“What is this tome... Pabaek Chongram?”
Bo Hyeol Daeju Jin Myeong-jo’s eyes narrowed as he spoke. Beneath his slender lashes, a faint crimson shadow shimmered momentarily.
Swish.
For an instant, his dark irises turned blood-red before fading back to black. It was a phenomenon unlike Anbup or any other martial art—it was a visual testament to his mastery of Samhwa Chwijeong.
In this assembly, only those who had perfected their Jing-Qi-Shen were present.
To the faction leaders of Ipwang Fortress, such mastery was neither rare nor awe-inspiring. Yet Jin Myeong-jo’s background, as an outlier among the noble clans, made him an object of discomfort.
Seonmok Ryeong, Cheon So-so, and other faction leaders from the noble families cast cold glances his way but quickly turned their attention elsewhere.
Their focus shifted entirely to the Grand Commander Im Jin-myeong, who now held the attention of every pair of eyes in the hall. The tome he had produced was clearly no ordinary artifact.
“Given the context of what’s unfolding,” Hahoe Wi-jin, also known as the Heavenly Might Divine Force, broke the silence as he thoughtfully stroked his chin.
“That phrase Pabaek—it means what I suspect, doesn’t it?”
Hahoe Wi-jin’s voice resonated deeply, drawing nods from Im Jin-myeong.
“Your assumption is correct,” the Grand Commander said, brushing his fingers over the tome’s cover with an almost reverent care.
The words Pabaek Chongram etched on the cover rasped faintly under his calloused touch. Yet his movements conveyed a solemn respect, as though he held a sacred treasure.
“The world is descending into chaos,” he began. “The sects of the Murim have scattered and reformed in unpredictable ways. Everywhere, factions are springing up, their alliances shifting like sand. The signs of warlordism are ominous, and Ipwang Fortress must be prepared for what’s to come.”
The martial world had always been vast and fractured, its demands pressing heavily upon Ipwang Fortress.
Despite their strength—boasting the unparalleled might of the seventeen elite warriors of the Sword Corps—it was impossible to maintain balance across such a sprawling realm.
The rising prevalence of alliances like the Murim Alliance only exacerbated the issue.
Jin Myeong-jo, who had earlier dismissed the gathering with a sarcastic remark, now seemed to reflect deeply. Small sects conspiring in the wilderness had always been a danger, but if these groups grew stronger, the number of casualties among Ipwang Fortress warriors would undoubtedly rise.
A faint, bitter smile tugged at Jin Myeong-jo’s lips—a reflection of his quiet disdain for the state of the world.
“Consider what happened to Ma Gwang-ik,” he said, his tone measured. “The combined assault of the Tenfold Gate and Sunmaryeon left him defenseless. And it’s not just him. The Daebang Sect, desperate and fractured, could just as easily repeat the same mistakes, scattering resources and lives in the process. We cannot assume that the past won’t repeat itself. Solitary missions, smaller expeditions—they’ll only grow more dangerous. The Grand Commander is correct. Preparation is essential.”
Jin Myeong-jo spoke slowly, weighing each word.
“But Pabaek Chongram...” he continued, narrowing his eyes. “A manual for dismantling Baekdo Muak? The arrogance of whoever wrote it is astounding. I trust the Grand Commander wouldn’t bring this without reason, but the name alone inspires little confidence. It reeks of pretension—much like noble clans that inscribe ‘Bright’ into their family names to mask their lack of insight.”
Concluding his thoughts, Jin Myeong-jo lowered his gaze, deliberately avoiding the sharp stares of Seonmok Ryeong, Yullyeong Daeju, and Cheonlim Daeju.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he muttered under his breath, lightly tracing his sharp, claw-like nails—an unmistakable symbol of his mastery over Seomhyeol Jobeop.
Im Jin-myeong chuckled.
“Well, Bo Hyeol Daeju, we’ll speak again soon. Mark my words—before long, the faction leaders will be fighting for the right to study this tome. That’s precisely why transcription is forbidden. Its contents are simply too dangerous.”
“Such a shame,” Hahoe Wi-jin interrupted, smirking.
“This was the tome I’d set my sights on,” he added, gesturing toward the Grand Commander.
Hahoe Wi-jin, the Cheonlim Daeju, had once traveled alongside Ma Gwang-ik, observing firsthand the reactions of the Ipwang Fortress Lord upon encountering Pabaek Chongram.
‘She praised Seomye’s insight immediately,’ he recalled.
The Fortress Lord had not even opened the tome. Simply reading its title had elicited a rare smile. Whether it was her unparalleled intuition or faith in Seomye, he could not say.
“Bring it here,” Hahoe Wi-jin demanded, beckoning toward Im Jin-myeong.
Even as one of the senior-most leaders among the faction heads, Hahoe Wi-jin’s commanding tone was unquestioned.
Im Jin-myeong approached without resistance, handing the tome over with a calm warning.
“This is no ordinary artifact, Cheonlim Daeju. Handle it with care. Even the slightest tear could...”
Before he could finish, a hand suddenly intervened—five delicate fingers, radiating immense energy, slipped between Hahoe Wi-jin’s grasp and the tome.
Though slender and refined, the hand’s movements carried an overwhelming force, exuding the practiced grace of an unmatched Geumna Su.
The tome was deftly snatched away.
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“Shall we see what Seomye’s handwriting reveals?”
The voice belonged to Ak Su-rim, who now held Pabaek Chongram in her hands, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.
“Really, Ipwang Divine Spear? Must you always meddle?” Hahoe Wi-jin grumbled, blinking in disbelief.
“Don’t sulk, big guy. You know the fortress ranks us by skill, not size. As far as absolute techniques go, I’ve already claimed the first peek,” she replied, flipping open the tome without hesitation.
Her behavior, much like her casually swept-back jet-black bob, was sharp and to the point.
Hahoe Wi-jin, though visibly irked, did not explode with anger. Instead, he stood from his seat, leaning over to peer at the pages above Ak Su-rim’s shoulder.
“Hmm. It’s a counter-technique manual, as expected. Cheong Il-mun? What an obscure sect...”
“Stop babbling,” Ak Su-rim cut him off without looking up. “One more stray breath from you messes up my hair, and I’ll slice your ears off. This close, it wouldn’t even be hard. You know that, right?”
Her calm yet assertive tone left no room for rebuttal.
Hahoe Wi-jin pulled back slightly, hiding a faint scowl.
Still, his attention remained fixed on the tome. As Ak Su-rim turned another page, a new heading caught his eye.
“Jegal Clan. Whirlwind Endless Fan Technique.”
A heavy silence followed.
“The Whirlwind Endless Fan Technique. I’ve seen it before—used against me by Fukryong Hwan Saeng,” Hahoe Wi-jin murmured.
“Is it genuine?”
By now, Cheon So-so and Yun So-yu had joined them, leaning in to read alongside Ak Su-rim.
Even Jin Myeong-jo stood, crossing his arms as he observed from a distance.
“And Ma Gwang-ik?” Yun So-yu finally asked, her tone sharp as her gaze locked on Im Jin-myeong.
***
In the quiet garden nestled within Ipwang Fortress, the elite warriors of Ma Gwang-ik held their ground without utilizing Jingak. Behind them, within the pavilion, their faction leader remained in retreat.
Their battle tactics were deliberate—avoiding the use of forceful techniques that would produce shockwaves, lest they inadvertently harm their leader.
Wuuung!
Swish!
The resonant hum of Jin-gi accompanied by dozens of trajectories rippled through the air, their movements fluid yet restrained. Every punch and sword strike muted their presence, hiding in the wind.
It was a precise and disciplined group battle, fierce enough to be called a clash.
Their enemies were of a different nature.
Without hesitation, the adversaries allowed the cries of their swords to ring through the air. Heavy-footed steps imbued with Naegong slammed into the ground, and their strikes carried no hesitation or restraint.
Crash!
Boom!
The confrontation was as clear as it was violent.
“Ma Gwang-ik, cease your reckless actions immediately!”
“Your crude methods could harm the Grand Elder’s recovery!”
The warriors of the Ipwang Ma Clan clashed with the blue-ranked warriors of Ma Gwang-ik’s faction.
Dozens of hands produced hundreds of sword and fist trajectories. Clouds of dust spiraled upward, while the shockwaves of fists and blades collided mid-air, dispersing in colorless bursts.
At the heart of the chaos stood Ju Yeon-jeong and Baek Mi-ryeo. The two masters exchanged techniques in rapid succession.
Ju Yeon-jeong channeled Naegong into the Yangming Large Intestine Meridian—one of the twelve energy pathways extending from her shoulder to her index finger. Her forearm glimmered faintly with golden energy, a manifestation of her Golden Immortal Eight Steps.
Boom!
The golden glow collided with the dark currents of Baek Mi-ryeo’s palm strike, sending shockwaves reverberating through their hands and raising dust at their feet.
The two had already exchanged more than fifty moves. Both were on edge, their nerves frayed to the limit.
Their thoughts swirled. Was this going well? Or had something gone terribly wrong?
As the sun dipped below the horizon and twilight cast shadows beneath the pavilion’s eaves, their fierce battle continued unabated.
Each strike was driven by desperation, fueled by reasons that only they could comprehend. Their martial arts flowed with the intensity of their convictions.
Until suddenly, two uninvited figures appeared in the midst of the battlefield.
Step.
Between Ju Yeon-jeong and Baek Mi-ryeo, who had briefly paused to catch their breath, two figures emerged. A flowing black robe and soft, pale pink attire intertwined like illusions.
It was none other than Ma Gwang-ik himself, accompanied by a young man.
Ma Gwang-ik, known as Seomye, stepped forward with an impassive expression.
Boom!
With a thunderous roar, his step cracked the ground, sending fissures ripping through the garden’s shrubbery. The sheer force of his Jingak exploded outward, shaking the surroundings.
The shockwave acknowledged the silent efforts of Ma Gwang-ik’s warriors, who had suppressed their own techniques throughout the fight.
“That’s enough. Stop this now,” said Jeong Yeon-shin, hands clasped behind his back.
His voice was as clear and serene as the moonlight that kissed his chiseled jawline.
Ju Yeon-jeong’s lips twisted in frustration.
“Even if you are a faction leader, you have no authority over me. At a time when we should be attending to the Grand Elder, you dare...!”
Her words faltered as her gaze landed on the man standing beside Seomye.
He appeared to be about thirty years old, his jet-black hair hanging in a rough, unkempt bob. His lean, almost gaunt frame belied the overwhelming aura emanating from him—a presence so immense it was as if a fortress surrounded his entire being.
It was an aura that defied explanation, a transcendence beyond mere Naegong.
The intensity of his presence was almost tangible, like a raging storm encapsulated within him. A transparent mirage of energy roiled around his body, emanating waves of power.
“I am Ma Yeon-jeok,” the man declared.