Surviving as a Genius on Borrowed Time-Chapter 322: Boundless Sky (1)

Taewon

A vast metropolis. The main base of the Bloodblade Sect was said to be hidden within its depths.

The Mo Yong Clan and Sim Mu-ryeon sought to seize the Heavenly Demon’s legacy from them. Something left unclaimed during the great upheaval of the Celestial Demon Tomb more than a decade ago.

It had nothing to do with Jeong Yeon-shin. As long as the common people and his companions remained unharmed, that was all that mattered.

He did not care what his enemies thought of him. He was an old man with little time left to live.

"About a hundred left."

Jeong Yeon-shin considered himself deeply disciplined.

Even when Sim Mu-ryeon’s Bi-ik Bloodlord dismissed him as a mere variable, or when the Mo Yong heir spoke of Jade of Divine Authority with an air of superiority, he remained unshaken.

He was not like those monkeys who lost their composure at a few words of provocation, their sword forms crumbling under agitation.

His blade was cold, striking with full force at all times. It was proof of a level of mental discipline beyond comparison.

Even now, when his body felt somewhat fatigued, a single Pure Essence Pill would be enough to restore him to near-perfect condition.

Clack.

As soon as he opened the wooden box, a clear fragrance wafted forth. The scent was reminiscent of incense burned in a temple.

Inside was a single, neatly rounded white pill—Pure Essence Pill, a secret medicinal pill of Shaolin, renowned as the finest restorative in the world.

Having experienced it once before, Jeong Yeon-shin could wholeheartedly agree with its reputation.

Tap.

Shaolin’s Brown Squirrel, the divine beast that had delivered the pill, perched lightly on Jeong Yeon-shin’s shoulder before scurrying into the folds of his robe.

But where was its master, Great Master Wonjeok? Few events could leave even a scratch on the robes of the Shaolin Four Vajras.

"Chew it thoroughly."

Hyeon Won-chang spoke as he approached, sword lowered in one hand.

The two knots at the back of his Hero’s Headband swayed ceaselessly, their irregular movements betraying the surging energy beneath his skin.

The aura emanating from his body was unusual—far stronger than before.

"His internal power has grown immensely," Jeong Yeon-shin noted.

The density of energy brushing against his skin was extraordinary. Hyeon Won-chang’s accumulation of Qi had more than doubled—no, nearly tripled.

If this strength were applied to an assassination technique, it would be a lethal force capable of threatening even Tae Yeom-ryong in a direct power struggle.

Numerous questions arose.

What had happened to Hyeon Won-chang? What circumstances had befallen Great Master Wonjeok?

But this was not the time to ask.

Jeong Yeon-shin placed the Pure Essence Pill into his mouth and focused inward.

The effect was immediate. The moment he chewed and swallowed, its power spread throughout his body.

A treasure combining the secret arts of the Ming Clan and the medical expertise of Shaolin’s Medicine King Hall. A crisp, clean sensation surged through his meridians, filling his entire being.

The mysterious potency of the pill took root within him, reinforcing his meridians and restoring the elasticity of his Qi pathways.

The faces of Baek Mi-ryeo, Cheongmyeong, and Ma Gwang-ik came to mind. Those who, despite their individual missions, always worried about him due to the constant shortage of personnel in Ipwang Fortress.

Now, he would no longer cause them concern.

"No! Don’t give him time!"

"Spread out! Stop Ma Gwang-ik from recovering!"

"Ignore the assassin!"

Boom! Swoosh!

The moment of stillness was shattered. The masters of the Mo Yong Clan, frozen in shock by their heir’s death, now brandished their swords and leapt forward.

The explosion of Qi waves cracked the ground beneath them. These were elite swordsmen, capable of generating windstorms with sheer force alone.

The difference between them and common martial soldiers was stark.

Even without their leader, they immediately took action on their own. They were not merely an army, but a prestigious martial family that had endured for centuries.

But Jeong Yeon-shin remained unmoved.

He focused solely on spreading the effects of the pill throughout his body. He walked forward at a measured pace.

As the reigning Ma Gwang-ik, he was a master of internal energy circulation. Unlike ordinary warriors, he had no need to sit cross-legged to cultivate his Qi. He could refine his energy while walking toward his destination.

Step.

His Qi Defense surged forward. His honed assassin’s frame, lean and lethal, moved smoothly as he grasped the Ipwang Sword, its blade etched with a distinct, ominous shadow.

"Master, those bastards are targeting the main base of the Bloodblade Sect. Bai Miao and Yang Guifei are there. Judging by their movements, they must have discovered its location."

"They set a trap and waited. The moment you arrived, they pounced like a pack of rabid dogs."

Hyeon Won-chang’s voice carried a hint of amusement.

Perhaps he found the situation entertaining. From the moment they had killed the Mo Yong heir, his tone had been refreshingly carefree.

"Will you be joining us now?"

Jeong Yeon-shin did not answer with words.

A single controlled exhale was enough.

Hyeon Won-chang, one of the sharpest senses in Ma Gwang-ik, needed ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ no further clarification.

As he lifted his sword, a brief question drifted through the air.

"It won’t take long, will it? With your level of internal energy control."

An unnecessary remark.

The typical speech pattern of Ipwang Fortress warriors—conveying layered meanings during missions.

Jeong Yeon-shin understood immediately. Hyeon Won-chang had no time to communicate telepathically. If his energy circulation took too long, it would be a problem. His rapid surge in internal power likely had something to do with it.

He was concentrating.

The task at hand was clear.

First, he had to recover from his internal injuries. Then, he would follow Hyeon Won-chang’s lead to the Bloodblade Sect’s base.

Whatever treasure lay there was of no concern. Reuniting with his companions came first.

It would not take long.

Both he and Hyeon Won-chang thought so.

And then—the clash began.

The swordsmen of the Mo Yong Clan rushed at them.

Swoosh—!

There was no sound of metal colliding.

Three heads simply fell to the ground.

The gust of wind trailing behind the strike carried nothing but silence.

Assassination techniques avoided direct impact.

"Are you... by any chance, a scion of some renowned family?"

Gone was the Hyeon Won-chang who had once marveled at young Jeong Yeon-shin’s Swift Sword during the Ipwang trials.

Now, he cut through the horde with overwhelming speed, carving a path through the encroaching swordsmen.

The only sound left in the air was the endless flutter of robes as the Mo Yong Clan’s swordsmen rushed forward.

Swish! Boom!

A flurry of sword trails carved through the air.

Each time Hyeon Won-chang struck, at least two opponents fell.

His Ipwang Sword technique was reminiscent of an eclipse—dark and unyielding, blending assassination arts into the flow of Gwang-ye-gyeol.

He used the hazy white glow of his sword to mask his killing intent. Beyond that deceptive light, silent slashes spread like cold death.

Blood sprayed upward.

Sword after sword severed heads cleanly from bodies.

Despite wielding such sinister techniques, his advance never halted.

That was what made it so exhilarating.

The scion of the Hero’s Headband walked leisurely, escorted by a reaper.

And those who dared peek from the city’s alleys—scholars, thrill-seekers, would-be chroniclers—could do nothing but watch in dazed fascination.

Ssshhk—!

A severed head tumbled amidst the debris and dust kicked up by the relentless clash.

A road paved with headless corpses.

The scene Hyeon Won-chang painted with his Ipwang Sword had long since abandoned conventional swordplay. Within the encirclement, he waged an endless series of single-strike duels, each exchange risking his life at the tip of his blade.

Despite the fact that the warriors of the Mo Yong Clan were not their absolute elite—merely a faction cultivated by Mo Yong-myeongjun to solidify his claim as heir—none of them could be considered weak.

"He’s using assassination techniques. Don’t engage recklessly!"

"Those trained in Meteor Sword, fall back! Strength-based techniques won’t work! Let the masters of Silver River Flowing Sword take the lead!"

They were no fools. They had already analyzed the nature of his techniques.

Tadadak!

The formation shifted fluidly, seasoned swordsmen replacing those who had fallen. No one reprimanded the one who openly named their sect’s secret art.

Now that the truth of their young master’s death was exposed, they seemed to have made their decision—murdering everyone was the only solution.

The blades of the dozen swordsmen now taking the vanguard were thin, their width barely more than a sliver. Their weapons leaned toward the shape of narrow-bladed sabers, wielded with the lightness of a fencing sword. Experts in swift and precise swordplay.

Jeong Yeon-shin’s stride faltered for a brief moment, instinctively considering Hyeon Won-chang’s safety.

But the swordsman merely shrugged.

Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward and swung his sword upward in a broad arc. His motions were decisive, without the slightest trace of hesitation.

Clang!

The first sound of impact. His sword had met resistance.

Two Mo Yong swordsmen in white martial robes stared at Hyeon Won-chang with unreadable expressions. They had parried his assassination technique with precise, calculated coordination.

One had intercepted the blade head-on, while another reinforced the clash from below with a quick counterstrike.

"Using such a crude and unsophisticated sword art."

The swordsman on the left remarked.

A smirk curled Hyeon Won-chang’s lips.

"A high compliment."

"Isn’t that just another way of saying it’s hell to fight you?"

Hyeon Won-chang echoed the swordsman’s tone with perfect mimicry. The men before him stiffened, their gazes growing heavy.

That was the end of it.

Shhhhk—! Clang!

The clash between protector and assassins erupted once more.

Within the tangled paths of flashing steel, the first to fall were the two swordsmen. Their heads rolled clean off, severed before they could react. Blood began to splatter from Hyeon Won-chang’s body as well.

This kind of battle wasn’t suited to the Ipwang Grandmaster. An assassin’s blade thrived in ambush and subterfuge.

The swordsmanship he displayed now was a fusion of the dueling arts he had mastered in his youth, the Light Splendor Formula, and assassination techniques. It was no exaggeration to call it ‘without foundation.’

"Just scratches!"

He bellowed, as if it were a war cry, worried Jeong Yeon-shin might abandon his recovery and intervene.

It wasn’t just concern for his superior. In this scenario—outnumbered and encircled—the best course of action was the full manifestation of Lotus Apparition.

Jeong Yeon-shin accepted his intent.

Step.

He continued walking, ignoring the battle, focusing entirely on his recovery. Each step felt excruciatingly long.

Even as they neared the city’s outskirts, stepping into a sunken wasteland resembling a basin, time stretched unbearably.

"They haven’t broken the entrance formation yet! You can tell just by the way those rats are loitering around!"

Hyeon Won-chang called out hoarsely, his voice roughened by exertion.

The storm of swords charging toward them split apart. They had reached their destination.

At the base of a cliff, a secluded basin enclosed by steep rock walls.

Whoooosh—

A dry, suffocating wind swept past, howling like the wail of ghosts.

"They say this land still carries the scars of the battle when the heavens split."

Hyeon Won-chang swallowed, trying to mask his exhaustion. It was unconvincing, but the enemies surrounding them, now descending the cliffside, did not seem to take him lightly.

The swordsmen of the Mo Yong Clan.

Each was clad in featureless masks, their entire bodies draped in austere robes. Their auras were razor-sharp.

Their numbers had dwindled—only forty remained.

Then.

Step.

Someone pushed through the encirclement.

A masked figure, adorned with the horns of a bull—the Ox King’s Mask. His gait was astonishingly light, betraying mastery of Body Evasion Techniques.

"You're right."

The masked man spoke, his voice deep with age.

The hem of his white robe trailed over his leather boots.

A colossus, well over six feet tall, yet his unseen sword aura slashed the earth beneath him.

Clearly, a transcendent master.

"We've already found the entrance. Isn't it there?"

He gestured toward a hollowed section of the cliff.

Beyond the encirclement, a group of scholars—ten men and women—examined the area, seemingly searching for the formation’s core.

They paid no attention to Jeong Yeon-shin or Hyeon Won-chang, solely focused on unraveling the formation sealing the entrance.

"Their faces haven’t changed much. The same bastards who once drove needles into my flesh and scoured my veins."

Hyeon Won-chang grit his teeth.

Jeong Yeon-shin’s sharp gaze swept over them.

The masked Ox King lowered his hand.

Rustle.

His pristine white sleeves brushed against his waist.

Even the smallest of his movements was refined, steeped in the dignity of an aristocratic martial clan.

The black sword tied to his waist was no less exquisite, radiating an air of rarity.

The mask lent him an air of mystery.

The Mo Yong elites visibly tensed as he stepped forward. Their disciplined composure faltered. His mere presence betrayed his standing within their esteemed lineage.

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He paid no mind to his fallen clansmen.

"We can speak names here. Shall we introduce ourselves before we cross blades? I am—"

"Mo Yong Gi-hwang, the Grand Ritual Sword!"

Hyeon Won-chang bared his teeth in a vicious grin.

"That bastard finally shows himself!"

Silence.

The masked swordsman said nothing more.

Mo Yong Gi-hwang.

A name known to all among the upper echelons of the martial world. Second only to the head of the Mo Yong Clan himself.

A reputation built solely upon his sword. Across the Nine Provinces, his name resonated, feared as King Yama of Liaodong.

"You must’ve taken Shaolin’s internal medicine. I was curious about the truth of those rumors."

Mo Yong Gi-hwang gestured past Hyeon Won-chang’s shoulder with a slight nod.

"I will make my move."

There was no mistaking whom he was addressing.

His words heralded a clash rarely seen in the world.

The air stilled. Even the wind seemed to cease its whisper.

Jeong Yeon-shin parted his lips.

"Hyeon hyung."

"Speak. If you wish, I can handle—"

Hyeon Won-chang waved a bloodstained sleeve dismissively.

But the heroic ribbon at the back of his head sagged limply. The effects of his accelerated energy surge had reached their limit. It was a technique resembling Final Thunder.

"There are others nearby with a presence similar to yours."

"I owe you an apology. A few senile old men hoping to take a shot at you, Great Lord. Those rare elders who still care for their disciples have long entered the sect grounds—or they’re somewhere else, evacuating them."

His words were cut off.

Ssshk—!

Mo Yong Gi-hwang had drawn his blade.

"Marquis of Light, once this battle ends, I shall show you my face. It’s only fair to know the features of one’s adversary."

A mismatched jest.

From his fingertips, an immense wave of sword energy flared, an interconnected stream of dazzling white light that tore through the air.

The sound of splitting air was deafening, a massive arc cleaving through space like the sail of a great ship.

Simultaneously, five elder assassins, cloaked in black windsilk, leapt from the high cliffs.

Their descending sword strikes all aimed directly for Jeong Yeon-shin’s skull.

A retaliation, perhaps, for the rebuke dealt to some old crone at the city gates.

The moment stretched into eternity.

The only ones untouched by tension were the scholars still focused on the formation.

Jeong Yeon-shin closed his eyes.

He reached back to a verse etched into his memory.

His upper Dantian ignited, a pale luminescence surging from his Baihui Acupoint.

Light coalesced at his waist.

His mind sharpened with a chilling clarity.

Sword (劍).

"Go."

He murmured internally.

A single sword trajectory burned through his consciousness.

It did not remain mere thought.

A violent rupture echoed from his waist the instant his eyes opened—

The world split.

A single, pale arc streaked past Mo Yong Gi-hwang’s neck, then spiraled outward, a radiant crescent tracing through the air before slamming back into Jeong Yeon-shin’s sheath with a thunderous crack—!

Boom! Koo-goong!

Sixteen bodies collapsed.

Mo Yong Gi-hwang, the elder assassins, even the martial scholars inspecting the formation—all decapitated in an instant.

Blood fountained from their necks.

Silence.

The Mo Yong elites stiffened like ice.

Step.

Jeong Yeon-shin walked past the Ox King’s severed head.

He did not even glance at the revealed face.

It held no significance to him.