The sound of flowing water was crisp and serene.
"......."
Ma Gwang-ik Lord Jeong Yeon-shin tilted the wine bottle with measured grace. The Du Kang Wine poured at an almost lethargic pace.
Eon Hwayeon, the Fist Lord of the Eon Clan, held her cup, which trembled ever so slightly. The wine infused with concentrated internal energy approached her in powerful waves.
Her fingers, which clasped the cup, resisted the overwhelming force, suppressing any fracture. It was a subtle contest of qi manipulation.
A battle of wits between supreme masters.
Jeong Yeon-shin had intentionally taken the initiative. He aimed to conceal his disadvantage.
The speed with which true masters like Eon Hwayeon could harness their qi, perfectly harmonized with their physical form and spiritual essence, far exceeded his capabilities.
This unity of energy, body, and spirit, achieved through decades of mastery, was called Three Flowers Converging at the Crown.
It was a state where internal energy flowed at the speed of thought, a realm reserved for martial monsters treading the Black Rank.
Decades of refinement—every one of these opponents has endured such a journey.
Jeong Yeon-shin, who had reached his current level through a uniquely large and powerful Sangdanjeon, faced these Black Rank adversaries with near-precognitive senses.
To match them, he had to initiate techniques faster than his opponents could respond.
All the battles he had fought from Sichuan to this place followed this principle.
Even when exchanges seemed equal—or overwhelming in his favor—his hands and mind hid a relentless intensity.
In his current weakened state, recovering from the exertion of the Blue Sun Eclipse, he couldn’t afford to trade moves recklessly.
Against a supreme master like Eon Hwayeon, a single exchange could spell disaster.
These were the kind of warriors who roamed the martial world freely, able to train and feast even in times of famine. They wouldn’t hold back with an opponent right before their eyes.
Thus, he used this opportunity under the guise of serving wine to provoke a subtle battle of power, ensuring his weakened state remained concealed.
The density of his Luminous Wheel Qi rivaled that of most peers. His other vulnerabilities would be difficult to discern.
Hmph.
A soft nasal sound came from Eon Hwayeon—breath laced with faint amusement.
A faint smile tugged at her lips as she lounged casually, looking up at him.
The transparent ripples of her internal energy spread across the room, brushing against her long lashes.
It was the unmistakable flow of the Fist Lord of the Eon Clan’s qi, fortifying her wine cup against the powerful waves.
The faint blue veins on the back of her hand pulsed, attesting to the precision of this subtle confrontation.
Crack.
Suddenly, the wine cup fractured. A fine crack spread from its base, allowing a thin stream of liquid to drip out.
The sound of wine hitting the floor filled the otherwise silent room.
The young Ma Gwang-ik Lord lowered the wine bottle without a word.
Ak Ye-rim’s eyes widened slightly.
The Fist Lord of the Eon Clan had failed to receive the wine.
Whether the same scene would have unfolded had their roles been reversed was difficult to determine.
“You must have left many astonished in your time,” Eon Hwayeon finally broke the silence.
“Even without seeing, I can imagine their faces.”
"......."
“But I am surprised by something else. To think someone would dare lecture me on drinking etiquette. Truly, living long enough reveals all sorts of oddities. It’s undeniably a low provocation, yet when it comes from your lips, it feels oddly... fitting. You’ve got the temperament for your house.”
“Provocation?”
“I meant you’re a born fighter,” she clarified, her voice calm.
“Effective provocation has always been a masterstroke in combat. By luring an attack and seizing the counter with precision, you dictate the flow of offense and defense. With your level of power, you could deliver truly terrifying ripostes. Be mindful.”
Her languid tone carried a sharp edge of insight, sending a shiver through the air.
Her cheeks flushed slightly from the wine, yet her presence radiated the strength of one of the Eight Noble Clans.
Unlike the Nine Sects, there was nothing lofty about her demeanor—it exuded confidence, the kind that could break through any obstruction.
The gaze of a martial noble, honed for conflict, was chillingly precise.
“You deduce the flow of combat just by observing my words and actions.”
Jeong Yeon-shin’s voice carried a note of intrigue. This figure before him seemed refreshingly novel.
He suddenly understood that supreme masters assessed their opponents even through such casual interactions.
The boy, on the other hand, had always struggled just to process the sensory overload coming at him.
Eon Hwayeon’s qi ripples, her balanced physique, and the way she manipulated energy while holding the wine cup—all were clues revealing the essence of the Fist Lord of the Eon Clan.
Her martial arts are direct. Her punches will be blindingly fast. As a master famed for her fists, her defensive qi must also be formidable.
Swift techniques and a robust defensive system immediately came to mind.
A master like her, hailed as the foremost of the Eon Clan, would likely also possess supplementary skills contrary to her main discipline.
Techniques from Wudang’s Tai Chi or Shaolin’s Hundred Step Divine Fist—methods emphasizing deflective power—could not be ruled out.
Jeong Yeon-shin speculated about which muscles she might use most. He couldn’t pinpoint anything specific.
Her entire body was balanced to perfection.
Encircled by qi befitting a martial artist at the pinnacle of her craft, she had no discernible weak points.
If anything, he felt exhilarated.
Revealing the same sword technique multiple times in hostile territory was a foolish act. Even though Jeong Yeon-shin enjoyed analyzing counters to his own skills, such recklessness would be ill-suited for a place rife with the Eight Clans’ heads.
“I’ve heard about your techniques,” Eon Hwayeon remarked with a faint smile.
“The one you used to sever the Namgung lineage—it intrigues me. I’ll make sure to stay close so you can’t use your little skewers. Unless you’ve mastered something like Cloud Dragon’s Eight Fist Forms, you’ll have to respond with proper martial arts.”
Her intent was clear—she was discussing close combat.
Even with Ak Ye-rim, Namgung Se-jin’s former betrothed, present, Eon Hwayeon was unrestrained. The term self-sovereign suited her perfectly.
She continued, “You should feel honored. It means I don’t mind engaging in close-quarters combat with you. If you weren’t worthy, this would be a different conversation. But you are. You’re worth facing at full strength.”
Her words carried layers of meaning, teasing and challenging him all at once.
Gender distinctions held little weight in the martial world. Since the founding of the Ming Dynasty, martial status had been independent of gender.
Anyone who mastered martial arts could become strong, regardless of gender, age, or background. For the weak, even the slightest provocation had to be endured.
The same applied to Jeong Yeon-shin’s remarks about drinking etiquette. Her words, too, were provocations.
“Now, take my drink,” Eon Hwayeon said, her Golden Silk Hand unfurling.
Her fingers extended fluidly, brushing against Jeong Yeon-shin’s wrist and snatching the wine bottle with ease.
Her movements were extraordinarily smooth, almost impossible to counter even if he’d tried. Yet, Jeong Yeon-shin didn’t resist.
He merely ran his left hand over the blade, ensuring she couldn’t grasp his meridians. If he reversed the sword’s edge upward, it would’ve been her wrist at risk.
She handed him the wine cup with a smile.
“Are you too scared to drink with me? The Ma Gwang-ik Lord looks ready to slice me down at any moment.”
“It’d be foolish to leave both arms to a master of fists,” Jeong Yeon-shin replied calmly.
Eon Hwayeon’s smile deepened as she tilted the jade bottle toward his cup.
The transparent Du Kang Wine flowed without any accompanying energy this time.
“Little lord,” she began, “I don’t care for arguments. Life is too short to waste on them. Chivalry, etiquette—all these things are fleeting. The martial world is full of unnecessary burdens. In ten years, you’ll understand what I mean. You don’t seem like a naive child, so perhaps you’ll remember my words by then.”
“Thank you,” Jeong Yeon-shin replied.
Speaking of years into the future was typically a gesture of goodwill.
Having completed his appraisal of the final adversary in the Gepa Daetjeon, the boy was ready to leave when he heard those kind words.
Eon Hwayeon’s long lashes lowered slightly before rising once more.
"If my advice pleases you, have a drink. It's a bit unfair that only I should feel tipsy."
Before Jeong Yeon-shin could respond, Tae Yeom-ryong reached out and grabbed his cup.
“Let’s drink somewhere else, my lord. I’ll teach you proper drinking etiquette.”
Tae Yeom-ryong’s eyes gleamed with a cold, white light—the mark of an Ancestral Technique from the Hwangbo Clan. While not on par with the Zhuge or Mo Yong Clans, it was one of the Eight Noble Clans' prized legacies.
Tae Yeom-ryong, seasoned by years of indulgence, recognized the subtle tricks used by martial artists skilled in medicinal internal energy techniques.
As Eon Hwayeon tipped the wine bottle, a faint white mist unique to Soul-Easing Medicine wafted up.
She had infused a medicinal agent into the wine beforehand, releasing it subtly with her internal energy as she poured.
To the untrained eye, it would appear as nothing more than harmless steam.
The substance wasn’t lethal—it wouldn’t kill a supreme master outright. Instead, it caused drowsiness, unconsciousness, or paralysis.
However, the true danger lay in the moment an opponent countered it with their own qi, inadvertently exposing their internal energy pathways.
Unlike Jeong Yeon-shin’s deliberate and localized release of his Luminous Wheel Qi earlier, this was a baited trap meant to force a reveal.
Realizing the potential danger, Tae Yeom-ryong activated his Solar Flame Qi.
The wine within the cup began to bubble and steam before evaporating entirely into a single thread of white smoke that curled to the ceiling and dissipated into the breeze.
Ak Ye-rim raised a hand to cover her lips, clearly stunned, but Tae Yeom-ryong merely sneered.
"Pulling such cheap tricks... have you no shame?"
Eon Hwayeon chuckled softly, her laughter languid and unapologetic. “The world truly is harsh, isn’t it? It’s difficult to enjoy life in peace.”
Her expression carried a mix of nonchalance and mischief, as if she’d simply made a harmless mistake in her drunken state.
“Let’s go,” Jeong Yeon-shin said, turning his body slowly.
There was nothing to gain from lingering here. Hanzhong was firmly within the spheres of the Zhuge Clan and the Martial Alliance.
A small incident like this would be buried without issue.
Even if the incident were made public through someone like Hyeon Won-chang, it would only create unnecessary complications.
The most fitting revenge would be to dominate on the stage of the Gepa Daetjeon, claim the Grand Elixir, and crush her with martial prowess.
Just as he was about to leave, Eon Hwayeon spoke again.
“Little lord, do you recall when you rescued the Mount Hua Sect’s chief disciple?”
Jeong Yeon-shin stopped but didn’t turn to face her.
"That time, the death of the Branch Director caused quite the uproar. He was an official maintaining favorable relations with the Martial Alliance."
"..."
“They say his head was severed in a single stroke. Curious, don’t you think? The Mount Hua disciple claimed they never saw him. Yet all the evidence pointed to that remote island. Suspicious, isn’t it? Much like your silence now.”
Her voice carried a snake-like quality, slithering with subtle menace.
Her gaze, heavy-lidded with drunkenness, settled on the young boy in black robes.
Her expression, while seemingly casual, exuded the intensity of a martial artist poised to unleash a devastating blow.
The mention of the Branch Director and the Zhuge Clan’s schemes resurfaced in Jeong Yeon-shin’s mind:
The Branch Director had received a letter from the Zhuge Clan Lord himself, urging him to overlook the exploitation of commoners in exchange for supporting resource trade between Hanzhong and Unyang.
The letter was proof of a conspiracy between local officials and martial sects during a time of famine.
When the Branch Director died, the Zhuge Clan sought to recover this incriminating evidence.
However, it had already fallen into Jeong Yeon-shin’s hands.
He responded with a faint tilt of his head and a dry remark.
“The island you speak of—the one where they corralled commoners like livestock?”
His lips parted slightly as he added, “The words of the so-called First Fist of the Eon Clan are amusing. If the Branch Director was there, it means he was complicit in exploiting those commoners. Even assuming that, seeking him out suggests some rotten dealings of your own. What face do you have to interrogate me?”
“My, such sharp words,” she said with a faint smile. “Perhaps you feel so strongly because commoners are involved? How fitting for someone from Ipwang Fortress.”
Eon Hwayeon dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Go now. We’ll settle this on the dueling stage tomorrow.”
Tae Yeom-ryong interjected with a smirk. “I wonder what it feels like to be hit with both words and fists. I’ve never had the experience, but Fist Lord of the Eon Clan, please survive to tell us.”
With that, the two left, descending the stairs.
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Ak Ye-rim remained silent, her expression complex.
Eon Hwayeon leaned against the wall, idly twirling the broken wine cup between her fingers.
“They’ve got quite the knack for getting under someone’s skin, those two,” she murmured.
“...”
“It’s been a while since I’ve wanted to turn someone into pulp. Might as well try for the Grand Elixir while I’m at it... Hopefully, the Alliance Lord goes easy on me.”
In the domain of supreme masters, self-assurance was essential. Without unyielding resolve, one’s techniques would lack true strength.
Eon Hwayeon’s lips curved into a faint arc—a smile laced with anticipation.
***
The sun's brilliant rays cascaded down, gilding the pavilion roof in a soft, white glow.
Zhuge Cheong-ah had completed her ablutions.
It was a day of profound importance—one that would determine the means to cut down the tyranny of her father, the Zhuge Clan Lord.
If the Ma Gwang-ik Lord, Jeong Yeon-shin, failed to overcome Eon Hwayeon, the Fist Lord of the Eon Clan, she would have to devise a new plan.
She fervently wished for that not to happen.
Gathering her long black hair bound in sky-blue silk, she arranged it neatly behind her neck. Her attire was equally immaculate—a light azure garment more akin to formal robes than martial attire. The fabric shimmered like the depths of a serene lake.
Her older brother, Zhuge Seon-ryong, was oblivious to her machinations. Enthralled by the Ma Gwang-ik Lord’s duels, he had departed early in the morning, securing a prime spot within the command pavilion for a clear view of the arena.
Meanwhile, Zhuge Cheong-ah had confirmed the preservation of Cheong Kirin’s remains.
The intricate workings of the Martial Alliance, entangled with over a hundred sects, were unpredictable. The Namgung Clan might suddenly retrieve the body on a whim.
“Forgive me. Soon, you will finally rest,” she murmured, offering her condolences once more before making her way toward the arena of the Gepa Daetjeon.
The streets within the Martial Alliance’s grounds were deserted, swept clean by gusts of dust. It seemed everyone had gone to witness the martial prowess of supreme masters.
The desolation felt eerily solemn, reminding her of the piercing gaze of the Ma Gwang-ik Lord she had encountered not long ago.
He must win.
As Zhuge Cheong-ah moved, her thoughts became resolute.
He had to conquer the Gepa Daetjeon. A furious victor, revered by the martial world’s heroes, was crucial to her plan.
With righteous purpose and overwhelming strength, he would establish justice.
But the towering reputation of Eon Hwayeon loomed heavily. The title of Fist Lord of the Eon Clan was no exaggeration.
Her name resonated throughout the Eight Noble Clans. Despite her rumored affair with the Zhuge Clan Lord after his wife’s passing, Eon Hwayeon had avoided scandal—a testament to her formidable strength.
The Martial Alliance's members were firmly within her father’s sphere of influence.
“Please,” Zhuge Cheong-ah whispered, her pale hands clasping in silent prayer.
A roar of cheers reached her ears, and she caught sight of the throng surrounding the arena, completely obscuring it.
She infused her light step technique with qi, reaching the arena in moments with a deft leap.
Tap.
Her nimble movement brought her atop one of the watchtowers reserved for distinguished guests.
Her eyes darted to the center of the arena.
How many exchanges had already passed?
In the middle of the stage, two figures were locked in a ferocious battle.
Eon Hwayeon executed a retreating footwork technique, her movements graceful yet tense, while Jeong Yeon-shin surged forward, his earth-shaking strides relentless.
From the young Ma Gwang-ik Lord’s hands, a vortex of spiraling force erupted, the transparent currents howling as they tore through the air.
The whirlwind tore apart the arena floor, grinding it to rubble as it hurtled toward its target.
Even the black cloak billowing wildly behind Jeong Yeon-shin seemed menacing, an extension of his dominating presence.
Everything about him radiated the dignity of the Ipwang Fortress Lord.
KWA-KWA-KWA-KWA―!
An overwhelming spectacle unfolded as Zhuge Cheong-ah arrived, just in time to witness the manifestation of the legendary Hwan-gang—the realm where the absolute masters roamed, a phenomenon spoken of only in whispers.