"Disciples of Cheongseong! Do not weep."
Myo-si (6 a.m.).
The faint light of dawn breaking over Mount Cheongseong was far more unsettled than usual.
It was the chaos unleashed after midnight, when Headmaster Jang Un had issued the emergency order.
By his command, disciples had gone to confirm the corpses laid before Wolseong Lake—only to collapse in shock.
Unbelievably, the two corpses had vanished.
Realizing that the demon cultists had infiltrated disguised as corpses, the Cheongseong disciples split into groups, scouring every inch of the mountain.
Barely half an hour later, flames erupted atop Sangcheong Palace—at Nogungak, the pavilion at the highest point of Cheongseong.
And what was Nogungak?
The most sacred hall, enshrining Taesangnogun (Laozi), patriarch of Daoism, and Jang Cheonsa, the founding ancestor of the Cheongseong Sect.
The disciples were struck with shock and rage.
The holiest place of Cheongseong was engulfed in fire—how could they not be?
As countless disciples rushed to put out the blaze and stamp their feet in anguish, three other Cheongseong temples were attacked in succession. Each was an ancient, revered site.
Darkness still clung to Mount Cheongseong, but the chaos only deepened. In the midst of it, the two unknown demon cultists slipped away unhindered.
Though the disciples threw themselves into pursuit, in the end they had to admit—the enemies had escaped.
The final temple attacked lay at the mountain's foot, and there the Daoists stationed as guards were discovered slain.
Boom!
The hard paulownia-wood table shuddered under Headmaster Jang Un's fist.
The Daoists gathered in Sangcheong Palace's main hall all bowed their heads, faces clouded with grief.
Jang Un's lips quivered. His square jaw clenched so hard that cracks spread across his expression like spiderwebs.
"Nogungak has burned. For a Daoist sect, what could be more tragic? How can we lift our faces to the heavens? How, when we die and go before our ancestors, will we face them?"
No one dared to answer. They merely endured the headmaster's fury.
Only two demon cultists—yet clearly masters of immense skill. The disciples on sentry had been slaughtered without a scream. And though their numbers were but two, the truth remained: the entire Cheongseong Sect had been toyed with.
Even more infuriating was that those cultists had been brought into Cheongseong's very heart by their own hands.
Jang Un covered his tormented face with both hands.
"We were defeated by the Cheonma Sword. Not merely defeated—mocked and humiliated."
At this, his foremost disciple, the Divine Sword Dragon Na Hanmin, ground his teeth before speaking.
"But Master—we never even fought, how can you say such a thing…?"
The headmaster's thunderous roar cut him off.
"Silence! Do you not yet see that the battle is already over? The Cheonma Sword has crushed our pride, made us a laughingstock to the world. Do you think such a man would show himself again today?"
Na Hanmin lowered his head once more.
His master was right.
A foe like the Cheonma Sword would not appear before them now, burning for vengeance. No—he and his allies had already achieved their goal, more than enough, and would be retreating with laughter on their lips.
Elder Cheong Hyeonjin spoke in a voice heavy with despair.
"We… we have committed an unforgivable sin. Far from transcendence, we are steeped in karmic debt. How can we ever wash away this stain?"
Even the ever-prudent Cheong U, the jurist, was flushed with fury as he spoke.
"We cannot wait for the Jeomchang Sect's arrival. With our own strength, we must strike the Sichuan Branch Altar."
Everyone nodded.
In truth, Cheong U's proposal was rash to the point of folly.
The Sichuan Branch was an impregnable fortress. For Cheongseong alone to attack would mean heavy casualties, with little chance of success. Yet none objected.
So deep was their rage that reason had been consumed.
Seated within the hall, Bingbong—Murong Lin—understood this perfectly. Yet she could not bring herself to speak against it.
Because of the warning revealed that dawn—by none other than Cheon Ryu Yeong.
She had believed "the Scholar of the Martial World" to be a spy of the demon cult. But the letter from Cheon Ryu Yeong had plunged her into chaos and shock.
If he were truly a spy, he would never have issued such a warning to Cheongseong. And yet, to accept the insight he had shown was equally difficult.
He had pointed out something she herself could never have imagined—so precisely that it chilled her to the bone.
In the end, it seemed the clan head Dokgo and branch master Neung Unbi had been right to defend him.
But how?
How could a mere "scribe" make such sharp judgments at every perilous turn? How could he, even before battle began, hold in his mind the entire grand design and prepare counters for every possibility?
It seemed impossible.
Even she, hailed as one of the greatest geniuses, would never dare attempt it.
Beside her, Ha Wol and Pyeong-u spoke cautiously.
"We understand how crushed the Daoists must feel. But precisely for that reason, you must remain calm. The gentleman's revenge is never too late, even after ten years. Wait but a few days—until Jeomchang arrives—then act together."
Jang Un fixed Pyeong-u with a glare.
"And how would the martial world view us then? Our disciples slain, our ancestral shrine burned—and yet we endure?!"
He faltered, unable to finish. Cheong Hyeonjin clenched his fist.
"Our sect could never show its face in Jianghu again."
Pyeong-u swallowed a sigh.
"But surely that is what the Cheonma Sword desires most?"
Bloodshot eyes blazing, Jang Un snapped back:
"Even knowing it a trap, there are times one must move. This is such a time. Tell me, Ha Wol—if the Cheonma Sword had butchered the disciples of the Paeng Clan, if he had burned the very shrine of your ancestors—would you say, 'Let us wait a few days'?"
"..."
"You would not. Nor will I. I know that to march at his design will cost us dearly. But if we shrink back from this insult, who will recognize the Cheongseong Sect? Who in the martial world will still name us among the Nine Great Sects?"
Pyeong-u finally bowed his head, casting a sidelong glance at Murong Lin—willing her to speak, to dissuade them.
But Murong Lin only chewed her lips, saying nothing.
At last, Pyeong-u nudged her with his elbow.
Murong Lin turned, meeting his eyes. She knew his meaning without words.
She was the strategist of the Martial Alliance.
She should offer cold, clear counsel.
But she could not.
A strategist stripped of trust was a bird with broken wings. She knew she had become a laughingstock among Cheongseong's disciples—measured and found wanting against the brilliance of Cheon Ryu Yeong.
Then Jang Un's declaration snapped her to full awareness.
"The memorial rite this morning at Wolseong Lake will not only honor the dead disciples. It shall also serve as our Inauguration for war against the Sichuan Branch! Tomorrow at dawn—we march!"
Murong Lin's face froze in horror.
If unopposed, the Cheongseong Sect would march toward devastation, perhaps even collapse.
"Headmaster, I beg you—be calm."
Jang Un's brow furrowed deeply.
"Bingbong. You disappoint me. If you had not named the Scholar of the Martial World a spy, we would not have suffered such disgrace."
His voice was like ice, brimming with reproach and fury. Murong Lin bowed her head, face pale.
"I am sorry."
"Tch. Whom can I blame now? I trusted the Martial Alliance—that is my failing. I should have heeded Clan Head Dokgo's message from the start. Bingbong, you should return. The sight of you reminds me of my mistake."
The cold dismissal burned Murong Lin's face with humiliation.
"I admit my mistake. But if your sect alone attacks the Sichuan Branch, victory is unlikely and the losses will be unbearable—"
Jang Un cut her off.
"Hear her! Already she belittles us!"
"Headmaster, that is not my meaning. At least issue a declaration of war first, in Cheongseong's name—then when Jeomchang joins—"
"Bingbong! All under heaven will watch our every step. How will we appear, having been tricked by the Cheonma Sword?"
"Headmaster…"
"We have already been defeated without striking a blow. We cannot simply bow and slink away. We shall fight openly—and show the world the terror of Cheongseong's sword!"
Perfect — thanks for sharing this continuation!
"..."
"If you truly wish to help us, then present a strategy by which we may easily take the Sichuan Branch Altar."
Murong Lin bit her lower lip hard.
The opponent was the Cheonma Sword.
The Cheonma Sword, who had time and again shattered the expectations of one who had once prided herself as a genius. How could she possibly devise a stratagem to easily seize the iron fortress he guarded?
Headmaster Jang Un clicked his tongue.
"Tsk, tsk. What a pity. If only the Scholar of the Martial World were here, perhaps he would offer some ingenious plan. Ha ha… but whom can I blame? 'Twas my folly to trust the Martial Alliance's word."
Murong Lin's face cracked with self-reproach. Normally, no matter how high the status of her counterpart—even the Headmaster of Cheongseong—she would never have held her tongue.
But now, she was branded a criminal.
Headmaster Jang Un spoke again.
"Bingbong! Is the Scholar of the Martial World at Geomhyangjang? If he is, I would summon him here to hear his counsel."
Beneath the table, Murong Lin's clenched fist trembled violently. She could not speak a word.
In all her years—whether with seniors a decade her elder or those below—she had never once been surpassed. Yes, she had the guidance of the finest teachers, but above all, she was a universally acknowledged prodigy.
And yet Cheon Ryu Yeong, the Scholar of the Martial World. He was twenty-five—two years younger than she. He had likely had no proper master, being no more than a menial porter for seven years.
And still, she was being utterly defeated by him.
What was most absurd was that it wasn't even through a direct contest of wits. One single letter from him had reduced her to this pitiful state.
As she lowered her head in silence, Pyeong-u, at her side, sighed and answered in her place.
"The Scholar of the Martial World… is not at Geomhyangjang."
Regret colored the faces of Headmaster Jang Un and the gathered Daoists.
"Is that so? I had thought he was there with Clan Head Dokgo."
"He went to his hometown. He said he would return, but the time is uncertain. Some say he went to the Dokgo Clan estate…"
When Pyeong-u trailed off, Jang Un smacked his lips and nodded heavily.
"So be it. Had that youth been here, he would have been of great aid."
Though stung by countless hostile stares from Cheongseong's disciples, Murong Lin still attended the memorial rite. But when it came to the simple meal that followed, and the Inauguration ceremony for war, she lacked the courage to remain.
Together with Pyeong-u, she all but fled down the mountain like a disgraced criminal. Escorting them to the mountain gate was Cheongryang Daoist of Bokgun Palace, whose face bore a grim resolve.
"We shall show the world the terror of Cheongseong's sword."
Murong Lin lifted weary eyes to the sky, head aching. The sun had already risen high above the thick trees.
Cheongryang Daoist continued.
"And we shall also demand responsibility of the Martial Alliance's Chief Strategist."
Murong Lin stiffened in alarm. Before she could respond, the Daoist pressed on.
"I do not believe the decision to brand the Scholar of the Martial World a spy was made solely by the Vice Strategist. That is why her fault has not been probed more deeply. In truth, it was the misjudgment of Chief Strategist Jegal Cheon that brought us to this ruin. Am I wrong?"
Murong Lin, face drained of color, could not reply. Pyeong-u spoke in her stead.
"Lord of Bokgun Palace, surely it cannot be right to lay all blame at the Martial Alliance's feet."
Cheongryang Daoist's eyes flared.
"Pyeong-u! What are you saying?"
"I understand well the grief the Daoists feel. But the desire to shift responsibility—it is not a noble look."
"What?!"
"Yes, Chief Strategist Jegal Cheon and Vice Strategist Bingbong both erred. But it was your own headmaster who decided not to open Clan Head Dokgo's message carried by swift courier."
"Pyeong-u!"
The Daoist roared, but Pyeong-u's expression did not waver.
"The Vice Strategist rode here without rest to aid your sect. And was not her idea to use the Bimucheop to seize moral authority an excellent stratagem? True, it was overshadowed by the Cheonma Sword's terrifying cha-shi-hwan-hon scheme, but that was something no one could have foreseen."
"The Scholar of the Martial World foresaw it."
Pyeong-u faltered, then quickly continued.
"Yes. That is true. I too felt chills when I saw the letter Headmaster showed us. But that may have been sheer luck—or some special insight unique to him. Regardless, can we heap all fault upon the Chief Strategist and the Vice Strategist?"
Murong Lin raised a pale hand, halting him. Shaking her head, she spoke.
"Pyeong-u. You pity me and would comfort me, but please stop."
"Bingbong, I only speak the truth—"
"You are wrong."
Turning, she met Cheongryang Daoist's gaze.
"And you are wrong as well, Lord of Bokgun Palace."
Both men looked troubled. Murong Lin looked from one to the other, then walked forward, speaking firmly.
"This is not Cheongseong's fault, nor Chief Strategist Jegal Cheon's. It is mine. If blame must be borne, let it fall on me. I was lacking. Let no more search be made for scapegoats."
Pyeong-u's eyes filled with regret.
"Surely this is not yours alone to bear."
"No. That is the duty of a strategist. To command, to advise. And Headmaster Jang Un trusted me."
"..."
"I failed that trust. Which means, as strategist, I failed my task."
Hearing her take original sin upon herself, both Pyeong-u and Cheongryang Daoist fell silent. Especially Pyeong-u, who realized she was clinging desperately to restore her shattered pride.
The pride of a fallen genius.
She had decided—she could not allow herself to sink into misery. She would bear responsibility with dignity.
As the mountain gate came into view, Murong Lin bowed to Cheongryang Daoist.
"I pray for your sect's fortune. I too will seek ways to aid from afar."
The Daoist bit his lip before replying.
"We shall prevail by Cheongseong's strength alone."
Murong Lin nodded.
"Yes, I know. But surely watching from the side will do no harm—watching Cheongseong achieve it."
A faint smile brushed his lips. He understood her meaning.
Whether by drawing in the Tang Clan or mustering righteous sects from Geomhyangjang, what mattered was that Cheongseong be the main force. And even a reserve host nearby held great tactical worth.
He nodded.
"Thinking on yesterday's Bimucheop, I see—you are indeed Bingbong. Perhaps it was only ill fortune for us all…"
"Thank you for saying so."
"Then I shall see you off only this far. Ah, and—should the Scholar of the Martial World return from his hometown, please tell him we would hear from him. After all, he alone foresaw the Cheonma Sword's stratagems of dividing and the soul-exchange ruse. He would be of much use."
Murong Lin curled her hand tightly in her sleeve, but outwardly only nodded calmly.
"I will."
"Good. Then fare—"
Cheongryang Daoist broke off, eyes snapping wide.
From behind the right pillar of the mountain gate, a man appeared with hands clasped behind his back.
His handsome face was marred by a long scar stretching from beneath his eye down to his jawline—burning itself into the Daoist's sight.
Though he thought it impossible, his breath caught.
And so it was for Murong Lin and Pyeong-u as well.
What stood before them was something that should never have been.
That he stood here—alone—at Cheongseong's mountain gate!