Cheonreung Guest Man-hwi.

Eccentric behavior wasn’t new. A martial artist’s nickname inevitably symbolized their essence. Just as the one cloaked in the title of Ipwang Fortress Lord was known by the epithet of “Divine Martial Emperor of Cheonha Tree.” That’s the discernment of enthusiasts.

‘Except for a few derogatory nicknames.’

Jeong Yeon-shin thought.

“A swordsman best among the heretical paths? There's nothing more to hear. He deserves to be struck on the crown with the temple bell.”

Beom-ryeol spoke of righteous guidance.

But Jeong Yeon-shin subtly shielded Head Monk Beomha with his back.

It was because from one empty sleeve of the monk’s robe, the contour of an arm had begun to form all of a sudden.

A silently loaded Hundred-Step Divine Fist was about to smash the skull of the Lord of Cheonggeukmun.

‘How much has he recovered?’

He wondered without meaning to.

The downfall of the Shaolin Head Monk was a classified matter, but Jeong Yeon-shin had been present at the Jiaolong War of Hangzhou.

He had observed the state of Head Monk Beomha’s entire meridians, including both the middle and lower dantians.

At that moment, Head Monk Beomha quietly asked,

“Do you have other thoughts?”

Even though ten full years of recuperation might not suffice for complete recovery, he still exuded a mystic aura beyond the reach of ordinary masters.

“Do the temples of Mount Song see gold rather than people as stone? Even when asked for teaching like this.”

At the words of the Lord of Cheonggeukmun, who tilted his head, Beom-ryeol’s lips curled upward like a lion’s maw.

“I won't quibble about rules with a heretic, but don’t you have any shame as a devotee? Even when you passed through my gates, I’d heard of the name ‘Cheonreung Guest’.”

“Certainly, in the eyes of high monks reputed for even the Heavenly Eye Clairvoyance, perhaps laws and principles are visible.”

He briefly lifted his old straw hat up to his brows, then let it fall again, smiling.

“I, however, wouldn’t know.”

At the same time, an invisible wave rippled gently from the pile of corpses supporting the Lord of Cheonggeukmun.

Ssshhk.

Path of Floating Void.

He floated up, seated casually, then slowly drifted past Jeong Yeon-shin and landed between him and Head Monk Beomha.

His intent was clear.

Even if his belly were cut open, it would be fine.

Jeong Yeon-shin turned around and stared at the Lord of Cheonggeukmun.

Until the so-called best swordsman of the heretical path had slumped down like a beggar tossing aside his alms bowl.

“As you see, one knee is missing. Consider it kneeling.”

“What are you doing?”

“Never seen begging before? By now, you must’ve seen both the pleasant and the grotesque.”

“Crazy bastard.”

“I won’t deny I’m no ordinary man, but isn’t that a bit rich coming from someone who carries around a human head?”

The Lord of Cheonggeukmun spoke calmly.

And the severed head of Wollyo on Jeong Yeon-shin’s back twitched on its own.

“Cheonreung Guest! I’ve heard of your fame. They say you enjoyed chatting with the common folk. I’d love to set your tale—of losing your left arm and right leg—to music. May I?”

“To see a decapitated fool provoke so boldly reminds me of someone from Seomye’s subordinates. I once felt strange sword energy on the Black Path—just like my own arm...”

“Enough.”

Jeong Yeon-shin cut off the lunatics’ ramblings.

Then respectfully spoke to Head Monk Beomha.

“I once used this man as a weapon, like a sword. He fought splendidly in the Grand Black Path War. A very sharp blade. Suitable for ending an age of chaos.”

Not just the Demon God crossed his mind. There were many others: the transformed Ipwang Fortress Lord, the Four Great Dharma Protectors, the Grand Elder of Zhongnan Yeo Il-shin, the Master of Dark Night, the Azure Water Sage, and other venerables who may now stand as enemies. Even the forces seen in Cheonha Tree’s cities and the endless rumors of the Great Pure Justice League came to mind.

When would his hands be enough? Would such a day ever come?

“Have you established your great cause?”

“...Yes.”

“Then let me ask you.”

“Ask freely.”

“You’ve forged a vessel in the North capable of embracing even the best heretical swordsman. But... would the Head of Wudang say the same?”

Head Monk Beomha’s question was quiet.

A question that only a Wudang disciple could answer.

After all, the Wudang Sword Sage slain by this man was the disciple of the Profound Sage.

Beomha’s question was more than rhetorical.

‘Will you carry others’ grudges too...?’

Jeong Yeon-shin slowly opened his mouth.

“...I do not intend to stop Wudang’s Head from seeking him. If he comes to sever this one’s head, I’ll step aside. If I reflect now... perhaps my so-called cause is just cowardice.”

“How heartless. We’ve shared the taste of blades.”

The Lord of Cheonggeukmun said lightly with a hint of laughter, but Head Monk Beomha only asked again, calmly,

“So, it’s a sword to be used only until that day...?”

“I will wield his martial strength with no sense of entitlement.”

Jeong Yeon-shin spoke solemnly. Even the severed head on his back, Beom-ryeol, and the Lord of Cheonggeukmun all fell silent, as if weighed down by his conviction.

Naturally so.

How many lives were entwined with that of the current Lord of the Divine Sword Corps?

Even in the North, countless losses had piled up.

With just those few words, the Lord of Cheonggeukmun was allowed into their group.

“Follow me to Mount Song. I see farther than old grudges.”

“Well... understood. Remarkable, truly.”

The best heretical swordsman yielded to the Lord of the Divine Sword Corps.

It was a moment that would one day shake the world.

But for now, Jeong Yeon-shin had other priorities.

“Third Young Master...!”

A reunion with the former Chief Steward of Jeong Clan, imprisoned by the noble clans.

A middle-aged man with scholar-like air and deepened wrinkles after years.

To Jeong Yeon-shin, his face was more familiar than many companions from his homeland.

“Are you truly the Third Young Master? I’ve heard strange tales of transformation, but...!”

Perhaps his grown-up appearance was strange.

The steward glanced repeatedly between Jeong Yeon-shin’s robes and the yellow character on his shoulder, then finally nodded after scanning his features.

Meanwhile, Jeong Yeon-shin recalled a childhood moment upon seeing the man’s face.

“So, you really did start a merchant band...? You looked healthy when you entered the secular Shaolin branch.”

“Haha, well, things aren’t easy these days. Even the upper realms face threats like Ipwang Fortress. I wonder if you’ve heard of the Huishang Daechun Guild? Neither the Great Pure Justice League nor Cheonha Tree can operate without their salt and supplies...”

An extraordinary man.

Even after witnessing the violet robe before him, he regained his composure quickly.

He had been like this even during the Jeong Clan massacre.

It would’ve been admirable—if not for his sudden fluster.

“Oh my, Head Monk!”

“Amitabha. A disciple of Wonyong. It’s been a long time.”

“It’s an honor to receive such a noble guest in our humble place!”

“Just passing through. How’s the merchant band doing?”

“Oh, as well as can be! The mountain energy from Mount Song «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» is vast and wondrous. I’d serve you Dragon Well tea if not for the poor timing...”

Jeong Yeon-shin walked across the front courtyard with humble steps.

The moment he confirmed those imprisoned alongside the steward were unharmed, he leapt toward the mountain behind.

‘I must see my mother.’

Thud—

The ridge, barren save for dry branches, was crossed in a single step. In the next instant, a quiet graveyard appeared.

On a low hill stood a row of over a dozen graves.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

A large burial mound, enclosed by a three-zhang-high brick wall, belonged to his mother, Ma Yeon-sang.

At a glance, it resembled a royal tomb.

“.......”

It was said to be the work of the Seven Blade Dao.

The grave beside it—his father’s—had only been trimmed.

—I’ll be heading to Songshan. To seek enlightenment.

—Mm. When should we leave?

—You’ll need to go to the main base of the Blood Flame Sect. It’s time we start gathering our forces. We’ll need Senior Jin.

—If that miscellaneous Divine Blood arrives, your power might increase greatly. But it’ll still take a while to regenerate the arm torn off by the giant. That kind of blood is always like that.

—If I use the purest blood energy in the world to bolster my qi circulation, I might be able to shorten the time. For now, the power struggle has reached a temporary lull. You’re the only one I can count on.

—Then I’ll...

—...?

—I’ll go outside for a while.

Jeong Yeon-shin shook off his thoughts.

He calmly looked around.

There was nothing to trim now.

Only the dead grass occasionally rustled in the golden spring breeze.

The moment the summer sun arrived, it seemed like everything might ignite.

Then.

Wollyo suddenly dangled on his back.

A subtle movement of absorbing demonic energy like dew from the faint tri-light current through reverse circulation.

But it was such a minuscule amount that he left it be.

He would need it in due time.

“There’s something strange about the land qi here. Feels nostalgic, somehow. This was what it felt like when I had a major realization. While cultivating vocal resonance, a spiritual qi pierced through my Baihui point.”

“Quiet.”

“Even a murderous ghost of legend knows how to mourn, I see. Well, martial artists are beings who choose when to grieve and venerate honor. Anyway, whose tomb is that large one? It completely disrupts the harmony of the geomancy.”

“My mother’s.”

“Even if only bone dust remains, her nature feels fierce down to the marrow. My upper dantian resonance was always accurate. No doubt she was headstrong, like a one-woman army, always troubling those around her...”

Jeong Yeon-shin was slightly flustered by the unfamiliar speech pattern.

Then, using a technique he’d learned from Ak Su-rim’s fire-play, he twisted Wollyo’s hair.

His gaze alternated slowly between the two graves.

At last, his eyes settled. At the same time, a will that had once gone unheeded resurfaced.

—You have it... the potential of a Great Patriarch...

The reason he came to the grave.

Jeong Family's Qi Circulation Art had been completed thanks to his mother, Ma Yeon-sang.

Even with just her, she had proven herself equal to a war god in restoring the body.

But people are born with two parents.

Just like how most are born with two arms.

“Father.”

The abyss of the Jeong family’s third son.

Another origin.

Today, after seeing the Master of Heaven’s Extreme Sect, he thought it.

Hatred alone could only carry an Outsider so far.

Jeong Yeon-shin was the same.

His Jeong Family Qi Art contained no “Jeong.”

That’s why he lost to the War God.

He quietly opened his mouth.

“...You are now the father of the Master of the Divine Sword Division. A man obsessed with fame—if you were alive, you would’ve been quite satisfied.”

In the graveyard’s unique stillness, a dead leaf blew across the air, whirled by the vortex created from Wollyo’s head.

Jeong Yeon-shin’s murmured words mixed into the wind.

“Thank you for acknowledging me in the end. Only now does the faint warmth that once lingered in your voice come to mind. Perhaps it’s because of all the kindness I received in the martial world. Had it not been so, I would never have realized it.”

“.......”

“The words that came to me today...”

Will make me the greatest under the heavens.

He swallowed the last words.

A dry leaf fluttered before his face.

Was it the weight of the years it carried?

Little by little, bits of it were crumbling away.

Looking at the dancing leaf, Jeong Yeon-shin thought, оnce you return to soil, I hope new sprouts bloom atop this grave.

Rustle—

As it had always been, time seemed to get sucked into the dancing motion of the leaf.

And just like that, the falling leaf that teased his gaze drifted out of sight—and out of mind.

“Welcome to Shaolin.”

Jeong Yeon-shin now stood before a grand mountain gate.

From the Jeong family’s graveyard to returning to the old site and climbing Songshan, it had passed in a flash, like a spinning top.

“Did you find some insight? You were meditating the entire way here.”

The Master of Heaven’s Extreme Sect spoke.

He had walked over with a limp, using his old blade Dongmong as a cane.

Jeong Yeon-shin silently looked around.

The air itself was different.

Tak, tak, tadak.

The clear sound of a wooden gong spread like a gentle breeze.

The scent of incense, unique to a temple hall, seemed to tint the sheer cliffside in a blue hue.

The voices chanting sutras here and there were strange, too.

It wasn’t the Six Harmonies Peak, yet it felt as if the upper dantian was being cradled like a lotus.

Another world.

So was Shaolin’s mountain gate. A monk stood as gatekeeper—an enormous man.

His massive shadow stretched all the way behind the gate. If not for the seal on his bald head, one might have mistaken him for a demonic enforcer.

“A yokai race? Inside Shaolin...?”

The Master of Heaven’s Extreme Sect muttered. He had already half-drawn his sword while levitating via air-walking. He was a natural killer, and if the opponent was a yokai, he didn’t hesitate.

Beom-ryeol chuckled.

“That is Wonmu, seat master of the Four Diamond Guardians. If you piss him off, he might use your head as a wooden gong, so put the sword away.”

Shaolin of Songshan. The birthplace of martial studies in the central plains.

‘From the very start...’

He was a yokai trained in the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture.