“N-now? The Fortress Master is coming here...?” Heon Wonchang stammered.

Beside him, agitation spread across wiji myohwa’s face. Astonishment broke through even the discipline she had cultivated on Mount Zhongnan, that sacred ground of Taoism.

“The Desolate Fortress Master herself...”

“It has been a very long time since Her Ladyship ventured into the martial world. Has it been fifteen years since she destroyed the Dali Kingdom?” Chung Myung said slowly.

In Murim, fifteen years was long enough for one generation of young experts to replace another. It meant she had not displayed her divine might in a very long time.

As was the way with some young people, certain rising generation disciples who had amassed deep internal energy through spirit medicine were said to look down on their elders. Martial arts were skills that advanced with the passage of time. No disciple of a renowned orthodox martial lineage feared peerless martial arts from centuries past.

But the Desolate Fortress Master was a different kind of being.

“To see with my own eyes the divine technique that destroyed Yunnan’s Dali royal house...” wiji myohwa murmured, stroking her sword hilt. The shock was so great that, for a moment, even her concern for Jung Yeonshin faltered.

Chung Myung glanced at her, then beckoned to Heon Wonchang.

“There is no guessing how fast her lightness skill is. It would be no surprise if she were already in Southern Zhili. Tell the magistrate to prepare a reception. We will need to summon the prefect of Huizhou as well. She must be received as a sovereign.”

“Even His Excellency the Prefect!”

Heon Wonchang hurried out of the room in a flurry. A god in human form was descending upon them, someone for whom even ‘a mighty army’ was an inadequate comparison.

The prefect, who governed all of Huizhou Prefecture, stood three official grades above the county magistrate. His standing rivaled that of the Namgoong clan head. Even so, he would have to bow respectfully before the Desolate Fortress Master.

She was, after all, a sovereign acknowledged by the emperor.

“The Fortress Master is coming. Make your preparations.”

“... What did you say?”

Heon Wonchang relayed Chung Myung’s message to the magistrate, savoring the immediate look of terror on the fellow’s face. The local magistrate had close ties to the Namgoong clan, a regional noble clan of Southern Zhili. His previous indifference to requests for government troops vanished without a trace.

When Heon Wonchang emerged from the office shortly afterward, a middle-aged swordsman in blue martial robes was standing in the main hall. The look he leveled at Heon Wonchang was far from ordinary.

He did not appear to be deliberately raising his energy, yet the waves of qi seeping through the air in layers were terribly heavy.

‘The Boundless Heaven Technique!’

Heon Wonchang immediately recognized the Namgoong clan’s ultimate technique. Even the man’s clothes were the same as those damned bastards’.

“You people of the Desolate Fortress.” The swordsman spoke, his jet-black beard hanging in neat, graceful strands.

“You have been plotting something outrageous. You dare gather martial artists in Southern Zhili while disregarding our house? With so little respect for the local noble clan, how are you any different from a lawless pack of unorthodox thugs?”

“And who might you be?”

“I am Namgoong Wi, you Desolate Fortress lout.”

Heon Wonchang fell silent for a moment. He knew the name well. This was the deputy commander of the renowned Azure Heavenly Sword Corps, said to be one of Southern Zhili’s foremost swordsmen. Even most blue-robed experts would be hard-pressed to guarantee victory against him.

‘One wrong move and I could lose my head.’

The Namgoong clan was reputed to stand above the Hwangbo clan. Judging by the magistrate’s behavior, its collusion with the local authorities must have been immense. It possessed enough power to bury a murder committed in the heart of a government office.

Heon Wonchang spoke cautiously.

“You filthy hypocrite. Knowing your clan’s disgraceful conduct, you still have the gall to speak of respect? What did you learn from Confucius, Mencius, and the Four Books and Three Classics that you can utter such appalling, inhuman words? Have you no shame before your parents, who must already be dead?”

His accumulated anger flowed out in a quiet, measured tone. A calm spirit of defiance spread from him.

Namgoong Wi’s response came a breath late.

“What did you say?”

“You are the true unorthodox martial artist. Did you not stand by and watch a young warrior die when he was trying to behead cultists and bring peace to the people? Now that our fortress is gathering martial artists to strike that evil cult, you people prattle about your clan’s dignity while ignoring your own conduct...”

The longer Heon Wonchang spoke, the stronger the waves of internal energy emanating from Namgoong Wi became. Heon Wonchang paid them no heed.

“You truly are a sorry spectacle.”

He finished looking thoroughly relieved. Namgoong Wi shook his head.

“... Did you think I would not draw my sword in a government office?”

HUM.

The man’s sword began to give a mighty cry. He lived up to his reputation; even his sword resonance was extraordinary.

Heon Wonchang was channeling core energy into his throat to call for Chung Myung and wiji myohwa when it happened.

THUD.

There was not even the sound of a cut. With a sudden breath of wind, Namgoong Wi’s neck came apart. His head dropped with futile ease, as naturally as a leaf settling unexpectedly to the ground.

The renowned swordsman’s body collapsed in the opposite direction from his head, which was already rolling across the floor. His end was so abrupt and empty that, for an instant, it did not seem real.

When had it begun?

A ceaseless gentle breeze drifted around them like a heat haze. It was a profoundly strange moment. The streams of wind had no color, yet pale green seemed to ripple in every direction.

Time in the government office seemed frozen. A gentle transcendence was stirring in the silence that filled the hall.

“The Namgoong clan’s crimes...”

A crystalline voice rang out from the rooftop.

“...will be judged together with Lightning Genius.”

Long robes the pale color of grass blades fluttered in the wind.

Heon Wonchang had already craned his head upward, his eyes widening until they seemed about to tear. Then he dropped to one knee with disciplined precision, his entire body trembling with surging emotion.

* * *

“Awake?”

A playful whisper tickled his ear. The breath was thick with internal energy. He knew it well by now: the Seventh Apostle’s exhalation.

Jung Yeonshin opened his eyes at once, but his senses did not immediately awaken. Normally, he could sharpen his energy detection throughout his body at will, yet for a moment his core energy was slow to activate.

He understood at once. He had been subdued.

‘She sealed my paralysis points again.’

The Seventh Apostle’s face filled half his vision. Her expression brimmed with profound affection. He could sense desire as well.

After gazing quietly into her single red eye, Jung Yeonshin spoke.

“What did you do?”

“I wanted to preserve that dazzling body of yours with the utmost care. I drew a picture, so that the child I see in you may remain in our cult forever.”

She smiled and straightened. Only then did Jung Yeonshin register the pungent smell of ink and paint.

Did she have some skill in painting and calligraphy? His entire body was depicted on the large sheet of paper in her hands.

It was no mere portrait. It reproduced the inside of his body: the eight extraordinary meridians, all the fine meridians and pressure points, and even the three energy cores. One part stood out in particular—the upper dantian in his head, adjoining the pressure-point pathways that lay wide open from his crown. She had drawn it in astonishing detail.

An anatomical diagram.

She had infused core energy into Jung Yeonshin to examine his body. The Seventh Apostle was a master of internal qi arts. Scanning his body would have been easy for her.

The corners of her mouth lifted.

“Who knows? Perhaps our cult can create a child who comes even a little close to your aptitude.”

“... I have heard that strange miracle physicians sometimes emerge from the Blood Flame Cult. So you use regenerative powers for sinister medicine? No wonder physicians who follow the proper path fall behind.”

“This will become a treasure.”

“You sacrifice your own followers. Just what I would expect of unorthodox scum.”

Their conversation did not connect. Their relationship had been forged by Murim’s law of the strong preying on the weak. The smiling Seventh Apostle and the impassive Jung Yeonshin had been at cross-purposes from the start.

He closed his eyes again and focused his intent on his lower dantian.

The Moon Spirit Harmonization Art he had received from the Desolate Fortress Master was said to be a peerless martial art seldom seen under heaven. He had spent a considerable time practicing it in order to create a new internal cultivation art with an extremely rapid rate of qi accumulation. Merely examining and studying its formula in detail had broadened his understanding.

Indeed, Jung Yeonshin was already familiar with advanced controlled breathing.

‘So this is how asking the Fortress Master about internal cultivation pays off.’

The formula of the Demonic Asura Blood Art unfolded in his mind. He had skimmed it immediately upon returning with the secret manuals from the Blood Flame Cult Leader.

He had already made some headway in categorizing the effects of its qi accumulation. He could identify the portions of the formula that affected the brain first. He removed them at once.

“What are you doing...?”

The Seventh Apostle addressed him cautiously. She seemed mindful of how she had flown into a rage on her own yesterday and then apologized repeatedly.

Ignoring her, Jung Yeonshin learned the energy circulation of the Demonic Asura Blood Art. He did as she wanted, adopting the exact properties of her Blood Art core energy that remained within his body.

‘Done.’

Once he had dismantled the formula, the rest took only an instant. A new route for circulating core energy etched itself into his mind. He could now remove the Seventh Apostle’s core energy from his pressure points—the energy that held his life in her hands.

He also learned something else.

‘The Blood Art’s regenerative power comes from stealing core energy.’

He recalled the Cult Leader’s words: do not tamper with the fundamentals. In the Blood Flame Cult’s martial arts, the two were branches of the same stem. Even knowing how it worked, he could not openly use it outside.

Jung Yeonshin already had escape in mind.

Slowly, he parted his lips.

“Your martial art.”

“Yes? Yes?”

“I am starting with revisions to the Demonic Asura Blood Art. Are you certain I can tailor it to you? It is the martial art of all the Apostles.”

“Ah!”

Pure, radiant joy suffused the Seventh Apostle’s face. She nodded over and over.

“The others have their ridiculous pride because they fancy themselves supreme masters! They probably won’t even learn it. You need only look at me! The Cult Leader will concern himself with the Blood-Surpassing Art!”

As she spoke, she fetched a neatly folded bundle and handed it to him. It was red. Judging by its thickness and shape, it was a long red robe, the same kind she favored.

“A pure-blood robe. It was made by weaving our cult’s sorcery into Thousand-year Silk. Ordinary swords and sabers cannot even scratch it.”

“... A precious item.”

“Yes. Even our cult has only a few. Only Apostles may receive one.”

His Desolate Fortress martial robes had already been confiscated. Jung Yeonshin looked down at the bundle, then spoke.

“Let’s take a walk.”

“Still attached to the Desolate Fortress?”

The Seventh Apostle tilted her head slightly as she asked, but he did not answer.

After seeing the Enchantment yesterday, he had formed a certain plan. He needed to roam about and plant energy in various stationary objects.

How had she taken his silence? The Seventh Apostle’s expression shifted through all manner of emotions. Perhaps because he had said he was revising the Demonic Asura Blood Art, he could sense anger and possessiveness that she could not readily vent. There seemed to be a trace of pity as well.

‘It isn’t for my sake. It’s her own desire.’

Her feelings were not something Jung Yeonshin needed to agonize over. Whatever pity she felt would be that of a Blood Flame cultist.

He inwardly shook his head and flung the door wide. At that moment, the voice that had been grating on his ears since midday suddenly grew much louder.

“... And thus a new Grand Preceptor has manifested in our cult! Your hair shall become the equal of the Apostles’! And thus shall you wield the sword of punishment against those wicked wretches in Beijing and those hypocritical louts!”

“The Third Apostle’s son. A fellow named Go Jonghak,” the Seventh Apostle said in an odd tone.

Red hair filled every direction. There seemed to be at least several hundred Blood Flame cultists.

The man pouring out impassioned words from a dais in the center of the settlement whipped his head around. His eyes met Jung Yeonshin’s, and the corners of his mouth instantly curled upward.

“There! There he is! He has revealed his august countenance to us!”

Countless eyes converged on Jung Yeonshin as Go Jonghak gestured. Even the Seventh Apostle turned toward him with a soft smile.

Go Jonghak’s next cry carried core energy.

“He is the one who shall lead our cult all the way to Beijing! Ah! Behold him! Our cult shall be transformed by the miracles of the Grand Preceptor! Humbly, I beseech you, Grand Preceptor: show a miracle to these pitiful lowborn souls trapped in flaming blood!”

The miracle he spoke of apparently meant revising the Blood-Surpassing Art’s formula, but the demand defied reason. Only a single night had passed at headquarters since Jung Yeonshin regained consciousness.

‘Even the Blood Flame Cult Leader did not speak of immediate results.’

This was the son of the Third Apostle, who had tested Jung Yeonshin with an internal-energy barrier. It was the moment he learned that even an evil cult had its political strife.

The man intended to exploit his existing renown to publicly humiliate him. Were even gatherings of lunatics still places where people lived as people did?

From what the Seventh Apostle had said in the Cult Leader’s Palace, he knew the Third Apostle and his son coveted the rank of young cult leader. The lust for power that had broken through the Blood Art’s madness struck him anew.

Jung Yeonshin gave the bundle in his hands a sharp shake. Brilliant red fabric unfolded, its broad skirts waving like a banner.

Without a word, he began to put the long robe on over his clothes. A few small movements, and the pure-blood robe draped over his body fluttered crimson.

“...”

The crowd fell silent. So did Go Jonghak. There was something that uncanny about Jung Yeonshin’s appearance.

HUM.

Was it because he had begun circulating the Demonic Asura Blood Art with its madness excised? His bearing was unlike anything ever seen in the Blood Flame Cult.

Though the waves of qi were unmistakably those of Blood Art, his clear energy began to evoke the eerie atmosphere unique to the cult.

Some of the followers whispered. All manner of words rose from different corners: Cult Leader, Grand Preceptor, Apostle, pure blood...

The waves of qi radiating from his entire body stirred a wind. Jet-black hair swayed around the shoulders of his long red robe.

At that moment, he looked every inch the rightful heir to the Blood Flame Cult’s martial lineage.

“You wish to see the Grand Preceptor’s miracle?” he asked.