscles around his knees relaxed slightly under his control.
This was the footwork of Shinbeop Pungsin, the Way of the Wind God, seamlessly integrated into his movement.
Swoosh!
So Jun, who had confidently aimed his attack, suddenly veered off to the side, his expression twisting in shock.
His carefully executed strike had been rendered useless by a single step.
The gust of energy he unleashed scattered wildly, lifting the hem of Ma Gwang-ik's black robe dramatically.
Jeong Yeon-shin didn’t stop there.
With an almost casual motion, his outstretched hand caught So Jun by the back of the neck.
The man’s short hair rustled against Jeong’s fingers, and he could feel the rapid, panicked thrum of his pulse.
‘Reinforcement.’
He channeled energy through the Lao Gong and Shao Fu points in his palm, maintaining his grip on So Jun’s neck without even glancing at him.
A spiraling current of power began to flow from his palm. So Jun flinched in his grasp.
Since Ma Gwang-ik had stepped onto the main platform of the Murim Alliance, rumors about Seomye Jeong Yeon-shin had spread like wildfire.
The fight in Cheongyagok, publicly witnessed by many, was now common knowledge among the Alliance members, including the fearsome name of the devastating palm technique bestowed upon him by Namgung Se-jin, the Azure Qilin.
“I yield!”
So Jun shouted, his back turned. Jeong Yeon-shin immediately released his hold.
Leaving the Murim Alliance’s dignity intact, the brief application of his Reinforcement Palm had sufficed.
The boy had taken another step toward completing his mission.
The crowd reacted instantly—not with silence, but with loud, raucous cheers.
As if suddenly reminded of the tournament's true purpose, shouts of excitement erupted from every corner.
Hundreds of voices roared like wildfire.
“Witnessing such a spectacle in Hanzhong!”
“Wasn’t that another decisive strike? A single step and a single move!”
“No ordinary prodigy... If he’s from Ipwang Fortress, my father would certainly approve him as a match—!”
Overwhelming displays of martial prowess often stirred the hearts of the masses. The fervor was palpable.
Even as some spectators quietly left their seats, the gaps went unnoticed.
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One notable figure remained seated—Lady Ye, a rare gem of the Ye Clan. Yet no one seemed to notice her amidst the commotion.
The exchange of respect between So Jun and Ma Gwang-ik was swallowed by the noise.
“I saw the brilliance in your gaze,” So Jun said, his tone sincere. “I felt as though I was being drawn into it. I, So Mo, offer my gratitude for your earnest engagement.”
“Your footwork was extraordinary. It broadened my horizons,” Jeong Yeon-shin replied.
So Jun, who had been clasping his fists in salute, blinked once before breaking into hearty laughter.
“It is my honor.”
Perhaps he took it as a compliment, but Jeong Yeon-shin’s words were genuine.
Another page had been added to his Pabaek Chongram.
Piece by piece, he might even create the third form of his nameless sword technique before he faced the true Swordmasters.
With three forms, he could finally unify them into a single flow—a complete martial art worthy of its own name.
That would mark the birth of Ma Gwang-ik’s Signature Art.
“Next challenger,” the boy declared.
The cheers grew louder.
The Gepa Daetjeon, set to last four days, had entered an entirely new phase.
***
The next day.
A high-level assembly of the Murim Alliance was convened.
The gathering comprised thirty individuals—a substantial number, even by the standards of the upper echelons of the martial world.
Among those present were the heads of various prominent clans, their heirs, and even the patriarch of the Ye family, accompanied by his nephew.