The air was thick with silence. A wave of awe swept through the crowd.
From the packed stands accommodating nearly a thousand spectators to the watchtowers filled with martial artists with exceptional sensory skills, few immediately grasped that the tournament had reached its conclusion.
But the stillness was brief. Cheers erupted from those less aware of the intricacies.
"Ahhhhhhhhh!"
"The young master has done it!"
"What an extraordinary sight! It's truly historic!"
"Who could have imagined such a feat? This boy stood against the famed martial artists of the White Path sects...!"
The audience speculated wildly, unable to fully comprehend what had just transpired. Only a handful of seasoned martial masters had a plausible explanation for the outcome.
But even among the well-versed, the truth seemed hard to swallow. What had unfolded defied conventional wisdom.
"At the moment of impact, the Martial Virtuoso's inner power barrier remained intact," one murmured.
"Could it be... an Internal Weight Technique? To break through the protective energy of the Unrivaled Fist of the Eon Clan? Is that even possible?"
"The intricacy of the energy manipulation is unparalleled. The way he directed a single strand of internal force across multiple vectors, with rotational precision—it's beyond belief!"
"And the timing! To strike at just the right moment, that requires foresight bordering on divination."
"A genius combatant... the likes of which we rarely see in the martial world."
"Yes, but the Martial Virtuoso let her guard down. The young lord was clearly at a disadvantage, but while she was prattling, he was calculating his next move. A prodigy born for battle. Never give him time to strategize."
The audience was vast, encompassing not just those tied to the Alliance but also martial artists unaffiliated with any major sects. There were wanderers, solitary masters, and even those from factions known for opposing the Alliance.
Among them, discussions brewed, laced with begrudging admiration for the young successor of the Black Pavilion. Some, however, wore expressions of thinly veiled concern, wary of the implications of this turn of events.
"The scale of this tournament was unprecedented. For a while, it seemed the Black Pavilion's dominance would be curbed. But now... who can say what will happen to the balance of power in the martial world?"
"The Alliance has two paths forward—either double down on salvaging their pride or seek to mend relations with the Black Pavilion."
"Reconciliation? The Black Pavilion is not a sect that knows compromise. Unless the Alliance sends hostages, peace seems unlikely."
"Perhaps a marital alliance. It’s a method favored among prominent clans. If a Black Pavilion elite were to wed into the Alliance’s leadership..."
"Hmph. The Alliance isn’t desperate enough for that. But you’re right—this upheaval will leave lasting ripples."
Meanwhile, the atmosphere in the lavish command tent draped with pristine white fabric was heavy with tension.
“...”
None of the assembled leaders—whether heads of great clans or delegates from prestigious sects—dared to speak first. All eyes darted between one another, gauging reactions.
Seated at the center, veiled behind an ornate fan adorned with blue embroidery, the head of the Zhuge Clan maintained an impassive facade. Her pale robes, as white as freshly fallen snow, and her alabaster complexion lent her an air of chilling detachment.
Her silence, however, did not stem from rage but from the composed contemplation of someone accustomed to wielding absolute authority.
The Alliance’s tournament had been hijacked, transformed into a showcase for the Black Pavilion's dominance. Their young lord had demonstrated unparalleled prowess in the heart of the Alliance’s territory, culminating in his triumph over the Martial Virtuoso.
Every measure the Alliance had taken to curb his momentum—dispatching assassins, orchestrating challenges to his techniques, pitting him against seasoned elites—had failed. And now, with this defeat, the Alliance’s credibility teetered on the brink.
“We should have just handed him the elixir and sent him on his way,” spoke a gruff voice, breaking the silence. It was the head of the Mo Yong Clan, clad in a striking pink robe.
“He’s like a cursed omen. As long as he lingers here, misfortune will follow. And with the eyes of the entire martial world on us, neither the elders nor I can afford to act openly. Get rid of him—simple as that.”
"..."
“The delegates you sent to dismantle his techniques? Most of them have formed ties with him now. If we let him linger long enough to cement a reputation among the righteous factions, it’ll only complicate things further.” The Mo Yong leader spoke with blunt candor, the only one daring enough to voice such opinions in Zhuge’s presence.
The Zhuge patriarch nodded silently, her gaze fixed on the fallen Martial Virtuoso. There was contempt in her eyes.
The Virtuoso’s subordinates gathered her crumpled figure, supporting her as she coughed up blood from ruptured veins.
Amidst the jubilant cheers of the crowd, the young master of the Black Pavilion stood tall, a flag raised high in his grasp. In that moment, he was the focal point of the world.
Not far off, Mo Yong’s attention shifted to the stands. His gaze fell on one of the Black Pavilion’s retainers—an audacious figure cheering loudly.
“That one,” Mo Yong murmured, his eyes narrowing.
“There’s something familiar about him. I can’t quite place it, but... it doesn’t feel like a good memory.”
“Some insignificant pest, I’m sure,” replied his son, Mo Yong-Myeongjun, sitting beside him. He fixed a disdainful glare on the figure Mo Yong had indicated.
“His demeanor is unrefined, his origins clearly base—”
Myeongjun’s words faltered mid-sentence as he scrutinized the figure more closely. Utilizing a rare technique learned from his clan’s archives, he tried to discern more about the man.
What he sensed unsettled him. Though the man’s outward appearance was plain, the technique hinted at layers of depth that Myeongjun couldn’t fully grasp.
“Well?” asked Mo Yong.
“He’s no ordinary lackey,” Myeongjun admitted reluctantly. “His energy feels... strange. Almost deceptive. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Satisfied, Mo Yong gave a curt nod. “Good. Watch both him and the young lord closely. Let’s see what their next move will be.”
As the tournament continued, the crowd’s attention shifted to the final ceremony. The atmosphere buzzed with anticipation for the unveiling of the grand prize—the fabled Great Elixir, promised to the victor.
The Alliance’s general took the stage, her flowing robes glinting under the sun as she carried an ornate wooden box.
The air seemed to shimmer as the box was opened, revealing the elixir. The crowd erupted into murmurs of wonder.
“Could it be...?”
“The legendary remedy itself is here?”
“Even the air feels purer now!”
The murmurs of the crowd rippled through the air.
The space where Eon Hwayeon had been carried off by the elite of the Eon Clan now lay vacant.
Onto the stage of the duel stepped the General Commander of the Martial Alliance’s inner division, her pristine robes shimmering in the sunlight as they trailed behind her.
In her hands was an antique wooden box, its craftsmanship exuding an air of tradition and reverence.
Tap, tap.
With light, measured steps, she approached Jeong Yeon-shin. The boy stood still, holding the banner at an angle, silently observing Ye Sojeo.
The black coat of the young Lord of Ipwang fluttered gently in the crisp autumn breeze as the two stood face to face.
“It’s the Great Elixir,” she said softly, her lips moving with delicate precision.
“I’ve verified it myself. It’s authentic.”
“I see,” the boy replied, his eyes fixed on the ornate wooden box in her hands.
The culmination of his time at the Martial Alliance was now embodied in that small container. The credit he had earned was well-deserved, though he still owed much to his maternal grandfather’s foresight.
Swish.
As he took the box, their hands briefly brushed against each other. A faint, soft sensation lingered on the side of his fingers—a stark contrast to her exceptional mastery in martial footwork.
Her fingers were unusually delicate for a warrior of her caliber.
“Congratulations, young Lord,” she said playfully, a slight mischief twinkling in her voice.
“Thank you,” he replied, his gaze shifting to the box.
Unlike others in the Martial Alliance, Ye Sojeo had always been sincere. From their first meeting to this moment, her demeanor remained unchanging.
Her goodwill seemed genuine—a rarity he did not take lightly.
‘Perhaps I should repay her kindness,’ he mused.
Thinking back to the connections he had formed—Zhuge Hyeon, Gongsun Min, the Blade Sovereign, even the Divine Master—he decided on an offer of hospitality.
“Before I leave, visit Unhyangwon. I’ve prepared a selection of Yongjeong tea. It would be my pleasure to serve you,” he said calmly.
For a brief moment, her breath seemed to hitch, and her crimson lips curled into a faint smile.
The sunlight glinted off her white silk eye cover, giving her an ethereal beauty that seemed to transcend the physical.
‘Beautiful?’
The thought startled him.
Not long ago, he had faced near-death when sparring with Ak Surim, the Divine Spear. The strange ache in his knees and the sudden awareness of mortality had been new sensations.
Now, for the first time, he found himself acutely conscious of a woman’s presence.
‘Have people who’ve built families lived their whole lives burdened by such sensations?’
The idea was unsettling.
This newfound awareness seemed unnatural—almost foreboding. To him, such changes only marked the encroaching specter of death.
Ye Sojeo met his gaze, her white eye cover almost like her real eyes, reflecting the sunlight in a dazzling shimmer. Jeong Yeon-shin involuntarily looked away, as if avoiding not only her gaze but the inevitability of his own fate.
“Was that an invitation? Should I truly come?”
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“Give advance notice, or my comrades might turn you away,” he said with faint humor.
“Alright, I’ll send a letter first,” she replied with a bright laugh. Her smile, vivid as a ruby, lingered in the air.
Her expression seemed to awaken the crowd from their stupor, reminding them of what had just occurred—the conclusion of the Martial Alliance’s tournament.
A roar erupted, even louder than before.
The cheers shook the heavens, their emotions as varied as the gambling stakes they had placed.
“The young Lord of Ipwang has done it!”
“The boy master defeated them all! Marvelous!”
“I’ve lost everything!”
“Thank you for broadening my horizons!”
Amid the cacophony of cheers, Jeong Yeon-shin distinctly heard Ye Sojeo’s steps retreating.
Tap, tap.
“Rest well tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She turned gracefully, her long skirt barely grazing the ground. A quiet, solitary laugh escaped her lips as her black hair fluttered behind her, stark against the snowy white of her robe.
Like an archer’s bowstring against a drawn bow, her contrasting colors left a lingering impression.
The boy in black stood alone on the stage.
In his left hand, he held the wooden box containing the Great Elixir; in his right, the white banner of Ipwang.
The crowd’s cheers surged endlessly, a whirlwind of respect, admiration, resentment, and joy, encapsulating the grand finale of the tournament.
***
The next day.
By the pond at Unhyangwon, the boy sat cross-legged, receiving three visitors. They were figures of remarkable stature, rarely seen even among the eminent. Even the two younger members of the group exuded an air of distinction, their presence illuminated by the autumn sunlight.
At the center of this gathering stood a venerable swordsman of the Huashan Sect.
"Setting aside personal matters... I’ve come to provide a clue to unify your swordsmanship into a seamless whole. The foundation of swordsmanship lies in linked techniques. To counter the Sword Saint’s blade, a disjointed series of strikes won’t suffice," said the Divine Master, his tone calm but firm.
Birds perched in the surrounding trees chirped melodiously, their songs resonating in the tranquil atmosphere.
This encounter was the Martial Alliance’s last gesture of courtesy, a safeguard against unforeseen circumstances—The Sword Saint’s Guidance—delivered with only a day left.