From the uninvited guest draped in a blood-red cloak to the appearance of the young martial master enveloped in storm-like qi, something unimaginable had occurred in the martial world of Xian.
Was this a challenge to the established order of the demonic and unorthodox sects that governed the Jianghu?
The inn fell into a deathly silence, the only noise coming from the winter wind rattling the window frames like a frantic dancer.
The people dressed in silks that reflected the lantern light with a glossy sheen remained silent. These were individuals who could afford to visit such a high-class inn even in times of famine. Their gazes, devoid of emotion, silently fixed on the two intruders in the room.
For Tae Yeom-ryong, this was nothing out of the ordinary.
"What's with the funeral atmosphere?" he said, casually cracking his neck from side to side.
"Leader, I did some investigating," he added, using a term more fitting for a member of the unorthodox sects. He stood in the middle of the inn, its once pristine interior now wrecked by his explosive qi.
Spoons and chopsticks lay scattered across the floor, and the lanterns hanging in rows above were askew, casting dim orange light. The color eerily matched that of Tae Yeom-ryong's martial attire.
"No vacancies anywhere," he remarked nonchalantly, his tone laced with mischief.
Having changed his usual appearance, he was temporarily abstaining from his favorite opium. The notorious scion of the Hwangbo Clan, infamous for his addiction to the red petals, had grown more irritable the moment he entered Xian without anything in his mouth to chew on. The fact that he still recognized his superior was a minor miracle.
Jeong Yeon-shin frowned slightly. Judging by the shattered wall, reparations would likely be necessary. But as someone posing as a member of the unorthodox sects, handing silver to the innkeeper wasn't an option. Even sneaking it to him could backfire, as Xian’s martial world was infamous for its treacherous gossip.
"Typical of the noble clans..." Jeong thought, glancing at Tae Yeom-ryong, who stood there as if he had been born into royalty. Members of noble clans and wealthy families tended to live like this—unrestrained and impervious to change.
All Jeong could do was look at him with quiet disapproval.
Tae Yeom-ryong noticed and smirked. "I can read your thoughts, Leader. You’re good at hiding them when you have a sword in hand, though."
Ma Gwang-ik, despite his martial prowess, was notoriously terrible at reading people's thoughts. Everyone around him knew this, and Tae Yeom-ryong was no exception. "When you’re my age, you'll probably be worth watching," he thought, chuckling inwardly at his own musings.
Out loud, he said, "Let’s stay here. One place was bound to get wrecked anyway. This turned out nicely, didn’t it? You’re living up to your reputation as the Sect Leader’s favorite rising star."
"Cut the antics," Jeong said.
"Leader, why don’t you try leaving your meal half-finished? Since joining the sect, I’ve never been tortured this much," Tae Yeom-ryong replied with a sly grin.
Jeong Yeon-shin let out a quiet sigh and relaxed his furrowed brow. Almost involuntarily, his gaze shifted sideways to the subordinate who, even after turning to the dark side, remained inscrutable. He couldn’t bring himself to chastise someone who was already in pain.
He didn’t understand the agony brought on by Taeyang Shinmaek, nor the sensations opium induced. And he likely never would.
"As long as you get rid of the stench of alcohol on time," Jeong thought, shaking his head as he clenched his right hand. The hair of the rogue sect member before him gathered tightly in his grip.
The so-called prodigy of Sungyeojimun, notorious for boasting about slaughtering civilians, twitched at Jeong’s unyielding grip.
Jeong paid no mind to the reaction.
“...!”
He shoved So Yu-rang’s head aside, kicking the leg of the chair without a backrest. A short scraping sound echoed as the chair leg dragged across the wooden floor—unlike the stone of Ipwang Fortress, the wood seemed almost foreign.
For a moment, Jeong wondered how many noble families were present in Xian. Were there members of the unorthodox sects hidden among these noble clans?
"I’ve seen corrupt magistrates from the Hwangbo branch before..." Jeong muttered under his breath.
“Mokmi?” Jeong asked, referring to Jegal Cheong-ah’s alias during missions. She had earned the title for her unmatched mastery of stealth techniques among Ma Gwang-ik’s subordinates.
Tae Yeom-ryong, nicknamed Daehanryang (The Grand Idler), replied, "She’s coming with Jinje, but they’ll probably have no luck either. It seems the locals here have turned this inn into their base since they lack proper strongholds."
He lowered his tone, speaking disrespectfully of Hyeon Won-chang by calling him "younger brother."
With a swift movement, Tae Yeom-ryong placed his foot on So Yu-rang’s trembling throat. The protruding throat bone twitched under the pressure of his polished black leather boot.
"Posthumous recruits dying like flies isn’t exactly rare, is it? Do you know why that happens?" Tae Yeom-ryong sneered.
“Gaaah—!”
"It’s because they don’t know their place," he continued, his smile radiating a twisted sense of glee. "Now, tell me how you acquired that thing they call Guhyang Ilshik before I rip out your useless, blasphemous eyeballs."
The deranged grin on Tae Yeom-ryong’s face only deepened.
Suddenly, the wooden floor of the inn creaked and shook as patrons rose to their feet, abandoning their meals. The people of Xian were no strangers to martial clashes and knew when it was time to leave.
With a sense of urgency, they hastily made their way out, realizing that staying any longer would be dangerous. The room quickly grew crowded as they streamed toward the exits, dust rising from the polished floor in the commotion.
A few of them muttered excuses with strained, embarrassed faces.
“We wouldn’t want to disturb the esteemed masters here... Please, we’ll take our leave.”
“We swear on our lives, we’ll keep today’s events a secret!”
The patrons’ cautious behavior and avoidance of eye contact with the two intruders painted a vivid picture of the current state of Xian’s martial world—a world shackled by the vast, oppressive order imposed by alliances between minor sects and the unorthodox factions of Yeoryeong and the Blood Blade Sect.
Even as they left, Jeong Yeon-shin didn’t stop them. Neither did Tae Yeom-ryong, who stepped aside to let them pass, nudging So Yu-rang and Gal Do-jin with casual kicks as they crawled on the floor.
Feigning a playful smile, Tae Yeom-ryong mimicked the behavior of the Sect Leader, taking amusement in mocking Jeong Yeon-shin.
“Well.”
It was then that a sharp creak broke the silence. One of the patrons in a silk robe hesitantly opened the inn’s door.
A sudden gust of cold air blew in, causing the hem of Jeong Yeon-shin’s black robes to flutter.
The door, made of polished purple sandalwood, brushed against the fleeing patrons as they slipped out. Along with the chill came a cacophony of distant laughter and shouts—noise from the unorthodox sects in southern Xian.
Through the cracks in the doors and windows of nearby inns and taverns, sounds of revelry and chaos seeped in. The air carried a raw, metallic scent, like fresh blood.
This was a martial world unlike any Jeong Yeon-shin had ever known.
A fractured beam of sunset light spilled through the door, casting faint shadows on Jeong Yeon-shin’s eyelashes.
There were so many connected to Jeong-hye’s disappearance. He didn’t even know where his detestable older brother might be. And the whereabouts of Sword Dragon, the great warrior who had helped him numerous times, were another unresolved matter.
"Is there no way to solve everything all at once?"
Jeong Yeon-shin’s pitch-black pupils darkened further, plunging into a profound stillness.
***
The life of an innkeeper’s assistant is arduous, especially in Xian. This city, once home to the grand Zhongnan Sect, had fallen under the dominion of the Thirteen Heavens, becoming a stronghold for the unorthodox sects.
The martial artists who filled the vast city were divided into two factions: those aligned with the Blood Blade Sect and those under the Yeoryeong faction. Several sects coexisted in each district, jostling for dominance.
In Nanjeon District, the Blood Blade Sect was represented by the Sobek Sect, while the Yeoryeong faction held sway through Sungyeojimun. It was their world.
These factions clashed endlessly, suffocating any space for coexistence. Even local magistrates and regional lords turned a blind eye to the plight of the common folk.
To sever the heads of civilians had become an effortless task—something even the innkeeper at Bukmyeong Inn knew all too well.
A shaggy-haired boy carrying a tray of food ascended to the topmost floor.
Creak.
The wooden stairs groaned with each step. The boy shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, minimizing the noise. In a city like Xian, no servant wanted to draw attention from the unorthodox masters who ruled the streets.
Especially not martial masters of the Sects of Chaos. The boy had learned to navigate these waters with practiced caution.
“Your side dishes have arrived,” he announced, his voice deliberately subdued.
The boy entered the room, where sunlight illuminated the orchids lined along the windowsill. His gaze remained fixed on the floor as he approached the dining table. This was no ordinary meal—it was a meeting between the Sect Leaders of Sungyeojimun and Sobek Sect.
To look directly at them was unthinkable. Even in the face of these overlords of Xian, the boy behaved as if he were serving royalty.
He placed the food on the table with meticulous care, the spicy aroma of Kung Pao Chicken wafting into the air. Between the two powerful figures, the dishes seemed almost insignificant.
As he moved to set the meal, the boy silently thanked the custom of low tables. He didn’t have to meet the eyes of these rulers of chaos.
“So, you’ve taken in the surviving disciples of Zhongnan Sect. How are you treating them?” came a heavy voice. It belonged to Sobek Sect Leader, Jang Gi-il.
“Treating them?” The woman seated across from him snorted. Such a dismissive attitude could only come from an equal. This was Wi Il-hwa, the Leader of Sungyeojimun.
Known for her ruthlessness and prioritization of her sect’s survival, she had once been Jang Gi-il’s childhood friend—though that was little more than a widely-known rumor.
“The leader of the very sect that betrayed Zhongnan first now pretends to care. Such hypocrisy disgusts me. Shall I vomit here and now? We’ve seen worse from each other, haven’t we?” Wi Il-hwa sneered.
Jang Gi-il’s response was calm. “Xian has always been Zhongnan’s city. If we wish to maintain public order, we can’t suppress them entirely.”
“Public order?” she replied, her tone sharp with ridicule.
“How long do you think we can keep the gates closed? To secure supplies during this famine, the gates must remain open. News of our activities will inevitably reach Ipwang Fortress.”
“Are you afraid of the imperial hounds? Those who constantly spread themselves thin aren’t worth fearing. You’d better hope your Thirteen Heavens allies have your back. Or is this about hiding the surviving Zhongnan disciples?” Her words cut like a blade.
“Or is it you who’s trying to read my intentions?” Jang Gi-il countered.
The faint sound of wine being poured broke the tension, signaling the start of a dangerous game.
The conversation between these rulers of Xian’s martial world made the boy’s breath catch in his throat. The fear reached deep into his chest, suffocating him.
To the common folk, these two were living mountain gods. His hands trembled as he sliced mooncakes and ladled Kung Pao Chicken into small bowls.
“A delegation from the Hanzhong Martial Alliance has been dispatched,” Jang Gi-il said, steering the conversation to a new topic. Perhaps it was of interest, as Wi Il-hwa’s voice carried a faint hint of amusement, though it bordered on mockery.
“Bold of them. Do they still think Shaanxi belongs to them? Ever since the Zhuge Patriarch disappeared, their ranks have been dwindling, haven’t they? They’ve lost their grasp of reality.”
“You must have reported to the First Demon of Shaanxi, didn’t you? Always vigilant, aren’t you? The Three Grand Masters of Yeoryeong are beyond human. They must be seen as monsters,” Jang Gi-il remarked.
“And you, Gi-il, haven’t you worn your hands down appeasing the Ghostblade God-Sword? Rumor has it the most accomplished woman of the Blood Blade Sect holds you in high regard. That must be quite a stroke of luck for you,” Wi Il-hwa replied with venomous sarcasm.
The names of legendary figures, akin to heavenly deities, fell casually from their lips. The boy’s hand froze momentarily. But only for an instant. After arranging the table, he shuffled out with small, careful steps.
He couldn’t leave Bukmyeong Inn entirely. He was effectively confined here. Not that it was entirely bad—he had overheard the conversation of unorthodox sect leaders and lived to tell the tale.
He even caught their parting words.
“Once we’re done here, we’ll pay a visit to those rats.”
“I heard Gal Do-jin fell. From what I’ve been told, he couldn’t even put up a fight—against some brat, no less.”
“A well-trained pup pretending to be a hero. Haven’t we dealt with enough fools like that? If he’s as capable as they say, perhaps we should recruit him,” Wi Il-hwa mused, her voice laced with power.
The flow of their qi, leaking from the room, brushed against the boy’s collar as he descended the stairs. It was evident these sect leaders held the authority of the Thirteen Heavens.
Outside, the streets of Nanjeon buzzed with rumors. Tales of the young leader of the Sects of Chaos, not yet twenty, and his brutal subordinate had spread.
Martial artists are sensitive to their territories, and the unorthodox sects even more so. The already tense atmosphere in Xian had frozen solid. The conversation from Bukmyeong Inn’s upper floor painted a grim picture of the outsiders’ fate.
This chapt𝒆r is updated by frёewebηovel.cѳm.
The biting air seemed to weigh heavily on the boy’s legs as he descended. Yet, once again, the stairs made no sound.
***
The shadow of the inn’s courtyard wall stretched faintly to the side, blocking the pale winter sunlight. The season was in full force.
Soft murmurs filtered from within.
“Stealth techniques seem to suit you well, Mokmi. Your confidence shows. You haven’t cut your hair—it’s remarkably long.”
“Pardon...?”
“Thank you. I’ve heard all I need. Put the writing materials in the pack. Sungyeojimun will be here.”
“Shouldn’t we prepare more? Perhaps a few extra swords...”
“One Bukmyeong Sword is enough. My personal stealth technique is incomplete. It will take another month to perfect, but until then, I can’t afford to hesitate. Focus on mastering its principles instead of watching the enemy’s moves. Bind the cover now. The contents can be added later.”
“Extermination of Demonic Evils Compendium... Will this be a gift of martial techniques?”
“Yes.”
“I see. I’ve heard there’s a place like Shaolin’s Scripture Pavilion. But it’ll be different from Guangyeogyeol, won’t it? If you’re gifting this, it will surely...”
“Not there.”
“Then... where?”
“To the world.”