“Do you question the Fortress’s assessment?”

“No, sir.”

“You must be wondering how the test works. It’s simple,” the examiner said indifferently.

“Execute the fastest sword move you can. A single stroke will suffice. I will watch and judge.”

‘That’s simple enough.’

Jung Yeonshin felt relieved. He had expected something complicated.

Heon Wonchang’s anxious expression suggested he felt differently. But judging their skill by a single sword stroke, however narrow an approach it might seem, was downright generous. Yeonshin knew from experience how many variables there were in actual combat. This first test seemed to be nothing more than a preliminary filter.

“May I begin now?” he asked, stepping a few paces away. The examiner nodded.

“I—I’ll go first!”

It was Heon Wonchang. He gave Yeonshin an apologetic look and mouthed, ‘I’m too nervous. Sorry.’

Not particularly bothered, Yeonshin gave a small nod. Wonchang took the spot the boy had vacated and gripped his sword hilt.

He glanced at the examiner, whose folded arms seemed to say he could draw whenever he pleased, then set his face in a serious expression and assumed his stance. It was no remarkable opening posture, but Yeonshin sensed waves of core energy rising throughout his body.

‘He’s strong.’

His presence was well honed—more so than that of any wandering warrior Yeonshin had encountered on the road to Xiangyang.

‘When your energy is refined, none of it goes to waste. You can put all your strength into the sword.’

As Yeonshin thought this, Wonchang drew his sword, splitting the air.

“Oh! That warrior’s something else.”

“I don’t think I even saw it.”

“All I caught was a pale blur.”

The spectators exclaimed in admiration. Some gamblers even hastily wagered on whether he would pass.

“Not bad.” The examiner nodded.

A brilliant smile spread across Wonchang’s face as the examiner took his numbered token. Returning to Yeonshin’s side, he whispered,

“For this first test, if that warrior takes your token, you’ve passed. If he tells you to return it to the registration desk, you’ve failed.”

“You’ve passed the first test a few times, then?”

“Mm. The second test, the sparring, has always been the problem.”

“Is there a third?”

“An interview with the Desolate Fortress Master. Some martial artists come to Xiangyang for that alone, hoping to gain insight or enlightenment.”

“I see.” Yeonshin nodded and stepped forward.

Those celebrating or lamenting the outcome of their bets on Wonchang, and even those who had looked doubtful all along, reacted with puzzlement.

“He really is a candidate?”

“A spirited young swordsman.”

“Well, if he’s from out of town, when else would he get to demonstrate his swordsmanship before a Desolate Fortress warrior?”

“Even a word of advice would make it a valuable experience.”

The gamblers among the murmuring crowd did not even place bets. Some smiled as though watching a child perform a cute little trick.

Yeonshin silently rested a hand on his sword hilt and looked at the examiner. With an indifferent expression, the man nodded.

“You may begin.”

The next instant.

“...”

Nothing happened.

The only difference was that Yeonshin’s sword was now drawn and in his hand. It was as though a blink had cut the movement out of the scene entirely. Only the examiner nodded, his face stiff.

“The future of the Desolate Fortress stands before me.”

It was extraordinary praise. The spectators and Wonchang reacted as though they had never imagined such a thing possible. Some gaped; others turned to their neighbors as if wondering whether they had heard correctly. Wonchang’s dumbfounded expression was a sight to behold.

Yeonshin was surprised for another reason.

‘Even I couldn’t see it, and I was the one wielding the sword.’

The examiner seemed to have seen his Swift Sword Formula, which was now too fast even for his own eyes. Was that what a true eye technique was? They said reading an opponent’s attacks was itself a martial skill.

“Give me your token.”

“... Yes, sir.”

“Mm. Number Thirteen.”

The examiner accepted the token and ran a hand over its inscription, as though committing it to memory. A tangle of emotions seemed to fill his eyes as he studied Yeonshin. Then he briefly closed his eyes, as if resigning himself to something, and motioned with his head for him to leave.

“Then, if you’ll excuse me.” Yeonshin sheathed his sword, gave a martial salute, and left the training ground.

Wonchang, who had been standing as if rooted to the spot, hurried after him. His sidelong glances from so close were a little irritating.

“What is it?”

“W-well... might you be a son of some renowned noble clan?”

Yeonshin smiled at his cautious, newly respectful tone.

“What difference would that make? Once you enter the Desolate Fortress, I understand martial skill, talent, and effort are all that matter.”

“Oh... You truly mean to pass the desolate fortress trial, young master.”

“Isn’t that why we came? Not just me, but you too, Brother Heon.”

“... Yes. You’re right.”

Wonchang fell silent. He was staying at a different inn, and after a long stretch without a word, he said goodbye and left. Yeonshin hoped he and that friendly, talkative man would pass the second test together as well.

* * *

The first test was held weekly, and the second every two months. When Yeonshin passed the first, roughly three weeks remained before the second.

He spent that time training in the Movement Art, the Swift Sword Formula, and the core-energy amplification method he had named the Limit Releasing Technique. In the mountains outside the county where his inn stood, he practiced all three; back in his room, he practiced the Limit Releasing Technique. Creating new martial arts was all well and good, but with actual combat ahead of him, he believed honing the skills he already possessed was the right choice.

Sparring. Pitting the martial arts one had learned against another’s. He had been told that the final trial concluded with candidates demonstrating their martial prowess against an opponent.

Yeonshin devoted every moment he had left to martial arts. Wonchang did not visit him once during that time.

MURMUR, MURMUR

And now.

“So this is...”

Dozens of magnificent, ornate halls filled the Desolate Fortress. Every passing warrior radiated a forbidding presence. The many halls stood clustered beside a vast sweep of breathtaking natural scenery, with a line of horizon visible at what seemed the far edge of the world.

Following a servant’s guidance, Yeonshin saw others in the same position as himself.

“So this is the world’s foremost place of martial learning...”

“I heard white robes mark junior warriors. How can their presence be so powerful?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Even earning the white robe guarantees a bright future.”

“I wonder what hidden dragon will emerge this time...”

“I, Cho Muryang of Mount Heng, shall be the dragon that finally stretches its wings!”

Yeonshin was marveling at how easily apparent strangers struck up conversation when he spotted a familiar face. The man had apparently noticed him too, and approached with a welcoming expression.

“Young Master Jung! You seem to have grown taller!”

“You look well too, Brother Heon.”

“I have made a little progress.”

Wonchang rubbed beneath his nose, the hero’s headband with its golden dragon still conspicuous across his forehead.

“Still, there’s no knowing how this will go. Winning isn’t what matters in this test. They say even if you fight only one of the two matches, all you need is to catch the eye of a Desolate Fortress master watching you... but that’s the hardest part.”

“So you can win your match and still fail.”

“Exactly. And today, the examiners are certain to have even higher standards.”

“Why is that?”

“You haven’t heard the rumors? They say the White Qilin is taking today’s trial.”

“The White Qilin? From the Namgoong clan?”

“Yes. I hear he’s already famous in Southern Zhili. They say he wiped out a notorious band of mounted bandits before he was fifteen, and slew the Shrouded Assassin, a master of both sword and saber from the Underworld... There’s also talk that when he was about eighteen, he defeated every rising-generation disciple his age at the Eight Great Families’ Dragon-Phoenix Summit. The summit is a gathering where young talents from prestigious houses build friendships. Yet despite all those rumors, no one has denied them. Couldn’t they be true?”

This time, even Yeonshin could not hide his surprise. Someone that strong certainly deserved an epithet invoking the qilin, a spiritual beast of legend. With the reality of Murim, which he had only heard scattered tales of in Xinye County, suddenly so close, he truly felt that he had entered the martial world.

“Wouldn’t a rising disciple of the Namgoong clan lack for nothing? If he has martial prowess as well, why come to the Desolate Fortress?”

“Probably because he’s a concubine’s son. He can’t become clan head.” Wonchang leaned close and whispered behind his hand.

Feeling his breath against his ear, Yeonshin frowned and quickly moved away. Wonchang chuckled, as though he had never treated him with distant formality, and continued,

“The Desolate Fortress Master is of the noble race, so she remains youthful and holds her position even after two hundred years. But even rising as far as squad leader would leave you with nothing to envy in the heads of the Eight Great Families. Your influence would be greater, in fact. It’s a position that shapes the order of the martial world from the heart of the Central Plains.”

“It’s that important?”

“Isn’t it obvious? There’s no major affair in the martial world that the Desolate Fortress doesn’t have a hand in. Are you from some backwater village rather than a noble clan?”

Yeonshin walked on without a word. Wonchang followed with a grin, looking at him as though he were an adorable younger brother.

“Please wait here. Proceed to the training ground when your name is called.”

The attendant left the thirty-odd aspiring entrants behind. They had stopped in a small flower garden behind an enormous training ground. Another garden stood on the opposite side, with people gathered there as well.

Bright blossoms dotted the fresh green shoots, but no one spared the scenery a glance. Some stood with their eyes closed, mentally rehearsing their techniques; others stared blankly into space. Each waited in their own way.

Yeonshin waited while practicing the Movement Art with minute movements. Before long, candidates began to be called out, one from each side. They fought their matches in the center of a seated circle of Desolate Fortress warriors.

After each fight, those who headed north held their shoulders high enough to pierce the heavens, while those returning south slumped dejectedly.

“How can they do it...?” Once again, Wonchang could not hide his anxiety.

“Among the warriors who passed the first test to separate the gems from the stones, there can’t be a single one who’s never been called gifted. Even I was known as a martial genius in my county.”

His attempts to banter away his nerves were almost pitiful.

“Being selected from among all these gifted people is so cruel, so difficult. And we’re expected to perform our martial arts surrounded by Desolate Fortress masters, no less.”

“Doesn’t that make your heart race?”

“Hm?”

“Having your talent recognized is exciting. At the very least, it must be twice as good as being dismissed as some strange freak.”

“Young master...”

Just as Wonchang was about to say something, an attendant ran into the garden and called out,

“Jung Yeonshin of Xinye County, Nanyang, Henan Province! Step forward!”

“I hope we meet again. Here, in the Desolate Fortress.”

Resting his left hand on the sword hilt at his left hip, Yeonshin strolled out of the garden. Wonchang’s shout rang out behind him.

“Let’s make sure we do!”

* * *

The first match was dull.

His opponent was a strange fellow whose very manner of speaking suggested he had trained alone in some tiny village.

The Four Books and Three Classics existed, and various religious schools spread their teachings, but most people in the martial world lived in worlds of their own unless they had received a proper education in orthodox martial arts. The only prevailing ethos was survival of the strongest. The Central Plains held every imaginable sort of person, making it impossible to predict another’s values, words, or deeds.

“So you’re the moth struggling toward the flame, not knowing despair awaits you at the end!” the swordsman declared, grinning broadly with his yellow teeth gleaming.

The moment the match began, Yeonshin struck him across the mouth with his scabbard.