Ju Yeon-jeong had overstepped.
Her aspirations were lofty, her ambitions relentless. After the lineage of the Ma Clan had been secured, it would naturally fall to Ma Se-in, her son, to ascend to the seat of the family head. As the mother of the heir, Ju Yeon-jeong’s influence would have reached unparalleled heights, bolstered by her imperial lineage.
Such a future could have been hers in twenty or thirty years.
But she couldn’t wait.
Impatience gripped her heart, and with Ma Yeon-jeok showing signs of recovery, she could not allow the powers of the Grand Patriarch to reinforce the current family head.
Though a distant branch of the imperial bloodline, Ju Yeon-jeong was still royalty. Power and control over relationships were everything to her.
She was meticulous in her thoughts but impulsive in her actions. Her personality was such that she could not bear to lose or to be undermined.
Having lived as royalty in a world sharply divided by class and status, she knew the sting of suppression as a minor branch of the imperial family. Yet this distance from the throne also gave her a unique freedom that the direct line lacked.
Her focus was always on immediate gains, even within Ipwang Fortress.
Then she encountered Seomye—an unforeseen variable. And she faced the consequences of her karma.
"Did you say there are... many Ju Clans?"
Despite coughing up blood, Ju Yeon-jeong’s anger flared.
As her martial strength crumbled, the pride of her station as royalty outweighed her concern for her martial arts.
Her face twisted with rage, lines forming at her brow and lips.
"You dare to speak the imperial surname so lightly—!"
"I no longer care to listen."
Ma Yeon-jeok’s response was curt.
Woom!
A ripple of invisible energy radiated from his pointing finger, aimed directly at Ju Yeon-jeong.
This time, his strike was visible—a deliberate punishment, ensuring no chance of recovery as a martial artist.
The ripple expanded like a wave of clear water, cutting through the air and striking Ju Yeon-jeong squarely in the chest.
Blood trickling from her chin scattered under the weight of the impact.
Boom!
The Grand Patriarch’s strike was unrelenting.
Having destroyed her lower dantian, he now targeted her middle dantian, as he had warned. The translucent energy emanating from his finger burrowed into her chest, striking the Jade Hall Point (옥당혈) with precise force.
It was a terrifying blow—a combination of techniques that resonated with the finesse of a celestial attack and the devastating power of internal energy disruption.
Ju Yeon-jeong had no choice but to endure it.
"Keugh!"
She coughed violently, blood spraying from her lips in a torrent. The pain was far worse than when her lower dantian was shattered.
Her Stomach Meridian of Foot-Yangming (족양명위경) had been torn asunder at its core. Though the strike focused solely on her middle dantian, the damage extended perilously close to her carotid artery, causing her blood pressure to surge.
The agony was unbearable, her body wracked with spasms, gasping as though she were about to suffocate.
Ma Yeon-jeok clenched his bony fingers into a fist.
"As you said, you are royalty. Be grateful for your bloodline. I will not kill you. But..."
His voice burned like embers.
"From this moment on, Ju Yeon-jeong, you are confined as the mother of Ma Se-in. You will no longer interfere in the affairs of this family. You will be imprisoned in the clan’s penitentiary and given two meals a day—breakfast and lunch. Your evenings will remain empty, ensuring that you end each day in complete regret. The pain will etch itself into your soul and endure for the rest of your days. This decree will be written into the family’s laws so that even when Se-in assumes leadership, it cannot be overturned."
It was a final judgment.
The life of Ju Yeon-jeong, the martial artist, had ended. Her body slumped, and the faint remnants of her energy dissipated.
The strength she had built through the imperial martial art of Golden Thread Eight Techniques (금선팔법) unraveled, spilling into the air with the dense concentration of one who had relied on potent elixirs for cultivation.
The grass beneath her feet turned opaque and dark as the dissipated energy stained the earth.
Finally, realization dawned upon her.
The crushing weight of reality descended like the chill of early winter moonlight upon her skin.
The overwhelming pain, akin to torture, came hand in hand with a coldness that seeped into her being.
A once-arrogant figure had been utterly dismantled by a far greater power. Piece by piece, she had been torn apart, leaving her with nothing.
Her unfocused gaze reflected her shattered soul.
The Ju Yeon-jeong of the imperial family and the martial artist Ju Yeon-jeong had both plummeted into an abyss from which there was no return.
The process had been so absolute, so inescapable, that it left her in complete despair.
In his prime, Ma Yeon-jeok, the Grand Patriarch, was revered as a god among mortals. That reverence would remain unchanged.
"And now," he continued.
His words were directed not at Ju Yeon-jeong but at the martial artists of the Ma Clan, who knelt with their heads pressed to the ground.
The twenty vassals around Ju Yeon-jeong, as well as the dozen martial artists standing awkwardly nearby, felt Ma Yeon-jeok’s piercing gaze sweep over them.
The corners of his lips curled downward.
"You treacherous scum. Shouldn’t you also pay for your crimes? You know well the sins you’ve committed, don’t you?"
His youthful face bore an ancient tone, his voice carrying the weight of a bygone era.
The juxtaposition of his youthful appearance and aged mannerisms was not jarring—it was the mystery of Jianghu. His question, though rhetorical, was imbued with force.
Once again, a ripple of his energy surged outward. It was dominating power, the very embodiment of supremacy.
With each word he spoke, the air distorted, and dust rose from the ground.
"...We have no excuses," murmured Ma Jin, a martial artist clad in green robes.
Ma Jin turned to face Ma Yeon-jeok, kneeling as he had when the Grand Patriarch approached Ju Yeon-jeong.
He bowed deeply once more, his hands resting neatly on his knees, exuding the dignity of a noble martial artist.
Ma Jin then glanced briefly at Jeong Yeon-shin and bowed his head before looking up at Ma Yeon-jeok.
"We have witnessed the grace of the Grand Patriarch. His benevolence is undeniable. We have sinned by coveting the Golden Thread Eight Techniques, and we now see the error of our ways. We accept any punishment."
"Destroy your lower and middle dantians," Ma Yeon-jeok ordered.
The gathered martial artists were figures who had dedicated their lives to the pursuit of martial arts. For them, the euphoria of honing their bodies and accumulating superhuman strength was unparalleled—even beyond the allure of opium.
To destroy their dantians was a fate worse than death.
Yet Ma Yeon-jeok’s command, delivered so casually, carried no room for negotiation. It was the ultimate condemnation, severing their paths as martial artists.
One of the Ma Clan’s vassals hesitated, his body trembling, while others who had once stood by Ju Yeon-jeong turned pale, their faces frozen in terror.
But those of the Ma Clan who had seen their family’s long-cherished aspirations fulfilled accepted the command without hesitation.
"Carry it out," Ma Yeon-jeok declared.
The directive was short, and the response was immediate.
"Urgh!"
"Keugh!"
Twenty men began coughing up blood. They had reversed their internal energy flow themselves.
The fierce waves of qi tore through their dantians, ripping them apart. It was a characteristic of the domineering martial arts cultivated within the renowned martial family.
Having received the command from the fully returned Grand Elder, they didn’t hesitate to destroy themselves as martial artists.
A hellscape unfolded.
The garden's verdant leaves became stained with splashes of blood. Those who could no longer hold themselves upright began to stumble and collapse, one after another.
Among those kneeling and bowing, a young man trembled.
He was Ma Woong, a white-robed warrior who had been subdued by Cheongmyeong while on guard duty. Though he had prepared himself, fear now overtook him.
"Now... now I must destroy my dantian..."
At that moment.
Suddenly, his eyes met those of someone.
The esteemed Ma Gwang-ik was gazing down at him in silence.
***
Mount Zhongnan is one of Taoism's sacred origins.
Its ridges stretched gracefully, a natural spine dividing the north and south of Shaanxi.
Along its gently rolling peaks lay Taoist temples and Buddhist monasteries, their halls blending with the mountain’s pure, spiritual aura.
But not today.
Thick plumes of smoke rose from various points along the ridgeline, mingling with blazing wildfires.
The inferno burned fiercely, its orange flames radiating an intense heat and roaring presence.
The fires had raged for a long time, a testament to an extraordinary disturbance.
"Your intentions... are pitifully shallow."
The man who spoke had a striking appearance. His sharp, blade-like ears were unmistakable.
Blood seeped through the torn yellow robe he wore in patches. He sat slumped among the fragments of shattered tiles.
This was Goo Yang-shin, known as the Western Sword Duke.
He was the sect leader of the Zhongnan Sect, an unparalleled master of the blade. By his side lay a sword, yet its presence felt incongruous given the state of its owner.
"You must have carefully monitored the spiritual currents of this mountain," he remarked, looking up at the man standing with his back to the flames.
The shadows dancing on Goo Yang-shin’s face flickered unnaturally, distorted by the inferno behind the figure before him.
It gave the silhouette a grotesque vitality, as if it were alive, intoxicated by the heat.
Though Goo Yang-shin had painted the man's body with blood during their duel, his foe's stance was unnervingly stable.
As the sect leader of one of the Nine Great Schools, Goo Yang-shin was not one to be taken down easily. Even against the strongest foes, his mastery ensured that the outcome would never be entirely one-sided.
And this was no exception. Their fates had been decided in the span of a single strike.
"Did you plan this attack right after my senior master’s ascension? Do you feel no shame as the leader of a demonic cult? Even with such profound swordsmanship?" Goo Yang-shin asked, his voice faltering as it weakened.
Instead of a reply, there came a low chuckle. The shadowed figure's laughter was hoarse, like it emanated from the depths of a cavern.
"Zhongnan Sword Immortal," murmured the Blade Lord, recalling the elderly master once heralded as a deity of the sword.
"He didn’t ascend to immortality," the Blade Lord continued.
The so-called ascension of the Zhongnan Sword Immortal had been a fallacy. Overwhelmed by the celestial energy piercing down from the heavens, his upper dantian had failed to contain its might, and he perished.
What ambition had driven such a highly cultivated man to succumb?
No disciple of the Zhongnan Sect had been willing to divulge the truth.
The Blade Lord found it both absurd and lamentable. He had briefly considered cutting them all down, but refrained.
At that moment, Goo Yang-shin’s lips quivered as he spoke.
"The legacy of this sect will endure. You may shatter Zhongnan's gates and defile its plaques, but the spiritual essence of this mountain is beyond your reach. That is your limit."
"Are you speaking of the disciples you’ve sent away?"
The Blade Lord’s shadowed face barely moved, his lips parting ever so slightly.
"I know. That’s why I ordered them captured. Two in particular—Wee Ji-myohwa, the Sword Dragon, and Jeong-hye, the last direct disciple of the Sword Immortal.
The girl whom the Immortal treasured in his twilight years is said to carry the bloodline of the current Ma Gwang-ik-ju.
So, you are inviting the interference of Yip Hwang Fortress, are you not?"
"...!"
"Your swordsmanship was magnificent. Now die."
The Blade Lord moved his hand, grasping the hilt of his weapon.
Whoosh.
The enormous greatsword shimmered, its blade merging with the fiery shadows as if it were part of the inferno itself.
***
Jeong Yeon-shin moved toward Ma Gwang-ik's residence, accompanied by his senior subordinates.
"This will shake the foundation of the clan."
"Chief, do you have expertise in medicine?"
"That's not it. Haven't we seen the honing of martial arts before? The essence of his inner energy must have always been extraordinary."
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"To think the Patriarch reversed aging... I was so stunned I couldn't move."
"Perhaps this might ease the pressure for a bit."
"Don't be so optimistic. The world is vast, and there are still only two individuals at the Violet Rank."
"Who knows how the royal court will react to this?"
Their conversations were not without merit. Jeong Yeon-shin silently agreed.
What his grandfather, Ma Yeon-jeok, had done was no ordinary feat. Ju Yeon-jeong, although a collateral relative, was still a legitimate member of the royal family.
Even if Ma Yeon-jeok's actions were justified by reason, there were still discussions to be had with the imperial court.
The Ju family name carried immense prestige.
The Ming Dynasty was an empire that valued the dignity of the royal family above all else.
Ju Yeon-jeong, married into the Ip Hwang Fortress, would undoubtedly have been under the watchful eye of the imperial court.
Though they could not punish Ma Yeon-jeok, who had regained his youth, there was no telling how they might exploit this situation. To this end, Ma Yeon-jeok sought to shield his grandson from the inevitable political disputes.
Before parting, he left behind a warm remark:
"I will find a way to empower you. No matter what it takes, I will see you don the Violet Robe. However... forgive this foolish old man for failing to manage his retainers."
"As long as you are well, that is enough."
"Yeon-shin, may I embrace you once?"
"That would not be appropriate."
Jeong Yeon-shin recalled his curt reply. He had answered reflexively, aware of the many eyes around them.
He could still see his grandfather's lion-like intensity dissolve into an awkward yet affectionate expression.
"May you live long and healthy, Grandfather."
The warmth lingered in his heart, even as the massive gates of Ma Gwang-ik's residence creaked open, revealing two nameless disciples.
"Master, members of the Blood Guard have arrived," said Baek Sun-wook, a broad-shouldered 17-year-old disciple who had been devotedly practicing the Shihwa Muguk Fist.
"The Blood Guard?" Jeong Yeon-shin asked, puzzled.
The gates fully opened, and the visitors approached.
A man and a woman, both clad in azure robes, stepped forward.
They must have been waiting for quite some time, refraining from entering the inner quarters.
"We are Na Il-cheon (羅佚阡) and Pung Ran (楓瀾) of the Blood Guard," the man introduced.
Both bore a striking resemblance to Jin Myeong-jo, the leader of the Blood Guard. Their pale complexions and sharp, delicate facial features were reminiscent of her. Even their formal gestures exuded an elegant demeanor, blending an aura of authority and refinement.
The woman, Pung Ran, with a thin, curved blade strapped to her back, spoke next.
"The Blood Guard Commander has ordered Ma Gwang-ik to be dispatched. We have brought a message as well."
She handed over a scroll, delicately wrapped in white silk, meticulously sealed. Its immaculate finish was almost reverent.
"What?" Jeong Yeon-shin exclaimed, caught off guard.
Before he could process the situation, another commotion erupted in the distance.
"Is the master of the Pa-Baek Chong-Ram present in the residence?"
A booming voice resounded, shaking the air like a lion's roar.
The sheer force of the voice made the gate's handles tremble.
It was Hahoe Wi-jin’s voice.
The fiery momentum of the great masters of Ip Hwang Fortress swept over the area, an unmistakable presence preceding their arrival.
It was not just one or two individuals.