“Reverence, my ass.”

Just as Jeong Yeon-shin used his sickbed as a closed-door cultivation chamber, so too did many martial artists wandering the Jianghu carry the sickness of homesickness in their hearts. The longing for one’s birthplace was something that even the strongest inner energy barriers couldn’t defend against.

Each person had their own way of burning it away. Some drank themselves stupid, to the point of rivaling the Drunken Fist Masters of the Beggars’ Sect. Some unleashed havoc in inns or on public roads, taking out their misery on innocent bystanders. Some grabbed a single blade and started brawling with the first worthy opponent they could find.

The youth who was about to become the next Lord of Ipwang Fortress was no different.

“If Shin-ui is inside, she must be in the VIP Pavilion.”

He was falling fast, carrying the grown Shin So-bin over his shoulder like luggage, yet Jeong Yeon-shin could feel it in his bones—he was home. The sensation of landing atop and smashing through the tiled roof of the fortress’ main keep had that effect.

Step.

He landed with deliberate elegance. Tiles and wooden beams shattered and rolled around him as he gently set Shin So-bin down as if she were a sacred relic. She tilted her head faintly and pushed his hand away.

“Lord Jeong, that’s disgusting.”

Blood still clung to her soft hands, hands more like a cat’s forepaws than a martial artist’s. The scent of it lingered faintly, but what Jeong Yeon-shin sensed now wasn’t the taint of a heart demon. No, what radiated from her was the air of a warrior forged on the battlefield.

Unbothered, Jeong Yeon-shin calmly advised:

—Be respectful. The one inside dislikes martial artists. You'll need to be courteous.

As soon as he pulled her severed arm from his travel bundle, he bowed his head. The acrid scent of bitter herbs stabbed at his nose.

Through the veil of medicinal smoke stood a man who, though appearing youthful, wore robes so tattered he could be mistaken for a beggar. His robe was yellowed ginseng cloth—standard for poor itinerant doctors.

And yet, the man radiated the presence of an ancient tree. A pulse of wooden energy rolled off him—deep and powerful, like a fragment of the Tree of the World itself. His beauty, too, remained unchanged.

Shin-ui.

Known as Spirit-Touched Divine Physician. A man said to have surpassed even Hua Tuo in medical prowess. Jeong Yeon-shin had experienced it firsthand—this was the man who could reattach an arm severed by the First Sword of the Heretical Path.

“Master Mok.”

Jeong offered a polite greeting.

What came in response was a hailstorm of acupuncture needles, reminding him of Ten Thousand Blossoms in Bloom.

The fury was unmistakable.

Zhejeojeong!

A faint white light enveloped Jeong Yeon-shin like clothing. Sparks burst in succession, the crackle loud enough to rival beans roasting in a dry pan. But this was an age of scarcity—even a single bean needed safekeeping. The noise grated on the ears.

“You instigated your subordinates to abduct her?! Wolpung, Myoryeon, Heungcheon... The past and present leaders of the Divine Sword Corps have always been arrogant bastards, but you—! You are the most arrogant of them all!”

“There are many in this fortress who haven’t seen a bowl of white rice in weeks. Throwing around the term ‘arrogant’ so casually might cause misunderstandings...”

Jeong raised his hands, face twisted with awkwardness. These were times when even homophones—like white eyebrows and white rice—could spark conflict.

He quickly changed the subject.

“How’s your head? Still well?”

“If you're asking whether I’ve been assimilated, no. That’s why I’m still here, treating your subordinate.”

A face tinged with resignation. The same man he’d spoken to back in Hangzhou. The same questions and the same resistance.

—I laid it all out for you, plain as day. Why should I, an old man sick to the throat with this world, reattach the arm of a swordsman? Why should I treat you, of all people? Tell me! What possible reason is there for any of this?!

—The world.

And that, at least, was something he could be thankful for.

Shin-ui gestured with his chin toward the arm Jeong was still holding—the ice-cold severed left arm of Shin So-bin.

“You want it reattached?”

“Yes. I know I’m being shameless... but it belongs to my disciple. I leave it in your care.”

“Same damn request every time I see you.”

So typical of the martial world.

Muttering to himself, Shin-ui suddenly caught sight of Jeong Yeon-shin’s shoulder. His eyes flared.

“That bastard did this, didn’t he?”

Did Shin-ui’s inner vision have penetrative ability? He’d pinpointed it precisely—the wound from Songshan, where the Dragonwill Blade Lord had struck him, the site bound afterward using Jeongga Internal Binding.

He nailed it in one guess.

“You just jammed it back in, didn’t you? Hah. Not with needle and thread, but with internal energy like some pompous master. I’ll tell you now—that’s a temporary fix at best. If I don’t reinforce it with grand acupuncture, it’ll unravel sooner or later. Who the hell treated you?”

“It wasn’t a physician...”

“Of course not! Whoever stitched a human arm like that was either an orphan with no master or a cast-off disgrace. Probably both.”

Jeong handed Shin So-bin and her arm over to the divine physician, then finally looked around.

Perhaps it was the chaos they’d fled from in Yangyang, but this was the first time he truly saw his surroundings—and what he saw hit harder than it should have.

“Master.”

A voice from within the chamber.

A woman, lying face down on a bed, turned her head to look at him. Black hair scattered across the sheets, framing pointed ears like blades. One of Jeong Yeon-shin’s precious swords was, in fact, this very woman.

Yun So-yu, the Yullyeong Master.

Her spine had been shattered by Mun Gok during the northern campaign.

Now she lay with her back exposed, lined from nape to tailbone with long and short acupuncture needles. Along her thick spinal muscles, faintly glowing energy pulsed from each needle, synchronizing with her heartbeat.

Jeong could feel it through his energy sense.

Each needle slowly coaxed her scattered bones back into alignment, reconnecting nerves and meridians with surgical precision. It bordered on violating nature itself. If someone wielded the sword skills of a Heavenly Sword of the World entirely for healing, it would look like this.

But...

That was as far as Jeong’s relief went.

What kind of pain must that be? The sensation of one’s insides being scraped clean by splinters of shattered bone?

Yun So-yu’s upper body gleamed with cold sweat. Even with her hair pinned up for acupuncture, the ends clung damply to her nape.

She spoke.

“Master. No unexpected trouble, I hope?”

Her poised face remained as composed as ever, even as pain must have screamed through her.

Jeong paused, then lowered his eyelids and asked in return:

“...Would you like a game of Go? I’d be honored to oblige.”

A faint smile curved her lips.

“Trying to mimic Guan Yu?” 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

“I mentioned Go out of propriety, but feel free to switch to Five-Stone if you prefer. When you're in pain, diversions help.”

He offered it playfully, a joke to lighten the mood. But Yun So-yu only smiled.

She had been one of the noble elders most loyal to the Ipwang Fortress Lord.

That smile lingered in Jeong Yeon-shin’s mind long after he left the VIP Pavilion and headed deeper into the fortress’s inner stronghold.

“Master—Lord Seongju! You’ve returned safe!”

“You seem even more commanding than before.”

“I heard enemies had infiltrated, but now I can finally walk around without worry!”

The air within the fortress had changed.

Even the scattered attendants, servants from minor families, and few literati who greeted him now felt different. The alleys that once overflowed with crowds were only sparsely populated.

The rebellion of the Seven Tyrant Emperors had left its mark.

This was no longer the proud, unshaken Ipwang Fortress of old. What Jeong Yeon-shin inherited was a citadel teetering on the edge of ruin.

For one who had known it in its glory, every step he took now felt like dragging ten-thousand-catty chains.

—Lord Jeong. We've entered as well.

The voice of Im Jin-myeong whispered into his mind.

—There were intruders, but the threat has been neutralized. Shin-chang has once again... shed his skin. We expected it, but still... it’s frightening.

Jeong Yeon-shin asked:

—By neutralized, you mean?...

—“For now, we’ve confirmed there’s no intent to fight on either side. Should you give the order, we’ll comply. But... you could toss them into the stables as lodging and it’d be fine...”

—“Leave them standing there.”

—“...Pardon?”

—“Among them are those you can’t subdue by force. Moving them elsewhere would be more trouble than it’s worth. They’ll sleep where they can.”

Even as he spoke, Jeong Yeon-shin kept walking.

It felt like thorns were piercing the worn soles of his shoes—or as if he were stepping over a field of miniature blades and swords. There was nothing underfoot but the usual gravel and bits of debris, but each step pricked like punishment.

Thud. Thud.

It was an ordinary road. Precisely because it was, it was the most precious one—a narrow path, a personal one.

This was his coronation.

A sword only becomes lethal when wielded by a swordsman whose heart is ready. The same applied to the most exalted position in the world today. To wield the power and symbolism that came with it, one had to keep asking questions.

Can I care for the people as my master once did?

How many warriors of Ipwang Fortress will suffer and die under my decisions?

How far can my eyes reach—not through strategy, but with my bare eyes?

Each question he summoned opened up time and space with his steps, drawing him into the currents of eternity along the main road.

Even the inner stronghold of the Fortress felt that way.

Before he realized it, Jeong Yeon-shin had stepped into the Lord’s office—just as she once had, opening the grand doors with object control through intent alone.

A soft breeze crept in through the gap.

Fwoosh.

The chamber was barren. Not a single familiar scent lingered—not the fragrance of herbs that once gently caressed his senses with each breath, not the Ipwang Fortress Lord who used to recline lazily against the wooden pillars, not the boy Jeong Yeon-shin who once crossed that threshold with giddy anticipation.

Now, there was only one man, clad in imperial robes, standing at the window with his hands behind his back—gazing not at the fortress, but at the entire world.

It was Emperor Yungjeong.

Once a listless crown prince under the reign of Emperor Gunreung, he now bore the weight of the throne with unmistakable presence.

“...I’ve been held hostage by a battle god before. I know what it’s like. I’ve met people like that, and I know how exhausting the journey must have been. You have my respect.”

He didn’t turn around.

Jeong Yeon-shin’s reply was brief.

“It’s still exhausting.”

“Of course it is.”

The emperor’s voice came back with a trace of a smile—subtle, but warm.

He, of all people, had inherited the seat vacated by Emperor Gunreung. The pressure he must have endured would make even Jeong Yeon-shin’s current burden seem laughable.

Then the emperor asked,

“Did I burden you with all this?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Then good. You’re allowed a week. Even a fortnight, if need be. But not longer than a month. That’s the nature of the seat.”

“They seem to be preparing some sort of formal enthronement. Everyone looked so busy... it felt far more extravagant than I imagined.”

“Their anticipation doesn’t matter. It’s all empty ceremony.”

His voice slowed, softened.

“For one who moves the world with a mere gesture, the real ceremony must take place within. Only then can peace take hold. I realized that too late—only after I had lost everything.”

“I just felt it. As I walked here.”

“No humility left in you, I see.”

The emperor’s hands relaxed behind his back. The silk sleeves of his dragon robe rustled faintly. His voice followed.

“This land... no longer has a ‘nation.’ The entire world is Jianghu now. Would you agree?”

Jeong Yeon-shin nodded silently. His eyes briefly flicked to the desk in the chamber. Something new rested atop it.

The Complete Map.

Mountains and rivers, villages large and small, cities—it detailed every feature so meticulously it was almost disturbing. More precise than anything he’d seen even during the black or purple-rank days. Even obscure sects known only by name were recorded, their labels so tiny they resembled dots.

The vast Central Plains lay sprawled before him.

“It’s you.”

The emperor said.

Dust rose gently from the window sill, slipping into the twilight. Was it Jeong Yeon-shin’s energy, or the evening breeze? There was no moonlight, only a dense band of stars above.

***

Morning dawned on the central martial field.

After the duel arena had been converted into a ceremonial hall.

Silken canopies and luxurious chairs were arranged like a formation. Martial elites of Ipwang Fortress stood arrayed on the marble stage—what remained of the fortress’s strength.

Golden sunlight poured down upon the “荒” character embroidered on their shoulders. Every one of them had stood awake through the night. Why? Because seated just meters away were not one but three absolute masters—each of whom could become enemies in the blink of an eye.

They each stood at the far edge of the stage.

The Faded War King.

The Lord of Mu Ryong Association.

And the Sword Sovereign of Simmuryun.

From his high seat on the left, Elder Council Chief Shin Byeok glared like a volcano ready to erupt, his killing intent palpable.

The Faded War King, in contrast, bent down leisurely.

“Ah. The flowers have arrived.”

He plucked a dandelion bud from between the marble cracks. As it touched his breath, it bloomed immediately—a skill of Living Sword Energy.

Messages flickered across the internal sound transmission network of the fortress elites.

—Estimate his internal energy to be on par with Great Mastery of Jeongga Binding Art. Report to the Grand Directorate. The coronation must not be disrupted.

—Request intel on the Huashan Sect Master. Who here knows the most about the Fiery Sword Immortal, Yulha Nangnang?

—Isn’t that the future Lord himself?

—Ah.

Arms crossed, Hyeok Ryeon Pungwol addressed the Faded War King.

“You seem quite at ease. Almost like you’re here for a long recuperation.”

“Why not?”

The War King inhaled the scent of the flower.

“According to everything I’ve heard, the man who commands Mongbi is the desperate type. So desperate he should be fasting and meditating for seven days just to be ready. I doubt he’d be swept up by any ceremony just because his subordinates prepared it.”

“Hm.”

“He’s wrestling with his doubts, even now.”

His voice was quiet, yet it dominated the space. With every word he spoke, the color and tone of sunlight shifted °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° like bridal veils.

A figure of divine presence—like the Jade Emperor incarnate.

In that sacred space, only two men showed unease:

Hyeok Ryeon Pungwol and Baek Seo-goon.

“...Sword Sovereign? Why do you look so grim?”

“I’ve never faced him before.”

“Who?”

“I’ve heard about his shedding... his transformation.”

He meant the matured Jeong Yeon-shin. But Hyeok Ryeon Pungwol showed no concern for the rumors—how similar Gwangya Ilmyeol was to that rogue Jeong Ban-ak. He only asked, scanning the surroundings:

“Should we cull their numbers preemptively?”

The worry wasn’t unfounded. The strongest forces—Blood Reinforcement Unit, Resonance Division, and their kind—could tip the scales. Not to mention Soyeon Corps, Myungryu Division, Suncheon Ik, Myeolseomdae, and the Divine Sword Corps.

The Faded War King responded slyly.

“Is it possible?”

A breath of his sent white dandelion seeds drifting in all directions. Some brushed against the faces of seated elites.

Among them: The one-armed Lord of Ipwang Fortress. The silent Myeolseom Lord Muk Shingun. The Heavenly Dragon Lord still gripping the silk rope entangled around Pungwol’s ankle.

Mongbi, seated directly opposite where Jeong Yeon-shin would sit, looked straight into the War King’s face.

The Lord of Suncheon Ik, snoring at the head of the Divine Sword Unit, seated beside a youth whispering to his sword—the accursed Demonic Blade lying bare.

Behind the uninvited guests stood a smiling giant with the air of a refined scholar, looking down on them all.

Hyeok Ryeon Pungwol muttered,

“Empty words, spoken in vain.”

Just then, some of the dandelion seeds turned faintly violet. The sunlight, which had flickered like a lantern, settled into a fixed hue.

Silence. Unnoticed, but absolute.

The Faded War King, Mongbi, and the giant in scholar’s robes all turned their gaze toward the head of the banquet hall.

The crowd followed.

A young man in purple long robes descended with the sunlight and seated himself in the Throne of the Taesa.

It looked as if he had fallen with the light itself.

No one spoke.

The coronation was complete.

Simply by sitting, he had fulfilled it.

His elbow rested on the marble armrest. His chin, heavy with thought, was propped up on the back of his hand. His expression eased.

Swish.

His long hair spilled lazily over the burnt “荒” character embroidered on his shoulder.

And then, the Ipwang Fortress Lord, Seomye, spoke:

“State your business.”