A deep sigh escaped Gi Dohyu, but his body remained frozen.
His outstretched arm supported Jeong Yeon-shin's weight like a pillar, unable to shake him off. Despite Jeong’s visibly weakened state, Dohyu couldn’t free himself.
Even though his precise internal energy perception had confirmed Jeong's condition—his qi flow was erratic and unstable, his internal injuries bordering on a deviation, and his upper body covered in blood from relentless battles against top-tier masters—it didn’t matter.
How could Jeong, battered and spent, effortlessly deal with Gi Dohyu, the disciple of the Blade Specter Master, who exuded natural superiority even in his movements?
Yet the grass beneath Gi Dohyu’s feet still stood tall, as if refusing to yield. It was an eerie sight.
“Stay still,” Jeong commanded softly, his feet firmly together.
This was the second lesson from the Master of Ipwang Fortress, one she had instilled deeply into him: scatter the senses of an opponent.
Jeong synchronized his qi wave with Gi Dohyu’s, recalling a memory from his youth in Shinya Prefecture.
It was an old puppet show he’d stumbled upon while trailing behind some neighborhood children. From a distance, he had watched marionettes, their strings moving in intricate, mesmerizing patterns.
The thought brought a faint sense of nostalgia.
‘Art exists within us all.’
In the martial world, the essence of martial arts often intertwines with the practitioner’s life experiences.
Guided by the imagery of those puppets, Jeong toyed with Gi Dohyu’s energy waves.
With his diminished energy, he wove it like thread, delicately dismantling Gi Dohyu’s finely tuned internal energy perception.
For a master, qi perception connects directly to their senses. The deeper their mastery of internal arts, the quicker they respond to threats, even from behind.
By scattering Gi Dohyu’s perception, Jeong disoriented his opponent, causing his very senses to falter—a key principle of the Mind Sword’s Void Step.
“Mind Sword...?”
Gi Dohyu’s once-confident expression twisted into despair.
He couldn’t move for two reasons:
Even as he scattered Gi Dohyu’s senses, Jeong turned his focus to the battle between the Blade Specter Master and Yulha Nangnang.
Their clash was breathtaking. Hundreds of intertwining sword trajectories formed what appeared to be a storm of threads.
In this life-and-death duel to determine the greatest in Shaanxi, murderous intent roared like an untamed tempest.
Crash!
The sunlight distorted, slashed apart by the sheer ferocity of their blades.
Each strike unleashed a shockwave far beyond the force of Jeong’s earlier attacks, their speed impossible to follow even with the Vision of the Heavenly Form.
Jeong could barely keep track of Yulha Nangnang’s movements, relying on his familiarity with her unique fighting style. Her strikes, delicate yet deadly, carried the essence of the Flower’s End Martial Compendium.
‘She’s pushing him back.’
It was a minuscule advantage, but Yulha Nangnang’s blade seemed to reach its peak a fraction earlier.
Perhaps she had managed to incorporate the profound sword intent written in the Flower’s End Compendium to counter the Blade Specter Master’s relentless onslaught.
“...You don’t understand the Master,” Gi Dohyu’s voice trembled beneath him.
Jeong didn’t spare him a glance.
“You, Seomye. A prodigy like you will never know...”
At that moment, the Blade Specter Master’s sword stance shifted dramatically.
Dozens of massive, gleaming white blades materialized from thin air, converging rapidly into a single colossal sword.
It was a strike from an entirely different realm of power.
Fwoosh!
An overwhelming pressure bore down on everything in its path.
Simultaneously, Gi Dohyu moved. His remaining hand lashed out, aiming to kill.
But Jeong was already prepared.
He concentrated what remained of his energy into his right foot, enduring the excruciating pain that felt like a blade slicing through his meridians.
Crack!
A sharp sensation of resistance met his foot as it crushed down with brutal finality.
Gi Dohyu’s head burst with a sickening sound, his body collapsing lifelessly to the ground.
Jeong landed gracefully, his eyes immediately finding Yulha Nangnang.
She was falling, blood spraying from her body.
Her abdomen was split diagonally, a grievous wound inflicted by the Blade Specter Master’s massive sword.
Boom!
A monstrous wave of energy surged from the Blade Specter Master, writhing around him like a living entity.
It was the undeniable aura of a true absolute.
His gaze shifted past Yulha Nangnang’s slumped form, settling squarely on Jeong. His oppressive presence seemed to distort the very space between them.
Shaanxi’s undisputed strongest.
Their eyes met.
The Blade Specter Master’s dark gaze held no trace of disturbance, not even after losing his disciple. His composure bordered on madness, an unyielding tranquility.
“I’ve heard you forge secret techniques with ease,” he said, his deep voice reverberating.
“I am not so fortunate. I struggle to create even one. The Three Techniques of Desolation. What you saw earlier was but the first.”
Jeong remained silent, focused entirely on staunching Yulha Nangnang’s bleeding by pressing on her abdominal pressure points.
Still, his piercing blue eyes never left the Blade Specter Master.
A faint flicker of lightning seemed to dance within Jeong’s pupils.
The Blade Specter Master looked down at him for a moment before speaking again.
“Grow strong, little prodigy. Until the day you become a true Mind Sword.”
Step.
With that, the Blade Specter Master turned and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing.
“I’ll be waiting.”
***
Many had survived the place where Yeoryeong's Little Lord had perished—masters from the Thirteen Heavens of Shaanxi, warriors of the Suwang Sect, and even martial artists from righteous sects who had been on the outskirts.
Few dared to speak of the fact that the Thousand-Year He Shou Wu consisted of two roots.
Most did not follow Ma Gwang-ik Lord but either climbed Chilnyeobong or descended the mountain altogether.
The masters present at the time remained silent about their gains, leaving only the shocking spectacle of Ma Gwang-ik Lord to echo from mouth to mouth, reaching the base of the mountain slopes.
“Yeoryeong’s Little Lord has been robbed of the Thousand-Year He Shou Wu!”
Winged creatures and a few messenger hawks flew through the sky, their wings brushing against bare branches before swooping down the vast slopes below.
The moment the Dual Blood Spirit Array of the Bloodflame Cult disappeared, the sprawling mountainside was crowded with people.
Rumors of Ma Gwang-ik Lord of Ipwang Fortress spread like wildfire.
It was inevitable.
Those who had been unable to ascend due to the array now flooded the mountain.
Vagrants, renowned martial masters from prestigious families, and merchants accompanied by their guards raced across the snow-covered ground, leaving countless footprints behind.
The sound of crushed underbrush was deafening. They leapt over corpses with bite marks on their necks and turned away from the heaps of bloodied corpses of fiends whose cause of death was impossible to discern.
Some had already been wandering Mount Taebaek, while others were newly arriving.
Most found or sought one man.
The movements of herbalist martial artists converged naturally toward a single point along the mountain ridge. A vast net was forming of its own accord.
At its center:
“Headmaster, you must not lose consciousness.”
A quiet voice escaped in the form of white breath.
Crunch.
Jeong Yeon-shin trudged through the snow-laden trees, carrying Yulha Nangnang on his back.
His coat brushed against the ground, the texture unnaturally sharp and vivid.
His steps were heavy, and his qi sense no longer extended as far as before.
From the Ghostly White God of the Sword to the top martial artists of the Thirteen Heavens in Taebaek Mountain, the cumulative internal and external injuries seemed to chip away even at his body, constructed through Jeong Ga-donggong.
Even his Luminous Method Wheel Qi was unresponsive, sluggishly circulating through his meridians like a faint haze.
The unwelcome presences were another problem.
“The blood fiends were annihilated. A woman drenched in blood staggered away and vanished.”
“Some suspect internal strife. Those using distant observation techniques said as much.”
“That must be the Holy Flame Sword God! This is a golden opportunity...!”
“Yeoryeong’s Little Lord and her protectors are dead, and the Wandering King was found as a corpse. The Suwang Sect lost their leader...”
“He must be utterly drained. No, the fact that he’s even standing is a miracle. How did he defeat them? It’s unfathomable.”
“Look at his steps. Do they seem powerful to you?”
A massive encirclement descended alongside Jeong Yeon-shin. Some whispered, while others didn’t bother to lower their voices.
The mountainside, wide open after the disbandment of the Dual Blood Spirit Array, was a stage for chaos.
At first, they gathered in hiding, but as the sound of piercing whistling arrows and the wingbeats of spirit beasts grew louder, hundreds of people surrounded Jeong Yeon-shin.
The weakened Ma Gwang-ik Lord was a tempting prey, even for the ignorant.
Carrying the Thousand-Year He Shou Wu and the Headmaster of the Mount Hua Sect on his back, Jeong Yeon-shin was practically a walking treasure—a mythical creature offering both spiritual herbs and fame.
Even those well-versed in the ways of the world behaved no differently.
This was a world where martial artists bore grudges against royal swordsmen with ease. Where else could one find the head of the Black Sovereign Lord? Retaliation from Ipwang Fortress could wait.
It was a pack of wolves.
Weapons clattered noisily.
The sound of footsteps on the snow varied—some cautious, others bold, impatient, or honed like well-trained blades—forming a massive circle, trapping Jeong Yeon-shin at the center.
From time to time, he adjusted Yulha Nangnang on his back, stepping forward in silence.
Ssshhhh—
A sudden gust of winter wind brushed his hair off the nape of his neck. His breath trailed along his jawline and flowed backward.
At the same time, faint breaths brushed against the nape of his neck—a sickly sweetness, typical of someone gravely injured.
“Ma Gwang-ik... Lord...”
It was Yulha Nangnang on his back. Jeong Yeon-shin opened his lips calmly.
“Headmaster.”
“Leave me.”
“There are heretics and madmen everywhere. If you leave the He Shou Wu here, it will be the same. You will certainly be harmed.”
“Your nature... your potential... it would be a shame to lose it in a place like this. You could escape alone, couldn’t you?”
The broken, halting voice was tinged with stubbornness.
The manner in which he spoke reminded Jeong Yeon-shin of his grandfather. It seemed that supreme martial masters all possessed a strong sense of self.
But Ma Gwang-ik Lord had long ago sworn not to become like his grandfather.
“I’ll handle it as I see fit.”
“...”
Exhaling deeply, Jeong Yeon-shin sharpened his senses. Suddenly, he detected a disruption beneath the brown pine needles brushing his face.
The air currents hid subtle waves of qi. The killing intent surrounding him was growing denser.
“If I make the first move, I’ll die, won’t I?”
“Even in that state, he’s Ma Gwang-ik Lord. He could kill you in a single move.”
“Should we test it? Let’s wait just a little longer.”
“If we’re going to move, we must block his descent. Self-proclaimed righteous sects don’t know shame. They’re quick to latch onto imperial swordsmen’s achievements.”
“Shouldn’t we strike before his feats spread widely? Yes... that makes sense. How many supreme martial masters has he killed...?”
The conversation belonged to two well-dressed men, their fur-lined clothing betraying their noble status. They trailed Jeong Yeon-shin from above, stepping across branches like immortals. They addressed each other as Gold Swordsman and Gold Fist.
Judging by their disguised names, they seemed to be part of the leadership of a trading guild.
Even the guards trailing them, numbering more than ten, radiated an air of wealth.
“So many are flocking here. From stragglers to masters.”
“There are about 250 now. It’s becoming harder to count.”
“This is nerve-wracking. That’s my prize. If I bring back something like the Thousand-Year He Shou Wu, I could surpass my sister in the succession race.”
“It’s a strange sight—everyone in Shaanxi’s martial underworld converging on one young man.”
“Gold Fist, does he look like a young man to you?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re careless. That’s Ipwang Fortress’s Black Sovereign. He’s not human.”
“Ah, now that you mention it, I can’t disagree.”
“We’ll make our move last. Let’s aim for the fisherman’s profit. The ignorant fools will wear Ma Gwang-ik Lord down for us.”
Just as Gold Swordsman stopped his smooth-talking jaw, it happened.
Swish—!
One of Jeong Yeon-shin’s shoulders suddenly jerked backward as he descended the slope.
Blood spurted into the air like a blade.
He clenched his teeth against the searing pain.
“...!”
The warriors forming the vast net fell silent all at once.
A ripple of realization swept over them like a vortex. Ma Gwang-ik Lord’s condition was truly dire.
A swordsman ahead, holding his raised blade, smirked.
Even his face suggested disbelief.
“Did you see that...? The great Ma Gwang-ik Lord of Ipwang Fortress, brought down by my sword wind...!”
In an instant, the snowball Jeong Yeon-shin kicked smashed into the swordsman’s eye.
Thud— The impact, laced with a faint trace of Luminous Method Wheel Qi, exploded, producing a dull sound that failed to leave a strong impression on anyone.
Jeong Yeon-shin’s gaze narrowed.
“They could clearly see my counterattack. Allowing even a single strike was a mistake.”
The heat filling the vast encirclement continued to intensify, even after the swordsman’s corpse had fallen backward.
The wolves had fully recognized the tiger’s weakened state. From below, more martial artists were arriving in droves.
“There he is! It’s really him!”
“The He Shou Wu! He has the Thousand-Year He Shou Wu!”
“That woman on his back—she’s wearing Mount Hua Sect’s robe, isn’t she? Could her identity be...?”
“Who cares about the Taoist’s identity? If we bring back their heads, we could join the Thirteen Heavens!”
The encirclement kept growing. The thickening wall of martial artists emitted an overwhelming pressure of qi.
The combined waves of energy and killing intent surged like a tangible wind, ruffling Ma Gwang-ik Lord’s robe.
“Gold Swordsman, when should we move?”
“Let’s wait a little longer. It’s about to erupt.”
The conversations spilling out from all sides were tinged with both leisure and excitement.
The growing momentum wasn’t directed at Ma Gwang-ik Lord alone. The raw chaos of the martial world had them cautiously gauging one another.
Jeong Yeon-shin, still carrying the Mount Hua Sect’s headmaster, moved forward silently.
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She spoke.
“Put me down. Even if... I fall.”
“You are not the Lord of this fortress, Headmaster.”
His reply was brief as he prepared for the inevitable assault. Keeping his head slightly lowered, he sharpened his near-field qi sense.
Crunch, crunch.
He couldn’t abandon someone who had extended kindness to him. Yulha Nangnang’s identity didn’t matter.
Jeong Yeon-shin had learned the value of goodwill in the place his mother had made her home. It was only right to protect it.
This was the resolve of Ma Gwang-ik Lord. His steps, leaving white prints in the snow, grew more resolute.
It was after about seventeen more steps.
“Hmm?”
Jeong Yeon-shin suddenly raised his head. The reason was the sudden silence around him.
A stillness colder than the winter wind hung in the air. Those who had been noisy and raucous moments ago were now frozen, stiff as statues.
The only sound was the faint rustle of pine needles rolling across the snow.
It wasn’t until he glanced around that he understood the reason.
“...”
Twenty individuals were now encircling the three hundred gathered in the vast net.
Standing with a sword planted in the ground at her feet was a black-haired beauty, her posture upright. Nearby, a nobleman, chewing on a bright red poppy, frowned as he surveyed the scene. A young man with a heroic air swept his gaze over the crowd with a look of indignation. High above, a noblewoman with a bow stood on an overturned branch, her movements as graceful as they were deliberate.
Each of them held a distinct stance.
Their garments, glistening blue as if dipped in the sky itself, fluttered in the wind. On their shoulders, the symbol of Hwang (荒) stood out silently.
The young man with a heroic aura opened his mouth to speak.
“I don’t think there’s much to say. You all should leave while you can.”
“No.”
The voice came from above.
It was the one-eyed nobleman standing on a branch over the heads of the masked nobles. Stroking his sword, he shook his head.
His expressionless face carried a faintly aristocratic air, though his words were devoid of emotion.
“Kill them all.”
Crack!
A black blade pierced through the abdomen of a rogue standing below.
It was the sword of Baek Mi-ryeo, her striking black hair cascading down her back. Encased in a tangible, sinister aura of demonic energy, her blade gleamed ominously.
“Lord, it’s time to go back now,” she said, gripping her sword with knuckles that turned white from the strain.
Before her words had even settled, she twisted her waist and cleaved the rogue’s upper body cleanly in half.
Crack!
The sound of ribs splitting filled the air as a torrent of blood burst forth.
It was a move that seemed to stop time itself.