As he lifted his eyelids, a faint light rippled before him.

Because everything around was pitch black, even the smallest glow stood out. Only a single lantern flickered. It was a place where all things from the outside had been sealed off to protect Jeong Yeon-shin, so much so that not even sunlight could seep in.

What Jeong Yeon-shin saw was the back of a monk’s head, turned away from the light. A round shape, as flawless as a Taiji circle—one he recognized.

‘Did he come to guard me?’

As soon as Jeong Yeon-shin’s brow twitched ever so slightly, the figure turned. The monk’s wide grin and long ears appeared all at once.

“You’ve awakened! Even after cutting through the Gate... you recover this fast!”

That bright smile suited him.

A young monk in his prime.

Truly unchanged. The same as when he had shared the teachings that led to the creation of Myeolma Cheonggangsu. Back when Jeong Yeon-shin had regarded the Seven Apostates as great enemies—he had met this monk, So Shin-seung, named Gakjeong.

One of the Eighteen Arhats.

“...Monk.”

Jeong Yeon-shin suppressed the energy within his body before it could even stir into a dragon's coil. At the same time, he scattered the absurdly powerful wave of energy he felt within himself using the technique of Reversal of Returning Spirit.

Energy freed from the shattered halo.

It flowed evenly through all his meridians and micro-muscles, as if his entire body had become his dantian. The very concept of “martial arts” seemed to have taken form in the shape of Jeong Yeon-shin himself.

Despite carrying such force, his body felt at ease.

It was because, by accepting his father, the accomplishments of the Jeong Clan’s Eastern Lord had surged ever forward, and the active sword aura of Yulha Nangnang—who had merged three halos—still lingered faintly. It felt like warm springwater gently caressing his flesh. No backlash.

Meanwhile, Gakjeong trembled slightly, as if he had sensed Jeong Yeon-shin’s sudden burst of energy in that brief moment.

“It’s as if I faced the demon gods inside the Gate.”

Perhaps fitting for someone called the Lesser Abbot of Shaolin. His behavior bore no rigid formalities either.

Jeong Yeon-shin asked quietly,

“This place is...?”

“This is the Hall of Dharma Advancement within Shaolin’s inner sanctum.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“It could be ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ called a type of guest hall. Outside, Master Beomryeol of Hell Stream created a barrier with Supreme Ability, so none can disturb the purity of your rest.”

Perhaps that was why.

There wasn’t a trace of movement outside. It felt like the calloused palm of a Buddha was enveloping the entire building. Even beings with transcendent senses—or even the Tree of the World—would not be able to peer in.

Beomryeol’s gruff face surfaced in his memory. Along with the perpetual profanity that clung to his speech.

“He seemed displeased with me.”

Gakjeong smiled.

“Even our monks grow weary of Master Beomryeol’s foul temper. But how could the savior who cured Hanam of its long affliction be treated the same as us idle monks? If anything, we should be serving you like a king.”

At that moment, Jeong Yeon-shin was not looking into Gakjeong’s eyes, but rather toward the side of his temple. What had now become his own concern—the sharply pointed ear, unlike that of Han blood. Not as razor-edged as his young master’s, but still distinct.

“Ah, I managed to avoid the threat of unification,” Gakjeong said lightly, as if to ease any concern.

“All of us Ming-blood brothers from Songshan are like this. Great Vajra Wonjeok drew all of the Tree’s attention upon himself. Besides, my bloodline is relatively thin. Thanks to that, I grew quickly.”

Had he always been this chatty?

No—he hadn’t. The face of a monk who had finally escaped the karmic burden Shaolin had carried for centuries... Jeong Yeon-shin had once longed to smile just like that.

“...Truly.”

Jeong Yeon-shin spoke slowly.

“That is fortunate.”

There was much contained in those few words. Longing, concern, unease, helplessness, and at the same time—grief.

Perhaps it was due to the surge of energy that had erupted from Jeong Yeon-shin’s body just now. Gakjeong’s expression seemed confused, as if he couldn’t fully understand.

The young monk of Shaolin remained unchanged—but Jeong Yeon-shin had grown into something like an old master at the end of his path.

No matter how strong one became, one could never fully escape the web of karma spun by fate.

Then, Great Monk Beomha entered the room, pushing open the door with nothing but the sweep of his sleeve. His bare, wrinkled feet creaked across the guest room floor.

“Was your journey pleasant?”

He asked casually.

Jeong Yeon-shin wasn’t surprised.

The Abbot of Shaolin’s Heavenly Eye perception surpassed even conventional inner cultivation. In matters of mind, body, and tranquility, he might well surpass even the Lord of Ipwang Fortress or the Martial God himself.

“Did you foresee this?”

In response to Jeong Yeon-shin’s question, Great Monk Beomha smiled faintly and asked back,

“How is your body? When the divine strength of the strongest external martial artist suddenly embeds itself like this, even the greatest in the world will struggle to adapt. Rather than increase your Wu-wei, your finesse might drop to the point you’ll need to spend years facing the wall in seclusion.”

The divine strength of the strongest external martial artist.

Even now, it held true.

If Mun Gok were to grasp Jeong Yeon-shin’s forearm successfully, that arm would undoubtedly be crushed. That was a truth that wouldn’t change, even if Jeong Yeon-shin reached the highest martial state in history. He must avoid being caught—or prepare a preemptive counter.

That was the kind of world it was.

‘An era of unmatched strength among the powerful.’

He had seen the end of the Yuan and the rise of Ming—he knew it well.

That level of power now dwelled in Jeong Yeon-shin’s body.

Great Monk Beomha’s words were no exaggeration. At least, not until Jeong had encountered the young Lord of Ipwang Fortress.

Suddenly, Beomha’s smile deepened.

He didn’t even wait for Jeong Yeon-shin’s answer. He simply offered one final, quiet question.

“Will you go?”

“Thank you for watching over me.”

“Shaolin’s repayment has not even begun.”

And then, almost as if to himself, Beomha murmured,

“The old sect, freed of its karma, returns at last to being a true school of the martial world.”

Jeong Yeon-shin brought his hands together in a respectful gesture and turned toward the door. A short remark about the situation near Songshan followed Beomha’s steps.

“The man who carried the demon blade forged from Cheonreung Guest’s arm—he kept watch near your side and then departed that way.”

“Hyeon Won-chang...”

“Below the slopes of Yeoncheon Peak, warriors of Ipwang Fortress are holding off the forces of the Great Pure Alliance. Though they’re vastly outnumbered, they’re managing to hold with the help of terrain advantage. From what I glimpsed, they seemed well-used to battlefield tactics. One could guess what they endured in the north.”

“I see.”

“The Lord of Broken Swords has arrived at the sect gate. And suddenly, the Fortress Lord of Ipwang and the Martial God shot into the air from the mountainside. The Martial God, who drilled through the earth to get here, was first received by your master, it seems. Meanwhile, your ‘prisoners’ have met their own fitting opponents... And it seems the Tree of the World has dispatched more experts. Songshan may turn to ash.”

Jeong Yeon-shin paused briefly, then asked quietly,

“May I ask how Shaolin plans to act?”

“I feel deep regret that we cannot move immediately, but soon... you will witness the One Hundred and Eight Arhat Formation. Certain preparations are required. Just hold on a little longer.”

“I’ll have to move quickly.”

He kicked off the ground.

At once, a sensation as if he alone were moving through the world pressed down on his shoulders. He entered a zone where space itself felt cumbersome, like a bog, and his vision blurred.

Kwaa-youuuung—!

A strange sonic boom trailed along his entire body.

The moment he willed it, he shot up into the sky. Naturally, not only the roof of the Hall of Dharma Advancement, but also Beomryeol’s flowing qi-barrier of Hell Stream, mist-like and gentle, split without resistance.

From far below, it sounded as if someone shouted encouragement—something about a tree.

It was a kind gesture.

As his gaze crossed the vast Shaolin compound toward the mountain gate, the largest thing that caught his eye was Mun Gok.

Surrounded by seven ghostly images of Ming-blood martial artists—like the Big Dipper. Even by Jeong Yeon-shin’s heightened senses, they were practically indistinguishable from the real thing: true displacement illusions.

—Bukmyeong Fist Lord? He was a fanatic for blood purity. Compared to him, Hahuwijin was nothing.

Her appearance matched the impression Yong Hee-myeong had once described.

—A master of change and illusion. If you don’t pin her down with sword path or brute strength, you’ll never keep up. Knowing your temperament, I figured you’d clash with her at least once. Her whole body is a weapon.

—A master of change and illusion... like you, senior?

—I’m a bit different. If anything, she’s the true orthodoxy.

Zzzeojeojeojeojeojeok!

From Mun Gok’s body, dark-blue sparks and pale smoke burst forth all at once. His Heavenly Forged Armor Annihilation Technique turned the owner’s blood into steam. In that brief instant, Jeong Yeon-shin understood what had happened.

Bukmyeong Fist Lord had wormed her way above and below Mun Gok’s massive limbs with outrageous postures, landing thirty-two strikes in a single breath. Every strike had landed precisely.

‘Natural Form.’

Unless one could unleash tenfold striking power regardless of posture, it would’ve been impossible. In such broken positions, entering Mun Gok’s range usually meant having all four limbs crushed in his giant grip.

And yet—

Boom—

Jeong Yeon-shin stepped through the air and arrived somewhere unrelated to Mun Gok. Three hundred paces away to the left, inside a forest where Bukmyeong Fist Lord was dancing—directly beside the Celestial Pole Sect Lord.

No explosions. No flashy sword energy.

Only traces of blade paths.

A realm wrapped in sharp heat-haze, like tangled threads, where the early summer sun seemed to shine only here.

Within it, the one-armed blind man was being pushed back without resistance. That his ragged straw hat still remained intact was a small miracle.

“You walk the way of heretics, too, I see?”

The opponent wasn’t the sect master of Cheongseong.

Cheongsu Hermit was leaning against one side of Shaolin’s temple gate, seemingly wounded with a sword injury that even Tree of the World’s regenerative powers couldn’t stop.

He must have been struck by the blind man’s blade. Yet in the heart of enemy territory, he sat calmly, regulating his breathing. A bold sight.

Even so—

Jeong Yeon-shin stared ahead in silence.

‘Greatest Heretic Sword.’

Perhaps the time had been too short to fully inherit Great Monk Beomha’s formless limbs.

Shockwaves that seemed to blind the eyes exploded with constant depth. Each time, the blind man braced himself with the Tongmong Sword used as a cane, supported himself in an instant, and then naturally raised the blade upward to connect his attacks—like a chain of divine techniques.

A sequence of forms unraveled at overwhelming speed.

But as he reached his opponent’s range, he would ghost into slowness—

Before the face of a terrifyingly gaunt swordsman draped in distorted air like a cloak.

The blue sword Tongmong, having entered a blade-restriction realm, seemed blunted.

The heavy sword was entirely mismatched with the swordsman’s thin frame, but the force it emitted slowed everything around it.

The invisible blade winds drew impossibly profound trajectories, felt not on skin but only by senses.

It was as if all the enlightened martial arts of Great Monk Beomha’s Heavenly Eye were expressed entirely through swordplay.

The gaunt swordsman barely swung a few times, yet he drove back the greatest heretic swordsman, step by step, without a word.

“......”

With each thud of his footfall, the blind man staggered backward. As dry grass crumbled with each step, soft thwaps followed.

Back, and further back, his retreat continued.

No killing intent. No emotion.

Then—

The massive sword stretched out like destiny, piercing into the Celestial Pole Sect Lord’s abdomen.

There was no clash between defensive energy and blade.

All of the Sect Lord’s sword paths seemed to vanish like useless threads sucked into the void of time.

“Tch.”

Kwaduk—

The sound of the blind man’s abdominal muscles clamping down on the greatsword with inner power.

His muscles were as solid as grudges untouched by time.

“So, you’re here?”

Behind the strands of hair falling from the swordsman who had stabbed him, the blind man smiled.

The brim of his straw hat seemed like a second pair of eyes, gazing straight at Jeong Yeon-shin.

“One of my other creeds is ‘a gentleman’s revenge is never too late, even in ten years.’ But today, there’s no way around it. Even if I hopped around on one leg, when would I ever get the chance to flee?”

“......”

“You saw it all?”

The question of a transcendent swordsman who had dueled the Sword Lord of the Era and lived many times.

Jeong Yeon-shin understood what it meant.

He was asking if he was ready to break this greatest battlefield of all time.

He slowly nodded.

The smile beneath the blind man’s hat brim held irritation and amusement at once. No resentment. That was never the nature of their bond.

“It’s too wide and full of monsters. Even you needed time.

A safe battlefield is your principle, after all. That hesitation cost you. You lost a lot—by my hand, and by the hands of others in the martial world.”

“That’s true.”

“One sword. Dry land.”

His voice under the hat carried a faint, indeterminate emotion—but nothing overly fierce.

“If I fail this revenge and add it to the pile, that’ll make it a trinity. Just another cliché of the martial world.”

The tall, gaunt swordsman, Lord of Broken Swords Dan Seong-eum, still hadn’t moved.

Only the sunlight that had been pouring down in rays began to still, as if time near him was slowing to a halt.

—They say he easily creates unique martial arts.

Words Dan Seong-eum had once spoken.

—I am not like that. I struggle to create even one.

‘Three Forms to Break the Wasteland.’

Jeong Yeon-shin could feel it.

That the attention of the ‘Heaven’s Greatest Swordsman Without Soul’ had been on him since the moment he left the Hall of Dharma.

Whether it was the fault of Yulha Nangnang’s active sword—or the lingering trace of the young Lord of Ipwang Fortress, like a scent left in his upper dantian—he couldn’t say.

KURURURURURURUNG!

Even now, shockwaves like thunder rumbled in from every direction.

A battlefield of unprecedented intensity.

The same was true for Jeong Yeon-shin.

Stronger than any previous version of himself or the masters of the Divine Sword Group.

It was his first time fighting with perfect readiness.

“Lord of Broken Swords. Turn around.”

His voice—suddenly spoken aloud—resounded across Mount Song like the tolling of a temple bell one breath later.

[Silent Radiance Sword Geng.]

[Southern Splendor Grand Taiji.]

The sky dimmed into a soft constellation of stars, and the earth brightened into a swirling blue Taiji.

A realm of neither day nor night enveloped all seventy-two peaks of Mount Song in an instant.

Within that space, Jeong Yeon-shin smelled a familiar scent—like that night at the Jeong Clan manor.

The metallic tang of blood. Iron. The scent of soil clinging to a broken swing’s rope.

Suddenly, as if a comet struck, a massive crater opened beside him.

KWAAAAAAAAAAAAANG—!

Amid colossal tremors and roaring noise, a towering silhouette slowly rose to its feet.

When the figure glanced at Jeong Yeon-shin, the dust around his head curved with the shape of his mouth.

The Martial God.

“There’s never been a festival like this.”

“......”

Jeong Yeon-shin looked up.

The moon was reflected in his eyes. No—the Lord of Ipwang Fortress was walking upon darkness itself.

He had slammed the Martial God down from the distant sky.

Step.

The war god of the north stepped out of the dust cloud and walked to Jeong Yeon-shin’s side.

When Jeong Yeon-shin showed no reaction, a strange formation was born.

The two stood side by side.