Surviving as a Genius on Borrowed Time-Chapter 336: Tyranny (1)

A village bathed in soft sunlight.

The land stretched wide, with a clear stream cutting generously through its center.

Along the creek, now tinged with a crimson hue in the dim evening light, dozens of corpses lay strewn about.

The water, once called the Azure Stream, was no longer blue.

Between the hooves of hundreds of horses, bloodstains mixed with the mud. The relentless stamping of warhorses echoed without end.

“It’s already this late. Ma Gwang-ik must be dead by now.”

A crisp voice drifted through the azure sky.

It belonged to a young nobleman with striking and well-defined features.

Seated atop a white horse adorned with an exquisite saddle, he gazed toward the village's interior. Even among the many mounted warriors surrounding him, his posture was uniquely poised, exuding effortless stability.

“What a pity.”

It was merely a muttered remark, yet the golden embroidery on his black hero’s headband fluttered behind him.

The sheer force of his inner energy was immense—so ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ much so that his very voice carried his power.

Gun Yu-rin, the Young Lord of Sim Mu-ryeon, also known as the Resplendent Flower Lord.

“Dojon, we can afford a little patience, can’t we?”

His bright voice, laced with inner energy, traveled effortlessly over the heads of the warhorses, reaching far into the distance.

A composed response returned immediately, as if the woman speaking stood right beside him.

“The Young Lord speaks lightly of matters that won’t be resolved with mere bravado.”

“......”

Gun Yu-rin’s gaze flickered. His foot pressed slightly harder against the stirrup of his white horse.

"She hasn’t lifted a single finger, yet she dares."

He refused to turn his head toward Gwang Dojon, his pride preventing him.

This was a mission assigned directly by the sect. Supplying the northern army—critical provisions for the frontier forces. The powerful Yo Tribe had seized the chance of famine to launch their uprising.

Simply delivering martial forces and supplies to the border was already an achievement worthy of recognition. It was also an opportunity to cement Sim Mu-ryeon’s influence.

Originally, a force of five hundred had been deemed sufficient—already an impressive army.

But Gun Yu-rin had brought five hundred more. Because as one of the most formidable martial warlords in the world, he could.

"A thousand should have been the minimum."

A famine that turned plentiful grain sacks into swords for plunder.

The absurd unification of the Thirteen Heavens.

The desolation of Shanxi’s martial world.

The execution of the Zhuge Clan Leader by a rising master.

The emergence of the Mo Yong Clan’s Patriarch and Sim Mu-ryeon’s Lord.

All of these events disrupted the region, making it impossible to predict what obstacles would interfere with their mission.

It was entirely possible that one of those monstrous martial masters, the so-called aberrations of the martial world, was lurking nearby.

Unlike Daebang Sect, which had a solid base, these wandering lone warriors roamed the land with nothing but their own unparalleled skills.

Against such unknown variables, a force of a thousand was necessary.

"Calling it foresight would be an understatement."

Five days ago, when their rear guard had suddenly come under attack, Gun Yu-rin had no time to admire his own preparedness.

He had only sought to confirm the identity of the enemy.

The assailants were Apostles of the Bloodflame Cult.

It was infuriating.

He had been moments away from exacting vengeance upon Ma Gwang-ik, the man who had slain both his betrothed and Bi-ik Hyeoljon.

Then he saw Seventh Apostle in person, and his thoughts changed.

“I want her.”

It wasn’t something he could say aloud to his subordinates, but the desire was undeniable.

She was as dangerously captivating as the rumors had suggested.

And her potential was staggering.

If he could recruit her, she wouldn’t be a mere Yang Guifei—she would become the most exquisite Divine Sword under the heavens.

"If we wish to subjugate the martial world, securing such an unrivaled master is an absolute necessity."

That was his justification to Dojon.

And since it was logically sound, it was naturally accepted.

The Bloodflame Cult’s main sect had just been annihilated.

Sim Mu-ryeon, as one of the so-called Thirteen Heavens, had always possessed the capacity to assimilate outsiders.

It was an opportune moment.

Even as a hundred cavalrymen fell to her, his conviction remained unshaken.

Because the worth of an unparalleled master could not be measured by mere soldiers.

“She’s clearly trained in a martial art with incomplete principles. Is it arrogance or foolishness?”

Dojon’s quiet murmur had further solidified his decision.

Now, they had Seventh Apostle completely surrounded within this desolate village.

Her appearance was, at a glance, anything but intact.

Her eyes were unfocused, and she stood alone in the devastated ruins, looking precariously unsteady.

Her equilibrium wavered as if shifting by the second. Strands of her black hair clung to patches of flesh and dried blood.

This was the result of five days of utilizing Ascent of the Blood God, the Bloodflame Cult’s lightness skill, to evade and entrap an army of martial warriors.

“It’s been days now. Are we simply going to stand by and watch? Would it not be better for you to take action yourself...?”

“A wandering noble of the Bloodflame Cult holds immeasurable value. And this is no mere noble—this is Seventh Apostle, a true descendant of the Bloodflame lineage. She will be a formidable asset to our sect. That level of talent and power is unattainable elsewhere.”

“Then...?”

“The Young Lord’s judgment was not incorrect. Even if we must resort to Gu Poison, she would more than replace the gap left by Bi-ik Hyeoljon. No, she would surpass it entirely.”

“Yes.”

“I had hoped to conserve my strength for the northern campaign... If I had known it would come to this, I would have faced her personally from the start.”

Dojon clicked her tongue as she conversed with her direct subordinate.

“Stay put.”

She stroked the neck of her horse and dismounted.

Step.

A strangely ethereal footstep rang out.

But it wasn’t hers.

Dojon, who had descended without even touching the stirrup, caught sight of an eerie phenomenon.

A luminous afterimage, like a constellation, flickered through her vision.

A young man, his emaciated frame making his sinewy muscles stand out, swept past the ranks of martial warriors, his short black robe fluttering.

A pale glow trailed beneath his feet.

His steps were so blindingly fast that only Dojon’s eyes could perceive them.

The moment he effortlessly breached the encirclement, he was standing before Seventh Apostle.

“Stop.”

Dojon issued the command to the martial warriors.

Gun Yu-rin, startled, belatedly jerked his head up, but his reaction no longer mattered.

Even as the Young Lord shouted something, Dojon simply raised her hand to restrain the soldiers.

She even began channeling Illusory Layered Qi, the technique that had granted her the title Gwang Dojon.

"A master."

As her internal energy surged into her ocular meridians, an oppressive sensation—the kind rarely felt even in the north—pressed in on her.

She hesitated to act.

Her instincts told her this was an opponent of exceptional strength.

Gun Yu-cheon, who had been poised at the vanguard, also fell silent, his gaze narrowing.

As the direct bloodline of Sim Mu-ryeon’s Lord, he could not deny the presence of the master before him.

It was only prudent to take a moment to observe this sudden intruder.

“Where did you just come from?”

“Dojon has ordered a halt. Are you one of the sect’s warriors?”

“What in the world—?!”

Ripples of unease spread among the cavalry warriors.

But there was no large disturbance.

Dojon’s wave of qi had already passed over them, pressing down ever so slightly.

They merely stood in stunned silence, eyes flickering with confusion, curiosity, intrigue, and apprehension.

“How is he so unrestrained? Is he simply ignoring the force of blood qi?”

“She may be exhausted, but... leaving her to face him alone is a separate issue.”

“Young Lord, is this man truly an ally?”

Yet soon, they all fell quiet.

For a warrior of the martial world, even when facing an enemy, one must always observe and learn.

The scene before them was not something lesser martial artists had the right to interrupt.

The center of the military encirclement. A village abandoned by its common folk.

A man and a woman stood facing each other. At first glance, there wasn’t much of an age gap between them.

Both had long, pitch-black hair, their features illuminated by the sun as though veiled by a curtain of light. They were both slightly gaunt, as if they hadn’t eaten in a long time.

“That’s a sight I’ve never seen before.”

The young man murmured.

No answer came.

Seventh Apostle merely lowered her head slightly, letting both of her hands hang loosely at her sides. It was a stance designed for seamless transitions between palm strikes and leg techniques.

She seemed familiar with him, yet she failed to recognize him. Qi deviation. The crimson glow in her exposed eye gleamed ominously.

She was still trapped in madness.

She stood there as if she were merely assessing an opponent who had dared to step into her space.

As the bloody mist around her thickened—

Whooosh!

A formless surge of energy burst erratically from the young man's body. The serene aura he had maintained vanished in an instant.

Ripples of force tore into the dirt like tangled threads, an eerie, soul-stealing killing intent cloaking his entire being.

The military ranks trembled.

His very posture seemed to shift under the weight of his energy. The hands he had kept relaxed beneath the flow of his robes now carried a dangerous decadence.

With each silent clash of their unseen auras, the air sizzled like the flick of a serpent’s tongue.

The young man took a slow step forward.

Step.

The mist conjured by Seventh Apostle’s qi wavered. It could not so much as slow him down, as though he were walking through a field of his own making.

“...?”

Their auras were alike. Both of them were wreathed in qi waves that spread in unpredictable patterns. Their energy was at once eerie and noble—an air befitting aristocracy.

At that moment, to an outside observer, the young man appeared to be the senior disciple of the same sect as Seventh Apostle.

It would not have been strange at all if he had called her junior sister.

Seventh Apostle’s expression shifted strangely.

Unlike before, when she had barely been able to support herself, her crimson eyes now flickered upward as if scanning his past.

“...Mara, Bloodline Art?”

She muttered in broken syllables, then curved her scarlet lips into a smooth, eerie smile.

At the same time, her figure blurred.

Clang!

The moment their palms met, a translucent shockwave radiated outward, sweeping in all directions.

The force of their initial strike was overwhelming. The river behind them exploded into the sky with a deafening roar.

And it didn’t stop there.

Their limbs intertwined in a blur of motion, their forms weaving together in a ceaseless tempest of force.

The trunks of massive trees shattered with sickening cracks. The river continued to rise, cascading down in sheets like a torrential downpour.

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The young man did not draw the sword at his waist.

With only his bare fists, his strong, agile limbs extended and retracted freely, tracing long and short arcs through the air. His movements seamlessly blended palm strikes and kicks into an unbroken flow of straight lines and sweeping curves.

Every burst of impact scattered fiery fragments of energy, making the soldiers flinch. The ground cracked apart beneath them, yet the footwork of the two fighters remained imperceptible.

Hundreds of trajectories were carved into the air, appearing and vanishing again.

By the time the last rays of the setting sun stained their robes crimson—

Thud!

The base of a towering tree shattered, its bark breaking apart into brittle shards. The young man stood beneath it, his shoulder pressed against its trunk.

As the remnants of the bark crumbled to the ground, Seventh Apostle, who had driven him back, bared a bloodstained smile.

Madness still gleamed in her eyes, the symptoms of her qi deviation fully manifesting.

“Young Taesa.”

She scanned him slowly, her gaze lingering like a phantom touch.

The distance between them was close. Too close.

Her crimson eyes filled his vision.

But their focus was unfixed.

She was not seeing with her eyes—she was sensing him through the resonance of their auras.

Her pale face, the luminous gleam in her pupils—she was lost in the past.

Like the moment when the Bloodflame Cult had once paid their respects to the young Taesa, she exhaled smoothly and whispered:

“You are mine. You belong to me. You will create my martial art. You will exist only for my eyes. Until you burn away your talent and disappear.”

“...”

“No... wait, that’s not right. What if you don’t disappear?”

She had spoken like a noble of the Bloodflame Cult, only to dissolve into nonsensical ramblings.

Her ghostly pale expression changed with every breath.

One moment, her face was twisted with possessiveness, the next, she stepped back as if she feared something.

Then, just as suddenly—

Shff.

She closed the distance again, brushing the back of his head with her fingertips.

“You practice footwork in the dead of night too, don’t you?”

The young man spoke quietly.

Rustle.

Seventh Apostle’s long, delicate fingers grazed the lapel of his robe, then gently wrapped around his throat.

She parted her lips.

“I’ll show you everything. The way I circulate my energy, how I release force, how my muscles shape the flow of my movements.”

She had completely lost herself in some moment from the past, behaving as she always had—with the absolute authority of the strong.

Whoosh.

A deep crimson mist began to rise beneath her feet once more, layers upon layers of blood-tinged qi stacking atop one another.

It was a method designed to bind a target the moment they stepped within her range.

In that instant, the young man's fingers twitched.

A thunderous roar erupted.

It was the sound of dozens of mirrors shattering at once.

The mist was torn apart, its fragmented remnants scattering in every direction like blood-red embers.

He had pierced through the core structure of her energy—not merely repelling it, but breaking it down at its very foundation.

This was impossible unless one possessed absolute insight into the very root of their opponent’s martial art.

At the same time—

Shff—

A split second. A clash of muscle against muscle, of opposing forces colliding.

Within the folds of their fluttering robes, an invisible battle of internal power unfolded—streaks of colorless energy unfurling in the space between them.

In an instant, their positions had reversed.

Seventh Apostle’s back struck the tree.

As Jeong Yeon-shin lowered his head slightly, his lips hovered near her ear.

The warmth of his breath brushed against her skin, devoid of any lingering intent or pressure.

"You are beneath me."

The young man spoke in a low voice.