The current Lord of Ma Gwang-ik had never experienced fraternal affection.
His two older brothers incited the children of Xin Ya-hyun to torment him.
As long as it didn’t become widely known in the village, tarnishing the Jeong family’s reputation, they had convinced the family head that he would turn a blind eye.
They weren’t wrong. That’s exactly how it played out.
Whenever children of his age, untrained in martial arts, secretly picked fights or ostracized him, Jeong Yeon-shin avoided confrontation.
Even a third-rate martial clan was still part of the murim. He had heard enough rumors—however unrefined—that a true warrior of the jianghu did not use martial arts to bully common folk.
His mother, too, had been a martial artist. He could not dishonor Jeong Ga-donggong by getting into petty brawls with village kids—not that it did anything to protect her from the demonic sects.
His brothers sneered. They called him weak. They said he had no backbone, unworthy of being the son of a woman who had died giving birth to him.
That was a distant memory now. Yet, it was a truth that could never be erased.
The swings he had been excluded from riding during the Dragon Boat Festival remained in his mind even after he ascended to the Black Rank of Ipwang Fortress.
Riding atop Jeong Hyeon's fan, he had come to a realization.
"Even when discarding a single stone, one must seize the initiative. That same ‘initiative’ carries a deeper meaning as well—it is about distinguishing clearly between what is valuable and what is not. Cheonggirin discarded the shell of Namgung So-ga-ju and embraced the identity of a warrior—Namgung Se-jin. In the end, he became a noble swordsman."
From him, Jeong Yeon-shin learned the art of go, which laid the foundation for his mastery of Geomroe Seomreung-shik.
By stepping on his Hakikseon, he had cut through the flesh and bones of Gui Baek-shin-geom, the cursed sword that had brought ruin to the Jeong Clan.
It was a grace he had never received from his own blood relatives.
While most of the Murim Alliance regarded the Lord of Ma Gwang-ik with disdain, Jeong Hyeon had imparted to him the principles of go and the wisdom of life, despite the fact that Jeong Yeon-shin had killed his sworn friend, Cheonggirin Namgung Se-jin.
He was a great hero. Just like Namgung Se-jin.
If he were to name the gallant warriors he had befriended beyond Ipwang Fortress, he would say that a proper older brother would be like Seonryong.
Naturally, he held him in high regard.
And so, in this moment, he felt loss.
The feeling he had when he saw the corpses of the Jeong family’s servants after the clan’s annihilation resurfaced once again. It was not intentional, yet it happened all the same.
To Jeong Yeon-shin, Seonryong was the embodiment of chivalry, devoid of ulterior motives.
"May you rest in peace."
The rope of the swing that had clung to his heart snapped. From the moment he recognized the sudden death of Jeong Hyeon.
The Lord of Ma Gwang-ik decided to deviate from his assigned mission route. Utilizing the authority he held as a Black Rank warrior under Shin Geom Dan.
“...If the disciples of Wolseongmun appear, stop them. You may reveal your identities at any time. One more thing—do not engage Eon Ga-jeil-gwon unless it's the Hwangbo Brat.”
Jeong Yeon-shin lowered his outstretched hand, issuing his command in a monotonous tone.
Saaaa—
The radiant waves of Neungbeop Gwangryun-gi filled the sky. He had utilized the essence of Yeomgang, a technique pioneered by Tae Yeom-ryong.
Fragments of dim light dissipated into the moonlit night, shimmering white and blue like the feathers of a crane.
“You use it well. Didn’t you say it was crude?”
The Poppy Fiend attempted to lighten the mood with his teasing tone, but Jeong Yeon-shin did not smile. He had seen Tae Yeom-ryong adjust his expression.
This was a man who had lost one of the few friends he had made through his reckless ways. A leader should not seek comfort from his subordinates.
“Head to Anga. Do not exchange more than ten blows with Eon Ga-jeil-gwon. His Hoshin Ganggi is formidable. Use Yeolyang Jigi to aim for a single decisive strike, but act as though you're launching an attack while preparing to retreat. That’s the best option.”
“...If we do run into him, will we be able to escape?”
“You’ve deepened your internal energy. Didn’t you refine it further at Cheonjuji Gate?”
“You’re as sharp as ever, yet I don’t know why your eyes feel like they’ve gone cold.”
Tae Yeom-ryong spoke casually. At this moment, he was not chewing on his poppy stalk.
The Solar Divine Pulse.
It was a discussion about the surge in Yeolyang Energy that intensified as death approached.
The Hwangbo Brat also possessed a constitution that made achieving Jeong-Qi-Shen alignment difficult, yet his accumulated qi surpassed even that of Cheongmyeong—he was the strongest in Ma Gwang-ik when it came to stored energy.
As the heir of the Hwangbo Clan, he maintained an equilibrium in his martial disposition.
Even in the realm of Qi Acceleration, where internal energy was of utmost importance, his expertise was profound. If he was willing to endure internal injuries, he could flaunt his agility even before the highest-level martial masters.
When Cheongmyeong was absent, he was effectively the field commander.
“The jianghu is a place where dying on the road is a common occurrence.”
“I know.”
Jeong Yeon-shin replied briefly, lowering his eyelids slightly.
“Do not be swayed by the deaths of acquaintances. At any moment, half of Ma Gwang-ik could be wiped out. The stronger you become, the more perilous the jianghu will be for you.”
“I’ve already been through that. In Sichuan.”
“Yes, I know. But the point is that you never get used to it. Unless you’re completely twisted inside, everyone feels the same way. Seeing Jeong Hyeon like this, I can’t help but worry about what he’ll do with his life after I’m gone. He’s got an interesting disposition, but he might end up living a dull existence. He’s got a surprisingly soft heart.”
“Shut up and hide. Come out when I signal you.”
Jeong Yeon-shin slowly turned away. The hem of his plain, patternless robe lightly brushed against his calf.
Beyond the threshold, the imposing presence of noble martial artists grew closer.
They had perceived Gwang-ye-gyeol—Yeomgang as an overwhelming show of force by an intruder. It seemed they were about to deploy a sword formation.
He did not care.
Step.
Leaving behind Jeong Hyeon’s corpse and the sobbing Zhuge Cheong-ah, Jeong Yeon-shin stepped forward.
Hyeon Won-chang, who had been silently observing him, finally spoke. He had just erased the grim expression from his face after witnessing such a grave event.
“I don’t know what you’re about to do. But it seems the Lord is finally growing up. I’ve never seen him like this before.”
“Neither have I. Not the Lord, nor this one.”
Tae Yeom-ryong exhaled dryly, his breath drifting from the back of the Lord of Ma Gwang-ik to the corpse of Jeong Hyeon.
The fan held by Seonryong had gone rigid.
***
It was a hall of exquisite artistry.
The subtle fragrance of ink and the scent of paper lingered in the air, refusing to fade. Despite its vastness—large enough to serve as a training hall for dozens—the room remained saturated with its refined atmosphere.
A go board, sculpted from polished blackwood and marble, gleamed under the soft light. The walls were adorned with paintings rendered in vibrant pigments and fine ink, each stroke deliberate and elegant. Even the untrained eye could recognize the dignified taste of the room’s owner.
“The Head of the Zhuge Clan does not seem like a banished disciple.”
The words came from a middle-aged man with a chiseled face. Seated in an antique blackwood chair, he had been surveying his surroundings before fixing his gaze forward.
Opposite him sat another figure.
A sleek, jet-black heugrip adorned their head, its broad, rounded brim casting a subtle shadow over their face. Beneath it, a translucent veil draped down, adding an air of mystery.
A jawline without a single crease, lifted in quiet composure.
They suited the seat of honor in such an elegant room. In many ways, they were its crowning jewel.
“A banished disciple, you say.”
The man, revealing only the lower half of his face, curved his lips into a smile.
"I, the Patriarch of Zhuge Wumak, have cast out worthless retainers from my household. I am the Zhuge Clan, and with a mere gesture, I open new horizons for Huifeng Wugongliu. Where, then, does one speak of banishment? If you intend to spout such nonsense, turn back now."
"I cannot do that. My clan must reclaim the Eon Family’s Fist Manuscript at all costs."
"Again with the same words. I already told you—it is impossible."
"Strictly speaking, this is not yours to allow or deny. This is a matter of my clan. Where is Eon Hwayeon?"
"It is both my partner's business and the future concern of Wolseongmun. You must understand—unless Eon’s faction submits to my sect, no proposal will be entertained. Do not dare to covet Hwayeon’s Primary Transcription."
His voice flowed like water, smooth and unshaken.
A fist clenched.
Eon Taegwang—renowned as "The Quake of Collapsing Mountain Fist"—gritted his teeth. Veins bulged along his forearm, his knuckles whitening as raw energy surged across his skin, crackling with a near-transparent force.
A foremost fist master of the Eon Clan, one of the Eight Noble Houses. A warrior fit to serve as an envoy before a transcendent martial artist.
"...We have made countless concessions. Vast lands in Hebei. Guard contracts for the Hyeha Trading Group. Have we not sent word time and time again?"
"It is insufficient. How could you measure the worth of Ascending Martial Arts with such trifles? Even the aged monks of Shaolin, after centuries of seclusion, have begun to stir. In these chaotic times, all covet the divine power of Ma Gwang-ik's Jurisdiction."
"You would slander our clan while striking at its heart, even dragging the venerable monks of Shaolin into this? Utter nonsense!"
His voice grew sharper, a conversation long kept in secret now brimming with heat.
Zhuge Patriarch's smile deepened, as if he had been drawing out such fury on purpose.
"You should feel honored to be compared to Shaolin. Every single one of your wits is as foolish and worthless as they come. Ever since you saddled my partner with the responsibility of restoring your feeble bloodline’s prestige, I knew. The Eon lineage—impatient and utterly blind to self-reflection."
"This insolence—!"
Eon Taegwang, of the venerable Eight Great Families, shot to his feet.
KWOOM!
With that alone, the heavy wooden table between them split apart as if torn by a rampaging earth stallion.
The sleeves of his golden martial robe billowed wildly, a tempest of raw force surging from his body. His Qi Waves and Protective Energy coalesced, a storm given shape.
It felt as if a hurricane had crashed into the hall.
"You are the bastard who killed his own son with his own hands! A lunatic consumed by martial arts and his own prestige, willing to sell his own flesh and blood! And you—you dare speak of the honor of a clan?"
"You lack the discipline to listen. You have no right to hear of greater truths."
Zhuge Patriarch muttered.
Shff.
His sleeves shifted ever so slightly.
A white-crane-patterned folding fan was now in his grasp, his arms folded as he leaned back. It was an unorthodox posture, one that hardly resembled any martial stance.
And then—
WUUUUUUUM!
The energy surging from Eon Taegwang's body suddenly inverted, drawn upward as if inhaled by an unseen force.
As though the Jade Emperor of the Heavens had taken a breath.
It happened in an instant.
Eon Taegwang’s thick brows shot up in alarm.
Before he could even react—
The hazy force that had risen above him abruptly coalesced into a sphere.
And then—
A massive pillar crashed down.
FWOOOOOOM!
It struck clean through him, a punishment from the heavens itself.
From the crown of his head down to his groin, he was gone.
A muted thunk echoed as his severed limbs fell to the floor.
No blood sprayed forth. The incision was too precise. As though his flesh had been cleanly severed from reality itself.
Then, belatedly—
The air rushed inward toward the transparent cylindrical void left ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ in the wake of that single strike.
The golden calligraphy-adorned tapestries along the walls fluttered and scattered chaotically, displaced by the sheer vacuum.
Rustle—
Zhuge Patriarch lifted his fan, partially veiling his lips. His elbow rose slightly, the motion so refined it seemed choreographed.
For a brief moment, the pristine white of his robe gleamed with a startling clarity.
"To think I was breathing the same air as that fool. How revolting."
His tone shifted.
Step.
A hidden passage creaked open.
From the shadows, a muscular woman in ashen sleeveless robes stepped out.
Eon Hwayeon.
She spared a single glance at the scattered limbs of her kin. Her expression remained impassive, but the aura of a veteran master seeped from her very stance.
"So you have finally done it, Your Eminence. That was my great-uncle."
"Do not reproach me."
Zhuge Patriarch smiled.
"He was unworthy to hear of greater truths. The Eon Clan will send another, inevitably. Eon Mae was the only one left to replace their decapitated clan leader, who lost his head to Sim Muryun’s Lord."
"..."
"If you are concerned about the Murim Alliance, let me ease your worries. Paekgeomjong's Lord single-handedly held off the Sword Saint. The Nine Great Sects barely even set foot in this matter, and most of the Eight Noble Houses withdrew from the Unity Pact. In its current state, the Murim Alliance is nothing more than a scattered gathering of minor leagues from the farthest reaches of Shaanxi. Without the Sword Saint, they are hardly worthy of the name Great Martial League—just a pathetic cluster of nobodies."
His long fingers traced the side of his fan.
A faint glow shimmered along the golden calligraphy etched into its surface.
Even in casual motion, his hands exuded the arcane principles of mystical martial arts.
"As it should be. Since I am no longer there."
His voice was smooth, but his absolute presence dulled with the finality of his words.
Eon Hwayeon gazed at him for a long moment before speaking.
"You have already erased Zhuge Clan’s Assassination Unit. It seems you have secured your foothold in Shanxi."
"Now, only Ipwang Fortress remains."
He smirked.
"But those fools are too busy trying to plug the shattered cracks of Zhongyuan. The most they can send to Wolseongmun’s Sect Opening Ceremony are a mere handful of high-level warriors."
"A tournament in Shanxi?"
"Indeed."
Her voice was cool.
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"Will you be unharmed?"
"How could I lose against those who come so willingly to the field I have prepared?"
Zhuge Patriarch's whisper was barely audible.
***
The Radiant Wheel Technique had changed.
What was once a warm, Buddhist law now coiled around his figure like an ironbound decree.
Without weaving a single layer of Protective Qi, his body radiated the presence of an armored celestial general.
His sheer disposition was enough.
It stood in stark contrast to the massive Sanseo Gwigaju, clad in steel, standing before him.
Behind that towering figure, countless noble warriors lined up in formation—the full might of Gongya Clan.
Even against such a force, he did not waver.
"Hmm."
His gaze met that of an imposing middle-aged man.
Gwi Il-tae's father.
A former general of the northern battlefront, seasoned from countless wars against foreign invaders.
A darkened sky.
Moonlight glinted off his armored shoulders.
The Clan Lord parted his thick lips.
"You are Geom Un-bi, the Lord of Hyeoncheon Sect, correct? A remarkable young warrior, and an even more astonishing martial force."
He exhaled.
"I have a proposal—"
"The dust clouds my sight."
Ma Gwang-ik's Lord spoke, fingers resting on the hilt of his blade.