Chapter 9 Doesn’t Have to Be the Current ‘Me’
Doesn’t Have to Be the Current ‘Me’
Chapter 9 – Doesn’t Have to Be the Current ‘Me’
Mok Yeojin slowly descended the stone steps.
Though the interior was sealed so tightly that not even a speck of light was allowed in, a faint wavering glow illuminated his footing.
This, too, was the effect of a formation.
‘The entire inside is a space woven with formations. In the Four Great Sects of the Evil Dao, the only one capable of such high-level formations would be the Lord of the Ghostly Illusions Palace.’
The Six Palaces of the Evil Dao (사도육궁).
>One of them: Guihwan-gung (鬼幻宮, Ghostly Illusions Palace).
The Ghostly Illusions Palace was a nest of masters in formations and all manner of heterodox sorcery. Especially its lord, whose phantasm arts (환술) were said to brush the realm of divine skill. Even the most rigid orthodox masters could not dismiss him as “mere trickery.”
How long had he walked? At the end of the endlessly spiraling stairs, an old iron door awaited him.
Carved upon it:
“Prove your worth.”
Mok Yeojin swallowed dryly.
‘So it begins.’
Even Mok I-yeon hadn’t told him what lay beyond this door. Or rather, she’d said it was meaningless to explain—he must face it himself.
And most crucially, her words:
“I failed that test.”
That had truly shaken him.
She had entered this place around the age of thirteen, with a cultivation not beneath his current level. Yet she had failed.
This was no ordinary trial.
But Mok Yeojin’s will was no brittle reed.
‘Whatever appears, I won’t fall so easily.’
He steadied his breathing, loosened his stiffened shoulders, and pushed the door open.
Thud, thud—clang!
The moment he passed through, the iron door vanished with a boom. But he had no time to care.
“Ha!”
Before him spread a sheer cliff dropping thousands of feet.
And below—the dance of crimson flames.
Inside those flames…
‘People?’
Yes. Hundreds, thousands of screaming figures writhed in the fire.
If there was such a thing as the Hell of Flame Demons (화마지옥), this was it.
The shrieks scraped his ears, enough to twist his face.
But his instincts whispered: ‘This is illusion.’
Still, the heat licking up felt terrifyingly real.
‘I must not fall.’
To the left, a bridge stretched across. But hardly a bridge—merely planks no wider than a child’s palm.
‘Pitiful excuse for a path.’
He stepped onto it anyway.
Creak!
The plank swayed with each step, but Mok Yeojin moved steadily, unfazed.
Halfway across, he felt unease.
‘Too easy… danger always strikes the moment you let down your guard.’
As expected.
Whoooosh!
A sudden gale like blades lashed from all directions. The plank thrashed wildly.
“Kh!”
He lowered his stance, rooting himself with inner qi. But worse—the flames surged, clawing upward as though to devour him.
‘So you throw all tricks at me, do you?’
The scorching heat pressed in.
Then a voice whispered inside his skull:
[Cry out surrender, and you may leave this hell.]
Mok Yeojin chuckled.
‘The path I must walk ahead will be a hell far worse than this. Don’t make me laugh.’
Step. Step.
Slow, but unyielding, he advanced. Wind, fire, screams—they could not stop him.
At last, fifty paces from the end, suspicion struck again.
‘This can’t be all. I-yeon wouldn’t fail such a test.’
And then—
Whirl!
From swirling black smoke, a figure stepped forth.
Mok Yeojin’s sigh escaped at once.
“Ha… Whoever devised this cursed test, I’ll break your jaw one day.”
The smoke cleared.
Black hair, eyes steeped in regret. A massive stone axe slung across her shoulder.
No one else in all the martial world carried such a brutish weapon.
A soft, familiar voice.
“It’s been a long time, youngest. Or… should I call you elder brother now?”
Mok Yeojin smiled bitterly.
“Elder brother, eh? Spare me the sentiment. But isn’t it cheating to throw you here?”
Before him stood none other than his sworn sister—Cheon Hwarin (천화린), heir of the Demonic Heaven Sect (천마신교).
Upon a plank barely wide enough for two feet, the siblings faced each other.
“This isn’t a simple phantom, is it? You appear exactly as you did before my regression. A reflection of my heart-world?”
Cheon Hwarin nodded.
“Not only me—this entire space is your heart’s projection. The endless chasm, the burning inferno, the wailing masses, the blade-winds… and this single palm-wide path of survival.”
Her eyes softened with pity.
“What a desolate world yours is.”
“Coming from you? Let’s skip the sympathy. I’m getting hungry, so let’s get to it.”
She smiled faintly.
“As you wish. If you take my head, you pass this trial.”
Of course. What a vile test.
Thoom!
She hefted the great stone axe—Daeseokbu (大石斧)—and leveled it at him.
“If I appear here, it means I weigh most heavily in your heart. Tell me, what am I to you?”
Mok Yeojin clenched his fists, taking stance.
“The strongest being I know.”
“Then here, you cannot defeat me!”
She charged.
The axe split the air with a roar.
Fwoom!
Mok Yeojin ducked—barely. A lock of his hair was severed. Sweat trickled down his spine.
‘That really almost killed me!’
Her lips curled.
“Lose focus, and you truly die, youngest.”
Her strength, speed, precision—Cheon Hwarin was the image of the perfect martial being.
Boom! Boom!
Her strikes crashed down mercilessly.
“Even retreating might be an option, youngest!”
“You talk too much, sister!”
Suddenly, instead of dodging, he lunged forward.
It was the first form of Mountain King Dance (산왕무), Tiger’s Ferocious Pounce (호준맹습).
Like a tiger springing on prey—faster than retreat, faster than her eyes could follow.
He slammed her axe aside with his forearm.
Thoom!
Her brows lifted.
“Brother Meng’s technique!”
But she twisted with impossible grace, using the axe’s rebound to whirl it back at his waist.
“Kh!”
Too late to dodge.
He roared, thrusting his fist with every ounce of qi.
Crash!
Fist met axe. The boom shook the void.
Mok Yeojin blinked at his hand. Not shattered, not even scratched.
Instead—
‘That’s… Gangqi (罡氣, martial true force)?’
Impossible. At his current realm, he shouldn’t even dream of wielding it.
Then realization dawned.
‘She said it—this world is my heart’s projection. My unconscious world made form.’
If so—why must he remain bound to the strength of his twelve-year-old self?
The moment he perceived it, the illusion shifted.
The hellfire, the cliff, the narrow bridge—all melted away.
They now stood upon a wide dueling stage set in endless grasslands.
For the first time, Cheon Hwarin’s face stiffened.
But Mok Yeojin smiled.
“Sister, let’s finally play for real.”
Step!
No longer a boy, but the man he had become before regression, Mok Yeojin stood tall, facing her.