Jeong Yeon-shin sat still in the room, his form upright despite the chill that had seeped in through the cracks of the wooden walls. The faint transparency of the air and the breeze slipping past the cracks in the door marked the arrival of winter.
The room was quiet except for the slow rise and fall of his breathing. His presence was imposing, the way his elbows rested confidently on the wooden armrests of the chair, and the slight lift of his chin gave him an air of unshakable composure. Even Tae Yeom-ryong, who had left the room earlier, described him as a tempestuous force of nature with grudging admiration.
The world was vast, as expansive as it was chaotic. Jianghu stretched endlessly, a land filled with eccentric geniuses and unworldly masters of strange, otherworldly powers. Even Jeong Yeon-shin spoke of it only in broad strokes.
His understanding of the martial world was still limited. Among the factions of the Thirteen Heavens, he had barely scratched the surface. To truly shake the power structure of the Thirteen Heavens, disrupting even a single node of their influence required more than what he currently possessed.
‘It’s fine,’ he thought to himself.
For now, stirring unrest in Xi’an would suffice. By using a calculated method of disruption, he intended to divert the attention of the Unorthodox forces away from the righteous factions, allowing them a chance to strike back more effectively.
He hoped that this would provide a much-needed breather for Jung Hye and Wei Ji Myo-hwa, giving them room to act both in martial strength and strategic positioning.
“Thank you,” Jeong Yeon-shin said again, nodding to Zhuge Cheong-ah.
This was shortly after Tae Yeom-ryong and Hyeon Won-chang had cleared the remaining thugs of Sungyeojimun from the inn. The two had subdued Gal Do-jin and So Yu-rang, restraining them and confining them in a guest room, leaving the detached annex for the Sovereign’s use.
The group had only just arrived after a grueling ten-day journey from the heart of Ipwang Fortress.
― Even the muscles of martial artists tire after such a journey. Rest for a day in the annex.
Tae Yeom-ryong’s words were fresh in his mind as Jeong Yeon-shin finally succumbed to sleep. The bed was exceptionally comfortable, and the blanket embroidered with the Ten Longevity Symbols was soft and plush, stuffed generously with cotton. It was a rare luxury, and for once, he allowed himself the indulgence of curling up alone until the early morning light seeped into the room.
― We need to extract information first. News from areas dominated by the Thirteen Heavens is hard to come by elsewhere. Even the local officials seem to have been bribed.
― Senior Baek has sent word. Everyone has safely arrived and scattered. Baeksaek members are under So-bin’s leadership.
While Tae Yeom-ryong interrogated the two Unorthodox captives, Hyeon Won-chang left to fetch breakfast. Both men, accustomed to the comforts of privilege, looked visibly rejuvenated after a proper night’s rest.
Now, Zhuge Cheong-ah sat across from Jeong Yeon-shin, the polished redwood tea table between them. Her pale face was flushed with vitality, her composure unwavering despite this being her first private audience with the Sovereign. Her black hair, tied with sky-blue silk, draped neatly to one side as she swept it over her shoulder. Jeong Yeon-shin found himself watching her, slightly uncomfortable.
“No matter how I look at it...” he began.
“Yes?” she replied.
“It seems like grabbing hold of your hair in close combat would be too easy. Is the efficiency of a perfected movement technique really worth such a vulnerability?”
“...”
Zhuge Cheong-ah blinked once, her unreadable expression betraying nothing. She resembled her father, the Zhuge Clan leader, in her ability to hide her thoughts. Yet, it appeared she was merely at a loss for words.
“Never mind,” Jeong Yeon-shin said, closing the topic.
He wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much that she left such a glaring weakness exposed. Perhaps it was his newfound sense of responsibility since becoming the leader of Ipwang. It wasn’t meddling for the sake of it; he simply couldn’t bear the thought of her being harmed.
‘I’ll have to discuss this with Ma Gwang-ik.’
Setting aside his musings, he returned his attention to the profound theories Zhuge Cheong-ah was explaining about her movement technique. It was always an enlightening experience to study a new martial art, and this one, with its intricate principles, was no exception.
The technique relied less on physical strikes and more on nuanced movements, a seemingly endless field of exploration.
It was then that the door slid open with a soft creak.
Hyeon Won-chang entered, carrying a breakfast tray in both hands. Known for his expertise in detecting poisons, he had personally supervised the preparation of the food in Xi’an’s streets, which were crawling with Unorthodox elements.
“The food is safe. However...” He placed the tray in the center of the tea table.
Though the famine had limited the variety of dishes, the aroma of Gongbao chicken and the wide, flat noodles of knife-shaved dough filled the room.
Hyeon Won-chang also handed over a scroll.
The ink was still fresh, its scent faintly lingering as Jeong Yeon-shin unrolled it. At the same time, he felt an unfamiliar energy approaching from outside.
The power emanating from the figure was considerable, their aura solid and unyielding. Yet, just as suddenly as they approached, they retreated, leaving Jeong Yeon-shin momentarily debating whether to pursue.
His attention returned to the scroll.
― I won’t ask where you’re from. At noon under the Lesser Moon Gorge, let us test our strength. The loser shall retreat.
Jeong Yeon-shin read the brief message before speaking.
“Careful,” he murmured.
Hyeon Won-chang shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “That’s what I thought. They came storming in like they were about to start a war.”
Even in Zhuge Cheong-ah’s presence, Hyeon Won-chang maintained his informal tone. Jeong Yeon-shin rose from his seat, his faint smile signaling a mix of amusement and resignation. His steps were steady as he walked toward the window.
The room occupied the entire third floor, offering an expansive view of the bustling city below. Despite the famine, the city teemed with activity. Merchants and peddlers moved swiftly, their backs burdened with sacks, bundles, and carts.
Jeong Yeon-shin’s sharp gaze took in the details: the rows of shops lining the roads, the grandeur of the pavilions, and even a swordswoman walking in the distance, flanked by her subordinates.
It was her.
Wi Il-hwa, the leader of Sungyeojimun, known as the Bewitching Demon Sword. True to her moniker, the malevolent aura around her seemed to ripple through her long, flowing hair. Her energy was both forceful and erratic, her presence unmistakable even from afar.
“Mo-me,” Jeong Yeon-shin called softly.
“Yes,” Zhuge Cheong-ah answered, her alias as he requested her assistance.
She set up her writing tools—ink, brush, and paper—within moments.
Jeong Yeon-shin leaned casually against the window frame.
‘Awaken.’
The veins running from his throat to his diaphragm pulsed faintly as he summoned his energy. The slight vibrations coursed through his internal pathways, refining the connection from his carotid arteries to his optical nerves.
Humming softly, he directed his energy with meticulous precision. Starting from the Cheongmyeong Acupoint at his temples, it coursed through the Sa-baek Acupoint beneath his eyes, the Dongjaryo Acupoint near his outer canthi, and the Chanjuk Acupoint at the bridge of his nose. The sequence left his eyes burning with warmth.
The flow should ideally gather at the Baihui Acupoint atop his head, but for now, his technique lacked the refinement to prevent potential energy backlash.
‘Observe.’
As his mind sharpened with intent, his vision subtly altered. The vitality of the people bustling through the streets below surged into clarity. Though no distinct shapes emerged, it felt as if his senses had become more attuned to the dynamic energy of the city.
“It’s no different from usual,” he remarked aloud.
“For most practitioners, this would be a profound leap in perception,” Zhuge Cheong-ah replied. “Achieving this level of energy circulation takes decades of rigorous training.”
“It’s not practical yet.”
Jeong Yeon-shin accepted her words with a calm nod. His jade-green gaze shifted to meet hers briefly before she lowered her head, focusing again on her writing. With slender fingers, she gripped the brush, the crease of concentration forming briefly between her brows.
Hyeon Won-chang, watching her intently, smirked in silent satisfaction. Once tasked with transcribing Jeong Yeon-shin’s martial compendium, the Pa-Baek Chongram, he had been thoroughly outclassed by Zhuge Cheong-ah’s elegant penmanship.
“Sungyeojimun’s body technique,” Jeong Yeon-shin said.
Zhuge Cheong-ah began to write, her brush gliding over the paper with precision.
“They engage their entire musculature evenly while walking. The thigh muscles don’t rise excessively, leaving no noticeable protrusions. This grants them a natural stealth advantage. Their center of gravity is low, making their balance easy to disrupt with directional shifts. I’ll specify the stances: Later Heaven Trigram—Kan, Kun, Geon.”
“Done,” she replied.
“Their arms sway minimally at the waist, and their energy flow is deceptively calm, considering the force of their internal power. Watch for sudden sword strikes. Their right arm is well-conditioned for upward thrusts, but the Nei Guan Acupoint on the wrist lacks strength.”
“Hold on a moment.”
“...Finished?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Their swordplay relies on sharpness and flair. Drive them back with a strong initial strike, and the battle is as good as won. Even a decisive one-hit strategy wouldn’t be risky. I’ll outline the energy structure of their disruptions; make a separate note.”
His voice carried no inflection, a measured monotone that belied the weight of his analysis. Zhuge Cheong-ah remained silent, her poised brush ready to transcribe.
“Is there enough space left? Some readers obsess over annotations,” he added.
“...There’s room,” she replied, her expression briefly flickering with curiosity. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what form of martial skill someone like him might develop.
‘I can’t imagine.’
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she resumed writing.
***
‘That’s a monster.’
Wi Il-hwa, the Bewitching Demon Sword, quickened her steps.
Her instincts, honed through hundreds of brushes with death in the chaos of the unorthodox martial world, urged her to retreat.
Sungyeojimun was a branch of the Yuryong faction, whose intelligence network rivaled even that of the Beggars’ Sect. Their secret movement technique, passed down only to a select few, was extraordinary.
Wi Il-hwa herself had been gifted the Dark Motion Beyond Time Technique by the Yuryong Lord, a technique so peerless it was considered an unparalleled blessing.
Her pitch-black eyes glinted as she peered at the man she considered her opponent. Her penetrating gaze resembled a supernatural ability, allowing her to discern the energy beyond the walls and barriers around her.
And then, without hesitation, she turned away, suppressing her pounding heart with measured internal breathing.
‘Someone like that exists in this world...?’
The density of his internal energy was overwhelming, beyond shocking. She couldn’t grasp the full nature of his energy. It wasn’t due to the limitations of the Dark Motion Beyond Time Technique, but her own shortcomings.
If she were capable of discerning the concealed essence of a supreme master’s energy, she would’ve long since unified the martial world of Xi’an.
Without hesitation, she returned to Bukmyeong Inn.
Ascending directly to the top floor’s solitary room, she settled onto the throne-like chair that now belonged to her. The space had been wrested from the Zhongnan faction by force.
The chair, carved entirely from ebony, served as her throne. From its polished black armrests alone, it exuded an aura of distinction. Sitting in it filled her with the familiar sense of omnipotence.
The monarch of Xi’an’s unorthodox martial world.
Saaaa―
A chill swept through the room but was quickly replaced by heat.
Wi Il-hwa’s scorching Yang energy radiated outward, causing beads of sweat to form on the backs of the dozen or so disciples kneeling before her.
Her slightly wrinkled eyes softened as she gazed down. With a short command, she reminded them of her authority.
“Send word. To all of Xi’an.”
Her voice was calm yet commanding.
“Do not discriminate among factions. Notify the Blade Specters, Sobekmun, Chanjeolgak, Daeryeongwijin, Geommamun, Jongcheondo, Hwiyolga... all of them. A supreme master has arrived, one impossible to confront individually.”
***
Three days passed.
The weather was clear. The lush mountains were wrapped in the lingering mists of early winter.
The grass, bowed toward the earth, exhaled faint traces of moisture into the hazy air.
It was a tranquil sight, the clear sunlight falling silently over the land. Wild animals, having eaten their fill, retreated into the dense forest.
Near the tumultuous waters of a waterfall-fed lake, where patches of thin ice had begun to form, stood a man cloaked entirely in black.
This was Jin Myeong-jo, the Blood Sovereign.
He stood upon the iridescent ice with perfect balance. Even as his toes barely rested on the surface, there was no hint of instability. The precariousness, however, lay within his mind.
Jin Myeong-jo’s expression was blank as he mouthed the words.
‘Goddamn it.’
He didn’t utter the curse aloud, only silently shaped the words with his lips.
He could feel the approach of a junior’s energy—a presence that was unmistakably sinister. The faint spiritual power emanating from it seemed to scrape against his skin.
With the sharp senses of a supreme master, he felt its intensity all the more vividly. He was no stranger to such an aura, but it never grew easier to endure. In truth, it filled him with dread.
Lately, even the junior’s occasional glances, piercing as they were, unsettled him deeply. Every encounter was an ordeal, yet as a senior, he couldn’t allow his unease to show.
In truth, he wasn’t sure of himself.
His mind had been screaming for a long time now, for far longer than he cared to admit.
Did the junior truly not know? Or were they simply enjoying it all? Jin Myeong-jo, the Blood Demon of the Divine Extreme, wrestled with countless thoughts, rejecting them, only to have them return.
It was the same cycle, repeated dozens of times. And, as always, it came to the same conclusion.
Damn it. Probably not.
‘They’re coming.’
He forced himself to compose his expression.
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Even a blank face required careful preparation.
He focused his external energy on the small muscles of his face—those linking his cheeks, zygomatic muscles, and the corners of his mouth. He sculpted a cold and detached expression with practiced precision.
It was an artificial iciness.
Before the junior’s head even crested the ridgeline, Jin Myeong-jo spoke in a frosty tone.
“You’re late.”