“.......”
Jeong Yeon-shin stood silently. The blood clinging to his wounds felt grotesque, unfit for prolonged display before the crowd.
His gaze fell on Ye Sojeo, who was bowing slightly as she wiped the blood from his abdomen. Her long, ebony hair obscured her face, making her expression unreadable.
She had called him the "only one." Her tone was peculiar, laden with subtle implications.
Even if he didn’t fully recognize it, Ma Gwang-ikju Seomye had become an extraordinary figure.
The youngest black-rank swordsman of Ipwang Fortress. The one who shattered Silent Shadow Blossom, a peerless sword technique. A boy who had raised Ipwang Fortress’s banner at the heart of the Martial Alliance. A martial artist undefeated in the Gepa Daetjeon.
In Hanzhong alone, he had accomplished far more than most could dream.
His reputation spread like wildfire—an inevitability, given his feats.
Yet Ye Sojeo’s words carried something beyond mere admiration. There was a hint of reverence in her voice.
Jeong Yeon-shin, too, was aware of it.
The recent growth of his limbs and the expansion of his Baihui Point had heightened his sensitivity. These days, he could faintly sense even the emotions of others.
At this moment, the goodwill aimed at his Dantian was boundless.
It felt as though a sweet syrup was dissolving in his mind.
Was Ye Sojeo the only one, aside from Cheon Joo-jin, who had grasped the intent embedded in his sword form?
The cloth in her hand gently wiped away the blood beading on his abdomen. Her wrist moved with deliberate care, and the fingertips wrapped in fabric brushed softly against his skin.
Her movements were meticulous, befitting someone attending to an esteemed guest.
"The Ye Clan. Her given name is Ye Harin," he recalled.
She bore him no grudges. Her words and demeanor came across as honest and transparent.
Her gestures of goodwill were unhesitant, and her emotions carried a purity that pierced directly into his Dantian.
He had seen Zhuge Seonryong’s brilliance and faced Gongsun Min’s untainted gaze.
Even among the Menghui, his initial prejudices were beginning to fade. Cheon Joo-jin himself sought to steer the Martial Alliance toward fairness and justice.
Jeong Yeon-shin finally parted his lips.
"Thank you."
"That’s the second time I’ve heard you say that. Is this normal? I feel a little strange."
Her breath hitched briefly, then a soft chuckle escaped her lips. She was undoubtedly an unusual person.
The first time she had heard those words from him must have been after his meeting with Baek Seo-goon, when she had relayed details about Namgung Hwashin.
Cheon Joo-jin, who had been silently observing, finally spoke.
"I’ll see you again. I’ll send word."
"Yes, Sword Hermit."
"The Daehandan should be yours. The great clans must not claim it, nor should Eon Hwayeon consume its power. But you—only you—might succeed."
Offering his advice, the Sword Hermit descended from the stage. His steps were steady and brimming with vitality, a testament to his enduring power.
This was the hallmark of orthodox martial arts: unmatched stamina and grandeur that could conceal even internal injuries.
One would need to surpass such heights to touch the realm of Violet Qi.
Jeong Yeon-shin watched the Sword Hermit’s retreating figure before lowering his gaze. Ye Sojeo’s dark hair filled his vision as she continued tending to his side.
She was wiping the area near his external oblique muscles. It was taking time, perhaps due to the remnants of Silent Shadow Blossom’s energy.
"That should be enough. The next opponent is waiting."
"...Right, of course."
Her hand finally lifted, moving away with a deliberate slowness that lingered from palm to fingertips.
Her small head tilted upward. The white cloth in her hand was stained crimson with his blood.
There hadn’t been significant blood loss, thanks to Jeong Yeon-shin’s swift use of Dynamic Gong to staunch the bleeding. Without even lifting a finger, he had sealed his own pressure points.
He had been a master of his body since his days as a White Rank martial artist. This control formed the foundation of his continued growth.
"Don’t worry about this. I’ll take care of it."
Ye Sojeo’s voice was calm as she neatly folded the bloodstained cloth and tucked it away into her robes. Her refined mannerisms made it clear she was a daughter of a distinguished family, an impression anyone would share upon seeing her.
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She smiled faintly.
"I think we’ll see each other often, even after the Gepa Daetjeon ends. Discussions are taking place within the Alliance."
"Let’s hope nothing happens to me before then," he replied coolly.
Her smile deepened.
"What nonsense. Who could even stand against you now, besides Eon’s First Fist? You’re practically untouchable. Well, I’ll be on my way."
"Alright."
"Don’t get hurt—no, never mind. It can’t be helped if you do. Just don’t hurt too much."
"..."
"Good luck, young Lord of the Fortress."
As she turned to leave, the flowing white hem of her sleeve brushed against Jeong Yeon-shin’s hand.
The soft fabric caressed the back of his hand as it passed. A light, fleeting sensation.
Ye Sojeo walked away with a graceful, delicate stride.
She was truly a peculiar individual.
Jeong Yeon-shin watched her retreating figure for a moment before he calmly ran his fingers over the hilt of his sword.
Expressionless, he glanced to the side. From the opposite end of the stage, a middle-aged swordsman approached, his gaze sharp and intense.
It was as if he had been waiting for this day. His yellow martial robes were pristine, and the polished hilt of his blade stood out prominently.
Most participants in the Gepa Daetjeon carried themselves this way. The crowd’s cheers grew louder.
Cheon Joo-jin had been the first duel of the day. Eleven more opponents awaited him.
The middle-aged man stopped ten steps away and saluted with a fist to palm gesture.
"Peng Mun-il, from Hebei. I have honed the Five Tigers Gate-Cutting Blade."
"Jeong Yeon-shin of Hogwang Fortress. Creator of Cheongyeom Ilsik."
The boy responded briefly, gripping his sword.
The Peng Clan of Hebei was one of the Eight Noble Clans. Though the chaos of the era had prevented their military leader from attending, their representative martial artists were formidable.
Black-rank masters were rare, even among the Eight Clans.
But the Five Tigers Gate-Cutting Blade was a technique revered across the martial world. It was not to be underestimated—not for the sake of Pabaek Chongram, either.
"Come."
The young Ma Gwang-ikju spoke.
The banner of Ipwang Fortress still stood planted at the edge of the stage.
Just as the Ipwang Grandmaster had boldly proclaimed, the Ipwang Flag had yet to fall. Now, it had become the pride of Hanzhong.
A surge of qi erupted between the two martial artists.
The white banners tied to the flagpole of the Heonwon Spear fluttered, revealing the character for 荒 (Wilderness) as they rippled in the wind.
***
The streak of victories in the Gepa Daetjeon continued. Ma Gwang-Ikju was building an undefeated record.
This was the third day.
Thirty-five fighters had been defeated, and few among them lacked renown.
The Gepa Daetjeon had been ongoing even before Ma Gwang-Ikju, Seomye, entered the competition. Now, only one day remained.
This meant the wheat had already been separated from the chaff. The excitement over the young Ma Gwang-Ikju’s winning streak was massive.
“Can you believe it? I bet my entire fortune on the Sword Hermit, and I’ve lost everything!”
“Ma Gwang-Ikju’s odds have plummeted! He’s neck and neck with Eon Yeohyeop in betting rankings.”
“Didn’t I tell you? Seomye would win. He’s a rising star, a rare prodigy in this world. And since this tournament is limited to selected participants, who could possibly stop his momentum?”
“Keep betting! Bet it all!”
It was a fresh evening. In a grand, multi-leveled pavilion with an open central courtyard, the atmosphere was lively. Lanterns hung in neat rows, capturing the glow of the sunset.
Cheonghakru (Pavilion of the Blue Crane) was the finest inn and tavern in Hanzhong.
The mood was boisterous. Courtesans played zithers in one corner, their melodies barely audible amidst the din.
The once-refined elegance of this space had long since been overshadowed by chaos. The orange glow of the lanterns spread a warm, soft light.
The people of this land enjoyed gambling; it was an ancient cultural tradition. Records of wagering dated back to the distant times of the Qin and Han dynasties.
Since the Gepa Daetjeon was a once-in-a-lifetime event, everyone hoped to seize the opportunity for instant riches.
The chatter about Ma Gwang-Ikju’s victories filled every corner of Cheonghakru, even at the top floor, where private drinking parties were held.
“And so, what was his body like?”
A woman, lounging in a relaxed posture, asked lazily. Her half-lidded eyes gave her an indolent air.
She was Eon Hwayeon, the First Fist of the Eon Clan and renowned as Geonmoogong (Fist Lord).
She sat before an elaborate spread of food and drink.
Her defined arm muscles rippled as she rested her elbow on her knee and cupped her chin with her hand. She wore a sleeveless orange robe, one knee bent while the other leg stretched lazily.
She gazed across at her companion.
“It looked as though he’d trained in external techniques,” replied a young woman with long braided hair. She was Ak Ye-rim of the Ak family from Shandong.
“Or perhaps internal and external techniques combined,” Eon Hwayeon interjected. “To excel at such a young age, his foundational training must be exceptional. Either way, it sounds like his body is remarkably well-honed.”
“He’s strong. Even you, the First Fist, might struggle against him. A match might not be decided in ten exchanges.”
“Is his sword really that sharp? Sharp enough to cut through the Heavenly Protection Qi of Jinju?”
“I can’t say for certain. My martial arts are far inferior. Speculating further would only clutter your judgment. However, the clash between his sword techniques and the Sword Hermit’s Amhyang Budonghwa was truly incredible.”
“You’re remarkably self-aware. It’s refreshing to see your growth. However, I miss the days when you clung to me like an older sister,” Eon Hwayeon said, a playful smirk on her lips.
“...That was a long time ago.”
“Yes, a very long time.”
Eon Hwayeon grabbed a large jade bottle and drank deeply. Streams of Dugangju, a strong Shaanxi wine, trickled down her chin, filling the air with its distinct aroma.
Ak Ye-rim hesitated for a moment. “By the way, Zhuge Cheong-ah said something strange to Ma Gwang-Ikju...”
“Quiet for a moment,” Eon Hwayeon interrupted. Her tone was sharp but playful, a quirk well-known among those familiar with her. High-level martial artists often had eccentric personalities, shaped by their extraordinary pursuits.
Ak Ye-rim fell silent.
Soon, Eon Hwayeon’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Listen carefully. I’ve been lazing around here, but today, something interesting has caught my attention.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m tired of the same old food. Now, I’ve found a new diversion. I didn’t feel like getting up before, but I think I’ll make an exception this time.”
“What are you talking about...”
“Focus your energy on your Fengchi Point (風池穴). You’ll understand soon enough.”
Ak Ye-rim activated her auditory technique, tuning her senses to the noisy inn. The clamor of Cheonghakru and the voices outside sharpened in her ears.
“...They said this place has the best food and drink in town. Truly exquisite,” said a voice.
“Why a tavern, of all places?”
“To relax the body after intense training. Even the Youngcheon Sword Demon mentioned it last time. For someone of your internal energy, this should be just right.”
“Sure, if it comes with a side of opium.”
“Don’t be so cynical. I’ve traveled far and wide, sampling countless delicacies. I know what I’m doing...”
Ak Ye-rim’s brows furrowed slightly. She recognized the voices: Tae Yeom-ryong, the scoundrel of the Hwangbo Clan, and Ma Gwang-Ikju, the young prodigy. It seemed Tae Yeom-ryong had dragged Seomye here under the pretense of relaxation.
Eon Hwayeon chuckled softly. “There’s a rascal among them. That boy will grow into someone like me someday—talented and full of mischief.”
In that moment, Ak Ye-rim felt a piercing gaze.
Suddenly, an intense wave of energy emanated from the lower floor. It felt as though Ma Gwang-Ikju’s gaze had swallowed the entire pavilion whole.
The sheer force of his presence was palpable, a chilling reminder of the young warrior’s potential.
From below, Ma Gwang-Ikju’s calm voice rang out.
“For Tae Yeom-ryong, I’d say he’s turned out well enough.”
The young prodigy’s words carried an unshakable confidence, unrestrained and bold.