"When you faced Eon’s First Fist, did you not notice anything unusual?"
Zhuge Cheong-ah's voice was melodic, reminiscent of the resonance of Ipwang Fortress’s chimes. It carried a refined clarity that lingered in the ears like an echo.
This auditory grace seemed almost enhanced, perhaps due to her mastery of secret breathing techniques that extended the flow of qi from her temples to the back of her head.
However, her expression did not match the calm tone. Her usually detached face was stiff, betraying a subtle tension.
"Unusual?"
Jeong Yeon-shin repeated, lightly brushing the empty sleeve of his left arm. The black long robe inherited from Ma Jin was now missing its left sleeve, torn away along with his arm.
Whenever he faced formidable foes or recalled past battles, the emptiness of his bare arm was an undeniable reminder of his position as the commander of Ipwang Fortress.
"You said I would face elite warriors. Does this involve Eon Hwayeon as well?"
"Yes, without a doubt."
Zhuge Cheong-ah answered quietly. There was purpose in her response.
She knew her words needed to be persuasive. Moving the Ma Gwang-ik of Ipwang Fortress was no trivial task. Even Jeong Yeon-shin himself couldn’t act lightly.
A master of the black-ranked realm, he served as a strategic weapon in grand conflicts.
Though Menghui didn’t overtly display it, their wariness of Ma Gwang-ik was immense, like holding a thunderbolt in one’s chest.
Masters of his caliber were rare, with even the most prominent noble clans struggling to count more than two among their ranks.
Though they bolstered their clan’s reputation and power, such figures were not to be treated as ordinary peers. Zhuge Cheong-ah was acutely aware of this.
"It’s difficult to persuade someone of his stature based on a single testimony."
She swallowed nervously, her gaze fixed on the boy before her.
"Eon Hwayeon dismantled my forms effortlessly. He was a formidable martial artist."
Jeong Yeon-shin replied nonchalantly, as if recounting a minor event. It had been some time since he had devised The Infinite Bloom Technique.
Lacking the unity of essence, energy, and spirit, he had relied on various martial arts to endure in the black realm. Eon Hwayeon’s techniques had opened new paths for him, pushing his own to evolve.
The Infinite Bloom Technique could still improve, and it had been the Menghui, not Ipwang Fortress, that had accomplished this.
There was a faint warmth in his tone—acknowledging Eon Hwayeon as a martial artist, if not as a person.
"A formidable martial artist..."
Zhuge Cheong-ah bit her lower lip softly, an expression of emotion rarely shown.
Her innate perceptiveness had long been subdued under the oppression of the Zhuge Clan’s patriarch. Even now, she gauged Ma Gwang-ik’s mood, her anxious thoughts circling one question: What if he rejects me?
Jeong Yeon-shin, however, possessed an innate ability to read such subtleties. His brows furrowed slightly.
"I told you not to ramble. No vague talk either. State your purpose clearly. I’ll decide what to do."
Her eyelashes trembled at his words—language she had never encountered outside her clan.
Perhaps it was the spiritual resonance of his voice, imbued with the unique vitality of his internal technique.
Despite its directness, his plain speech, so unlike her father’s, compelled her lips to move.
"...I examined the corpses you left behind. It was on my father’s orders. I analyzed the patterns of sword marks left on their bodies and the traces of qi that crushed them. Eon Hwayeon used a counter-technique based on this analysis."
"The corpses?"
"Among them was Namgung So-hyeop, the Blue Qilin. His body is here in Menghui as well."
Her voice was quiet but strained as she spoke.
At the mention of the corpses, Jeong Yeon-shin’s furrowed brow deepened, but he did not interrupt.
In a fleeting moment, the qi below his Baihui Acupoint and above his Upper Dantian unraveled Zhuge Cheong-ah’s words entirely.
Was she speaking the truth? What hidden intent might she have? Ultimately, intent didn’t matter. His Upper Dantian accepted her words as fact.
Perhaps it was because his Baihui had expanded, giving him a sense of clarity akin to a sage's heightened perception.
Slowly, Jeong Yeon-shin processed this unfamiliar sensation.
The chill of an autumn breeze swept over him, sinking into his crown like a sharp spike. Briefly, a bright blue ripple in his mind calmed like a tranquil lake.
For the first time since losing his uncle’s arm, his mind and spirit felt in harmony.
Perhaps his recent growth, along with the turmoil of his rapidly changing body, had finally ignited his Baihui.
Jeong Yeon-shin secured two clear justifications for his actions.
Before taking a step, he ensured his reasons were sound. First, the Zhuge Clan’s complicity in aiding the Sinmu Alliance’s plunder of commoners. Second, their use of corpses to develop counter-techniques.
Either reason alone would suffice to bring down the Zhuge patriarch, no matter how exalted his reputation. Jeong rationalized his actions.
This wasn’t personal anger driving Ma Gwang-ik—it was justice.
He opened his mouth slowly.
"I know your clan’s formations are scattered everywhere. Lead me."
"Infiltration isn’t possible. A frontal assault is the only way."
"Because of the formations?"
"Yes. If we don’t follow the prescribed entry paths, the guards will be alerted. Even breaking through the barriers or mechanical traps won’t stop them. It’s faster to use the open route."
The story of Zhuge Tian humiliating himself when testing Ma Gwang-ik with a formation was already well-known.
Zhuge Cheong-ah had devised her plan, assuming Ma Gwang-ik could counter such traps. Yet, overwhelming force would still be necessary.
"My father and Mo Yong-gaju are away. I don’t know why, but they left Menghui even during the Gepa Daetjeon. We won’t get another chance like this. If we delay, the returning clan heads will block us. Securing the corpses is our only chance to act and remain safe afterward."
As she whispered rapidly, Zhuge Cheong-ah suddenly glanced around.
"But where are the others? Namgung So-hyeop and Tae Yeom-ryong could be great help..."
"They went to greet the guests on my behalf while I prepare for the match."
"Ah, the Sichuan Tang Clan..."
Jeong Yeon-shin brushed off Zhuge Cheong-ah’s sigh, striding forward to push open the gates of the Woonhyang Pavilion.
The girl hurried after him, but she did not hand over the map of Menghui’s grounds.
For her to replace her father, who was destined to fall, she had to expose his misdeeds as a true chivalrous hero would.
She trusted Ma Gwang-ik’s sense of justice, which she had glimpsed through the scars on the Blue Qilin’s body.
The people of Zhongyuan were said to love gambling. Zhuge Cheong-ah had that same trait.
"If this fails, I’ll never see the light of day again."
She thought bitterly.
Her life, like a slave bound by her father’s power, now rested in Ma Gwang-ik’s hands. For her own and her brother’s sake, she had gambled everything.
"This way."
Zhuge Cheong-ah gently grasped Jeong Yeon-shin’s wrist, her soft touch brushing against his skin.
Feeling his piercing gaze on her nape, she lowered her head slightly in embarrassment and murmured,
"We need to draw attention. Stealing the corpses in secret won’t work if the clan heads catch up and cover it up. But if the Zhuge patriarch’s daughter and Ma Gwang-ik seem to have developed an affection, people will follow us anywhere. Thanks to the Gepa Daetjeon, there are more witnesses than ever. I’ll explain everything later."
"Did you not train your Lightfoot? Just walk faster."
At this moment, none of it mattered to Jeong Yeon-shin.
This content is taken from freёwebnovel.com.
Even when they stepped onto the broad streets lined with Menghui’s pavilions, he paid no mind to the gazes directed at him.
The pure white sensation in his Upper Dantian burned away all distractions.
The Blue Qilin—he was an adversary Jeong Yeon-shin would never meet again.
A scar had been left on his proud martial heart, accompanied by righteous indignation.
With his path decided, all that remained was to draw his sword.
The murmurs of the shadowed figures trailing behind him were trivial.
The rumors spread by the top martial artists of their generation held no allure for Jeong Yeon-shin.
The dozens of onlookers following them would have to chew on idle gossip about him until he turned twenty.
Right now, the boy’s focus was solely on the Zhuge Clan’s warriors who blocked his path.
They stood guarding the single open gate within the wall that encircled the clan’s vast compound like a fortress.
Behind them, the sprawling array of pavilions testified to the Zhuge Clan’s influence, their curved roofs gracefully sculpted like pieces of art.
"Young miss and Ma Gwang-ik, this is as far as you may go."
Five men stood in their way, their gazes darting past Jeong Yeon-shin and Zhuge Cheong-ah to the gathering crowd behind them. Their stern expressions hinted at unease, more concerned with the growing number of witnesses than their young mistress.
The only exception was the middle-aged man in green robes at the front, whose square jaw gave him an imposing presence.
"This is a private area of the main family. Whatever close bond you two may have formed is beside the point. If it’s merely an outing, I recommend the lakeside to the west of Menghui."
His face wore a conflicted yet amused smile, but Jeong Yeon-shin responded coldly.
"I’ve heard you’ve been defiling the corpse of Namgung Hwashin, the Blue Qilin."
"...."
"As a martial artist inheriting his sword intent, I must see for myself. Step aside."
"That’s absurd. I’ve never heard of such a thing..."
The man’s tone was indifferent, but Jeong Yeon-shin tightened his grip on his wooden sword.
He noticed the man’s expression briefly crumble before regaining its composure—a small yet telling sign that deepened his suspicions.
"Can a grandmaster of the Gepa Daetjeon behave so recklessly? Are you serious?"
"Enough talk. I won’t repeat myself."
"Your jest is quite dangerous. Please reconsider. This place is a key location of Menghui. Even the lord of Ipwang Fortress would regret such rashness."
The man’s words sounded serious, but his tone was oddly playful.
"That said... I, too, have honed my swordsmanship. Your duel with the Heavenly Sage was truly remarkable. Among your techniques, I found the swift overhead strike more impressive than even the destructive finishing move. I’ve never seen such a quick and thunderous strike in my life. Does it have a name?"
The change in subject was clear, but his eyes contradicted his casual tone, adopting an unmistakably hostile stance.
The four men behind him gripped their sword hilts, their intent obvious. They wouldn’t let him pass without a fight.
“Turn back, or we will cut you down.”
The Zhuge warriors communicated their message through their oppressive qi.
"Is the name of a sword technique more important than the purpose of my visit?"
Jeong Yeon-shin chuckled, gently pulling Zhuge Cheong-ah back by her sleeve. The soft silk brushed against his hand before slipping away.
The man’s question reminded him of the significance of a new sword technique.
The opening move in any technique often serves to gauge the opponent. A master swordsman’s focused gaze can dissect an adversary’s years of training, while an extreme swift-strike sword forces the opponent into a desperate struggle, revealing their full capabilities.
There’s a term for this: Simgeuk (Judgment Strike).
It determines right and wrong, superior and inferior. It observes the opponent in full.
At that moment, Jeong Yeon-shin’s intent, channeled through the wooden sword, paid homage to a single individual.
Even the chilly autumn air couldn’t cool the veins bulging on his hand.
The technique’s name was decided.
It was Ma Gwang-ik’s statement to Menghui: Your way of examining the dead is vastly different from mine.
The first move.
"Simgeuk Qilin."
He murmured, the words slipping through his clenched teeth.
Thud.
As he stepped forward, anger surged through him, and his entire body vibrated with an explosive energy unlike anything he’d experienced before.
The Zhuge warriors reacted swiftly, realizing that negotiation was no longer an option.
"Don’t let him through!"
"Don’t give him the initiative!"
Their swords unsheathed in unison. The five moved as if they were a single entity.
It was the Three Arts, Five Elements Sword Formation, a secret technique of the Zhuge Clan, merging their collective energy into a devastating attack.
Dust swirled at their feet as the invisible qi waves surged, creating a seemingly endless storm of pressure.
But Ma Gwang-ik paid it no mind.
He had already raised the wooden sword high above his head, its tip pointed skyward in a lofty upper stance.
Then, he stomped the ground.
Boom!
The ground beneath his leather shoes cracked, spreading fissures like an earthquake.
The recoil from the stomp traveled up his body, amplifying the energy in the wooden sword.
Whoosh!
The resulting vibration intensified as the condensed force gathered into the weapon. His black robe fluttered wildly.
The rate at which his full-body force condensed into a single strike was astonishing.
In an instant, the wooden sword descended.
Crack-BOOM!
The air seemed to rupture as the blade fell, unleashing a compressed hurricane of qi.
The resulting shockwave sent the Zhuge warriors flying like debris caught in an explosion, smashing through walls as they were hurled aside.
None of them were struck directly by the blade, yet not one could rise to their feet.
Only two warriors, their bodies protected by powerful defensive qi, gasped for breath, their faces pale with terror.
The massive wall behind them began to collapse.
Rumble―
The sound of thunder accompanied the rising dust cloud. The vibrations at their feet mirrored the tremors of falling rain.
Jeong Yeon-shin stepped forward silently, glancing back at Zhuge Cheong-ah.
The girl flinched, her body trembling.
Ma Gwang-ik’s eyes gleamed with an ominous black light.
The veins on his bare left arm pulsed violently from the exertion of his qi, standing out against his otherwise composed form.
The stark contrast between his pristine right arm and the tattered left sleeve of his black robe underscored his raw, unrestrained power.
It was the power of a strategic weapon that thrived on the battlefield.
"Keep walking."
The boy commanded.