The question seemed curt, almost abrupt.
It gave the impression of a headstrong youth, brimming with the impetuosity of adolescence. But to those who understood the underlying intricacies, it was anything but that.
Even from a distance, Gal Do-jin could perceive the unfathomable skill behind the gesture. The dissolving wooden cup was no clumsy show of brute force, nor was it an accident. Whatever this young man had just done—disintegrating an object into fine dust within seconds—it wasn’t an ordinary feat.
‘To think... he accomplished that with pure internal energy? No, impossible.’
If this display was indeed martial artistry, then it bordered on the supernatural. It would rival techniques only whispered about in the realms of immortal sects or grand martial clans—methods impossible to achieve without years of cultivation and mastery.
‘His attire bears no discernible markings. Even the inner sleeves of his black cloak are plain. Did he choose such unremarkable clothes intentionally?’
A flicker of light passed through Gal Do-jin’s sharp gaze. Whoever this young man was, he couldn’t be an ordinary drifter. His air of precision and mastery revealed him to be someone far beyond a common wanderer. This was no mere vagrant but someone likely hailing from a prestigious and secretive sect.
Nearby, So Yu-rang, Gal Do-jin’s sworn brother, could only stammer in disbelief.
“W-what...?”
The unorthodox world followed the simple law of survival of the fittest. So Yu-rang was no fool; he was a prodigious talent who had mastered the Guhyang Ilshik, an art stolen from Zhongnan. He was sharp and quick-witted, accustomed to discerning power dynamics in an instant. Yet, processing what he had just witnessed was another matter entirely.
“Did he just...?”
So Yu-rang’s heels hesitated for a brief second, a flicker of uncertainty causing him to falter. He tried to compose himself, but for the first time, he found himself unsure of how to act.
Such was the nature of the unorthodox martial world—a place raw and unfiltered, ruled by instincts and primal survival. The weak lived and died at the mercy of the strong. For a brief moment, So Yu-rang wondered—was he, in this moment, the weak one?
The boy seated before him was his peer in age, yet had, with nonchalant ease, exhibited a technique that erased a wooden cup without leaving a trace. It wasn’t just strange; it was outright surreal. Could this even be called martial arts? What if it was a sorcery or spell? Did it matter? The result was the same—So Yu-rang had seen the outcome, and it was enough to shake him.
As he wavered, a low voice broke through his hesitation.
“You,” said the boy, Jeong Yeon-shin, his tone calm but commanding.
“I’ve heard you’ve mastered Guhyang Ilshik.”
Both So Yu-rang and Gal Do-jin stiffened at the words. Did this stranger come here for that?
It wouldn’t be surprising. The Guhyang Ilshik was an unparalleled sword art, a legacy left behind by a legendary master. It was said to have been created by a grand sword elder of Zhongnan who, despite receiving a strike from the Ipwang Fortress Lord’s blade, had managed to survive. Such was its fame and significance that even Zhongnan, despite its lofty reputation, had shamelessly included it in their successor’s curriculum.
Thud.
Gal Do-jin began moving closer, his eyes narrowing.
‘Who is he? Could he be from the So Baek Sect? No... there’s no record of anyone that young and skilled coming from their ranks.’
The allure of martial techniques knew no boundaries. It transcended sects, loyalties, and even ethics. It wasn’t strange for someone to be dispatched from any faction—especially for a technique as coveted as Guhyang Ilshik.
Xi’an was vast, and in the aftermath of Zhongnan’s fall, it had become a magnet for opportunists. Everyone wanted a piece of what had once been Zhongnan’s vast trove of techniques and treasures.
Breaking his silence, Gal Do-jin addressed the stranger. “May I ask which sect you represent? I am Gal Do-jin of Sungyeoji Gate.”
The boy answered simply, repeating what he had said earlier. “I hear that he has mastered Guhyang Ilshik.”
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The tone was calm, almost indifferent. Yet the slight tilt of his chin, the confident posture—it all came together in a way that felt almost regal. His refined features made it all the more striking.
“I asked you a question. Answer it,” Jeong Yeon-shin commanded.
The voice, soft yet resonating, carried through the room like a breeze against stone walls. It demanded compliance, brushing aside the presence of two seasoned martial artists as if they were insignificant.
The inn fell eerily silent, the glow of the hanging lanterns casting long, still shadows across the space. Such an audacious scene—where a stranger treated Sungyeoji Gate’s finest like mere bystanders—was beyond comprehension for those who called Xi’an home.
“Who... is he?”
“Could he be an assassin from So Baek Sect? Here to take on Sungyeoji Gate?”
Murmurs spread among a few of the inn’s guests. Xi’an was no stranger to martial artists, but even the bravest were cautious in the face of unorthodox sects and their reign of terror.
“An assassin? What kind of assassin walks in so openly?”
“Isn’t an unseen killer the very definition of an assassin? You wouldn’t notice them until it’s too late.”
“Well, perhaps he’s a shadow agent... but even then, could he truly match the unorthodox sects? It seems unlikely.”
The quiet tension in the inn felt suffocating.
Gal Do-jin found himself at a rare loss for words. The overwhelming presence of this young man stifled even his thoughts. He furrowed his brow in frustration, berating himself for the lapse in his composure.
Jeong Yeon-shin’s faint smirk cut through the silence.
“Is your throat sturdy enough?” he asked, his tone laced with a cold amusement.
Seated casually in his worn chair, he tilted his head slightly to meet So Yu-rang’s gaze. Despite looking up, there was an undeniable sense that he was looking down on him.
It was a demeanor that could only belong to someone born into arrogance, a natural display of superiority.
Gal Do-jin’s thoughts raced. Could he be a disciple of the unorthodox sects? Perhaps even a noble scion of the Bloodflame Cult? His disposition certainly fits the profile of someone from the Thirteen Heavens...
As Gal Do-jin mulled over the possibilities, Jeong Yeon-shin spoke again, his voice sharp and deliberate.
“I’ve asked you two questions now, yet you haven’t answered either.”
Slowly, he rose from his seat.
Both So Yu-rang and Gal Do-jin flinched involuntarily.
The black hem of Jeong Yeon-shin’s cloak fluttered faintly as he moved. The soft rustling of fabric was unnervingly crisp, cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade.
Inwardly, Jeong Yeon-shin recalled the Bloodflame Cult masters and the Great Flame Dragon from his days at Ipwang Fortress. He deliberately adjusted his tone, suppressing any resemblance to the martial lord’s domineering presence.
“You force me to adhere to Xi’an’s rules,” he said, his voice taking on a lofty, almost disdainful edge. The phrase felt oddly fitting in his mouth, though he found the notion irritating—perhaps the lingering influence of the Great Flame Dragon’s vanity.
Suppressing his musings, he added softly, “Pathetic.”
He raised his right arm, suppressing the energy of his Radiant Wheel Technique before it spiraled through his veins.
The movement was so swift and precise that it seemed almost effortless.
Crack!
In one fluid motion, Jeong Yeon-shin grabbed So Yu-rang by the back of his head, his grip firm and unyielding. The younger man’s eyes widened in shock, unable to track the speed of the attack.
A gust of wind surged through the inn, briefly shaking the lanterns overhead. To Jeong Yeon-shin, it was barely a ripple, but to everyone else, it was a terrifying display of raw, unrestrained power.
“An expert...!” someone gasped.
Gal Do-jin slammed his foot onto the ground, his orange robe billowing loudly with the motion. He used his forward movement as though it were lightfooted technique, surging toward Jeong Yeon-shin with alarming speed.
It was as though his instincts as a member of the unorthodox martial world had kicked in—seeing his sworn brother’s life in danger compelled him to act without hesitation.
Srring!
The trajectory of his unsheathing sword was uncharacteristically straightforward for one of the unorthodox sects. He thrust the blade directly, aiming with precision and intent to skewer his target.
The edge of the blade carried a dark, crimson stain, as if the weapon was treated as nothing more than a disposable tool—a fitting choice for someone in the unorthodox world.
Crack.
While observing Gal Do-jin’s charge, Jeong Yeon-shin tightened his grip on the writhing So Yu-rang’s head. His grasp exuded an overwhelming force that rendered So Yu-rang’s desperate struggle futile. Even So Yu-rang’s subtle protective energy was no match for Jeong Yeon-shin’s unrelenting strength.
At that moment, Gal Do-jin’s sword thrust reached within inches of Jeong Yeon-shin’s throat. The sound of his robes flapping filled the air, a testament to his properly honed martial arts.
Jeong Yeon-shin reacted by swinging the back of his left hand. The motion, deliberate and precise, parted the air between his fingers, creating a sharp, audible hiss.
Clang—!
His strike collided perfectly with the flat of Gal Do-jin’s blade. The impact reverberated from the sword’s body back to the hilt, causing the weapon to swerve violently off course. Gal Do-jin barely managed to maintain his grip on the blade, but the momentum of his charge carried him too close for comfort.
Jeong Yeon-shin met Gal Do-jin’s startled expression with a cold, calculating gaze. It was as he anticipated—the reaction of a lesser warrior caught off-guard.
To a true master, the limitations of an opponent’s skills and mindset are as clear as day. For someone like Jeong Yeon-shin, whose every fiber was steeped in the essence of martial supremacy, the flaws in Gal Do-jin’s attack were nothing short of predictable.
“Look up at me from below, wretch,” Jeong Yeon-shin said coldly.
From the Yongcheon point of his right foot, energy surged violently. His movements were precise yet fluid, almost as though he had simply allowed gravity to dictate his actions. With explosive force, he kicked Gal Do-jin directly in the abdomen.
Gal Do-jin, in an act of desperation, crossed his arms to create an internal energy barrier. The protective layer barely softened the blow before Jeong Yeon-shin’s foot crushed it. The sharp crack of the barrier breaking resounded as if tearing through sheets of paper.
Boom!
The kick landed squarely in the center of Gal Do-jin’s torso, the impact traveling through his body like a shockwave. The sheer force of the blow was amplified by Jeong Yeon-shin’s Chongga Martial Energy, accelerating its effect to devastating speeds.
Jeong Yeon-shin felt the sensation vividly through the sole of his foot—the vibrations of energy coursing through Gal Do-jin’s internal pathways until he vomited blood.
Retracting his leg with the grace of a calligrapher’s brushstroke, Jeong Yeon-shin ensured his robes remained unstained. The elegance of his movement was almost artistic, a testament to his discipline and control.
The spectators, however, were left dumbstruck. The scene before them was a violent symphony of destruction and domination.
Utensils clattered to the floor, jaws hung open in disbelief, and hurried whispers filled the air. A few patrons hastily gathered their belongings, keen to leave before they were drawn into the chaos.
“So this is the infamous 'thrilling fights' of the lowly ones, hmm?” Jeong Yeon-shin muttered dismissively, his words laced with disdain.
He glanced down at the trembling So Yu-rang, still caught in his iron grip. The boy’s terrified eyes revealed no inkling of recognition.
It seemed the disguise was working. Even in a place as vast and treacherous as the martial world, few could recognize the faces of those in the upper echelons of power. After all, portraits of supreme masters were closely guarded secrets.
‘The transformation is effective,’ Jeong Yeon-shin thought to himself. ‘Even if my age seems peculiar, they won’t make the connection unless I give them reason to.’
He recalled the advice of Majin from the letter he had received before embarking on this mission:
“Avoid relying on false appearances or masks. Skilled martial artists will see through them. You won’t need them anyway. Embrace boldness in your words and demeanor, and they’ll mistake you for one of the heirs to the unorthodox Thirteen Heavens. Both your uncle and grandfather mastered this approach. You have the temperament for it as well, from what I’ve observed. Be bold. Trust in your instincts. Good luck.”
It was a peculiar piece of advice, yet one he couldn’t dismiss outright.
‘Follow my instincts, huh?’ Jeong Yeon-shin mused.
Lifting his head naturally, the angle of his chin exposed his sharp jawline. The soft glow of the lantern above cast a fiery halo of light on his striking features.
“Name,” he commanded curtly.
“S-So... So Yu-rang,” the boy stammered, his lips trembling uncontrollably. He couldn’t even bring himself to glance at the sight of his sworn brother sprawled on the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Jeong Yeon-shin’s indifferent tone cut through him like ice.
“So Yu-rang of Sungyeoji Gate. Now, tell me—how did you come to master Zhongnan’s Guhyang Ilshik?”
“...If you came here alone, you won’t leave this place alive,” So Yu-rang replied, his voice shaking. “The martial world of Xi’an is vast and treacherous. The fallen remnants of Zhongnan’s legacy have only heightened the tensions here. Even if the unorthodox sects fight among themselves, they unite fiercely against external threats.”
Though his voice quivered, So Yu-rang managed to string together a coherent argument. He wasn’t merely pleading for his life; he was negotiating, appealing to the survival instincts of his captor.
Calming himself further, he continued, “The unorthodox sects are united under powerful alliances. Even supreme masters would struggle to survive here alone. If you were to align yourself with our faction, however, you’d gain safety and influence...”
He wasn’t entirely wrong. Many revered martial masters had established small sects, finding it nearly impossible to exist as lone wolves. The unyielding hostility of the martial world often demanded alliances and safe havens.
But before So Yu-rang could continue his proposition, a voice interrupted from outside the inn.
“What a show. You’ve stirred up quite the commotion.”
The words were casual, yet carried an undeniable weight, laced with irritation.
Crash.
A section of the inn’s wall caved inward as a figure pushed through it. Dust and splinters filled the air, though they seemed to avoid the man’s pristine silk robes entirely.
He strolled forward, his disheveled hair falling messily over his face, dark circles beneath his eyes giving him the appearance of a restless ghost. Yet, the oppressive energy radiating from his body was anything but lifeless.
Jeong Yeon-shin’s grip on So Yu-rang didn’t loosen, but his gaze shifted slightly toward the newcomer.
“...Ma Gwang-ik.”