The Murim Alliance
The painter who drew Legend of the Wandering Wolf Knight was going to spar with the Leader of the Murim Alliance.
It was a plain, unembellished statement of fact, yet in all of Wuhan, no piece of gossip could have been more electrifying. The martial prowess of Geuk Cheonrang, the current Alliance Leader, was already celebrated as the Number One Under Heaven. Known far and wide since his days as a wandering ronin by the epithet Illusory Star Sword, there was not a soul under heaven ignorant of his name.
And then there was his named opponent: Sanwol.
To the public, he was known as nothing more than the artist behind Legend of the Wandering Wolf Knight. Yet a tantalizing rumor had been quietly circulating through the streets of Wuhan—that this creator was merely a boy who had not even reached twenty years of age, yet had already broken through to the Peak Realm.
Until now, few had taken the whisper seriously. Had it been true, after all, Sanwol would have surely made his name as an unprecedented martial genius long before ever publishing a comic book. Yet as news of the duel between Sanwol and Geuk Cheonrang rippled across the city, public perception began to shift. Would anyone dare challenge the Murim Alliance Leader without real skill to back it up? Whatever the motivation, gaining enlightenment through a spar was only possible if one possessed sufficient caliber to hold their ground in the first place.
"Hmm. Quite a crowd has gathered, more than I anticipated," Geuk Cheonrang remarked, glancing out over the grounds.
"Well, it is quite the spectacle, isn't it? The creator of Legend of the Wandering Wolf Knight squaring off against the Murim Alliance Leader."
Sanwol flashed a grin and surveyed the bustling stands. After all, the culprit behind the leak was none other than himself.
A duel between Wuhan's hottest cultural sensation and the titan of the Murim Alliance was entertainment no spectator could resist. Sanwol had counted on precisely that. An open training ground that offered a clear view and free entry to anyone who wished to watch was, by any commercial metric, the single finest promotional stage he could have asked for.
"Haha! Fair enough. Even I would have come running to watch such a show."
Geuk Cheonrang's cadence was distinct from their casual chats indoors; here on the martial grounds, an innate gravitas colored his tone. Catching the shift, Sanwol maintained his quiet smile. The Alliance Leader wasn't doing this merely to instruct an inferior or indulge a favorite author as a passionate reader. He was genuinely curious. He truly anticipated the martial prowess of a boy who had ascended to the Peak Realm—a phenomenon unprecedented in the annals of martial arts.
Then the only answer was to meet those expectations. The more impressive a showing Sanwol put on, the easier it would be to win the grandmaster's goodwill—and the harder he fought, the more he stood to learn. The onlookers were mere window dressing. Their sole purpose was to watch, scatter into the city, and buzz about what they had seen over wine. There was no need to pay them any mind.
"Come," Geuk Cheonrang said simply, without even drawing his blade.
To an outsider, the gesture might have seemed arrogant, but Sanwol drew his own sword without hesitation.
His opponent was an absolute master of the Profound Realm, a demigod capable of toying with Peak or even Transcendence Realm experts as if they were toddlers. No matter how brilliant Sanwol's talent was in achieving the Peak Realm at his age, the sheer gulf between their cultivation realms was not something that could be bridged by natural gifts alone.
I have to come at him with intent to kill.
A radiant golden Sword Qi wrapped around his blade. That brilliant aura was the indisputable hallmark of the Peak Realm. Gasps and murmured exclamations erupted from the surrounding stands as eyes widened in shock.
Sanwol stamped his foot down in a powerful advancing step. The true qi gathered within his dantian surged down into his lower body in an instant. All preparations were complete. What remained was an all-out clash.
Sanwol's figure rocketed forward, tearing through the air, hurtling straight toward the Number One Under Heaven standing serenely before him.
"Impressive," Geuk Cheonrang murmured, his brow twitching slightly.
In that split second, Sanwol's straight trajectory twisted midair as he spun abruptly to the right.
A deafening crack exploded against the ground right where Sanwol had been charging a heartbeat earlier, gouging stone and sending up a spray of dust. Geuk Cheonrang had discharged a bullet of pure internal qi without twitching so much as a finger. A chill raced down Sanwol's spine at the realization that he had just witnessed something far beyond the Finger Flicking Art.
"Your instincts are truly innate!" Geuk Cheonrang laughed, his eyes gleaming with greedy curiosity and excitement.
Sanwol didn't pause to appreciate the praise. With the Number One Under Heaven standing before him, he couldn't afford the luxury of a single stray thought.
"Ooh!"
"Is it going to connect?!"
The moment Sanwol touched down, he pivoted on his ankle. Driven by that rotation, his hips turned, followed in succession by the whip-like coil of his waist and torso. By chaining the kinetic momentum from foot to hip to core, he amplified his force far beyond ordinary muscular strength, channeling the whole crushing weight into his shoulder and snapping his arm forward.
It was terrifyingly swift, and chillingly heavy. The crowd roared as the savage strike whistled toward its mark.
"Not bad. You know how to leverage your weight."
Yet the strike halted cold.
A pure, star-white radiance caught Sanwol's blade in midair. In an instant, the golden aura wrapped around the steel fell prey to the blinding starlight, swallowed whole. Sanwol's heart lurched in silent shock.
Is this... Astral Qi?
Condensing Sword Qi into Astral Qi—infusing starlight directly into one's true energy—was proof that a martial artist had taken their first step toward bending worldly principles to manifest their own vision. It was a realm Sanwol had yet to reach, and a pinnacle he knew he must claim.
"H-his sword!"
"He let go?!"
Cries of astonishment rippled through the spectators, several leaning over the railings in disbelief. Even Geuk Cheonrang's eyes widened for a fraction of a second at Sanwol's erratic move.
To a warrior, their weapon was their spouse—something to be kept by their side at all times, an extension of self whose capture by another's hand was an indelible disgrace. Yet Sanwol had cast it away. The instant Geuk Cheonrang's starlight clamped down upon the blade, he abandoned the weapon without a shred of hesitation.
It was not a mindless panic. It was a cold, calculated forfeit.
He held no advantage over Geuk Cheonrang in any discipline. Strength, internal energy, forms, experience, and martial knowledge—in every single metric, he was overwhelmingly outmatched. Having his sword caught in a real life-or-death battle meant an immediate counterattack and certain death. What, then, was the right move?
Sanwol's answer was to shatter convention.
My sword? Take it if you want it.
Sanwol had always fought for survival, not vanity or honor. Defeat was death; victory was the extension of life. As precious as a blade was, could it ever outweigh his life?
The moment he released his grip, Sanwol leaned forward, slipping fluidly into Geuk Cheonrang's personal guard at point-blank range. The hand that had just been holding the hilt coiled with every scrap of internal energy he could summon, thrusting outward in a golden straight punch.
The only conceivable way I can land a decisive blow.
Strike not the outside, but the inside. Gathering his full reservoir of inner qi into his fist, Sanwol unleashed the Internal Heavy Strike Method.
The golden streak homed in on the right side of Geuk Cheonrang's upper abdomen—and missed!
Sanwol's fist tore cleanly through empty air, piercing nothing more than a hazy, mirage-like afterimage.
"To think you would discard your sword and attempt an internal heavy strike. Bold doesn't begin to cover it. You truly are full of surprises." Having drifted backward in a blur of supreme lightness footwork, Geuk Cheonrang let out an astonished chuckle. He had hardly expected his opponent, upon having his blade seized, to neither retreat nor squirm in panic, but instead launch an immediate bare-handed assault.
"Your stance is unrefined, however. It seems you haven't formally learned proper fist or palm arts."
"Regrettably, I've only ever learned a single cultivation manual and a single sword style," Sanwol replied, catching his breath.
Geuk Cheonrang's lips curled into an amused smirk as he drove Sanwol's captured blade straight into the stone floor of the martial grounds. His sword was gone, and his clumsy fist strike had lost all value once the element of surprise was blown. To any bystander, Sanwol was now at an overwhelming disadvantage.
Now then, what will you do this time?
Geuk Cheonrang watched him with keen anticipation. Sanwol did not miss the hungry look in the grandmaster's eyes.
I have to land at least one solid blow, no matter what it takes.
His competitive fire stoked, Sanwol kicked off the ground once more.
Seeing Sanwol charge in with the exact same frontal rush as before, Geuk Cheonrang's lips parted in slight bemusement. Did the boy think the same trick would work twice? The Alliance Leader was just about to fire another qi bullet—and predictively blast the spot Sanwol would dodge to—when something caught his eye.
What is this...?
A single thread of shimmering gold split his field of vision in two. That infinitesimal hesitation, spent deciphering what the thread was, allowed Sanwol to close the distance.
"He closed the gap!"
"Go! You can do it!"
Swept up in the frenzy, spectators leaned forward, pumping their fists. As if answering their roars, Sanwol thrust his arm out and flicked his fingers. The golden line bisecting Geuk Cheonrang's vision rippled like a plucked bowstring.
"Sword Silk?!"
As if confirming the answer, the vibrating thread snapped taut. The anchor point for that sudden tension was none other than the sword Geuk Cheonrang had planted into the earth. The thread of golden qi tied to the hilt ripped the discarded weapon from the ground, snapping it straight back into Sanwol's waiting grip.
"Clever boy!"
Any trace of reservation vanished as a fierce grin broke across Geuk Cheonrang's face. He stomped down with thunderous force.
With a clean hiss, the blade at Geuk Cheonrang's waist cleared its scabbard, scattering brilliant flashes of white light across the arena. Yet this white was not the celestial glow of starlit Astral Qi; it was simply naked steel catching the noon sun. Watching the draw, Sanwol's face hardened as he reset his grip.
No Astral Qi enveloped the elder's blade. Not even a trace of Sword Qi coated its edge. In other words, every sword form Geuk Cheonrang was about to deploy was meant solely as a demonstration for Sanwol to witness and comprehend. The role allowed to Sanwol now was no longer to attack. His only permitted task was to struggle with everything he had, desperately parrying every blow that came his way.
"The Peak Realm at your age—and the Late Stage at that! As your elder, I can only hope you walk away from this with profound enlightenment."
It was Geuk Cheonrang's genial way of declaring that a thorough, wholehearted beating was about to commence.
And so, as the Number One Under Heaven settled into his opening stance and leveled his blade, Sanwol hastily wrapped true qi around his body—purely in the hopes that getting beaten half to death might hurt just a little bit less.