Im Jin-myeong’s group—comprising the General Directorate, the Ipwang Ma Clan, the Ipwang Shin Clan, and even Elder Shin Byeok—was the very core of what remained of Ipwang Fortress.

If one sought glory, this was the party to follow.

And so, pursuit was inevitable. Whether it was to sell their tracks for a price, or to wipe out the weakened greatest sect in the world and loot its remains.

The Hao Sect chose the former—selling off intelligence to newly risen warlords who coveted the title of Heaven’s Greatest Sect—namely, the ones who now surrounded the city walls.

Kiring.

The delicate ring of a wind chime echoed. A figure in white, long hair fluttering, gently shook the charm from atop the wall. One of the fabled Divine Musicians—battlefield weapons of the Shinyo Gwangjeok Sect, one of the Thirteen Thrones.

Below them, seven musicians sat cross-legged, placing their seven-string zithers across their knees. According to the Hao Sect, these same performers had annihilated over a hundred imperial cavalry at Huangshou Gorge just fifteen days prior.

But that wasn’t all.

Saaa—

A spring breeze swept in, and from it emerged a blade like smoke. A middle-aged man said to have gained enlightenment by slicing through the waves of Hainan. He was the Third Lord of the Four Holy Martial Clans—also known as the Third Viceroy.

“What a fucking mess this is.”

He laughed loudly from where he’d lazily perched atop a tavern roof.

“Waited here hoping the northern God of War might appear?”

His thick dialect and wild beard made him a textbook sea-blade master from the southern coasts.

According to the Hao Sect, the Third Lord, Guo Qin, had business with Ma Jin, Lord of the Ipwang Ma Clan—because the Sword King Buta had fought and scarred him.

The Sword King.

One of the most revered swordsmen of this generation, alongside the head of the Wudang Sect. Had he lived, he would have been hailed as the Century’s Greatest Swordsman. Among the many who emerged from seclusion in these times, the Sword King’s reputation towered above all.

Such a man had left a wound on Ma Jin’s body. A former Margrave and known inheritor of Jeong Ga Donggong’s art. Naturally, Guo Qin couldn’t help but see him as a source of immense inspiration.

“...And yet here lie the traces of a newly-risen ‘Five Great Swords’ right before me.”

He muttered, pained.

And he wasn’t alone.

Dozens of powerful individuals—those who saw themselves as bearers of Ipwang Fortress’s karma—began to appear atop the rooftops and walls. Having assessed the condition of Elder Shin Byeok and Ma Jin, they now responded to a new variable.

“A God of Battle, is it? I’ve heard the stories...”

“It would shame our sect to walk away now. We certainly can’t let Ipwang’s end fall to that bastard.”

“We’ll be the ones to kill him. Let’s cut off his head and go. We’ve come this far—why not try?”

With every word, the atmosphere trembled. Even if the land beneath their feet held no strength, their mere breath carried a crushing, constant pressure. In this post-imperial world, they viewed themselves as rulers of the realm.

The information brokers, however, felt differently.

“...Shit!”

It was Manrakja Qin Lun’s bitter curse.

His smug face vanished. The leisurely way he had knelt as Im Jin-myeong’s conversational partner disappeared with it. He raised a knee, staring wide-eyed toward the road that led to the city gate.

Then he whipped his head around.

“Run! Do you want to die?!”

But Im Jin-myeong wasn’t looking at the limping shadow approaching—he was scanning the sea of martial artists around them as if peering through weeds. Their overwhelming strength would crush even the finest master.

“They would’ve chased us anyway... hoping to kill everything that remains of the fortress. But I have a duty to protect the people...”

He spoke calmly.

“And so, the martial world must die with us. Starting with you.”

“Are you insane?! You’ve lost your mind! You think the Grand Alliance won’t retaliate?! Even the former heads of the Eight Clans have bowed to their leader and joined his ranks!”

Crack! Crunch!

Qin Lun, the self-proclaimed right hand of the Hao Sect Leader, writhed against his restraints.

“Don’t waste your breath. Those binds were tied by the Heavenly Dragon Master, Wi Ji-geuk, himself.”

Im Jin-myeong clicked his tongue.

“An elder swordsman once tried to show off and ended up stuck—couldn’t undo the knot. Time really is a cruel thing.”

He glanced down at Qin Lun.

“...Every kind of bottom-feeder is trying to devour what’s left of this fortress.”

“You bastard!”

“Even among the Grand Alliance, there are members who’ve never earned their place. They bark without knowing the heavens from the earth—just like you.”

Refusing to die in vain—

Im Jin-myeong had deliberately drawn the warriors to coincide with the God of Battle’s path. Seeking mutual destruction.

“You lunatic...!”

Suddenly, Qin Lun froze.

Step.

A coarse, dragging footstep echoed through the market square.

Though the man had been slowly limping toward them from afar, no one had realized how close he’d gotten.

“......”

No release of energy. Not a ripple of internal force.

The pinnacle of subtlety in martial arts. Outwardly, he looked like just a cripple, leaving no trace of technique in his movements.

Whoosh.

A sudden gust swept the ground. Just a spring breeze—but its ordinary nature stole the breath from the crowd more than any killing aura could.

Everything felt natural.

Tap, tap.

The hulking cripple stepped into the square with sunlight at his back. He stood just thirty paces from Im Jin-myeong’s desk.

The lower half of his face moved.

“I’m just a blunt tool, unable to rest until my debts are repaid. I had no reason to set foot in Ipwang Fortress...”

His yellowed teeth showed in a crooked smile.

“But fate, it seems...”

His voice trailed off, and the air grew silent.

The spring breeze scattered lightly through the haze. A dusky orange glow poured in from one side of the sky.

Sunset had come.

And the cripple—he reeked of blood like dusk itself.

“...Blood?”

Qin Lun’s lips twitched, caught between a grimace and a laugh. His expression was utterly deranged. His skin had gone ghostly pale.

“That’s right. The imperial army...! He’s the one who slipped past thirty thousand elite troops that were marching to crush this place! I was told it was unavoidable! There’s no way he made it through unscathed!”

He shouted, almost as if urging them.

“Let’s run away like this! We can still survive! That man isn’t in full condition...!”

RUMBLE!

Like catapulted stones slamming down, martial artists encircled the area in an instant. Dust exploded upward, shrouding the shadow of the God of War, and from all directions came crashing waves of force—overlapping energies like tidal surges. Warriors in every direction were charging their striking power. All of them had opened their upper dantian, each moving like gods bending time.

Im Jin-myeong’s eyes widened.

‘They’re planning to strike and retreat...!’

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Behind the Ipwang Ma Clan Leader and the Ipwang Shin Clan Leader, at both flanks.

In front of the Ma and Shin clans’ retainers.

At Elder Council Chief Shin Byeok’s carriage.

At Im Jin-myeong’s desk.

In the sluggish time that pressed down like a swamp, the blades, swords, fists, and kicks of the martial artists—and even the waves of sonic attacks—ripped through space. The chaotic and ghostly trajectories blurred into a disjointed roar.

KWAA—! KWAA—! KWAA—!

Meanwhile, Im Jin-myeong flipped his brush as if it were a dagger. Even before the third leader of the Four Alliance Sects could fully swing his sword, just from the momentum alone, dust burst from the shattered desk. Instantly, using a stroke of the Judge’s Brush, he deflected the flat of the sword. A single grain of dust shattered—spitting sparks as it flew.

The spark hovered.

It soared over Ma Jin’s blade, which had just slashed through the waists of three martial artists, then briefly blended with the blood spit by Shin Seol-ha, who’d been hit by five punch-based martial artists. It narrowly avoided the tip of Shin Byeok’s boot, which had kicked open the carriage door and launched three men away like dandelion seeds, only to be shattered by a wild-haired woman’s open palm strike.

“Grand Marshal! Why didn’t you evacuate the Ma Clan’s successor in advance?! Don’t tell me you were worried fewer of these martial dogs would chase us?!”

The woman’s shout.

Her Golden Immortal Eightfold Palms crushed a martial artist’s chest, caving in his sternum. Right then, a young man who uppercut an assassin that had dropped into the Ma Clan’s midst shouted urgently.

“Mother!”

“Se-in! You must run! These bastards don’t know the North! That Grand Marshal bastard from the Im Clan doesn’t either!”

The wild-haired one-armed woman—Ju Yeon-jeong—had lost all her former intimidation. She screamed so hard her throat split.

“I’ve heard the phrase ‘Southern Emperor, Northern Blade’ my whole life! I was in Beijing even when that monster Mun Gok reduced the Four Generals to three! And now, that very thing they worship as a god... is him! So go! Hurry...!”

At that moment, all the martial artists froze.

CRACKLE-CRACKLE-CRACKLE-CRACK!

The Ipwang Fortress fighters’ counterattack burst like sparks over their bodies. Suddenly, formless guardian energy had been cast over every martial artist. Brush strokes, sword waves, blades, and fists all scattered like illusions.

Silence returned naturally.

“......”

Ma Se-in locked eyes with a martial artist frozen in front of him.

Zhao Il-pyeong, the Fierce Tiger Fist Demon. A high-level fighter from the western lands of Sichuan. He’d tried to deny being a demon by parading through Guizhou with the heads of a hundred Bloodflame Cult members on a rope.

Rumors said those he'd slain were commoners forced to learn blood arts, but without an organization like the Divine Sword Corps to investigate, the case had been buried.

Now, he couldn’t even form an expression—his eyes rolled like go pieces. And he wasn’t the only one. Every martial artist was the same.

The God of War spoke.

“I showed them mercy.”

“What do you mean by that?” Im Jin-myeong asked in reply.

He was still seated, locking eyes with the third Fortress Lord Gwak Heum, who was pointing a sword right at his forehead. The entire scene felt as though time had stopped.

“Northern Mixed-Origin Desolation,” the God of War said, looking down at Im Jin-myeong with a curious gaze.

It was the name of a barrier technique without any visible light or aura.

Ju Yeon-jeong’s breath faltered as she recognized Zhu Youge, but Im Jin-myeong listened to the God of War in silence.

“If I acknowledge those martial artists as Yozoku, they will directly be inducted into Celestial Armor.”

“Bestowing guardian energy on others... and letting them learn it completely... Now I see how you earned the title ‘god.’ Do you intend to gather followers in the Central Plains as you do in the North? Can we not stop that?”

Im Jin-myeong asked quietly.

“How arrogant,” the God of War said, smiling through his distorted face—like cracks forming in a human-shaped boulder.

“Clan Leader Ma.”

The moment Im Jin-myeong spoke, a deafening boom followed.

Ma Jin had struck down a martial artist with his blade. The ground surged like a wave, and a shockwave rippled outward like the sound of a temple bell.

“Kh...!”

Thanks to the grip of the Jeong Family’s martial technique, he didn’t drop his blade. But blood streamed down from his hand as if his skin had burst open.

The martial artist had survived.

But the God of War’s gaze remained fixed on Ma Jin. The lame Yozoku’s thick lips moved slowly.

“Jeong Family. Child of the East Palace.”

“......!”

“You’ve earned my grudge.”

He spoke.

At once, the Grand Marshal of Ipwang Fortress’s gaze flashed to a dull gray.

“You say you bear a grudge?”

Im Jin-myeong kept his tone light.

“The God of War of the North bears a grudge against someone? Something must have happened.”

It was a casual probe.

Many in the Central Plains had wondered. What had occurred in the Demon Realm, and why was the God of War wandering the southern lands alone?

Seeing no answer was coming, Im Jin-myeong changed the subject.

“What of the Imperial Army? The thirty-thousand troops?”

“Ah, they were splendid dancers,” the God of War said, smiling for the first time.

“There was a three-day Naadam. About ten thousand per day, I’d say.”

“Naadam...?”

“They played, rested, and repeated. And before I knew it, they were gone. Gunreung raised them, after all. So naturally...”

STEP.

“These ones are not like that.”

With that one step from the God of War, the air rippled.

The powerful warriors trapped in guardian energy collapsed, bodies compressing inward. The pressure crushed sound itself, reducing them to points, then scattering—until no one remained.

A wide-area absolute technique that could challenge even the Southern Emperor.

In the Central Plains, only Jeong Yeon-shin, So Cheonmujuk, or the Lord of Shinyogwangjeok could pull this off.

“......”

Im Jin-myeong looked around the desolate street, smiling faintly. About five-tenths of his plan had been fulfilled.

Originally, he had hoped more enemies would rush in. But the old foxes of the martial world seemed overly wary of his moniker—Heaven-Measuring Brush Demon.

Just then—

“I am a petty man, small-hearted,” the God of War said, gesturing with his chin toward Ma Jin. Because of his limp, he looked like a drifter resting on one hip, almost comical.

“In other words, I might not inflate a matter of one into a hundred.”

“What nonsense is that?” Ma Jin muttered as he shook blood from his blade.

“I ask you—”

Suddenly, the God of War appeared right before Ma Jin, his twisted form pressing forward as he grabbed Ma Jin’s head with one hand.

“What are you to the Lord of the Divine Sword Corps?”

The lame man asked.

“...So he really is alive,” Ma Jin replied after a moment’s silence, a twisted grin curling on his face.

“Yeon-shin is.”

At once, the atmosphere changed. He had «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» spoken the name of the Divine Sword Corps’ Lord—and acknowledged that Jeong Yeon-shin still lived.

“......”

The martial artists of Ipwang Fortress stiffened, their senses sharp as flags in the wind.

Even the God of War, who was said to traverse the plains with Whirling Wind Hollow, and every warrior of Ipwang Fortress—instinctively, their qi perception was drawn toward one part of the vast land, as if absorbed into the twilight.

The Central Plains were wide, but dusk lay over all of it. Among those lands stood the main fortress of Ipwang, established in Yangyang.

Jeong Yeon-shin’s home.

The prestige of the Divine Sword Corps.

If Jeong Yeon-shin had descended from the North only to have his home seized, it would be a disgrace. In the Central Plains, where face meant everything, it would be an enduring humiliation.

For the warriors of Ipwang Fortress, who would risk their lives for honor, that was unthinkable.

‘The main fortress...!’

The leadership of Ipwang had no choice but to dash toward dusk, regardless of the immediate chaos.

To where the rising lords of the Thirteen Heavens were stationed.

To the main fortress where Ak Su-rim of Ipwang Divine Spear might have just arrived.