The state of Samhwa Chwijeong was described as the pinnacle of internal energy manipulation.
The essence of the unity of essence, energy, and spirit lay in its meaning: internal energy keeping pace with the speed of thought. It was a realm that deeply troubled Jeong Yeon-shin, who would need to navigate the world of transcendence.
"Strange how slow people can move so fast."
There were limits to calculating the lightning-quick attacks of supreme martial artists. He had learned this painfully during near-death encounters with the Ghostly White Sword and the First Devil of Shaanxi.
Without external variables like Baek Seo-goon’s Sword Reversal Technique or conflicting energies, defeat seemed almost certain. The martial arts they had cultivated were just that profound.
During combat, Jeong Yeon-shin’s solution was the constant activation of Hwangang.
It was a method of clashing opposing energies to generate lightning using the subtle mysteries of energy formations. Cheonggirin had named it for him.
Consistent operation was the first step. Surrounding oneself with tension primed for detonation eliminated the need to worry about the casting speed of finishing strikes. Combat responsiveness soared to terrifying levels.
He had trained relentlessly for it.
By altering the nature of key acupuncture points—the Shaofu Point, Lao Gong Point, and Zhong Zi Point—and enhancing the elasticity of his meridians and veins with Jeong Ga-donggong, he had made tremendous progress. The power of repetition was immense.
What had seemed impossible became reality after dedicating a month to it.
The longer the battle dragged on, the greater the toll on his body. For Jeong Yeon-shin, who preferred swift and decisive battles, it was a cost he could accept.
It also greatly reduced unnecessary energy ripples. It was a technique well-suited for ambushes.
"I was foolish. There was a reason everyone else did it the same way."
There was no falsehood in the Four Books and Three Classics so often quoted by the Ipwang Divine Scholar. Jeong Yeon-shin found himself reflecting anew.
Indeed, humility was necessary for anyone. It was a principle he had adhered to throughout his life.
"......."
The atmosphere became heavy with silence.
The quiet spread in all directions. Snow, sparsely gathered here and there, shone unusually white.
The cold winter wind brushed past the grass silently, sweeping outward and reaching beyond the hill where fighting had erupted just moments ago.
Behind him, Jang Sun-il stood awkwardly, drawing a nervous breath.
The young spearman, who had just hurled his weapon, looked as though he could hardly believe his eyes.
His right hand dropped to his side, trembling faintly, as if his fighting spirit had evaporated entirely.
With a strained voice, he finally managed to speak.
"The formation here... is the strongest."
"What did you say?"
"If you come this way, you shouldn’t. It won’t end well."
Speaking almost to himself, he turned slightly toward the rear. Even while mumbling in a groan-like voice, he avoided making eye contact with Jeong Yeon-shin.
The surrounding mountain range had turned into a colossal battlefield.
For anyone in Mount Taebaek, Ma Gwang-ik of Ipwang Fortress was a terrifying wild card. To those unaware of Jeong Yeon-shin’s true identity, he could only be perceived as a calamity.
The young spearman, with his hands clasped behind his back, found the black-robed boy standing before him utterly incomprehensible.
He couldn’t decipher the single move of palm technique he had just witnessed. Without realizing it, his voice trembled.
"If you come—if you come here, it’ll be disastrous...!"
"What nonsense is this? Time is of the essence! If we delay any longer, we’ll be annihilated!"
A furious voice rapidly approached. Judging by his tone, he was likely a mid-ranking member of the spearman’s sect.
At the same time, a woman’s laughter rang out, long and clear.
Mocking phrases, like "insignificant," "utterly worthless beings," danced on the transparent breeze, carrying an ominous air.
Even the qi in the wind was heavy with the scent of blood.
"The Evil Path is fighting amongst themselves."
Jeong Yeon-shin turned away quietly. He sharply suppressed the flow of energy throughout his entire body.
Jang Sun-il, his lips slightly parted, flinched.
"Let’s go."
"Uh, y-yes! Are your hands alright?"
"They feel a bit cool, that’s all."
His companion was a boy from the mountains. Being the same age and not a martial artist, Jeong Yeon-shin’s tone naturally softened.
It was the same way he spoke to Yu Hyeon, much more comfortable than the cold remarks he reserved for other martial artists.
"Let’s go. Staying here will just make things annoying."
"Huh? Oh, uh, okay."
Before Jang Sun-il could react further, Jeong Yeon-shin hoisted him onto his shoulder like a sack of luggage.
The growth of his limbs—and the slight broadening of his shoulders—made it manageable.
He felt a small surge of pride. For a moment, he even felt forgiving toward his comrades who had once mocked him for his clumsy chopstick grip.
He glanced back at the young spearman.
"You."
"Uh...."
The unarmed spearman flinched. Out of desperation—or confusion—he had tried to kill someone he had just met. It said plenty about how he had lived.
Even if he suffered retaliation, he wouldn’t have a word of complaint. In fact, he was more likely to meet his end at the hands of the Seventh Apostle, who was flamboyantly unleashing Mara Grand Blood Arts in the distance.
Jeong Yeon-shin’s lips moved as he addressed the youth.
"If you come this way, you’ll die."
"......!"
With that, Jeong Yeon-shin turned his head and stepped forward.
"Wind God Technique."
A roaring surge of wind erupted from the Yongcheon Point on his sole. The ground shot backward as the surrounding noise blurred into the distance.
It was only then that the shifting qi betrayed the recognition of the abnormality in his actions. The sharp energy rippled belatedly, unable to catch up.
***
The bright midday sun illuminated the landscape.
It was called Mount Taebaek because its peaks, covered in white snow all year round, gave it the appearance of a great white mountain. Every summit in the nearby Jinryeong Mountain Range was perpetually draped in eternal snow, lending the region a mystical air. Even literary giants like Du Fu and Li Bai had visited these peaks, leaving their poetic musings behind. The peak adjacent to Chilnyeobong was no exception.
Thunk.
A sedan chair was set down on the snow-covered summit.
A man with an elegant, scholarly demeanor sat within, narrowing his eyes slightly against the brightness. Standing beside him was a swordswoman who exuded quiet intensity, her gaze fixed on him.
“Was all this effort truly necessary?” she asked.
“He’s a person who must be eliminated,” the man replied, his lips curling into a crimson smile. He idly rolled a long wooden box between his fingers, the faint scent of medicinal herbs wafting from it. “There’s no seedling in the martial world more dangerous than him.”
“Hmm.”
“His growth rate defies reason. Those who gather intelligence must all be thinking the same thing. Of course, the vastness of the world means rumors vary in importance and accuracy.”
The man’s speech carried a peculiar rhythm, almost like a song. His voice exuded an air of cultured refinement, oddly captivating.
The swordswoman glanced at the wooden box in his hands.
“Thousand-Year Fo-ti Root...”
She spoke again. “Even if Seomye’s martial prowess is extraordinary... hasn’t it only been about a year since he began making a name for himself? Wouldn’t it be better to focus on Ming Sect’s young lord? I’ve heard many of their spies in Xinjiang were discovered and killed.”
The man laughed lazily. “You must not have seen the final urgent report those spies sent. It said the Lord of Suncheon, Ha Do-un of Ipwang Fortress, was annihilated. They claimed he died in utter disgrace. Whatever the methods, how can someone capable of such a feat still be considered merely a seedling?”
“Ha Do-un...! How could the weakened Ming Sect accomplish such a thing?”
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“Perhaps their mastery of sorcery allowed them to advance their techniques prematurely. It’s said that their martial arts system is quite peculiar. In any case, let’s return to the matter at hand since we’re in Shaanxi—Seomye.”
The man, placing the wooden box into his lap, continued, “He’s already been on the Bloodflame Cult’s radar for some time. Upon further investigation, I learned that he’s mastered martial arts with mystical origins. None of the warriors from Ipwang Fortress have displayed such techniques before, suggesting they might be exclusive to him. His martial talent is truly astonishing. From Sichuan to the Murim Alliance, and now to Shaanxi—I’ve pored over his records countless times.”
“You did well to notify the Blade Specters, but was it necessary to inform the Bloodflame Cult? Since their leader retreated into isolation, haven’t the factions within the cult splintered? The current Blood Ghosts are uncontrollable.”
“It seems the First Apostle led the rebellion. I hear she’s now personally working to bring order back. Even if the cult is in chaos, it won’t stop them from crushing a single young rising star.”
The Young Lord of Shaoling Pavilion spoke as though musing aloud. His fingers lightly scratched the armrest, a gesture as delicate as his cunning and schemes.
He resumed, “The rumor that the Blade Specter Lord is arriving isn’t entirely baseless either. Word has it he’s deeply enraged. Can you blame him? Losing a cherished subordinate to a mere junior must be humiliating.”
“It was satisfying to deal with Seomye’s nephew. It seems Wi Geuk-sang executed the command perfectly. But do you truly believe the Master of Ipwang Fortress will come here just because you spread rumors about the Fo-ti Root? Setting foot on Mount Taebaek is already a death sentence.”
“That’s precisely why we left one root intact. Ma Gwang-ik will come,” the Young Lord replied.
He added, “I’ve studied his movements so thoroughly he almost feels like a close friend. But one thing is clear—he’s not the type to ignore his kin. What we must be wary of is his uniquely unfathomable ‘Ascension.’”
“Mount Taebaek, as crafted by you, Young Lord, is a living hell on earth. Have no fear,” the swordswoman replied slowly, her voice imbued with the insight of a seasoned martial artist.
***
Darkness blanketed the mountains.
The night in the wilderness was exceptionally dense, as if the shadows clung tighter in these remote peaks. The quiet mountain embraced even the occasional clangs of steel, painting the blackness of two young boys’ eyes darker still.
Perhaps it was because the mantra Jeong Yeon-shin chanted every night was Jeong Ga-donggong. The unbroken silence felt as comforting as a mother’s embrace.
Tak. Tak-tak.
The flames of Sammae Purification Flame in his hands kindled a campfire.
Jang Sun-il didn’t particularly object. He had already come to understand the true extent of his companion’s martial prowess.
Even in the chaos of Mount Taebaek, where only the strong survived, Jeong Yeon-shin was undoubtedly exceptional. To many martial artists, he might as well have been Death incarnate.
"......."
They sat across from each other, separated by the flickering firelight.
After a long silence, Jang Sun-il raised his head.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why are you trying to get the Thousand-Year Fo-ti Root? They say consuming it during proper internal energy circulation grants immense power. But you’re already overwhelmingly strong. I’ve never seen skills like yours before—they’re terrifying.”
“It’s for my nephew. He’s unwell.”
“Ah...”
The mountain boy’s sharp intuition faltered. His mouth hung slightly open, his expression betraying his surprise at the unexpected response.
“And you? Why are you digging up soil and eating it?”
Jeong Yeon-shin’s voice was quiet as he asked the question.
“My family was wiped out by scum from the Evil Path,” Jang Sun-il replied evenly. “When I came home, all I found were corpses.”
"......."
“They didn’t even have the authority of government troops. They just showed up, demanding tribute. When there wasn’t enough food, they pointed their swords at innocent people. It was a famine, and we were the ones they vented their frustrations on. I’m going to find them and get my revenge. If the soil the Thousand-Year Fo-ti Root grew in can give me even a fraction of its strength, I’ll take it.”
His tone was distant, as if he were recounting someone else’s story.
Jeong Yeon-shin quietly observed him.
“Do you know which sect they belong to?”
“I don’t. Could be wandering vagrants pretending to be martial artists, or maybe dogs from one of the noble families. They’re my sworn enemies, so I’ll run into them eventually. I have to.”
The boy muttered the last part under his breath.
Jeong Yeon-shin’s thoughts drifted to the Bloodflame Cult and the Blade Specters.
"The Bloodflame Cult is running rampant."
He wasn’t particularly curious about why the Seventh Apostle was here. What troubled him was how to repay her after receiving her help. That uncertainty gnawed at him. They said the gratitude and grudges of the martial world swirled like the chaotic rapids of the Yangtze River, murky and turbulent.
Only now did he understand—after becoming entangled with someone who embodied both kindness and enmity.
"...I would’ve died on Myunggong Island. All of us would’ve."
His uncle, the Hwanik Corps, and Ma Gwang-ik owed their lives to a villain. What was he supposed to do?
It was then that a voice broke his reverie.
“You’re using fire.”
“You must be confident.”
A man and a woman spoke, their voices cutting through the darkness beyond the campfire.
Step.
Unhurried footsteps followed.
Two figures came into view, their silhouettes illuminated by the flickering flames. It was as if the faint light bowed before them as they approached.
Their pristine white martial robes gleamed against the night air, exuding an aura of mystery.
As they stepped closer, their faces became visible.
Twins. A brother and sister who looked remarkably alike.
Their long, pale blue hair shimmered faintly, clearly imbued with internal energy. Their strikingly defined features radiated an air of authority and sophistication. Their appearance was both exotic and breathtaking.
“Oh.”
A gasp escaped the woman’s lips as her eyes met Jeong Yeon-shin’s.
“To think I’d find something worth admiring here. You could be the reincarnation of Ban-ak of Jin. Though I doubt my brother would care.”
“I’ve read about Ban-ak,” the twin brother replied evenly. “Don’t act like you’re the only one versed in the history and politics of this land. Still, perhaps a fruit cart would suit him better than Yeongcho. With that face, anyone would toss him food.”
It was difficult to tell if his tone was mocking or genuine.
“Are you skilled with a blade?” Jeong Yeon-shin asked.
The pale-haired man responded nonchalantly, “Fist techniques are my specialty. But more importantly, could we share your fire? Our internal energy isn’t suited for lighting flames, and we’ve lost our servants. I don’t intend to force the matter.”
“We’re not like the martial artists of these lands,” the woman added, a faint smile playing on her lips. “We value courtesy and reason over survival of the fittest. If you refuse, we’ll leave.”
Jeong Yeon-shin blinked. He hadn’t expected such behavior on a battlefield.
“My elder sister is Bukgung Lin, and I am Bukgung Hu. We hail from the place you call the Ice Palace. Shall we exchange names?” Bukgung Hu asked calmly.
Jeong Yeon-shin silently observed their faces.
They claimed they would leave if refused, but their demeanor suggested they didn’t expect rejection. Their confidence, woven into their composure, made it clear.
It was the temperament of rulers. He had felt something similar before at the heart of the Bloodflame Cult.
They didn’t seem like the type to bother gathering dry twigs to start their own fire.
“You’re disturbing my thoughts. Leave now, or be prepared to face the consequences.”
Jeong Yeon-shin spoke bluntly, his voice laced with indifference.
Without the Ipwang Divine Scholar to mask his words, there was no need for pretense.
On a land teeming with martial artists, Ma Gwang-ik remained seated, casually poised and utterly aloof.