The moment Jeong Yeon-shin stepped into the Shaolin grounds, he tore his senses open in both directions.

Grand Empress Dowager Wi Yeon and that clay figure. The latter was unmistakably shaped in the image of the God of War. It had spoken just moments ago in his voice, invoking the term “certification.”

Crackle—

Perhaps because of its earlier motion, dust and stone particles flaked off the figure's body and drifted hazily through the air.

He could feel it all with his senses. The body sculpted like clay, the subtle, hobbling limp.

Everything about it resembled the God of War.

A heavy, earthen aura clung to Won Yeong-shin—a replica of the God of War.

‘Suffocating. Endless.’

Jeong Yeon-shin thought.

How many battles and chaos had it taken to drive away the strongest figures of the martial world? And yet these monstrous replicas, shaped like men, stood exactly where they intended. The World Tree once embedded in the Ipwang Fortress Lord now with Wi Yeon. The God of War taking on another earthen body as if it were nothing.

For both of them, the word will seemed fitting—like when the First Heavenly Demon once spoke of “Oneness” as a way of life.

‘They race ahead of fate.’

Beings of this age, monsters who could not rest unless their will was done.

Jeong Yeon-shin spoke slowly.

“Certification?”

[The transfer of Karma. A sacred act even in the Demonic Realm. Like a craftsman passing legacy to a long-time successor, or a king bestowing bloodline to the rightful heir. Such inheritance demands a witness of honor or lineage.]

“And what gives you the right?”

[The Seat of Ipwang Fortress. A position the entire world has watched with wariness. Especially since the fall of the Dae-ri Kingdom. But the current master of Central Plains no longer holds legitimacy.]

The clay avatar of the God of War continued, voice dragging:

[You sit.]

“......”

[No one else will do.]

A spring breeze suddenly blew, scraping over the weathered walls and scattering dust.

Who could have foreseen it?

The God of War from the North meddling in the succession of the greatest sect under the heavens. And Wi Yeon, for her part, merely stared at the empty air where the Gate once stood, her face unreadable.

“Ahem, ahem.”

Eunuch Myeong-yeo, who had been sprawled on the ground, quietly rose.

With swift hands, he pulled a golden scroll from his bundle and extended it toward Jeong Yeon-shin as if offering a tribute.

Rustle.

Without turning around, Jeong Yeon-shin drew it in mid-air and unfurled it wide. Then he asked Myeong-yeo,

“Have you memorized the contents?”

“Of course. Those who live off power always prepare for every outcome—and His Majesty instructed me to do so.”

With those words, he stood behind Jeong Yeon-shin like the wind. The way he stood there, he looked every bit like a loyal attendant. But then his breath faltered and grew rough—something uncharacteristic of a eunuch. It was because Mun Gok of the Six Original Star Lords was right beside him.

The giant merely smiled.

“I admire your spirit. You're on par with any veteran war priest.”

There were others.

The courtyard walls and rooftops were cracked and half-collapsed, unbefitting the foremost temple under the heavens. Perched loosely and distantly atop them sat none other than the Leader of the Ming Cult and the Master of Cheongeuk Sect. Their faces betrayed not a flicker of concern for the gravity of the scene before them.

‘Did he gather them under his command...? No... impossible. That can't be it.’

Even Jeong Yeon-shin's expression mirrored theirs—so different, yet oddly harmonious with those outsiders.

“I do not mean to defy the imperial decree.”

He finally spoke.

Myeong-yeo suddenly felt uneasy. He had rewritten the reports on Ma Gwang-ik’s behavioral patterns countless times, but never once had the man behaved according to script—just like Gwangya Ilmyeol.

“What if I refuse?”

Jeong Yeon-shin’s voice was calm.

For the first time, Wi Yeon turned her gaze back toward the hall. The elderly woman, as tall as Jeong Yeon-shin himself, met his eyes at equal height. Myeong-yeo couldn’t help but ask, flustered,

“What do you mean...?”

“This part.”

Jeong Yeon-shin pointed to the middle section of the hovering scroll.

“In accordance with a long-standing tradition, the history of civilian protection carried by the Sword of Extinction shall now be passed into the Yeoroe Sword. Thus, there will be but one Divine Sword in all the land... and it is not currently in the Central Plains.”

“Th-Then where is it?”

“I left it with Heukhwan. Since there’s no other object that could serve as a proper symbol of succession. If we want it back quickly, my companion in the North must defeat him.”

Heukhwan.

Firstborn of Namje. Current head of the Demonic Realm. A peerless master of Thunder Techniques who had survived again and again, even against the Three Grand Generals.

Most of the Divine Sword Corps had already returned to the Central Plains. Among those remaining in the North, who could defeat Heukhwan? The last to go silent—Ma Gwang-ik Lord Cheongmyeong?

Myeong-yeo realized.

‘An excuse! He’s stalling to protect his master’s absence...!’

Even though she had cast him out, he couldn’t bring himself to accept it yet. Any devoted disciple would feel the same.

It was a bold serenity.

No matter Jeong Yeon-shin's current rank, Ipwang Fortress was already his in practice.

The moment the Divine Sword Lord had appeared holding the Sword of Ascension, pigeons flew in every direction. The crowd at the foot of the mountain boiled over—but Jeong Yeon-shin, former wielder of that divine blade, showed no reaction.

“Hm.”

A faint smile, like brush hairs, touched the corner of Myeong-yeo’s lips.

He was a storm in the political world. Highly seasoned in this domain.

‘This is better.’

If he had simply accepted the decree, the optics would have been poor.

In a world where gossips watch with eagle eyes, a few rejections are considered virtue. Especially for the position of Ipwang Fortress Lord—a title that alone could shift the world.

“As I expected. Only someone who knows duty deserves that seat.”

“Now of all times...”

Jeong Yeon-shin murmured with a peaceful tone, eyes still locked with Wi Yeon.

What shocked Myeong-yeo most was the lack of any looming danger. Even though the One Hundred and Eight Arhats had ceased channeling energy, even though Jeong Yeon-shin was bloodied and impaled—he seemed calm.

Perhaps it was because the three monstrous outsiders all looked down from their positions, each bearing their own expression. If so, then their presence was proof of Jeong Yeon-shin’s overwhelming power of cohesion.

[Such pathetic nonsense.]

The God of War interjected.

[You won’t take the seat? Then Ipwang Fortress may as well be annihilated as the Demonic Realm has long wished. A wind that does not cycle loses its essence. I have every intention of eradicating Ipwang Fortress myself when this is over.]

“You’ve said something you should not have. Never show me your back again.”

Jeong Yeon-shin’s tone did not waver.

“Then watch more.”

Myeong-yeo quickly pointed at the scroll.

“That next line! It says, ‘Of course, how could a single sword ever replace a man? Even if the Imperial Seal were stolen, the Emperor remains sovereign. Even if the Divine Sword Yeoroe were shattered by the storms of the end times, Seomye of the Jeong Family shall remain undiminished’... The will of the Son of Heaven has been conveyed. Lord Jeong, you are already the Lord of Ipwang Fortress! All that remains is the enthronement!”

His words, quick and slick with the dual qualities of a eunuch’s obsequiousness and cunning, came to an elegant finish. The Emperor had foreseen Jeong Yeon-shin’s reaction.

A moment of puzzlement crossed Jeong Yeon-shin’s face.

“Enthronement?”

“It’s a ceremony and a feast marking your assumption of the seat. When the position of Ipwang Fortress Lord was first established, it was done this way. All the grand sects and martial families of the Central Plains gathered at Ipwang Fortress. Even the heretical sect Punishment-Heaven Cult and the Sword Alliance, when it was still part of the Thirteen Heavens, reportedly came within ten li of the fortress walls. Whether it was to observe or show respect...”

Myeong-yeo’s graceful recounting of history abruptly stopped. It was because Wi Yeon had taken a single step forward.

Ssshh.

Her robes grazed the uneven floor.

At the same moment, 108 monks simultaneously struck the ground from their positions.

Boom—

A tremor rang out like the toll of a great bell. It felt as if not just space, but time itself rippled.

Though their energy channeling had been cut off, the Shaolin’s 108 Arhat Formation had not been broken. No one in history had ever undone it with a mere gesture.

Wi Yeon walked forward, locking eyes with Jeong Yeon-shin under the gaze of all the monks. But before she could speak, he beat her to it.

“Even your palanquin bearers were Won Yeong-shin’s constructs. Shaped of wood and wind essence? The World Tree must’ve gathered intel that I employ convicts.”

“......”

“People who fragment their power that widely are never consistent. Even genuine Daoist immortals struggled with that. What of someone like you...?”

Gwangya Ilmyeol spoke as if stating an obvious fact.

“I’ll need to develop a technique where striking a clone deals damage to the original. Go wild, and you all die.”

“Why didn’t you die when you severed the Gate?”

Wi Yeon asked flatly. Jeong Yeon-shin didn’t hold anything back in response.

“A supreme martial artist only needs to detonate their dantian.”

“What did you say?”

“The immense cultivated energy in a master’s dantian is greater than thousands of thunder bombs. The dantian, refined to hold that energy stably at all times, can’t be contained by mere flesh.”

“Continue.”

“The dantian completes itself through spirit energy—divine force, if you will. When you release it all in one move, you can not only touch the Gate... you can cut through it. That’s how the Gate-Severing is done. One Gate per life. The body explodes.”

Jeong Yeon-shin finished. Wi Yeon fell into silence. There were no follow-up questions, as if no further explanation was needed.

After all, Wi Yeon’s comprehension of martial arts likely exceeded even the title of ‘greatest under heaven.’

“I’m prepared to die young. My technique is unique—I can perform it twice more.”

He continued slowly.

“What about you? What about the elite clans of the World Tree?”

“A mutual-destruction technique. I understand its essence. If your heart allows it, tell me now # Nоvеlight # what Jang Sambong did to the Tree.”

Though her voice was indifferent, Jeong Yeon-shin had not finished.

“The Gate-Severing at Songshan was the question I posed to the world. Those so-called godlike masters, so full of themselves because of their skill... The peerless warriors of the age will now all be faced with one question through my visit.”

Seomye of the Jeong Family asked:

“How strong are your hearts?”

“......”

A solemn stillness settled over the old temple.

At some point, the Wild Phantom Sword Resonance had vanished. Still, the deep evening sky remained—it had passed in silence.

Moonlight scattered across the broken roof tiles, trickling into the hall.

“Amitabha.”

The 109 Shaolin monks chanted together. Even the sleeve of Head Monk Beomha fluttered with serene dignity.

Wi Yeon’s wrinkled lips moved.

“Your Heavenly Dragon Lord and Yullyeong Lord captured Yeongchok Shinyi. Was that your order?”

“It was necessary. Those with strong hearts are frequently wounded.”

The current Lord of Ipwang Fortress replied.

Myeong-yeo, who had been at a loss for words as he stared at Jeong Yeon-shin’s back, suddenly came to himself.

He had left Jang Sun-il behind to die.

Not only that—the elite members of the Divine Sword Corps who had confronted the Daesun Alliance alongside the Six Original Star Lords and Mun Gok remained unaccounted for. The Daesun Alliance’s martial legions had snaked like a dragon along the mountain ridge.

His head spun.

There was no end in sight. Even retreating would require immense time and planning.

‘I must go retrieve Sun-il... at least I can do that.’

How could Jeong Yeon-shin, already battered from battle, possibly handle it?

That was what made a military force what it was. The monstrous outsiders accompanying him were no different. None of them would simply obey someone’s word.

Only with overwhelming force and presence could they be made to move—Jeong Yeon-shin’s force of will.

“Cheongeuk Sect Master...!”

Even the one-eyed, straw-hatted blind man stood up.

Was he retreating from the battlefield?

There had long been rumors that he had faced the Cheongseong Sect Leader. Even if he appeared fine, he must have been riddled with internal injuries.

But that thought didn’t last.

CRACK! RRRRRRRMMMMMM—

The temple wall toward the mountain gate exploded, hurling a massive figure forward. A blast of wind surged, pulling at the crowd’s robes like a cannon blast.

What lay at Myeong-yeo’s feet was a ghastly-looking Yozoku warrior. Covered in deep sword slashes and the imprint of powerful palms, the body was a grotesque mess.

Wi Yeon muttered aloud.

“Six Original Star Lord... Mugok...?”

Myeong-yeo couldn’t accept it.

It was a corpse. No internal breath. No heartbeat. Nothing pulsed from the body lying at his feet.

Tap.

A soft sound nearby. The blind man in the straw hat had planted his bluish sword into the ground like a cane.

Myeong-yeo, dazed, slowly looked toward the mountain gate.

“You damn bastard... I thought I was dead. If it hadn’t been for Wonjeok blocking the remnants, I’d be ashes.”

A disheveled, unshaven monk trudged toward them. Beom-ryeol of Hell Stream.

Disciple of Monk Beomha.

According to imperial records, not even he should’ve been able to kill a Star Lord in one piece.

But the answer lay behind his shoulder.

Step. Two black-robed figures fluttered into view.

Shinhwang of the Myeolseom Division. Hуeon Won-chang, acting Blood-Replenishment Lord.

And that wasn’t all. A catlike, young girl waved her only arm at Jeong Yeon-shin.

She was missing an arm. But her smile was bright, her empty sleeve catching the dusk.

That shade was deep obsidian.