The White-Robed Scholar looked up at the sky pouring down rain.

His body was already soaked through.

As the rain relentlessly pelted his face, he studied the shape of the sky and clouds and concluded this wasn’t the kind of rain that would let up easily.

He glanced back down at hell...

The Master of Haomun was dancing with a sword in hand like a man gone mad.

Was that internal deviation, or simple madness?

Watching from here, it looked more like a struggle to overcome madness. Or maybe a desperate attempt to live joyfully, no matter what. Whatever the reason, it was clear this man wasn’t just your average lunatic.

“The maddest man of all ages.”

He was also a living research subject. Even the strength of his martial arts changed depending on his mental state. Despite watching with his own eyes, the White-Robed Scholar couldn’t comprehend how the Four Heavenly Kings had been butchered. In the end, it seemed like the sword was swinging inside a violet mist—too hazy to analyze. Not even the path of the sword was visible.

Zaha Divine Art...

The White-Robed Scholar watched the Master of Haomun dance and fight among the ghosts as he strolled leisurely across the rooftop and rooftiles.

It’d be a shame if he died...

Extending his right hand and holding his robe sleeve with his left, the White-Robed Scholar began a composed dance in the rain. One foot stepped forward, then turned, kicking up puddles with a disciplined rhythm. If Haomun’s dance was a wild, frenzied stomp of the underclass, then his was a refined dance with etiquette and structure.

In other words, it was a learned dance.

Since there was no music, he extracted rhythm from the sounds around him—the rain, the screams, the clash of weapons, the shouts, the splashes. That alone was enough to dance to.

The Master of Haomun raged like a storm in hell. 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

The White-Robed Scholar danced idly across the rooftop.

He didn’t feel like helping the Master yet. He planned to keep dancing until he got bored, and only then offer assistance.

Drawing a white folding fan, the White-Robed Scholar twirled, dancing with the fan, spinning and stepping lightly, splashing puddles as he moved. When he heard a long, drawn-out scream, he nodded solemnly once.

“...Farewell. Give my regards to your master.”

Just then, lightning flashed and thunder roared.

Balancing precariously on the edge of the railing, he paused to gaze down at the hellscape.

He watched the Sword Demon fight like a mighty general, then had his eyes stolen by Mongrang, who left a trail of white frost wherever he went. He glanced toward the Master of Six Harmonies, who seemed at risk of dying soon—but somehow held on, his defense absurdly solid. In critical moments, Mongrang or the Sword Demon would suddenly appear to assist.

They were all watching over each other.

The Master of Haomun, fighting ghosts from a little distance away, gradually converged on the other three’s location. Even as he closed in, his movements were unpredictable.

One moment he was fighting an enemy head-on, the next he’d leap over to help the Master of Six Harmonies. Sometimes, he’d pass by the Sword Demon and slash casually, and if he saw a ghost cloaked in Mongrang’s energy, he’d approach like an assassin and silently end their life.

In any case, he fought efficiently and well.

Initially, the three had been overwhelmed by the ghosts, but once the Master of Haomun joined, their formation stabilized.

Even so, this hellscape showed no signs of ending, just like the pouring rain.

Because every ghost here was a rare master.

Moreover, the White-Robed Scholar noticed ghosts here and there holding back their strength or stepping aside to observe. These ghosts were waiting—biding their time until their comrades died and the sect leader’s group grew tired. Occasionally, if a comrade retreated, they’d kill him without hesitation.

Like a man reading a game of Go, the White-Robed Scholar quietly observed the landscape of hell. The only emotions he could read from it were slaughter, murderous intent, cruelty, and heartlessness. Only the sect leader’s group stood out for looking out for one another and holding their ground.

Strangely, they’re holding up well...

Suddenly, the Master of Haomun let out a wild, madness-laced laugh. Mongrang joined in. Then the Master of Six Harmonies joined too, laughing for some reason. Even the usually stoic Sword Demon was smiling.

What kind of mindset was this?

Unable to comprehend the laughter, the White-Robed Scholar pondered in the rain.

Why are they laughing? Are they enjoying themselves?

They didn’t seem happy at all, and yet they laughed, making him feel strangely suffocated. Then he reached a conclusion.

I’ll ask them later. Why they laughed.

To ask, he’d have to keep them alive first—so he had no choice but to help.

The White-Robed Scholar folded his fan, pressed the bottom of the handle with his finger, and with a pop, a steel needle popped out from the tip. Carrying the fan, he moved across the rooftop and leapt between buildings.

He entered the second floor of an unnamed inn, weaving between scattered corpses, picked up a chopstick holder from a table, and stepped to the window.

The battle he had watched from above...

Was now unfolding at eye level.

“......”

The ghosts and the sect leader’s group had gathered in an open space. Now, even the sect leader’s group fought like ghosts. And with fog in the air, visibility was poor.

These aren’t your average evil spirits.

The White-Robed Scholar placed his folding fan on his palm, pulled a chopstick from the holder, and laid it across the fan.

“......”

He studied the ghost pressing the Master of Six Harmonies. The ghost’s movements, habits, footwork—all revealed where he’d step next. The moment he predicted it, he flicked the chopstick using One-Finger Flicking Technique.

TANG!

As the ghost stepped down with his left foot to strike, the flying chopstick pierced his ankle.

Instantly, the Master of Six Harmonies severed the ghost’s neck.

PUAK!

The White-Robed Scholar placed another chopstick on his fan and pondered whose life to ruin next. Just then, a ghost glanced his way, so without hesitation, he flicked the next chopstick.

SWEEEAAAK!

The ghost raised his hand as he turned, but the chopstick pierced his palm and lodged into his forehead.

THWUCK!

The White-Robed Scholar muttered, “A formidable master, that one.”

But that formidable ghost was immediately decapitated by the passing sword of the Master of Haomun. Though he had only intervened twice, some ghosts were already scanning their surroundings, searching for him.

He had no choice but to change locations.

He moved slightly to the side and peered through the rain. Suddenly, the voice of the Master of Haomun rang out from somewhere.

“There’s someone launching sneak attacks. Watch out.”

Mongrang replied, “Is it a ghost?”

The Master of Haomun, swinging his sword, replied, “No, it’s the White-Robed Scholar. He’s killing ghosts. Over there, by the inn window. Ally of the Four Villains, the White-Robed Mu-je of Baekdo, comrade of Haomun, mortal enemy of the Demonic Cult, successor of the Sword God. The scholar’s brains among scholars. Ah, he can’t live under the same sky as the Demonic Cult.”

Mongrang responded, “So Mu-je is helping? That’s reassuring.”

The White-Robed Scholar sighed. “That... that damned...”

Just then, something flew in and shattered the window, making him retreat. He had planned to just observe and toss a few hidden weapons—but now a ghost had appeared, swinging a chipped sword.

He blocked with his fan, then slashed the ghost’s face with the needle tip. A red line appeared across its face, and the ghost opened its mouth to vomit something.

Instinctively, the White-Robed Scholar spread his fan to block it, held his breath, and thrust three fingers toward the charging ghost. With a PUK sound, the ghost’s upper body exploded—but poison gas was spreading, so he exited the inn and leapt onto the roof.

He kicked off one wall to leap again, but a black hand burst through the wall above. Kicking off again, he shifted to the other side and released internal force.

The wall collapsed, and a wild-haired monster burst forth, charging with beastly swings. The Scholar pulled the wall to boost himself into the air, intending to kill the ghost if it followed. But the ghost only raised its head and—unexpectedly—spoke in a normal voice.

“You... you’re a disciple of Heukseon, aren’t you? You act just like him.”

“Old man, how do you know my master?”

“Because of that bastard, I’ve been holed up in seclusion training for years.”

The White-Robed Scholar looked down and laughed. “Unfortunate. You died at my hands.”

The ghost laughed as well. “You alone? Not a chance.”

That’s when the White-Robed Scholar wiped the smile from his face.

“Come up here.”

He backed away and waited. Soon, the ghost vaulted up and stood on the rooftop, drenched in rain, staring at him.

“I heard your master’s disciples swarmed and killed me. You must be one of them.”

Only then did the Scholar widen his eyes and scan the ghost from head to toe.

“You... you’re a scholar too. You traitorous bastard.”

The ghost replied, “...While I was infiltrating the cult, your master exterminated my clan. How am I the traitor? Don’t you know the kind of people the cult welcomes?”

The White-Robed Scholar glanced around once, then glared at him.

“Who are you blaming? The world’s always been like this.”

He examined his fan. One of his favorite weapons, but now laced with poison—no longer usable. Even as the ghost rushed in, the Scholar stood still, staring at his fan. Then he channeled internal force into his finger and pressed the handle.

POP!

A sharp needle sprang from the fan ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) and pierced the charging ghost’s forehead.

As the ghost’s head snapped back, the Scholar thrust his palm. His energy exploded—the ghost’s body shattered and was scattered into the wind and rain.

Standing still for a moment, the White-Robed Scholar tilted his head.

“There are traitors? How would a ghost know that?”

He returned to the railing to watch the fight. Since the Master of Haomun had joined, the number of ghosts had dropped dramatically.

Just then, he spotted a black-clad figure watching the battle between the ghosts and the Four Great Villains.

As he watched...

The black-clad man tilted his head and locked eyes with the White-Robed Scholar on the roof. The Scholar, seated casually on the railing, watched the battle and the man at once. Then suddenly, new masters appeared. Ghosts were slammed into the ground or ripped apart mid-capture.

Looking closely—those two were his disciples: the Fist King and Yi Gun-ak. On the other side, a ghost was split in two, blood spraying—the Blade King had arrived.

“......”

The White-Robed Scholar scanned the battlefield for Im Sobaek, but no other grandmasters were visible. However word had spread, the Four Great Villains were lucky. Only three allies had joined, but because they’d been conserving energy, it was like three generals entering a battlefield—they were overwhelming.

Then the Scholar focused on an unfamiliar man.

He wasn’t particularly skilled but was punching heavily injured ghosts.

Who the hell is that?

Naturally, he couldn’t recognize Cha Seong-tae. Occasionally, sparks crackled from the man’s hands—that unmistakable thunder energy of the Hundred Battles Tenfold Technique, the one he’d given to the Master of Haomun.

“......”

This was martial arts that only the sect leader himself should have learned—or perhaps passed to that stubborn fool. Seeing a man wielding such a divine art just to beat up half-dead ghosts made him sigh.

It’s Haomun, all right.

He decided the man wasn’t worth watching and shut him out of his mind. But when he turned his head slightly—he realized the black-clad figure had vanished.

Until now, that man had only observed. Now, he was gone.

Without thinking, the White-Robed Scholar scanned the shifting battlefield—then flinched.

“...!”

A stranger’s voice came from behind him.

“Has Cheonak not arrived?”

As he slowly turned his head, the voice warned,

“Your gaze is offensive. Don’t look. Just answer.”

“He hasn’t come.”

After a moment of silence, the Scholar shifted his eyes—and then spun around and unleashed internal energy. His full-force attack ripped through the air, flinging raindrops like a dragon’s tail.

But the speaker was already gone.

Only then did the White-Robed Scholar exhale deeply. Even with rain pouring down, someone had gotten behind him unnoticed—his spine felt icy cold.

Was it a master among the ghosts, or a figure like the Grand Duke commanding them?

In terms of skill, one man came to mind...

But he shook his head.