Rustle.
The grand round table was brushed by a variety of elegant robes.
Figures of great renown, wrapped in vibrant auras of authority, took their seats. Each garment shimmered with a fine gloss, their colors as varied as their personalities.
The robes were all pristine silk, befitting the noble elite of orthodox sects, who began their mornings with rigorous meditation and martial practice. Their complexions reflected their disciplined lives.
These were individuals who perspired daily in the pursuit of mastery, none of them neglecting their purification rituals.
"The skies were an unusually vibrant blue today, almost as if it were spring," said a middle-aged man seated furthest from the door.
In his left hand, he held a white crane fan adorned with deep blue tassels. His snow-white robes complemented his pale, smooth skin, while his slender facial features and prominent eyebrows lent him a distinguished air.
This was Zhuge Gaju, the head of the Zhuge family, and the father of Zhuge Hyeon, known as the Sage Dragon.
Some called him the reincarnation of the Crouching Dragon. Not because he possessed the ingenuity of the legendary Zhuge Liang of Shu, but because his appearance and demeanor evoked the renowned strategist’s grace.
His mastery of martial arts and mystical techniques further bolstered his reputation, earning him the title Reborn Dragon. It was said he had even reached a level where he could influence the weather.
Zhuge Gaju continued in a calm voice:
"It was astonishing to see a youthful blade crossing the skies. Radiant and beautiful beyond belief, wouldn’t you agree?"
“......”
He was speaking, of course, about Seomye Jeong Yeon-shin.
They had gathered to discuss measures to address his presence.
Ma Gwang-ik, the Black Sovereign, had dared to participate in the Gepa Daetjeon. The event, meant to symbolize the face of the Murim Alliance, was now at risk of being overshadowed.
The tyrannical might displayed by the Black-clad youth of Ipwang Fortress reminded some veteran martial artists of Ma Yeon-jeok, the Rogue Swordsman.
That monster, dressed in a purple robe, had once terrorized the martial world in his thirties.
"I had hoped to endure the humiliation. It was a difficult decision, but as they say, justice prevails in the end. Cunning tricks seldom succeed," Zhuge Gaju said with a faint smile.
Silence followed. The atmosphere around the antique round table was far cooler than his demeanor.
Everyone knew that the true powers of the Alliance were deeply outraged.
"Where is the Alliance Lord?"
The question came abruptly from a middle-aged swordsman with piercing eyes. This was Mo Yong Gaju, the head of the Mo Yong family.
Unlike his son Mo Yong-myeongjun, he wore a deep pink robe. His casual placement of his hand on his sword seemed oddly natural. Such eccentricities were permissible for the Greatest Swordsman of Liaodong.
"Ah, my apologies for the lack of order," Zhuge Gaju replied, his smile deepening.
"What I just recounted was the Alliance Lord’s own observation."
"That lone swordsman?" Mo Yong Gaju furrowed his brow in response.
The solemn hall remained still. Only the rays of sunlight streaming through the windows disturbed the quiet, illuminating the dust that swam lazily through the air.
Mo Yong Gaju’s casual reference to the Sword Saint drew no visible reaction, save for subtle shifts in the expressions of figures like Zhuge Hyeon and Gongsun Min.
Both Zhuge Hyeon and Ak Ye-rim had returned safely after parting ways with Ma Gwang-ik on Seobong Road.
They had avoided an ill-fated encounter with Baek Seo-goon, the Youngcheon Sword Demon, thanks to a short missive delivered by an artifact of the Jeomchang Sect, carried by So Geomhwi.
‘How troublesome,’ thought Zhuge Hyeon.
Whatever others might say, the Ma Gwang-ik he encountered was, in truth, a somewhat pure-hearted boy.
Despite possessing extraordinary martial prowess at such a young age, the boy had attentively listened to Zhuge Hyeon’s stories.
When dealing with commoners, he behaved like a child of his age. He even held the death of Namgung Se-jin, the Azure Qilin, close to his heart.
He could have easily condemned the entire Namgung family but chose not to.
‘Had he been part of a prestigious clan, he would have mocked the character of those he killed and justified his actions. I’ve seen it far too often, even within my own household.’
But the young Ma Gwang-ik was different—a green sapling of a chivalrous spirit. He was not someone to be targeted by petty schemes.
As Zhuge Hyeon wrestled with his growing disillusionment, a soft voice whispered in his mind.
—Do not show it, my foolish brother.
The girl seated beside him lowered her gaze with casual indifference. Her long black hair, tied with sky-blue silk, fell to one side as she brushed it over her neck. She did not spare a glance at the gathered figures.
This was Zhuge Cheong-ah, Zhuge Hyeon's younger sister.
Renowned as a prodigy of mental arts from a young age, she was equally famous for her striking beauty, which rivaled her brother’s.
Hearing her telepathic message, Zhuge Hyeon straightened his gaze, focusing on his father.
Fortunately, Zhuge Gaju was not looking their way, instead nodding slowly as he spoke.
"The Sword Saint seems to have taken quite a liking to the young lord of Ipwang Fortress. A rather remarkable development, isn’t it? Most of Seomye’s widely known achievements have been accomplished through palm techniques rather than swordsmanship. He’s better described as a natural fighter than a swordsman. Yet the Sword Saint must have seen something else."
“Of course, the Alliance Lord’s mind is none of our business. What concerns us is the uninvited guest. It’s quite the spectacle, isn’t it? His rampage has reached a point where it can no longer be ignored,” Mo Yong Gaju said.
"What is your esteemed opinion, Mo Yong Gaju?"
"I observed Seomye closely and noted a sword scar on his lower abdomen. The residual energy emanating from it was extraordinary. It wasn’t an ordinary mark."
Zhuge Gaju smiled.
"I saw it as well. Likely a strike from the Youngcheon Sword Demon."
"It’s not a wound that will heal easily. Perhaps delaying things under the guise of maintaining appearances would suffice. The longer he fights without rest, the worse his internal injuries will become. Our younger generation might even claim victory."
As Mo Yong Gaju concluded, a faint, colorless light flickered in his eyes.
At that moment, a young woman seated at one side of the round table slightly raised her head. Sunlight played along her elegant jawline.
The head of the Ye family, seated beside her, immediately responded. A man dressed impeccably in pure white robes, his demeanor was that of a meticulous overseer.
Raising his hand to draw attention, he spoke in a deliberate tone.
"Calling him an uninvited guest is a misnomer. Did we not invite him? We summoned the envoy from Ipwang Fortress to bolster the Alliance’s reputation and to declare to the world that we are unafraid of the imperial watchdogs."
"Are you criticizing the decision to expedite the schedule?" Mo Yong Gaju asked.
"I suggest a more thorough discussion. Simply delaying the matches for appearances’ sake? That’s hardly an inspired plan. Instead, what about imposing a limit of ten exchanges per match?"
This drew the attention of the room.
The Ye family, which had established itself during the late Yuan Dynasty alongside clans like the Bloodflame Sect and the Ming clans, wielded significant influence.
Their wealth was so vast that they remained the primary financial backers of the Murim Alliance even after investing heavily in its establishment.
Zhuge Gaju showed interest.
"Ten exchanges per match. Are you suggesting we add this condition to the Gepa Daetjeon?"
"The primary concern here is preserving the Alliance’s reputation. Whether our mid-level masters struggle or lose outright against the boy, or whether they only narrowly defeat him after repeated matches, the damage will be immense. By limiting the number of exchanges, both sides can save face. It’s not a bad approach, don’t you think?"
The room fell into discussion.
Zhuge Hyeon and Zhuge Cheong-ah remained silent, as did Ak Ye-rim, Gongsun Min, and Mo Yong-myeongjun. It was not their place to voice opinions.
The conversations of these elders, who moved the upper echelons of the martial world, carried grave weight. This remained true until the end of the meeting.
When it concluded, Zhuge Gaju addressed his children as they exited.
"You and Seomye. I hear you became acquainted during your journey on Seobong Road," Zhuge Gaju remarked, walking ahead of his two children.
Without looking back, he continued, prompting Zhuge Hyeon to lower his head slightly and reply.
"We merely exchanged a few words."
"Ridiculous. You couldn’t even consider deceiving him? Had it been your sister, she’d have discovered the name of the maid he once admired as a child. All information about the Black Sovereign of Ipwang Fortress is a treasure to be valued."
"...My apologies."
"Enough."
Zhuge Gaju spoke dismissively before addressing his daughter.
"Cheong-ah, listen carefully."
"Yes," she replied quietly, walking a step behind him.
"The body of the Azure Qilin has been recovered. We also managed to retrieve several corpses of the Sim Mu-ryeon scum who ambushed him on Seobong Road."
"..."
"You will examine them. Though we’ve already deduced much of Seomye’s martial techniques, the uncertainty of a ten-exchange match necessitates caution. Use your unique perspective. Leave no subtle detail unnoticed. Ma Gwang-ik is a formidable opponent."
"I understand."
Her reply was calm and devoid of emotion.
Zhuge Hyeon’s face contorted. Nothing about the situation pleased him.
Neither his own compliance with his father’s authoritarianism nor his father’s manipulative schemes veiled as righteousness.
Even his late friend, Namgung Se-jin, had shared this frustration.
Both had been strong as young heirs of their clans but weak as righteous martial artists.
Zhuge Hyeon watched his sister walk away with measured steps.
Unintentionally, he thought of Namgung Se-jin, who had died on his own terms, and envied him for it.
The autumn wind stole moments from time as transparent sunlight slanted across the day.
Zhuge Cheong-ah now faced the task of examining the bodies of those who had fallen to Ma Gwang-ik. The scars left by martial techniques could reveal much.
The crushing traces of energy revealed the nuances of force, and the patterns in sword scars could map a swordsman’s path.
This task came slightly easier to her, but only when dealing with the living.
She had mastered the secret mental arts of the Zhuge family at a young age, having been chosen at birth to inherit these skills. Her exceptional talent among the Zhuge heirs had contributed to her rigorous training.
Even so, this was the first time she would attempt to decipher martial techniques from the scars on the dead. Her father often pushed her and her brother to their limits in such ways, teaching them to pursue the family’s interests under the guise of chivalry.
"A lady like you... what brings you here?"
"I’m following orders," she replied flatly.
Passing bewildered attendants, she crossed the threshold of a secluded pavilion. An escort quickly joined her.
The man, expressionless, guided her deep into the complex.
The scenery that passed her—dim light, dark floors, the cold texture beneath her feet—felt both familiar and alien.
In the final room, a long-standing family servant waited just outside the door.
Zhuge Cheong-ah stepped inside and faced five bodies lying still. Her gaze trembled slightly.
Rustle.
She bowed twice to the deceased. Her long black hair spilled over her shoulders, and her sky-blue robe brushed the floor as she rose.
Zhuge Cheong-ah stared down at the body of Namgung Se-jin.
His closed eyes rested peacefully. His pale complexion stood out.
Though preserved by the techniques of the Mosan Sect, a corpse remained a corpse. Even in death, he could not find rest—the price of being born into the power of the great families.
It was a tragic fate, both his and her own.
"Power aside..."
She muttered deliberately as she studied the traces of the sword that had torn through Namgung Se-jin’s body.
She wanted to leave this place as quickly as possible. She examined the scars that reached his ribs and the collapsed side from the palm technique that had shattered it.
She imprinted Ma Gwang-ik Seomye’s martial arts firmly in her mind.
A faint light of internal energy reflected in her pupils as her gaze swept over him.
‘Every technique carries intent.’
Her eyes widened.
Something intuitive began to take shape.
The sudden flash of inspiration that struck geniuses now raced through her mind in response to Seomye’s techniques.
Her dark pupils gleamed with an intelligent, almost electric blue light.
"Intuitive, desperate, and fast."
A peculiar sense of fascination flickered across her face.
What could be lacking in a boy heralded as the greatest of his generation? It was unreasonable, she had thought, for such talent to exist in the world.
While the Hwangbo Clan’s Tae Yeom-ryong was praised as their finest, the Solar Veins demanded a price in return for its gift.
Why, then, had Ma Gwang-ik infused such intent into his techniques? He already had everything as the youngest Black Sovereign of Ipwang Fortress.
‘The scars run deeper. The sword strikes landed perfectly. The increased effectiveness of his energy attacks suggests he grew steadily stronger during life-or-death combat... There is no other monster like this in the world.’
For the first time, a faint curiosity stirred within her.
She deliberately nurtured the feeling to suppress the guilt of examining the dead.
Zhuge Cheong-ah wondered: what could be the deficiency of the most perfect boy in the martial world?
Just as her brother, Zhuge Hyeon, had formed bonds with Namgung Se-jin and Seomye, might she too find a connection with the young lord of Ipwang Fortress—a connection born of mutual empathy?
***
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Ma Gwang-ik, the Black Sovereign.
Seomye Jeong Yeon-shin’s streak of victories continued without interruption, even after accepting the proposal for the ten-exchange rule.
The boy found the arrangement somewhat puzzling. It was a format overwhelmingly favorable to him.
Physically, it played to his strengths. Strategically, it benefited him when facing the likes of the Hwasan Sword Hermit, the strongest master participating in the Gepa Daetjeon.
The Sword Hermit was said to rival the Ma Jin of his prime—a realm where swords bloomed like flowers in their artistry.
Compared to such a figure, the new Lord of Ipwang Fortress lacked the seasoned experience with the sword. The longer the exchanges dragged on, the more inevitable his defeat would become.
“I intended to finish it quickly anyway, and now they’ve codified it into the rules,” Jeong Yeon-shin thought as he faced the head of the Heaven’s Ridge Sword Unit from the Mo Yong Clan.
"I’ve heard whispers that you’re a grandmaster. They say every technique in existence has been adapted to suit you, and that such overwhelming martial prowess has been yours to flaunt since childhood. Is it true? It’s hard to believe," said the middle-aged swordsman dressed in crimson.
His narrow eyes beneath a broad forehead gleamed with sharp curiosity, his gaze penetrating.
The upper echelons of the Murim Alliance had studied all known aspects of Seomye’s martial prowess.
The Black Sovereign’s techniques were explosive and abrupt.
They bore the marks of orthodox martial influences, characterized by powerful, single-strike outbursts. Such an approach would have been highly effective in life-or-death situations.
“But the world of true masters is different.”
The leader of the Heaven’s Ridge Sword Unit scrutinized the boy from head to toe.
At the highest levels of combat, victory depended on the flow. The reason why techniques like swordsmanship and martial arts were so meticulously interwoven was to sustain this flow.
This was why vagabonds often failed against seasoned orthodox masters.
If an opponent could endure a single blow, a structured sword style would eventually allow them to seize the advantage, rendering single-strike techniques ineffective.
The rule limiting matches to ten exchanges wasn’t necessary. The Alliance’s leadership had panicked and erred, fearing the drawn-out process of defeating the boy might expose their weaknesses.
They had designed a format where even a loss could preserve their dignity. But Ma Gwang-ik’s position was fundamentally different.
The leader of the Heaven’s Ridge Sword Unit continued, addressing the boy who remained silent.
"Your existence feels like something out of legend, filled with rumors that are likely nonsense. Yet, this ten-exchange rule is disappointing. For true swordsmen, there’s no greater connection than through the vibration of blades. Without it, how could one even begin to grasp the essence of battle?"
"You talk a lot. Has the duel already started?" Jeong Yeon-shin asked.
A long smile formed at the corners of the swordsman’s lips. With relaxed movements, he lightly tapped the scabbard of his undrawn blade.
He intended to turn the rule to his advantage. The Mo Yong Clan harbored personal grievances against Ipwang Fortress.
He planned to humiliate the boy with a show of false bravado, diminishing the prestige of the Black Sovereign.
"Am I not already allowing you the advantage of the opening move? I have even crossed swords with Seonmok Lingju among your Black Sovereigns..."
Suddenly, a gust of wind swept through the air.
The next moment, the leader of the Heaven’s Ridge Sword Unit saw a glinting blade flash before his eyes.
"What...!"
A sword brimming with overwhelming force tore toward his forehead. The air seemed to ripple as if the sharp wind itself had crystallized into a blade.
He couldn’t tell when the strike had been initiated. In the blink of an eye, a storm erupted from the boy’s swordplay.
The strike carried an eerie ferocity that sent chills down his spine. The surroundings blurred, his vision consumed by a single, piercing point.
The swordsman of the Mo Yong Clan instinctively drew his sword like a thunderclap, unable to spare even a moment to take a full stance. He swung upward.
Swish!
The air rippled translucently along the blade’s edge, but no impact met his grip. The attack had been a feint, targeting the gaps in his mental focus.
The cold sensation of steel pressed against his neck in a straight line.
Too late, he saw the boy standing to his side, his black robes fluttering in the wind.
The blade’s pure, radiant glow reflected in Ma Gwang-ik’s gaze.
The boy emanated an uncanny aura of transcendence, his presence almost otherworldly.
“Could this be how Dharma would have appeared had he walked the mundane world?”
Perhaps it was the surreal nature of the moment that evoked such a thought.
"Such precision! Truly remarkable!"
From the spectators’ stands, a man wearing a pale blue hero’s headband shouted, his voice echoing with admiration.