“Your body's useless now, isn't it? Burned to a crisp.”

It was the hour when the first light cast a hazy glow. A person and a lump cast shadows alongside the thickly growing trees on a wooded hill.

Clad in her red pure-blood robe, the Seventh Apostle stood at an angle on the gently curving slope. Below her hand, the silk wrapping around the lump that had once been the Blood Flame Cult Leader dragged carelessly along the ground before coming to a stop.

Beneath a summer sky soon to give way to the Mid-Autumn Festival, the air on the hill where she stood was unusually cold. Cold yin qi flowed from the place as though an enormous block of ice lay within the mountain.

On the boundary ridge between Sichuan and Huguang stood this sacred mountain, discovered by Blood Flame Cult followers roaming the Central Plains.

The bright orange air of morning slowly crept in. Dawn had come.

“Haah...”

White breath spread from the Seventh Apostle's lips. A rare, refreshed smile graced her face. It was an expression she ordinarily wore only when stealing looks at the young Grand Preceptor, but after transporting something so unpleasant, she was finally enjoying a welcome breath of yin qi.

“This is nice.”

She was not speaking to herself.

—A rare sacred mountain indeed.

The answer came from the lump of a corpse. Nor was it an ordinary reply. It was mind speech.

—Here, I should recover in time. Having suffered such dreadful Dharma power, I will need a good few years. Seventh Apostle, you must bring me offerings to shorten that time.

The Blood Flame Cult Leader was using Wisdom-Light Mind Speech, an art befitting eminent monks versed in Buddhist martial arts.

This was not some supreme principle such as all streams returning to one source. To expand his cult's influence, he had immersed himself in Buddhist teachings for over a hundred years and grasped the subtleties of mind speech. By approaching it as a system of martial learning rather than enlightenment, he had established his stature as a Grandmaster of Blood Arts.

The Cult Leader's race differed from both the Han people and the noble race. They called themselves greater than the noble race.

A supernatural abomination. He could implant his spiritual nature in a crystal of blood and think through it. The body it inhabited was at once a divine weapon and the Blood Flame Cult Leader.

“Offerings, my ass. Disgusting.”

—Adorable thing.

A drop of blood imbued with spiritual nature seeped from the Cult Leader's corpse. It was sticky as mucus.

One of Murim's mysteries was revealing itself in its most revolting form. That slender, snakelike crystal of blood was the Cult Leader himself.

—First, we must decide the cult's course of action. This incident has made one thing clear. Someone else poses the greatest obstacle to our grand design.

“I'm listening.”

—We should not have thought first of the Desolate Fortress Master. She seldom ventures out to begin with. I suspect she cannot stay away from the world tree for long. We need only act discreetly, and even if we provoke her wrath, scatter and evade her long enough.

“I'd like to exchange a few blows with her. She irritates me. A lot.”

—Don't. In any case, the Desolate Fortress's purple-robed masters are half dead now and can no longer threaten us. We need only track the Divine Sword Squad Leader's movements. Next, we might consider the Zhuge clan head, but cunning and powerful as he is, he is no concern of ours.

A strange amusement colored the Blood Flame Cult Leader's mind speech.

—The same goes for the Sword Star, a mere puppet of that Zhuge fellow. As for the leaders of the Nine Great Sects... they are idlers, intoxicated with their own prowess and living at ease in the mountains. Keeping watch on the state of those nine mountain powers will suffice.

“...”

—The little Ming Cult Leader in Xinjiang warrants more caution. Far too ambitious. Besides, I have never seen such a prodigy in spell-based martial arts. Yet that whelp is only now beginning to stretch his limbs as the head of a sect, so even he...

The Blood Flame Cult Leader drew out his words briefly before declaring:

—Cannot match the influence of the Grand Preceptor, who already stands at the heart of the martial world.

“I knew you'd say that.”

The Seventh Apostle leaned lightly against an ancient tree as she spoke. Drawing the sleeves of her pure-blood robe together, she feigned indifference. The Cult Leader continued regardless.

—The Dharma-powered martial art Ma Yeonjeok displayed at Great Completion was truly formidable. For any martial art to attain its ultimate form, its framework must be sound from the moment its principles are conceived.

The Cult Leader, now no more than a handful of blood, paused.

—I can say it with certainty now. To speak of the Grand Preceptor's talent for creation, one must invoke Bodhidharma and Zhang Sanfeng of old. I cannot fathom the magnitude of the spirit within his upper dantian.

“And?”

Only the Seventh Apostle's lips moved as she asked. Her expression did not change.

—Unlike those two, however, the Grand Preceptor is no ascetic cultivating mind and body. He will show not a shred of restraint in devising martial arts to counter others. A dangerous seed indeed, just when the tide that will destroy the Desolate Fortress has begun to stir in the martial world.

“Isn't it good if he creates lots of martial arts for us? Every one of his arts shines.”

—Unfortunately, so long as the Desolate Fortress Master exists, we cannot take the Grand Preceptor into our fold. If we cannot have him, we must kill him. Think in terms of hiring every assassin under heaven. Release the funds while concealing us behind three or four layers. He has accumulated no small number of debts and grudges in the martial world, so there is no reason to hesitate.

“Kill him? The Grand Preceptor?”

—The First Apostle is with the Martial Alliance in Hanzhong. He has secured quite an important position. He will be seeking a chance to make the Martial Alliance and the Desolate Fortress slaughter one another. Ask him for assistance. He will revere your noble blood, born of the True Blood Lineage.

Majesty infused the Blood Flame Cult Leader's mind speech. The commanding spirit of a sect's Grandmaster retained its force even after his flesh had withered. For an instant, the yin qi filling the sacred mountain seemed to press in more heavily.

Yet the Seventh Apostle did not answer.

She adored the young Grand Preceptor. She considered him the one and only comet that could lead her to the ultimate heights of martial learning. He was nothing like the tiresome Cult Leader, forever making one demand after another.

The young Grand Preceptor had pushed her away, only to begin wavering after receiving Bodhidharma's treasure plaque. His uncertainty stirred a sadistic excitement in her.

More.

She wanted to give him more. All the rare treasures scattered beneath heaven, everything that might aid him on his path—she wanted to see how he would treat her after receiving them all.

What expression would the young Grandmaster wear? How would the martial arts unfolding from his fingertips change?

“Ahh.”

She wanted to reach the end of the martial path alongside the boy. The martial ultimate.

At the close of that dazzling life, she wanted to stroke his cheek as his eyes closed and tell him: Your life was so brilliant. I adore you.

The Seventh Apostle slowly parted her lips.

“Cult Leader, I do owe you a debt...”

—Hmm?

“But I've put up with plenty, too. And repaid plenty. Weren't you the one who told me to live as I pleased?”

—Apostle.

“You're going to kill the Grand Preceptor?”

—I thought what you said before was a joke.

A conversation between mad souls began.

“I meant it. I'll become the True Blood Cult Leader, then. I've heard where the seal is, too.”

—Heh, hehehe. Will you devour me? That would be amusing as well. I wonder what the martial world looks like through your eyes.

“Disgusting. As if. My talent is far greater than yours.”

She had a formula given to her by the boy in black robes back when he had worn blue.

By birth, the Seventh Apostle was destined to become as powerful as the Cult Leader simply by cultivating the Demonic Asura Blood Art. She was even younger than the Supreme Flame Dragon, who had fawned over the young Grand Preceptor. She was only just past twenty.

She had risen to the rank of Apostle as the most powerful of the Blood Flame Cult's rising generation. Her potential for growth was boundless.

“So, you see...”

The Seventh Apostle's red lips curved into a smile.

“Die. Thanks for everything. You were a nuisance.”

—Ahahahaha!

The Cult Leader roared with mad laughter.

—You are already the True Blood Cult Leader! Our race will flourish all the more! My only regret is that I cannot watch the cult's glory a little longer...

CRUNCH.

A smooth red silk shoe ground down on the blood.

With a crushing sound, red flames flared on either side of her foot. Only two kinds of core energy could utterly annihilate Blood Arts: blood-art core energy itself, and sacred Dharma power.

At that instant, a wave of force from the Demonic Asura True Blood Art—reborn in the young Grandmaster's hands—gouged through the ground in spiraling flames.

It was a blow that burned to utter death a blood fiend who had roamed the martial world for centuries.

The sacred mountain swiftly regained its chilly silence.

The Seventh Apostle slowly raised her head, once again wearing that bright, red-lipped smile.

“Hanzhong, the Martial Alliance, was it?”

She sensed that she would meet the young Grand Preceptor again. This meeting would take a different form from all those before.

* * *

Lightning Genius Jung Yeonshin.

An unusual air surrounded him. He possessed a harmony beyond his years, evident not only in the qi he emanated but in his outward appearance as well. He wore an unusual black robe of the Desolate Fortress and carried an extraordinary sword.

Despite his boyish looks, his demand for surrender did not seem out of place. Chung Myung, who had opened a carriage window and stuck his head out at some point, whistled.

“Miryeo, did you hear that? ‘Will you resist?’ He's become a proper Fortress warrior, arresting the martial world's ruffians. When did he grow up so much?”

“Don't be ridiculous. Look at the black robe he's wearing.”

“Oh, right. Wasn't it just last year I lent him my blue robe? In Shaanxi. Maybe it's his age, but he really feels like a little brother.”

Chung Myung's lips curved into a fresh smile.

“Captain, what's going to happen to us?”

He glanced into the carriage as he asked. A deep voice answered at once.

“Keep practicing the radiant demon arts without rest. That's all you need to do. Even if I leave this squad, the Radiant Demon Squad will endure. I intend to have a hand in ensuring its continuity remains undisturbed.”

“But Captain, you're short a hand, aren't you?”

At the head of the convoy, Jung Yeonshin let Ma Jin's silence pass. It was the sort of untroubled joke peculiar to Chung Myung, a member of the noble race.

He simply stared at Chwi So-ok, the Young Sword Empress. His eyes told Diancang's foremost disciple that he had every reason to detain her and her fellow disciples until their long journey ended. In silence, the boy demanded an answer.

What had happened when he trusted the honor of the orthodox factions at the Namgoong clan?

Jung Yeonshin did not repeat his mistakes. His firm resolve showed in his eyes, where the white lightning of the Dharma-Surpassing Radiant Wheel Art raged.

Her gently smiling lips stiffened a little. As the successor to one of the Nine Great Sects, she possessed exceptional sword arts and a lofty reputation for chivalry. In many respects, she was often compared to the Zhongnan Sect's Sword Dragon, wiji myohwa. That was how highly this rising-generation disciple was revered in the martial world.

For a moment, the Young Sword Empress looked at Jung Yeonshin without speaking.

The boy met her gaze. He intended to perceive her entire body and see through her martial arts.

To keep the waves of core energy from reaching his grandfather's and the Elder Council Leader's carriages, he would have to completely neutralize the warrior called the Young Sword Empress. Overwhelmingly so.

'They said she was a master of the two-handed sword. Both hilt and blade are long. Should I assume she practices it like a saber? She probably hasn't cultivated the thrusts characteristic of Diancang swordsmanship to much depth.'

He studied her eyes. Her expression made it difficult to tell what she felt.

Her beauty was as flawless as her famed sword qi, but something else left a stronger impression on him: the thick calluses covering both her palms. They were the hands of a swordswoman who had devoted her life to training.

Although the distance between Yunnan and Shaanxi meant she had never tested herself against the Sword Dragon, she seemed no less diligent than wiji myohwa.

'She must have trained in hand techniques, too. I'll have to account for fist and palm arts.'

The boy waited no longer. Here on the broad highway, wearing the Desolate Fortress's black robe, he represented the entire party. It would be absurd if he could not subdue a single rising-generation disciple.

At the very front of the convoy, which had halted when the Supreme Flame Dragon and Namgoong Hwashin struck, he slowly stepped forward.

TAP.

That one step changed the look in the Young Sword Empress's eyes.

They were no longer eyes that suggested an almost artless innocence. The keen gaze of a master precisely measuring the distance between herself and her enemy flashed through them like lightning.

He felt her erect a sword within her mind. The air began to move differently. Its tautness heralded a clash.

A hazy space formed between them. A sword domain—the territory of a sword.

Here, they gauged the reach of their sword paths and the range of the force waves from their strikes. A tug-of-war began. They emitted waves of qi to nullify the other's territory and fill the gap between them with their own.

Jung Yeonshin had drawn her into this contest so that the shock waves of their sword strikes would not hit his grandfather and the Elder Council Leader behind him with much force.

TAP.

Only the boy moved. With every step he took, the colorless waves of qi surrounding them rippled. Between the two swordsmen, gray wind made tangible by their power churned.

TAP.

His footsteps rang unusually loud. He walked in, closing the distance himself. It was something few could attempt without absolute confidence in their swordsmanship.

With his hand resting on the hilt of the divine sword Northern Radiance and the hem of his black robe fluttering, the boy was every inch a captain serving under the Divine Sword Squad.

The Young Sword Empress had lowered her body at an angle and assumed a sword-drawing stance. A small bead of cold sweat ran down her cheek.

With Jung Yeonshin revealing the full force of his qi, she had finally realized that his black Desolate Fortress robe was genuine.

Only five paces separated them now.

The tension between them stretched taut. Their waves of qi resonated in a fierce humming. Soon, the violent trembling of the air began to herald the swordsmen's collision.

Then—

The Young Sword Empress abruptly removed her hand from her sword hilt and bowed. Her long, jet-black hair streamed in the gale of qi.

At the same time, the rushing sound of the sword domain's wind unraveling swept through their surroundings.

As Jung Yeonshin watched her steadily, she slowly straightened and parted her lips.

“Um... I'll come with you.”

Her expression was rather dazed.