The Preliminaries of the Dragon and Phoenix Gathering
Lately, Sanwol had been in exceptionally high spirits.
Construction of the Comic Tea House had broken ground smoothly now that the architectural blueprints were complete, and by absorbing the forms he had glimpsed during his duel with Geuk Cheonrang, he had managed to flesh out the glaring shallowness of his Three Talents Sword Art.
However, progress on the manuscript for Volume Four of Nangahyeopjeon had ground to an unexpected crawl.
It was not because he had run out of plot ideas, nor had he grown too lazy to draw. Rather, an inescapable nemesis shared by every mangaka and novelist—the towering rampart known as lore consistency and setting accuracy—had blocked his creative path.
"There is an annoying amount of detail you have to keep track of..."
In wuxia, setting accuracy was everything.
Fail to uphold proper canon, and a horde of pedantic purists would cough up blood in outrage, rushing to point out every single discrepancy. People might deride the genre as a stagnant pond plagued by obsolete tropes and fossilized elders who refused to move with the times, but beneath the slander lay decades of accumulated history and rigid conventions.
Even so, back in his past life, readers never posed any physical danger to a creator. At worst, they quietly dropped the series or vented their frustrations in the comment section, drafting multi-paragraph essays to denounce the perceived plot holes.
Here, however, was the Central Plains. The Murim.
It was a lawless realm where disgruntled readers could track an author down in broad daylight and take matters into their own hands. One careless mistake could easily cost a writer their drawing wrist in the blink of an eye.
And the dilemma confronting him lay at the very core of Volume Four.
Since the story was set to chronicle the grand tournament of the Dragon and Phoenix Gathering, the martial arts of the Nine Sects and One Gang and the Five Great Families would inevitably take center stage. Yet Sanwol had never witnessed their secret arts in person, nor did he even know their official names.
I have no way of verifying whether the techniques floating around in my head actually exist in this world.
Of course, he was not entirely in the dark. Thanks to the countless web novels and comics he had devoured in his previous life, he recognized famous names and basic stylistic trademarks. Still, the gulf between a world where martial arts were figments of imagination and a reality where they actually existed could not be ignored.
He had thoroughly enjoyed reading a novel called Return of the Mount Hua Sect back then, but who was to say the Twenty-Four Plum Blossom Sword Art from its pages actually existed here? That uncertainty did not apply solely to Mount Hua; the arts of every other sect and aristocratic clan were just as dubious.
Since the Nine Sects and One Gang and the Five Great Families were breathing, living institutions, each sect naturally possessed supreme divine arts in which they took immense pride. If he fabricated bizarre, nonsensical moves and passed them off as legitimate, it would do far worse than ruin reader immersion—it had every potential to jeopardize his personal safety.
If enraged martial masters kicked down his door shouting, "How dare you mock our sect's sacred heritage?!" he would be utterly ruined.
Sanwol had no desire to invite such a gruesome fate. This was the sole reason progress on Nangahyeopjeon had stalled.
Nothing for it, Sanwol thought with a weary sigh.
Lore consistency was vital, but he could hardly throw up his hands, put the series on indefinite hiatus at Volume Three, and abandon Volume Four for the rest of his life.
The thirsty man has to dig his own well. Time for some field research.
In an ancient, pre-industrial Central Plains devoid of an information network, research methods were primitive. You either ran around on your own two feet to experience things firsthand, or you gathered hearsay from someone who had.
Sanwol chose the former.
After all, a golden opportunity lay right before him, offering a front-row seat to observe dozens of diverse martial disciplines up close. To draw the Dragon and Phoenix Gathering, he would participate in the Dragon and Phoenix Gathering.
Seeing once was better than hearing a hundred times; Sanwol fully intended to study the various martial arts straight from the arena.
My internal qi has deepened considerably, and my swordplay has matured.
Besides, as a late-stage Peak Realm master capable of weaving Sword Silk, he stood a fair chance even if pitted against the rising prodigies of the elite sects.
With a faint smile playing on his lips, Sanwol stepped out of his estate and made his way toward the headquarters of the Murim Alliance. Naturally, his destination was the registration pavilion for the tournament's preliminary trials.
Considerable time had passed since Sanwol quietly slipped his name onto the roster of preliminary contestants without drawing any attention. Perhaps because the days had unfolded without incident, time flew by, and the morning of the preliminary trials arrived in a flash.
The preliminaries were conducted through a surprisingly straightforward test: each contestant was required to carve a martial form into a boulder to the best of their ability.
It was deceptively simple, yet all the more ruthless for its simplicity. For the boulders provided were by no means small; each monolith measured roughly one zhang in width, one zhang in height, and one zhang in thickness. Thanks to the unprecedented deluge of applicants, the laborers tasked with quarrying and hauling the massive stones had suffered sheer hell.
The registered contenders numbered just over three hundred. Yet the moment the proctors ordered them to cut the boulders, more than half of the applicants gave up on the spot and slunk away.
Laymen often assumed that any trained martial artist could slice through solid bedrock like soft tofu, but that was a foolish delusion. While not impossible, performing such a feat required reaching at least the First-rate realm, where a warrior could manifest faint wisps of Sword Qi along the blade.
Naturally, Second-rate martial artists and below—who were still struggling just to circulate and harness internal qi within their dantians—had zero hope of passing. Consequently, only experts of the First-rate realm and above remained, stepping forward to leave distinct gashes across the face of the stone to prove their worth.
"Oho! From the very inaugural tournament, we are blessed with a wealth of extraordinary talent."
"Indeed, it is a tremendous blessing for the righteous sects of the Murim."
The senior elders of the Murim Alliance beamed with satisfaction. The grand spectacle they had awaited for so long was finally underway. Though Nangahyeopjeon had thrown their schedules into disarray, in the end, it had drummed up even greater fervor for the gathering.
"Entrusting the matter to the Alliance Leader was truly the right decision."
"Quite so. We must acknowledge that our narrow perspective could never match the profound foresight of the Alliance Leader, whose mastery touches the realm of the miraculous."
The elders chatted amicably, bathed in good cheer. Just then, Geuk Cheonrang arrived, and the council bowed deferentially, ushering him to the highest seat of honor.
"Haha! Praising me so lavishly only makes an old wanderer blush."
"You are the very pillar of the righteous Murim, Alliance Leader. We ask that you observe with your discerning eye and impartially judge the rising prodigies who will one day lead our world."
"Mm. I shall do my utmost to fulfill the duty entrusted to me."
With that, Geuk Cheonrang cast his deep, contemplative gaze across the arena. Sweeping his eyes over the participants one by one, he evaluated their cultivation: fifty-six First-rate experts, and twenty-one masters of the Peak Realm.
Down below, martial artists manifesting either jagged fragments of Sword Qi or vibrant, fully formed blades of light struck the monoliths, etching their respective forms deep into the rock. All were remarkable talents, but only thirty-two could advance to the main tournament. The proctors had to winnow the field down to the absolute cream of the crop.
The disciples of the Nine Sects and Five Families are flawless as expected. Catching up to those who have been showered with elite resources and trained in supreme divine arts since childhood is no easy feat.
Between the Nine Sects and One Gang and the Five Great Families, their rising prodigies had already claimed fifteen spots—nearly half of the total quota. Furthermore, since Peak Realm masters vastly outclassed First-rate combatants, twenty-one of the thirty-two available slots were effectively spoken for by the Peak Realm experts alone.
Now then, which of the First-rate experts stand closest to the Peak?
Just as Geuk Cheonrang was about to inspect the First-rate contenders, a murmur from the side caught his ear.
"Say, what is that boy over there doing?"
"Hmph. Surely a child that young cannot possibly project Sword Qi."
"Haha! The brazen spirit of youth never fails to stir the blood. Is it not from boys like him that the renowned masters of tomorrow are born?"
Drawn by the remarks, Geuk Cheonrang turned his head toward the VIP gallery reserved for the Nine Sects and One Gang and the Five Great Families. Taking in the distinguished sect leaders and clan patriarchs seated in their stately robes, the corner of Geuk Cheonrang's mouth twitched. Anticipating what was about to unfold, he could barely suppress a snort of laughter.
For the gaze of those venerable grandmasters was fixed straight upon Dokgo Sanwol.
Ah, of course. The sect leaders and clan patriarchs wouldn't be privy to the latest gossip in Wuhan.
While their young prodigies had spent months loitering in Wuhan, the elders had only arrived a few days ago to attend today's ceremony. Naturally, they remained thoroughly out of the loop.
Oh, this is going to be delightful.
Though acclaimed as the Alliance Leader, Geuk Cheonrang was, at his core, a former rogue wanderer. Back in his youth as a nameless ronin, he had found it sickening to watch the pampered heirs of elite clans strut about, buoyed by endless clan resources. Having carved his path through the world as an unaffiliated blade, he had often chafed at a Murim where the aristocratic houses monopolized every glory. And in equal measure, that rogue heart of his longed to see the arrogant noses of the Nine Sects and Five Families ground into the dirt.
I wonder what expressions they'll make.
While every other contestant was busy displaying their martial prowess on the stone, Sanwol had simply stood with his sword in hand, leisurely observing the others. Having seen right through the boy's motives, Geuk Cheonrang chuckled under his breath, eagerly awaiting the moment Sanwol drew his blade.
Before he became known as the Illusory Star Sword, Geuk Cheonrang had borne the moniker of the Sleeping Dragon. For he was the one who had shattered the dogma that no wanderer or disciple of a minor sect could ever ascend to the pinnacle of the martial world. The legends of how he toppled the most celebrated scions of the great sects, one after another, were still recounted across the Central Plains.
In raw talent alone, that lad is an unprecedented prodigy who might one day surpass even me.
So show them, boy.
That was Geuk Cheonrang's silent wish, and it aligned perfectly with Sanwol's intentions. Since he had already entered, he wanted to secure the highest possible score.
"Ooh!"
"Young Hero Dokgo is moving!"
A commotion rippled through the spectators, starting with those who had witnessed the duel between Geuk Cheonrang and Sanwol days prior. As the clamor swelled, the grin on Geuk Cheonrang's face curled higher and higher.
"He seems to be quite the famous young hero in Wuhan," murmured Namgung Gojeok, the patriarch of the Namgung Clan.
The elders beside him nodded in agreement, turning their collective focus onto Sanwol. The crowd's fervor was hotter than the cheers reserved for even the prized heirs of the great sects.
In truth, the reason the spectators were going wild had nothing to do with martial awe. His martial cultivation was impressive enough, but above all, he was the author of Nangahyeopjeon; they would have cheered enthusiastically if he merely sneezed. Yet the grandmasters who had just arrived in Wuhan had no way of knowing that.
The sect leaders and clan patriarchs watched with mounting curiosity, wondering just how breathtaking this boy's martial arts could be to command such fanatic adulation.
Is that the standard?
Sanwol's calm eyes scanned his surroundings. He took in the boulders scarred by shallow gashes and jagged gouges, as well as the proud young warriors standing triumphantly before them. Every single one of them practiced disciplines far more prestigious than his humble Three Talents Cultivation. Simply leaving a clean scratch on the rock would fall far short of making an impression.
"Whew..."
The core principles of the Three Talents Sword Art were rudimentary. No matter how grandly one dressed it up with cosmic concepts like Heaven, Earth, and Man, its martial depth remained hopelessly shallow.
Yet Sanwol had learned from his clash with Geuk Cheonrang. By observing how the master swung his blade, by enduring the weight of those strikes firsthand, Sanwol had gradually filled the hollow gaps in his crude swordplay. How to deliver a cut. How to shift the weight of the body. The stolen insights from Geuk Cheonrang's technique held the answers to every single question.
There was no need for ostentatious flourish.
To his right, a sword dance swept through the air like drifting clouds across an open sky; to his left, crimson plum blossoms unfurled in a lavish storm of petals. They were undeniably gorgeous and dazzling, but beauty was not what Sanwol needed right now. No matter how theatrical the execution, the spectators ultimately judged the result etched into the stone.
In that case, what would it take to render every single onlooker utterly speechless?
The answer came instantly.
I destroy the boulder.
Sanwol raised his blade high, stomped down in a thunderous earth-shaking step, and brought the sword down. Simultaneously, a brilliant eruption of golden Sword Qi flared, resembling a plummeting meteor or the final, blinding sunset that marked the dying of the day.
For a sinking sun inevitably plummets toward the earth, plunging behind the distant mountain ridges. It was an unstoppable, crushing momentum that pressed down on a mountain range from its highest crest, snapping its waist in two.
Pressing down upon the summit of a colossal mountain.
Sanwol's sword cleaved through the air.
The swing was so fast it seemed to have struck only empty space. There was no deafening roar of impact, nor the crisp crunch of metal grating against stone. Only the delayed gust of displaced wind and the gentle click of Sanwol sheathing his blade whispered through the dead silence.
Clack.
The moment the scabbard swallowed the guard and Sanwol turned around...
Thump!
Bisected cleanly by a single strike, the massive boulder fell apart, collapsing to the left and right.