The False King (3)
“This is the amount collected this time.”
“Mm.”
Gok Myeong nodded as he skimmed the documents.
“It’s increased even more.”
“Money is the foundation of all great undertakings in this world. A grand ambition without secured funds is no different from shouting empty justice.”
“You’re right.”
“We’ll raise the collection by five parts from now on. Gradually, but decisively when we do—only then will the higher-ups take notice.”
“Mm, quite so.”
His response carried an oddly lukewarm tone.
The scholar smiled.
“You seem quite frustrated.”
Gok Myeong smacked his lips.
“Taking sufficient time is as crucial as funds themselves. But impatience is something I can’t help.”
The scholar bowed his head.
“As I mentioned before, power gained easily leaves no regret when lost. Muk Ryong Bu is unlike those black path alliances that sprouted like weeds only to vanish. To claim the center of wealth, consistency is essential.”
“I know that. I know, yet the impatience gnaws at me all the same.”
“Please trust me and endure just a little longer. Countless petty schemers have crumbled from lack of patience. I believe you possess the qualities to etch your name into black path history.”
Gok Myeong cleared his throat.
He knew these were words meant to bolster him. Yet each time they stirred something in his chest, his subordinate’s encouragement proved a genuine source of strength.
“Well, fretting won’t change the outcome. All I can do is trust and wait.”
The scholar smiled.
“Wise words indeed.”
Cheon An Bo was a fairly renowned information sect even among the black path. Yet that very fame proved its capabilities were middling at best. The truly elite black path intelligence networks never revealed their names to the world.
But Cheon An Bo’s notoriety stemmed not solely from information gathering.
It was money.
Beyond intel, they amassed considerable funds through illicit ventures. And that implied their martial prowess was equally formidable. After all, the black path teemed with those hungry for others’ wealth.
“But this matter demands attention.”
Killing intent flickered in Gok Myeong’s eyes.
“It needn’t be our top priority. But we can’t lag behind inferior scum.”
The scholar bowed.
“If any lesser sect reaches Muk Ryong Bu before us, I’ll dismantle their faction in utter secrecy.”
“Good.”
Gok Myeong smiled. A reliable subordinate indeed.
In truth, this man had only joined him recently—perhaps half a year at most. Yet Gok Myeong had elevated him to right-hand man within a mere month.
Because he was sharp.
This subordinate possessed a refinement and wisdom absent in the others. And Gok Myeong’s bold favoritism had soon borne fruit.
“You’ve worked hard today. I’ll head out first.”
“You’ve worked hard, sir.”
“Ah, and one more thing.”
From the top floor of the ten-story building, Gok Myeong gazed north, his eyes uncharacteristically grave.
“We’re an intelligence outfit. Never forget why we’re at the northernmost tip of Hunan Province.”
Vigilance toward the north.
Gathering funds to send to Muk Ryong Bu was vital, but as an intel group, monitoring the north was equally critical. This wasn’t mere bootlicking for favor—it was a direct order from Muk Ryong Bu itself.
“Attach ants to any suspicious figure, no exceptions. We can’t let a single one slip away.”
“Understood.”
“Good.”
Even after the reply, Gok Myeong stared out the window for a long while before turning.
Phew, I feel like getting drunk today. It’s been ages since I—
His eyes suddenly bulged.
“……!!”
Hairs stood on end across his body. His mouth went dry, his back slick with sweat. He couldn’t even draw the iron claws hidden in his sleeve.
It was coercion.
His body reacted before his mind could process the sight.
The instant he fully registered the foe, even his whiskers froze stiff.
“Hmm.”
A voice rang out abruptly.
The scholar whipped his head around in shock.
Gasp!
Atop the ten-story building where the two stood—a space forbidden to the uninvited—a middle-aged man lounged at a corner table, perusing the very documents Gok Myeong had just reviewed.
His bearing was refined, almost antique.
Impeccable attire. The robes he wore were lavish enough to rival ceremonial treasure garments.
At his waist hung a jet-black longsword in stark contrast—a blade long and thick, exuding raw sturdiness over sleekness.
Wh-who?!
The scholar’s trembling gaze flicked to Gok Myeong. His face paled instantly.
An opponent even the fortress lord can’t defeat!
Gok Myeong’s features twisted in extreme tension and confusion. Had it been a worthy foe, he’d have drawn his iron claws and shredded them by now.
Who is he?
How had this pinnacle master slipped past his senses to infiltrate this place undetected?
“Impressive.”
The middle-aged man’s voice was pleasing to the ear. A low, resonant timbre laced with habitual amusement that soothed the listener.
Of course, the two men felt differently.
“To think mere operators of a modestly named intel sect rake in this much monthly? Heh, it really drives home how much we’ve underestimated you lot.”
The man sighed toward the ceiling.
“This is why armchair theories exist. We figured you’d squash flat underfoot like insects, only to find you’re venomous vermin instead.”
Venomous vermin.
An irritating phrase. Yet neither Gok Myeong nor the scholar could muster a retort.
The man lowered his gaze and casually tossed the documents.
Thud!
Both flinched involuntarily. The bundle’s impact on the table carried overwhelming pressure.
Finally, the middle-aged man’s eyes fixed on Gok Myeong.
Hiss!
Gok Myeong’s breath caught.
Flash!
Flash!
The piercing glare was indescribably chilling. Clear eyes, black and white distinct. Outwardly serene. Yet the feral ambition lurking within pressed down like tons of weight.
“……A monster.”
Gok Myeong’s fingertips quivered.
This man is a monster!
No emanation of inner energy, no drawn blade or display of skill. Just the gaze alone revealed it: the foe was profoundly dangerous. And he had amassed martial arts to match that savagery.
Astonishingly, Gok Myeong glimpsed a mythic shadow stirring in those eyes—mightier than any master he’d faced. The silhouette of one born human who ascended to godhood.
Vice Leader?!
Yes. The middle-aged man bore a shadow akin to Yang Cheon, the pinnacle martial deity Gok Myeong had witnessed.
His power? Impossible to gauge. Inferiors couldn’t measure superiors. Clearly a monstrous expert, but his exact strength eluded grasp.
One thing was certain.
This man is as dangerous as the Vice Leader!
Tu Wang Yang Cheon, one of the Divine Immortal Emperor’s elite. This nameless middle-aged man’s peril evoked that absolute terror.
Not from technique alone.
It was the unrestrained ferocity born of ambition—the readiness to commit any atrocity for it.
An instinct honed handling vast secrets. That keen insight manifesting now, in this inescapable peril.
“A truly intriguing specimen.”
The middle-aged man—Moyong Gun—smiled.
“Bold enough for your stature, with ambitions to match. Similar to the ignorant upstarts so far. But you possess an eye for people.”
“……!!”
“Pity. Had you tempered those ambitions and broadened your magnanimity, I might have offered you a place under me.”
He sized up the vessel at a glance. Far sharper and more precise than Gok Myeong’s own insight.
Beyond innate talent, Moyong Gun’s gaze—forged in the asura field of power struggles—was already fit to judge the world.
“However.”
Moyong Gun turned to the scholar.
“With such fine judgment, why rear a rabid hound eyeing your master’s flesh?”
Gok Myeong startled, glancing at the scholar. The man’s eyes shook like an earthquake.
The foe had pierced his scheme instantly, leaving him rattled.
Moyong Gun’s smile deepened.
“Well, among means to dreams and power, using others is the easiest. The simple path isn’t always wrong.”
“……!!”
“I wonder if our executive elder will settle as successfully as you.”
Gok Myeong stammered, “Wh-what do you want?”
“What I want.”
Moyong Gun tilted his head.
“A shame indeed. Asking my goal over my identity? Not easily voiced in most cases. Environment matters so. Had we met a decade sooner, you might have grown into fine talent.”
In that instant, the scholar lunged for the ceiling cord.
Moyong Gun’s eyes gleamed.
Whoosh!
The scholar yanked hard—and froze in shock. Only a severed remnant remained in his grip.
“You, on the other hand, are utterly useless. Clever and greedy, but that face is all wrong. Fundamentally untrustworthy.”
Lightning crackled in Moyong Gun’s eyes.
Terror washed over the scholar’s face.
“W-wait!”
Slice.
No explosion, roar, clash, or sword hum. Just naturally.
The scholar’s body crumbled into eighteen pieces.
Splat.
The floor soaked red in seconds.
Gasp!
Unsteady tremors wracked Gok Myeong. He hadn’t seen the technique, nor even the strike.
Shing.
Clack!
Moyong Gun sheathed the longsword—drawn unbeknownst—and smiled.
“Did you ask what I want?”
“Heh, yes. That’s the humility I like. You’re growing on me.”
Hands behind his back, Moyong Gun stepped over the spreading blood.
Ssssh.
A foul metallic stench rose. Terrifying true energy from his toe evaporated the pooled blood across the floor.
An unbelievable feat of inner arts control. Even Yang Gang cultivators would balk at selectively vaporizing liquid in an instant.
“What’s your name?”
“……Gok Myeong. Gok Myeong, sir.”
“Right, Fortress Lord Gok.”
A chilling smile crossed Moyong Gun’s face.
“There’s a tiger I ache to cleave in two. Barely aged, yet sly as a centuries-old fox.”
“I’ll catch him eventually, but this time, I need to sharpen my fangs first. I’m riding that tiger’s back, after all.”
“……?!”
“So, I’ll borrow this residence for a while.”
“P-please do.”
“And one more thing.”
Ferocious killing intent swirled over Moyong Gun’s smiling face.
“Do you know the exact location where Yang Cheon has holed up?”