Ipwang Fortress Lord’s Office.

Everything was marble except the open edge where the wall was completely missing—a wide, exposed opening in place of a window.

To Jeong Yeon-shin, this was always the place where his master seemed perpetually to lie at ease. Reclining across the twisted tree roots that had broken into the chamber, radiating a subtle fragrance of fresh leaves.

Now, as Jeong Yeon-shin regulated his internal energy, as though chasing the lingering presence of his master, what entered with each shallow breath was something entirely different.

The thick scent of ink.

The roots were gone. Gone without a trace. All around him, no matter where he looked, there were only white and yellowing sheets of paper. Not only covering the carved marble desk but stacked in towers across the floor.

These were the reports meant for the Ipwang Fortress Lord. They claimed to contain the state of the world.

Jeong Yeon-shin had seen the Library Tower of Shaolin before—majestic, divine—but here, the layers of documents suffocated even the breath of a supreme martial master. Even the scent of the papers, wafting faintly like a dense forest, gave that impression.

“The Forest of Paper.”

Sitting in the seat of the /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ greatest sect master of this age, the words slipped out without thought—addressed to Im Jin-myeong, standing before him.

“It didn’t seem like this when Master was here.”

“That was the age of peace,”

replied Im Jin-myeong, the corners of his mouth rising slightly. A cool, clear expression hidden behind grave composure.

“The balance of power was stable then. There were few reckless factions. So most issues never made it to the former Lord’s attention. Minor matters were handled by Lord Yong Ga or by me, acting on the Lord’s behalf. Even those were concerns spanning all of the martial world.”

“You may continue handling them.”

“I’ve become a top-level master simply from the burden of paperwork. If one never stops calculating with internal energy, the divine pressure point atop the head—Baihui—grows on its own.”

“...?”

“I trust the former Lord read documents better than I do.”

Now that he thought about it, Jeong Yeon-shin had never actually seen his master doing paperwork here.

“Do you resent Master?”

He asked, trailing off—but Im Jin-myeong didn’t answer.

Because his famously thick beard dropped, his mouth suddenly becoming solemn.

“In truth, many of these documents flooding the office suddenly... the General Directorate suspects Hao Mun’s hand.”

“The Hao Lord submitted to the God of War.”

“They’re spreading disinformation across the Central Plains. Unverified rumors are being taken as truth. For instance, all those,”

he gestured at the papers littered under Jeong Yeon-shin’s desk like trash,

“have been vetted by the General Directorate and deemed falsehoods. Yet they’re already being treated as fact in some quarters. For example:

‘Nangseong’s four wives weren’t enough, so he’s arranging a new political marriage.’

‘Ipwang Fortress has submitted to the Southern Emperor and imprisoned the Ming Emperor.’

‘Cheonhamok is just a giant tree; there are hammering sounds inside.’

‘Seomye was excommunicated because Wiga’s Martial God fell in love with his disciple.’ ...”

Jeong Yeon-shin had already seen worse. More revolting rumors existed.

He shook his head.

“And people believe these things?”

“Their network is exceptional. Taverns, market streets, brothels, scenic spots—even noble estates of once high-ranking officials and martial nobility—Hao Mun infiltrates all corners of society in every disguise imaginable.”

Hao Mun.

Said to be the lowest power in the world.

And for that reason, everyone stepped on their eyes and mouths. Turning a rumor into fact was child’s play for them. Especially in these chaotic times when carrier pigeons and reliable informants were rare.

“Ironically, it’s the strongest who are most easily swayed by such information. Peerless masters who soar the skies have no obstacles. In the past, the consequences held them back. But now? Hao Mun has become one of the four great powers of the world.”

Cheonhamok, belonging to the Martial God of the Wiga Clan.

Ipwang Fortress, under Jeong Yeon-shin.

The Great Shun of Nangseong, who abruptly proclaimed a new dynasty.

And the God of War.

Jeong Yeon-shin didn’t question why the Hao Lord was drawn to the God of War. Because it reminded him of when he once stood amid the Southern Emperor’s reeds.

Im Jin-myeong glanced at him with a curious expression and spoke.

“Those seemingly laughable rumors... are actually like catapults on the battlefield. Nangseong’s support base is rooted in the clans of his wives. If Ipwang Fortress is seen as betraying the Ming, we lose moral authority. Similar entanglements plague the Hapil Ming clan. Should all three powers act on the wrong misinformation—”

“Someone else reaps the gain.”

“The Hao Lord is waiting for that precise moment. We could consider dispatching a few squads to Namjikrye to drag the Hao Lord out by the neck...”

Jeong Yeon-shin shook his head.

“Won’t Nangseong or the head of the Ming clan handle that? I’d rather focus our strength on locating Cheonhamok. No matter how fast a tree with legs moves—if it’s that big, eventually...”

“We’ll ensure it’s found swiftly.”

Pleased, Im Jin-myeong smiled and replied. Jeong Yeon-shin rose slowly from his seat. The responsibilities piled up like the northern battles—so overwhelming that even the ever-present Seventh Apostle beside him seemed insignificant.

She moved her lips slightly.

“Finished with work?”

Jeong Yeon-shin glanced away, as if brushing past lips stained red with blood. Maybe it was the time apart, but her lips seemed unnaturally bright. Likely a sign of Blood Arts cultivation.

“Work’s just beginning. If you get in the way, I’ll throw you in prison.”

“Then don’t get in my way.”

“What?”

“My steps.”

Step.

She came softly, one long leg resting gently in the shadow cast by Jeong Yeon-shin. Close enough that she could slip into his blind spot with a flick of her footwork.

“And she calls me Taesa...”

No trace remained of the reverence once shown even to the shadow of a grand master. Then again, it had been some time since anyone even called him Taesa.

“Yeon-shin.”

“Speak.”

“I like it here.”

Like a foot dipped into a river, her calf played gently within his shadow. Her faint steps—absurdly—looked playful. Jeong Yeon-shin thought he might be insane.

“Don’t think about anything else. Just follow.”

She didn’t reply. Just tilted her lips in a slight smile. Even that was enough to scatter his thoughts.

Stars...

Jeong Yeon-shin didn’t bother to check Im Jin-myeong’s expression as he stepped out of the office.

Not even when the fortress trembled with a dull thud, and a report came in that the Blood King of the Blood Imperial Clan had crossed the fortress walls without permission—only to be intercepted midair by Ak Su-rim’s thrown spear.

Im Jin-myeong followed beside him and asked:

“What shall we do?”

“I sensed it. The Blood King has been knocked toward the vicinity of Cheongeummugo. Offer the Blood Clan a guest pavilion and let them rest there. Soon we’ll negotiate with the Elder Council and accept them as a subordinate clan.”

“I’ll place them under a proper roof. As for the northern Law King reported by Ma Gwang-ik Lord Cheongmyeong—I’ll handle that. And the former Shin Sword Corps leader...?”

“I’ll speak with her.”

Ak Su-rim, reborn through a profound transformation, had become a difficult figure for Jeong Yeon-shin to approach. He hadn’t even found the right moment to say a word to her. She now appeared as the incarnation of the battlefield martial art, Akga Spear—stoic and militant.

They’re calling her “Mongbi” now, it seems.

Jeong Yeon-shin carefully projected internal sound transmission—toward the direction of the Ipwang House estate, where a spear knocked away by the Blood King was now gripped and lowered like a painting.

—Senior Ak.

—Yes, Lord. Speak.

—Would you come to the Wonpyeong Blade Field? With the other Black Seniors as well. Also, send word to the new Elder Council Head...

—I’ll bring them.

For all the division in Ipwang Fortress—each veteran walking their own path—it only took three words from Jeong Yeon-shin for them to gather.

***

Eighteen-Year-Old Lord of Ipwang Fortress.

A statement most would scoff at.

But not when the person in question was Jeong Yeon-shin.

Three years that felt like thirty.

Any martial artist in the world of Murim would understand.

—“Of course. The Bloom in the Wasteland is a peerless master who’s fought a hundred battles.”

Those were the words of Ma Se-in, the Gentleman of Ipwang Fortress, who’d gotten drunk during the succession ceremony. Jeong Yeon-shin hadn’t been particularly pleased to hear them.

But now was different.

Because he was about to face the most important task in the current world.

“System reformation.”

The massive round marble table. Seats circled around it, each with a pale gray back taller than most grown men. And in each seat—familiar faces.

The black-ranked warriors stationed in the fortress.

Shin Byeok, Elder Council Head.

Even a few blue-ranked warriors who didn’t quite fit the mood of the Wonpyeong Blade Field meeting.

Naturally, the largest seat belonged to Jeong Yeon-shin.

“That faded old ‘King of Light’ is apparently waiting outside with the Sword Lord and the Mu Ryong Association Master... they say he’s here for you, Fortress Lord—”

The voice was cheerful enough to make one consider killing its owner with a smile.

Wi Ji-geuk, Lord of the Heavenly Dragon Corps, glanced at Im Jin-myeong, who stood beside the high seat.

“His Lordship will handle it himself,” Im Jin-myeong replied, shaking his head. “Let’s first verify the matters at hand.”

“Very well.”

“First—an imperial pardon.”

“Pardon?”

“Eight branches of the Bloodflame Cult in Shanxi—Taekju, Noanbu, Yosan. Five in Henan—Changdeokbu, Wihwibu, Hoegyungbu.

Six prefectures and twelve departments in Sichuan. Thirteen in Jiangxi. Every city in Zhejiang—all Bloodflame branches annihilated.”

“...What?”

“And if you trace back the one who dared challenge the true form of Cheonhamok with inhuman resolve, only to suffer defeat, you’ll find—it was none other than the so-called Seventh Apostle from the Jeok Clan.”

A heavy fog of confusion bloomed in the chamber.

But Im Jin-myeong spoke on, unshaken.

“This is a matter of the nation. There’s no time to tally up deeds and sins.

Virtue is virtue. Evil is evil.

And in times of war, conscription makes no distinction between the two.

So long as that person serves under Seomye, Lord of Ipwang Fortress, their guilt can be judged only by the Emperor and the Fortress Lord.”

Such was Emperor Yungjeong’s pathological obsession—a man who’d lived over seventy years as crown prince. He would reach for anything he could do himself.

The edict was aimed squarely at Hao Mun and the Great Shun of Nangseong.

To strike a blow against Jeong Yeon-shin’s legitimacy and ideals—only to crash against the wall of his unassailable integrity.

The reaction in the chamber was cold.

No one welcomed the imperial decree.

Only the shadow beneath Jeong Yeon-shin’s seat stirred dimly, like rippling honey.

“There’s more.”

Im Jin-myeong flipped to the next document.

“The Ming Emperor acknowledges the surrender of Mun Gok of the Liu Yuan Star Lords. His position as general of a former enemy nation must be respected.

The crime of infiltrating Ming at age thirteen, passing the civil service exams, and damaging the imperial prestige—shall be pardoned.

The name he used then shall be recognized: Lee Chun-gap of Mun Gok is now official advisor to the Fortress Lord of Ipwang.”

Same as with the Seventh Apostle.

He had not obeyed the imperial decree either.

Mun Gok had shut himself inside his quarters and refused to come out.

The chamber's reaction was no warmer than before—colder, even, than when the Seventh Apostle was mentioned.

“Something to endure.”

Jeong Yeon-shin gave a subtle glance to Im Jin-myeong.

Im Jin-myeong nodded toward Dan Jeong-jeong, the waiting attendant at the door.

She stepped forward with three sets of black long robes, placing one in each recipient’s arms.

To Hyeon Won-chang, who held his waist-sheathed blade.

To Shin So-bin, seated in lotus posture.

And to Baek Mi-ryeo, passed out in an ungraceful sprawl like a drunken demon.

Baek Mi-ryeo, once the bearer of the First Heavenly Demon’s name, was still caught in slumber.

Slim to the point of malnourishment, yet oddly healthy for someone who hadn’t eaten.

That was the bizarre nature of Heavenly Demon No Pulse.

Namgung Hwa-shin, also sleeping where she sat, made Im Jin-myeong shake his head again.

“Commander of the Blood Division, Hyeon Won-chang.

Commander of the Small Lotus Division, Shin So-bin.

Commander of Myungryu Division, Baek Mi-ryeo.

This is a wartime promotion. Their trials will be replaced by records of merit and martial achievement.

Any objections?”

“None,”

said Shin Byeok, the Elder Council Head.

His gaze lingered disapprovingly on the Seventh Apostle, who remained cloaked by Jeong Yeon-shin’s shadow.

But there was something more in his eyes—expectation.

The biggest announcement yet.

The seat Jeong Yeon-shin had long yearned to fill.

“Two candidates have risen for the position of Commander of the Divine Sword Corps.”

Im Jin-myeong’s voice was composed.

But it carried the weight of countless hours of internal debate from Jeong Yeon-shin.

Two people now sat across from him.

Jin Myeong-jo, face rigid with the weight of sudden responsibility upon joining the Wonpyeong Blade Field.

Ak Su-rim, now Mongbi, her expression unreadable as ever.

Different kinds of silence.

Different kinds of mystery.

“May I offer a word to the Lord?”

It was the dry voice of Elder Shin Byeok again.

Jeong Yeon-shin slowly nodded.

“I’m listening.”

“There’s no disputing their merit and strength. But neither has yet reached the Purple Rank.

Furthermore, the role of Divine Sword Commander carries weight beyond reorganizing a division—it demands deliberation and unity.

Even the previous Lord of Ipwang Fortress required imperial approval for such a post...”

Jeong Yeon-shin lowered his eyes briefly.

“I don’t require it. I’ve been entrusted with full authority.”

“I only offer this with respect:

This is not a decision to be made alone.

The title of Divine Sword Commander bears immense weight.

Surely, my Lord agrees.”

“It’s an age of chaos.

Have you read the verses of the Resolution of Radiant Calamity?”

“...Pardon?”

“Never mind.”

“...Have you already decided?”

Jeong Yeon-shin nodded.

And by that time, Dan Jeong-jeong was already dragging in a long iron chest, groaning with the effort.

At that instant, Jeong Yeon-shin’s eyes met Jin Myeong-jo’s.

The Commander of the Divine Sword Corps was, by nature, the closest official to the Fortress Lord.

When Jeong nodded, Jin Myeong-jo’s gaze sharpened—like a drawn blade.

That trajectory...

It was the path of the Divine Sword of a Nation.