Jeong Yeon-shin decided to spare Namgung Mi.
If this woman had carefully brought her justification to the table, then he and Namgung Hwa-shin could just as easily concoct a plan of their own.
Had subduing her been difficult, he wouldn’t have hesitated to sever her neck. But since she was now in his grasp, the most optimal scenario could be drawn.
The conclusion would be left to Namgung Hwa-shin.
Jeong Yeon-shin hoped for him to overcome his emotional scars while earning accolades in the process. The goal was to create a scenario where Ipwang Fortress could execute members of the Namgung Clan without restraint.
With Namgung Mi subdued, the conditions had aligned with the best-case scenario he and Namgung Hwa-shin had anticipated.
“What should I do with you?”
He spoke from behind the specter mask of the Pureblood Robe. Perhaps due to the destructive and erratic aura of Mara’s Roaring Blood Technique, the veins that bulged on his hand as he held her neck appeared unnervingly sinister.
“Namgung—so lowly yet bearing the name of the righteous path. Though your name has spread far and wide, perhaps you could be used to display our cult’s enduring strength.”
His words revealed the supposed intent of a Bloodflame Cult noble who had intervened in this gathering.
“Haah...”
“This has turned into...”
The martial artists of Wuchang, who had been observing the clash between the Namgung Clan and the cult’s masters, let out quiet sighs of disbelief.
Though there was no will or strength to side with the utterly defeated Namgung Mi, their understanding of the situation was clear.
The majority of those attacking the main branch of the Bloodflame Cult came from regional martial factions near Nanjili. Their numbers far exceeded those of Ipwang Fortress warriors during the incident. This suggested that news of the main branch’s demise was far from secret.
Martial artists were people who lived and died by their skills and reputation, and the Bloodflame Cult was no different.
The idea that a noble of the cult’s main branch had stepped forward to announce the sect’s vitality was something even the most skeptical could grasp.
“I could break your neck here and now. But it would be such a waste. There are many ways you could be of use to me.”
His voice carried a low chuckle. Masters who reached the pinnacle of their art often seemed inhuman. In the third-rate martial world, the Nine Great Schools and the Thirteen Heavens were such figures. The piercing resonance of his youthful voice, amplified by his inner energy, only enhanced this impression.
“What if I made you my servant? To clean my feet?”
“...”
The grotesque specter mask seemed to stare blankly at Namgung Mi’s face, as though contemplating what to do with its prey.
The mask, with its gaping maw resembling a dragon’s, appeared to muse over her fate. It was a sight that could chill anyone to their core.
Namgung Mi, struggling visibly, finally opened her mouth. Her lips moved as if with great difficulty.
“You called me strong...”
“I did.”
“A lowly creature hiding behind a mask dares...”
The specter mask chuckled.
“Does my judgment offend you? You, Namgung spawn, masquerading as the righteous path while indulging in ruinous acts. The word ‘lowly’ suits you. You even dragged innocent people into disgrace as fodder for your reputation. Not even our cult stoops to such depravity.”
“Spouting nonsense—urk!”
Her attempted retort turned into a pained gasp. The moment she tried to speak, the specter mask’s left hand blurred.
A dull, explosive sound reverberated as his aura struck her body repeatedly. It resembled the drumbeat of an imminent disaster. Anyone could see this was no ordinary pressure-point strike.
As Namgung Mi’s body hung limp in his grasp, the eerie noble of the Bloodflame Cult spoke again.
“Did you think my talk of servitude was a joke?”
“W-What...!”
“To channel your internal energy now, you will need my permission. Such is the mystical power of my blood cultivation.”
It was clear: he had applied a technique to seal her energy. Ipwang Fortress’s Seomye had once been subjected to a similar method by the Seventh Apostle.
Jeong Yeon-shin had simply turned the Myagung Suppression Technique he had personally experienced against his opponent.
By integrating the principle into the flow of Mara’s Roaring Blood Technique, he had effectively paralyzed her.
“How dare you! How dare you!”
Namgung Mi’s voice rose in desperation, her delicate brows twisting in fury.
It wasn’t despair but fierce indignation. What had occurred was unthinkable.
‘I will kill you! I’ll make you kneel beneath me and die!’
Her gaze sharpened as if to etch her captor’s form into her memory. She stared intently at the figure behind the specter mask, her focus lingering on the faint silhouette of his exposed sleeves.
The insight of a master was beyond imagination. Even from the movement of his veins near key pressure points, she sought to deduce his identity.
“Such impressive spirit,” he remarked.
“Ugh...”
The specter mask tightened its grip on her neck.
At that moment, a deafening silence filled the room as the main gate of the Gate of the Wise Master swung open.
A crisp wind blew in, carrying a stark and forceful energy flow.
“A specter defiling this place of vengeance for the evil path.”
A young man entered, his blue martial robe perfectly complementing his composed presence. His gaze fell heavily on the specter mask and Namgung Mi.
“I came to toast my sister, and yet...”
The bold character for Hwang etched on his shoulder glinted as he radiated unyielding strength.
His sharp nose and tightly drawn lips bore an unmistakable resemblance to Namgung Mi. Anyone present would recognize their shared bloodline.
“Is that... Ipwang Fortress?”
“A sister? Could he be...?”
“The White Qilin! Namgung’s White Qilin!”
Hope sparked in the faces of the crowd. Namgung Mi had been defeated, and they were unsure of their own survival.
The White Qilin, Namgung Hwa-shin.
Even before entering Ipwang Fortress, he had already made a name for himself in the martial world.
Acknowledged across the Nine Great Schools, Namgung Hwa-shin had surpassed the level of a mere late-stage practitioner. He was someone unmatched as a rival for a noble of the Bloodflame Cult.
‘The ones condemning the main branch.’
Namgung Hwa-shin reflected on the events that had unfolded since the banquet began. He had arrived with Jeong Yeon-shin, witnessing firsthand the insults hurled at Ipwang Fortress while propping up the Namgung Clan.
The sudden shift in the regional martial artists’ attitudes left him uneasy.
He suppressed his discomfort and stepped forward.
He silently regretted not examining the Gate of the Wise Master earlier. Namgung Mi’s actions were to blame.
He had thought the hounds she had crippled and discarded were sufficient for her cruelty. He hadn’t imagined she would involve even her attendants.
‘Yes, you were always this ruthless.’
His gaze settled on Namgung Mi, her neck gripped by Seomye. Paralyzed, she couldn’t even turn her head.
‘Has her movement been completely sealed?’
Namgung Hwa-shin found himself surprised. He was just another swordsman, far removed from the extraordinary technique that had subdued his half-sister.
His attention shifted to his comrade, Jeong Yeon-shin, standing as calm and unperturbed as ever.
‘Truly astonishing.’
It was a scene beyond anything Namgung Hwa-shin could replicate. He had no means to resist such cold energy.
Even if he did, it wouldn’t be easy. Jeong Yeon-shin’s control over his power was remarkable.
Only someone who had absolute mastery over their current realm could accomplish this.
His talent was undeniable, his martial potential far surpassing his own.
‘He’s created an opportunity for me. I owe him a debt. I must succeed.’
Resolute, Namgung Hwa-shin spoke.
“Specter, release her.”
“Another Namgung stray? ‘Release her’? Your words are amusing.”
Jeong Yeon-shin’s eerie voice echoed from behind the mask. Namgung Hwa-shin momentarily thought to himself:
If I didn’t know the circumstances, these words would offend me deeply. The tone, detached yet needling, was provocative in itself.
Namgung Hwa-shin steadied himself and replied firmly.
“Namgung Mi, the Master of Chang Ryeong, is the designated opponent of the duel. The Divine Sword Corps Captain has been assigned as the arbiter of this task.”
“The Divine Sword Corps Captain...?”
The courtyard fell silent.
It was a name that demanded respect.
Unlike the unreachable Sovereign of Ipwang, this was a real and formidable figure, someone who could not be easily opposed.
“Release my sister now, and you may avoid the unrelenting pursuit of the captain’s blades.”
“Is the Namgung Clan threatening me?”
The specter mask reacted immediately.
He hurled Namgung Mi to the ground as if discarding trash. She landed in a crumpled heap, a sight unimaginable when the banquet had begun.
Ignoring her, Jeong Yeon-shin turned toward Namgung Hwa-shin.
Sring.
From the crimson belt of his Pureblood Robe, he unsheathed his sword once more. The oppressive aura it exuded sent chills through the air.
Namgung Hwa-shin mirrored the action, raising the blade of the Ipwang Sword.
Sweat beaded on the foreheads of those watching.
Step. Step.
The air between the two seemed to freeze, unmoving. Not even the slightest breeze disturbed the stillness.
The dry tension thickened as they closed the distance with measured steps.
Their strides, blades lowered in relaxed grips, mirrored each other almost eerily.
The atmosphere compressed further with every shortened step. Ten paces. Eight. Five... And then—
Boom!
Their feet slammed the ground as they moved in unison, blurring with speed.
In the briefest instant, the sunlight caught their blades.
Two arcs of white sword light crossed paths, and the red and blue hems of their robes brushed past each other.
Clang—!
Namgung Hwa-shin stopped abruptly, the reverberating hum of his blade compelling him to pause. He had intended to halt anyway.
But the trajectory and power behind Jeong Yeon-shin’s strike were nothing like their sparring at Ipwang Fortress. The progress was astounding.
‘He has seamlessly integrated his heightened energy into his swordsmanship. The concentrated power is on another level.’
Swordsmanship was the path the blade followed. It defined the power and precision of one’s strikes.
Namgung Hwa-shin recalled the tales of Jeong Yeon-shin consuming an elixir of enlightenment.
He had seen him clash with the Seventh Apostle multiple times, but experiencing his swordsmanship firsthand was entirely different.
Namgung Hwa-shin thought of his estranged brother.
‘Perhaps... victory is not impossible.’
At that moment, his musings were interrupted by the sound of a sword being sheathed behind him. Jeong Yeon-shin, still wearing the specter mask, straightened his posture and spoke.
“You speak of the Divine Sword Corps Captain as if they matter.”
“...”
“Ipwang Fortress—wait and see. There are many branches to replace the main sect. The nobles of the blood will return.”
Without turning back, he strode away, heading toward the main gate where Namgung Hwa-shin had entered.
The sound of his departing footsteps was accompanied by the laughter of a Bloodflame Cult noble.
“Wretched insects.”
The eerie sound of his amusement echoed as he disappeared.
“...”
In the long silence that followed, it was left to Namgung Hwa-shin to bring order to the chaos.
Finally, he turned his gaze to his half-sister, the sworn enemy who had always looked upon him with disdain.
But Namgung Mi didn’t seem to register their familial reunion. She stood arrogantly, as if she hadn’t just been humiliated.
Her eyes, alight with burning hatred, were fixed on the direction Jeong Yeon-shin had gone. The intensity of her gaze bordered on obsession, unlike anything Namgung Hwa-shin had seen before.
As he observed her, Namgung Hwa-shin spoke.
“Our side will take custody of you. Your safety is guaranteed until the duel.”
“What...?”
“Seomye of Ipwang and I are here. With me and Jeong So-hyeop, you’ll reach Nanjili unharmed.”
Behind Namgung Mi’s turned head, the faces of the Wuchang martial artists came into view.
Their expressions reflected a mix of complicated emotions.
“This is a disaster. That man—such overwhelming skill! To think a specter of that level roams Wuchang...”
“More than that, we must worry about the repercussions from Namgung...”
Their opportunistic behavior disgusted Namgung Hwa-shin. He ignored them with a frown.
The fruits of the struggle for justification were already ripening.
“A duel and yet protecting your opponent?”
“Truly... a demonstration of honor.”
“Ipwang Fortress—they truly care for the people...”
This was exactly the outcome Jeong Yeon-shin and Namgung Hwa-shin had sought. Most of those present were influential figures.
Leaders of escort agencies, provincial governors, heads of martial sects, and even the dean of Wuchang Academy were in attendance. Their words would shape the opinions of the surrounding regions.
It was done. They could now execute the Namgung Clan’s leadership without fear of public backlash.
***
A towering ancient tree stood tall, the highest landmark in the area.
Perched diagonally on one of its thick branches was a woman, her hair flowing like jet-black silk, rippling in the gentle breeze. Her crimson eyes, vivid as if adorned with a prized ruby treasured by demons, gazed downward.
Her attention was drawn to a boy moving with graceful, leaf-like steps, slipping away with ease. His movement resembled the Noble Clan's Movement Technique, nearly imperceptible, yet his footsteps were clear in her ears.
The Seventh Apostle parted her lips.
"My little Taesa."
Her mutterings had grown frequent. Perhaps it was the result of her long years spent as an unmatched presence in the martial world.
No, that wasn’t it. She had always been this way—a being born innately noble and solitary.
Hmph, she laughed softly, a slight nasal hum escaping unintentionally.
"You’re utterly captivating."
Seomye Jeong Yeon-shin.
She had etched the sound of his voice, laden with the energy of Mara’s Roaring Blood Technique, deeply into her memory.
The sight of him donning the Pureblood Robe once again was mesmerizing. His radiant talents and resolute nature suited him better than anyone else.
It was as if he embodied the sharp clarity of the branding marks burned into the flesh of sect slaves. His voice, his appearance, his posture of solitary supremacy—all of it.
Every moment she listened and watched, she felt as though her entire being was melting. Her thoughts grew soft, as comforting as clouds against a night sky.
The Seventh Apostle’s right eye glowed with an ethereal red light, tracing every detail of Jeong Yeon-shin.
The young Taesa of the Bloodflame Cult, the noble yet small sect master. There he was, standing in an empty clearing, his surroundings deserted, removing his mask and shedding the Pureblood Robe.
Suddenly, a sharp pain tore through her heart. All of it—those things, that place—they were meant to be yours, my little Taesa.
Even the position he occupied seemed calculated, positioned not far from Namgung Hwa-shin.
"Haa..."
She let out a sweet sigh, murmuring softly to herself.
"What must I do for you to accept me?"
If only that boy would see her and her alone.
Would it not be fine to sever all his limbs and bring him to her?
The Seventh Apostle shook her head vigorously. No, she couldn’t allow such corrupt desires to ruin what must remain untarnished.
She had to forge a martial skill that would light up the heavens like a comet.
An existence like his could not be tainted by her twisted yearning.
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"Show me an opening..."
She licked her lips ever so slightly.