Clang—! Crraashhh!

“Haaah—! Ka-kang!”

Seop Mugwang’s gaze locked on the flowing, wave-like swordplay before him.

Mount Hae’s foremost disciple—Il Jirang.

His sword moved like the sea itself.

It wasn’t only the overwhelming pressure, as though a massive tide bore down—

even while watching with his eyes, it was near impossible to predict the sword’s path.

Srrrak—! Kang!

“!”

Seop Mugwang parried a blade that had slipped for his flank and took a single step back.

He fixed his eyes on Il Jirang’s hand gripping the hilt.

A left-handed sword.

That was the chief reason so many struggled to match him.

Unlike most other sword schools, Mount Hae’s sword art was founded on left-hand dominance—

its strikes, its angles, its curves, all wholly unfamiliar to those who had trained against conventional forms.

And it was forged in real combat against pirates—

every cut sharp to the extreme, every strike meant to kill.

It was like standing in the midst of a storm-tossed sea, waves crashing from every side.

“Hah!”

Il Jirang roared as he unleashed his sword art.

The basic Mount Hae form, named for borrowing the spirit of the southern sea—

Namhae Sword Technique.

Shrrrak-shrrrak-shrrrak!

Before his eyes, the vast ocean spread open.

The earth trembled, waves rose high.

Kwaaahhh—!!

A towering tide surged toward Seop Mugwang.

“...”

Seop Mugwang tightened his grip.

Too feral to be an orthodox art, yet too honest in its mysteries to be demonic.

So this was the sword of Mount Hae.

The corner of his mouth curled faintly.

Interesting.

Tsshh—

He drew upon his inner force.

Il Jirang’s blade was already at his nose.

Kwagagagagahhh—!

The tide loomed to swallow him whole.

In that instant—

Kwak-kwakwak-BOOOM!

Seop Mugwang’s secret art—

Thunderclap Sword Technique!

The clash exploded, a thunderous detonation shaking the dueling stage.

Blinding flashes ripped out in every direction.

Those watching the match clenched fists without realizing, half-rising from their seats.

Kwa-kwa-BOOM!

Il Jirang slipped around, striking for Seop Mugwang’s back.

The crashing waves were but a feint.

The true killing stroke came at the moment of his opponent’s distraction.

The sword that embodied the leaping fish breaking through the waves—

Flying Fish Swift Sword!

Fwoosh—

This ends it!

Il Jirang was certain of victory as he swung.

But just as his blade touched Seop Mugwang’s back—

KANG—!

“!”

A flash erupted before his eyes.

Time seemed to slow as Il Jirang clearly saw Seop Mugwang’s blade lightly knock his own aside.

So it is.

The thought barely formed before Seop Mugwang’s sword pressed cold against his nape.

Il Jirang lifted his gaze.

“...I concede.”

Seop Mugwang, who had been staring down with cold eyes, broke into a broad smile.

Lowering his sword, he offered his hand.

“Well fought. As fierce a blade as I had heard. Had I not watched your earlier bouts, I surely would have lost.”

“You honor me.” Il Jirang shook his head.

“It was a privilege to clash with the sword of the famed Wind-and-Thunder Deity.”

“And I, likewise.”

They clasped hands briefly, then both turned their eyes upward.

Upon the high pavilion overlooking the arena stood Namgoong Mucheon, the Martial Alliance Lord, flanked by the leaders of the fourteen major factions.

At his short nod, the two descended the stage, and next came forward two men in the martial uniforms of Mount Hua and Zhongnan.

****

“Please prepare Kanghwang and Yu Changmok as well. Ah, and more musk.”

Inside Namgoong Clan’s Medicine Hall, Chor Yeon spoke as she checked the medicine chests, giving the Chief Steward a list of needed ingredients.

Normally the Medicine Hall compiled and reported such lists, but since the Chief Steward happened to be visiting, she made her requests directly.

“No other supplies? Furniture, chests, things of that sort?”

“None. We’re not lacking.”

The steward nodded, jotting notes.

“Then I’ll stop by the Finance Hall and—”

“Ho—there!”

A familiar voice rang out.

The steward’s brow snapped down while Chor Yeon’s face lit with delight.

They both turned to the open doorway.

From afar, Seop Mugwang waved energetically as he strode over.

“That man treats this place like the Flying Phoenix quarters! Why does a healthy fellow haunt the Medicine Hall every day?”

Chor Yeon only shrugged.

“Truly.”

But her lips had curved upward.

The steward muttered as Seop °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° Mugwang stepped inside.

“So you’re both here! And you, elder, what brings you to the Medicine Hall? Feeling unwell?”

“That is what I should be asking you. Well then, how did your selection bout go?”

The Selection Bout—

the great contest where warriors of the Five Great Clans and Nine Sects vied for the post of division lord in the Martial Alliance.

Candidates were volunteers endorsed by their leaders.

Up to three from each faction could enter, their matchups decided by lot.

Winning gave advantage, but victory alone did not guarantee appointment.

The final choice rested with the Alliance Elders and the Alliance Lord, based on skill, realm, and experience.

“So, how did it turn out?”

Seop Mugwang’s mouth split in a grin.

“A resounding victory.”

“A... victory?”

He chuckled and jabbed a thumb at himself.

“From now on, you may address me as Chief Division Lord of the Martial Alliance.”

The steward gasped.

He was about to ask if that was not the highest of the division posts when—

“Waaah!”

Chor Yeon leapt and threw herself into Seop Mugwang’s arms.

Both his and the steward’s eyes went wide.

“Congratulations! That’s wonderful! Truly!”

She hung about his neck, bouncing in sheer joy.

Seop Mugwang stood stiff as a board, jostled back and forth, while the steward gaped between them, mouth agape.

“Th-the two of you....”

He bit his tongue on the question and fled the hall.

Seop Mugwang, dumbfounded, only watched him scurry off.

****

Suzak Division: Mount Hua Daoist Yu Pyo.

Black Tortoise Division: Shaolin monk Do Ryang.

White Tiger Division: Moyong Clan’s Moyong Songbaek.

Azure Dragon Division: Mount Hae’s Il Jirang.

“And over them all—the Chief Division Lord is none other than your master!”

Seop Mugwang puffed up, more triumphant than ever.

Seolhwa, mid-practice with her sword, straightened in surprise.

“Chief Division Lord—that’s the highest post, isn’t it?”

“Exactly!”

He slapped his knee.

“Do you see now how great your master is?”

Hahaha!

His booming laughter shook the training hall.

For all his smugness, Seolhwa could not help but smile brightly.

How fortunate.

A man who loved so dearly to be acknowledged by his martial arts.

If he had never recovered his inner force, he would never stand proud like this again.

“Congratulations. Then you’ll be going to the Alliance headquarters?”

“Most likely. But fret not. I’ll still come see to your training often.”

“I’m not worried. I’ll likely end up at the Martial Alliance myself.”

“You? Why?”

“They say the winner of the tournament will be granted the post of Division Lord.”

His brow arched high.

“You’re entering too?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Seolhwa tilted her head.

“Why not? It’s a martial tournament.”

Why was everyone so surprised?

“As far as I know, there aren’t any restrictions. Or am I mistaken?”

“No, you’re right....”

He studied her, then nodded slowly.

“Well, you’ve no reason not to. With your skill, winning would hardly be a surprise.”

Among even the greatest masters, her strength stood near the pinnacle.

Unless some unknown genius appeared from nowhere, she was the strongest candidate.

“Seems we’ll be stuck together longer still.”

“Why’s that?”

“The champion’s unit is called the Demon-Slaying Corps. It’s the Alliance’s strike force—and it happens to be under my direct command.”

“Really?”

So the champion would become Lord of a unit directly beneath the Chief Division Lord.

Which means... the title is Division Lord in name, but effectively at the level of a Division Chief.

Seolhwa clenched her fist.

She would win.

****

Thud—! Crack! Bam-bam-bam!

“Gahk!”

“Arghhh!”

“Ugh!”

Kang—! Ka-kang! Kaaang!

A dozen men dropped their weapons at once, clutching shattered arms and hands.

They scrambled to snatch their blades again when—

“Next time, I’ll cut them off.”

Every movement froze.

They stared in fear at the bamboo-hatted man barring their path.

He tilted his head.

“Strange. Master said the world had grown better.”

Hadn’t he said street thugs like this were all but gone?

They were nothing more than extortionists, robbing passersby for coin and goods.

“What are they, then?”

Had new brigands already sprung up?

Then suddenly, one of them shouted—

“S-Sado Union...!”

“?”

“We—we are the Sado Union...!”