Jeong Jung-san descended from Mount Zhongnan, clad in martial attire.
The neatly arranged yellow robes suited him well, and his bold features exuded the aura of a seasoned warrior.
By now, there were quite a few people in the towns below Mount Zhongnan who recognized him.
He had grown accustomed to being known not as the second son of the Jeong family but as an officially named disciple of the Zhongnan Sect. His days were devoted to rigorous training.
Three months ago, he had finally escaped the duty of serving the Zhongnan Swordmaster.
— You’ve grasped the basics. You’re no longer a freeloader. You may descend now.
This was after he had mastered the introductory techniques of the Tai’e Invisible Sword (太乙無形劍). His diligence had paid off; he could now perform the sword forms proficiently, even with his eyes closed.
His drive came from the rumors he couldn’t help but hear about his younger half-brother.
Every time he descended to the town, he encountered unbelievable tales.
“They say a young boy stood against the Namgung family in a duel at Ipwang Fortress.”
“I heard the Blue Qilin is dead. It’s a shocking tragedy. Does this mean a young prodigy who surpasses Namgung Se-jin has appeared?”
The first rumor was that Namgung’s heir had been slain.
Had they met during his time at the Jeong family estate, he would have held the man in the highest regard. Namgung So-ga-ju had often been compared to martial geniuses like Sword Dragon Wei Ji Myo-hwa.
But it was said that no one other than Jeong Yeon-shin had ended his life—a story that had even spread to Xi’an.
Jeong Jung-san had once reunited with his now White-ranked brother at Ipwang Fortress. He struggled to believe the rumors.
But it wasn’t something he could dismiss outright.
He had seen his younger brother’s martial prowess and talent, once scorned and ridiculed. The strike that decapitated the Eight-Horned Fiend Sword had displayed extraordinary skill.
Even if Jeong Yeon-shin had collaborated with the likes of Sword Dragon, Martial Spirit Fist, or Precipice Blade, his abilities were undeniable.
Jung-san had thought his brother’s fame would eventually echo through the martial world. It simply happened sooner than expected.
As time passed, even those feats seemed modest.
“Merchants from Sichuan brought strange tales. They said the Ten Front Sect and the Sunmaren faction are practically destroyed, reducing the flow of goods.”
“Considering how much luxury the apostate factions indulged in, it’s clear they drained the region’s resources. If anything, the commoners in Sichuan must be praising their downfall, even if the traders complain.”
“Many high-level martial artists have died. The Fiendish Sword of the Ten Front Sect fell to the Tang Lord, while Sunmaren’s Divine Beast, Sword Scorpion Devil, and Blade Fist Demon were all slain by the Ipwang Fortress’s Seomye. They say Sichuan’s martial world is undergoing a transformation.”
“Seomye? Isn’t he the boy who fiercely contended with the Blue Qilin? Surely that’s just an exaggerated rumor.”
“Well... they’re calling him Ma Gwang-Ikju now. The accounts are likely true. His actions as Ipwang Fortress’s youngest squad leader are well-documented. Small merchant guilds are often better at gathering intelligence than most martial sects.”
“Even so, how can one believe such claims? Unless you’re from Sichuan or Ho-guang, everyone knows how hard it is to rise in martial arts. Ipwang Fortress must be using this young prodigy as a figurehead.”
“Well, we’ll see. They say Ma Gwang-Ikju is participating in the Gepa Daetjeon.”
This conversation drifted from a bustling marketplace in Xi’an.
The city below Mount Zhongnan was enormous, teeming with life. Merchants carried goods, porters moved supplies, and the streets bustled with gossip.
Amid this lively scene, Jeong Jung-san overheard the talk about his brother.
‘It’s no baseless rumor,’ he thought.
Stopping mid-stride, he resisted the urge to chastise the fabric shopkeeper dismissing his brother’s accomplishments.
It was shameful to act like an elder brother now. The gap between a mere Zhongnan Sect disciple and the youngest lord of Ipwang Fortress, Ma Gwang-Ikju, was insurmountable.
Jung-san felt a growing sense of debt to his younger brother. Jeong Yeon-shin had elevated the prestige of both the Zhongnan Sect and the Jeong family.
He should be standing up for his brother, yet memories of his own past actions weighed heavily.
‘Damn it.’
Seven years ago, during a village celebration organized by the Jeong family, he had kicked a bowl of noodles out of his ten-year-old brother’s hands and sent him off in disgrace.
— Do you want to join in? You’re pathetic. Go practice the Jeong family techniques, wasn’t it called Jeong Ga-donggong?
He remembered his own cruel words vividly.
The other children, emboldened by Jung-san’s actions, joined in mocking the youngest son of the Jeong family.
It was Jeong Yeon-shin’s tenth birthday. Their father had gathered the villagers to bless the fields and dispel the misfortune of a child born under the wrong omens.
While the villagers feasted on food and drink, they praised the head of the Jeong family.
Even Jung-san, playing the role of a leader among the village children, had joined in the revelry.
But that was only one incident among many. Worse events had been frequent.
Now, those memories burned like a hellish regret.
As he immersed himself in the rigorous teachings of the Zhongnan Sect, his shame and remorse only deepened.
He suspected that even the people of Xin Ya-hyun, their hometown, were nervously wondering when the lord of Ipwang Fortress would pass through.
“Some say Namgung’s heir aids Ma Gwang-Ikju. Perhaps much of the credit belongs to Tae Yeom-ryong,” someone speculated in the market.
“Even if Seomye truly is Ma Gwang-Ikju, there’s still a gap in age and experience,” countered another.
Despite Jeong Jung-san’s turmoil, the shopkeepers continued discussing his brother’s exploits.
Rumors about martial heroes were the ultimate entertainment for common folk.
Just then, the fabric merchant clad in green fell to the ground.
His neatly tailored green robes stirred up a cloud of dust. A chilling woman’s voice accompanied the sudden collapse.
“There is no exaggeration in the tales of Ma Gwang-Ikju Seomye.”
The voice came from beside Jeong Jung-san.
Before he could fully comprehend the situation, he felt a sharp sting at the back of his neck, and his vision blurred.
Though he possessed the inner energy of the Tai’e Heart Technique (太乙心功), sleepiness overcame him.
The last thing he saw was the merchant bowing frantically and the apologetic cries of another man. Then darkness consumed him.
When he awoke, he found himself lying somewhere unfamiliar.
“Rise.”
A cold, commanding voice pierced his foggy mind.
With a sudden jolt of energy, his senses sharpened. Whoever had spoken had momentarily stimulated his internal energy to awaken him—a terrifying display of skill.
“Ah...”
With a groggy groan, Jeong Jung-san opened his eyes, his vision blurring as the strands of short gray hair brushing his line of sight came into focus.
Before him, a woman stood with an air of absolute dominance. At her waist, a dark blade emanated a palpable, terrifying aura. It was a weapon so infused with its master’s spirit that it seemed to devour the light around it, a sinister artifact forged through extraordinary skill and power.
Her presence was unlike anything Jeong Jung-san had encountered before. The very energy radiating from her was sharp, piercing his skin like physical needles.
She was undoubtedly one of the world’s rare elite—perhaps from the old sects, the Eight Noble Families, or the Thirteen Heavens. There was no other explanation for the sheer magnitude of her aura.
This woman, who had dragged him here against his will, was a transcendent martial artist who tread the heavens.
“Are you Jeong Jung-san, the son of Jeong Dae-myung?” she asked, her voice cold and sharp as frost under an autumn sun. “Lie to me, and I’ll perform bun-geun-chak-gol on you.”
Her words sent an icy chill down his spine.
Bun-geun-chak-gol—the dislocation of muscles and the shattering of bones—was a torturous technique known to only the most fearsome masters. Victims would feel their flesh and bones being forcibly torn apart, yet the use of internal energy ensured they remained conscious and unable to escape into unconsciousness.
‘This is insane...!’
The situation was unfathomable. A hostile martial artist of this caliber towering over him in a back alley? Panic gripped his chest, soon giving way to a suffocating terror that seized his thoughts.
“...Yes,” he croaked, his voice strained as though squeezed from his throat.
The woman’s eyes narrowed, her expression unreadable. “There’s some resemblance...”
Her words trailed off, and her sharp gaze lingered on him with faint suspicion.
“Bloodlines are such strange things,” she muttered to herself, her lips curling slightly as if pondering an unspoken thought. Then, her focus snapped back to him, her tone sharp and commanding.
“I order you—tell me everything you know about Seomye Jeong Yeon-shin’s childhood.”
***
It was a bright day, the sunlight casting a serene blue over the sky.
The group of envoys gathered beneath the expansive heavens outside Ipwang Fortress had multiplied tenfold.
Even the contingent of the Cheonrim Squad was outnumbered, and the farewell attendees were even greater in number.
Some among them had come under the instruction of the Zhuge Clan’s leader to observe and evaluate Seomye’s martial arts.
Jeong Yeon-shin had diligently participated in sparring matches with these individuals, studying their martial techniques with great care.
Their contributions had filled the pages of his Pabaek Chongram manual, and yet they still regarded Ma Gwang-Ikju with favor.
The status of being the lord of Ipwang Fortress had afforded him such respect. His humility, even in such a high position, had left a strong impression.
Among the many masters who approached him with courteous greetings were the lord of Cheongil Gate in Fujian and Seop Un-cheol, his first opponent in the Gepa Daetjeon.
“We will protect the commoners of our region, so we may not bring shame to you, Lord.”
“Though unrelated to my brother-in-law’s matters, I deeply admire you. May you thrive.”
Jeong Yeon-shin returned their gestures with raised hands, though his attention frequently shifted to Namgung Hwa-shin.
The White Qilin, who had once seen his elder brother’s corpse, had a distant, contemplative look on his face, lost in thought.
How must he feel as a younger brother?
Jeong Yeon-shin couldn’t relate, having no particular attachment to his own elder brother, Jeong Jung-san.
Perhaps I should seek advice from Senior Ak.
Trusting in the one person he found most reliable among his subordinates, Jeong Yeon-shin reminded himself of his new responsibilities as the leader of a martial faction.
With Namgung Hwa-shin returning to his role as Suncheon Ikju, it would be some time before they crossed paths again. There was much to consider.
Upon returning to the main fortress, he needed to reorganize Ma Gwang-Ik’s structure and strengthen its forces.
The journey back would pass quickly, and preparations to replenish the depleted ranks of Blue-ranked warriors and to train the nameless disciples required careful thought.
Competition among the lords was fierce, it was said. The achievements of subordinates were directly tied to the prestige and accomplishments of their leaders.
Surely, missions won’t always be assigned to small teams, he mused.
As these thoughts occupied him, a voice broke his concentration.
“Thank you.”
Standing before him was Ak Ye-rim of the Shandong Ak Clan.
Her disheveled hair spilled over the white shoulders of her robe, and the spear slung across her back moved loosely with each breath she took.
She raised her hands in a formal fist-palm salute toward Jeong Yeon-shin. Her tone carried a newfound sincerity.
“I, Ak Ye-rim, have learned much from Ma Gwang-Ikju of Ipwang Fortress. I deeply regret my foolish arrogance that disrupted your judgment.”
The body of Namgung Se-jin, the Blue Qilin, had been laid to rest in the communal graveyard of the Murim Alliance. The expansive burial ground served as the final resting place for wandering martial artists without sects or clans.
With the gaze of the Sword Saint of Menghui shifted toward a more positive outlook, no further unpleasant incidents would arise.
The Namgung family had been unable to claim the body, for it was entangled in one of the most disgraceful events in their history. They could only wait for the rumors to fade.
The main gates of the Menghui headquarters bustled with countless people passing through.
Ma Gwang-Ikju’s victory at the Gepa Daetjeon was a monumental topic of discussion, not just among the commoners but among the martial artists of the league.
The sheer improbability and brilliance of his achievements had captivated attention across the land.
“Moreover, you allowed us to secure peace for the virtuous. I am endlessly grateful,” Ak Ye-rim continued, unfazed by the curious stares of those surrounding her.
Her salute shifted into a full bow, her hands coming together as she lowered her body in a gesture of profound respect.
Her demeanor was not that of a martial artist honoring a superior but of a person expressing genuine gratitude.
“May you find success,” Jeong Yeon-shin offered, keeping his response brief.
He returned her gesture with a fist-palm salute of his own, masking the awkwardness he felt.
He hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with Ak Ye-rim, even during their time traveling together to Seobong-ro. As the lord of Ipwang Fortress, he refrained from showing any outward discomfort.
Next to approach was Seonryong Zhuge Hyeon.
The sight of him stirred a subtle warmth in Jeong Yeon-shin’s gaze.
In an instant, his expression changed, his eyes reflecting an unmistakable favor.
Visit freewёbnoνel.com for the best novel reading experience.