Chapter 322: Shaking the Heavens
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 322: Shaking the Heavens
Taiyuan.
It was a vast metropolis, and somewhere within its sprawling expanse, the main headquarters of the Killing Gate lay hidden.
The Moyong Clan and the Deep Martial Alliance were here to plunder the legacy of the Heavenly Demon, seeking the prize they had failed to claim during the Rebellion of the Heavenly Demon's Tomb over a decade ago.
None of it had anything to do with Jeong Yeon-shin. As long as the common folk and his companions were unharmed, he didn't care. He wasn’t concerned with how his enemies saw him. After all, he was a man with precious little time left to live.
'About a hundred days left.'
Jeong Yeon-shin considered his self-discipline to be exceptionally deep.
This held true even when the Twin-Wing Blood Venerable of the Deep Martial Alliance had dismissed him as a mere variable, or when the Moyong Young Master’s talk of the Dharma Power Jade had grated on his nerves. He was not like those simpletons who lost their composure and precision at the slightest provocation.
His strikes were always cold and calculated. He unleashed his full power at any given moment—proof of a mental discipline on an entirely different level.
Even though his body was exhausted, a single Bright-Righteous Pill would restore his martial prowess to near-perfect condition.
Click.
The moment he opened the wooden box, a clean scent wafted out, reminiscent of incense burned in a quiet temple.
Inside lay a single, round white pill: the Bright-Righteous Pill, Shaolin's secret medicine for internal injuries. Its efficacy was renowned as the greatest under the heavens. Having taken it once before, Jeong Yeon-shin knew the legends were true.
Tap.
Galhon, the squirrel-like spirit beast from Shaolin that had delivered the pill, hopped lightly onto his shoulder before scurrying into the folds of his robes. As for its master, Great Monk Wonjeok? Most incidents wouldn't even be able to scratch the Buddhist robes of one of Shaolin's Four Great Vajras.
"Chew it well before you swallow," Heonwon Chang said, approaching with his sword held low.
The two tails of the Hero's Headband flowing from the back of his head fluttered erratically. The waves of internal power radiating from his body were unusually potent, vastly different from his norm.
'His internal energy has grown far stronger,' Jeong Yeon-shin thought.
The sheer density of the energy brushing against his skin was incredible. The Divine Hero of the Desolate Fortress's accumulated Qi had more than doubled.
No.
It was closer to a threefold increase.
It was an orthodox true energy that, if channeled into an assassin's martial art, could threaten anyone with a single, decisive strike. In a clash of raw internal power, he felt as though Heonwon Chang could even hold his own against the Lazy Flame Dragon.
Questions arose. What had happened to the Divine Hero? What had befallen Great Monk Wonjeok?
But now was not the time to ask.
Jeong Yeon-shin placed the Bright-Righteous Pill in his mouth and focused his inner vision.
The effect was instantaneous. The moment he chewed and swallowed, its power spread through him. It was a treasure born from the fusion of Brightfolk secret arts and the medicinal knowledge of Shaolin's Medicine King Hall. He felt a pure, clear fragrance rise from every acupoint in his body.
The mysterious efficacy took root, and the sensation was overwhelming—his blood vessels regained their elasticity, and the fine meridians throughout his body tightened with renewed strength.
The faces of his seniors in the Demonlight Wing, including Baek Mi-ryeo and Cheong-myeong, came to mind. The Desolate Fortress was always short-handed, and they would worry about him even while on their own missions.
This was enough. Now, he wouldn't have to make them worry.
"No! Don't give him time!"
"Scatter! Stop the Commander of the Demonlight Wing from recovering!"
"Ignore the bastard with the killing sword!"
Thud! Swish!
The experts of the Moyong Clan, who had been stunned by their young master's death, gripped their swords anew and leaped forward. Waves of internal power erupted from all sides, violently tearing up the ground. Each one was an elite swordsman capable of raising a gale on their own.
The difference between them and a mere martial army was stark. Even after losing their commander, they immediately made their own judgments. They were not just an army; they were martial artists from a prestigious clan that had endured for hundreds of years.
Jeong Yeon-shin remained unshaken. He took slow steps forward, focusing on circulating the pill's energy throughout his body. The Commander of the Demonlight Wing was a master of dynamic cultivation; under normal circumstances, he had no need to sit cross-legged. He could easily perform Qi healing while walking toward his destination.
Step.
His divine-art-grade body protection Qi led the way. His body was slender, honed like an assassin's, and in his hand, he held the Desolate Fortress Sword, its blade etched with deep shadows.
"Commander, White Cat and the poppy-addict are at the Killing Gate's headquarters, which is their target. It looks like they've already figured out the location. They were lying low, like they'd set a mousetrap, but the moment you arrived, they swarmed out like a pack of dogs."
Heonwon Chang’s voice was colored with amusement as he left the rest unsaid. "Fighting over treasures in a sealed headquarters with a powerhouse like you would be a bit troublesome for them—"
Was he enjoying his role as the Commander's Dharma protection? Ever since he’d killed the Moyong Young Master, his words and actions had been consistently refreshing.
"Shall we join them?" he asked.
Jeong Yeon-shin did not answer with words. A single, sharp exhale was enough. The Divine Hero of the Desolate Fortress possessed senses that were among the sharpest in the Demonlight Wing.
From behind him, as he raised his sword, a brief question drifted over.
"This won't take long, will it? With your control over internal energy, Commander."
It was a statement that didn't strictly need to be made. This was the way of the Desolate Fortress warriors—conveying double meanings during missions.
Jeong Yeon-shin understood immediately. It meant Heonwon Chang lacked the capacity to send a telepathic message and that it would be problematic if the Qi healing took too long. It was likely related to his sudden surge in internal power.
'He's concentrating.'
His tasks were clear. First, recover from his severe internal injuries. Then, follow Heonwon Chang's lead to the Killing Gate's headquarters. Whatever treasures lay within didn't matter. Joining his companions was the priority.
It wouldn't take long.
Both he and Heonwon Chang thought so.
And then they clashed with the swordsmen of the Moyong Clan.
Swish!
There was no sound of metal on metal. In an instant, the heads of the three swordsmen charging at the front simply tumbled from their shoulders, followed by a silent backdraft that swept past where they had stood.
It was an assassin's martial art, one that avoided direct clashes.
—Excuse me... are you perhaps the scion of a renowned family?
The Heonwon Chang who had once been astonished by a young Jeong Yeon-shin's fast sword during the Desolate Fortress Entrance Exam was gone. In his place was a man who cleared a path with an impossibly swift blade.
The only sound was the loud rustling of robes as the Moyong Clan swordsmen rushed them from all sides.
Slash! Thud!
Countless sword marks were etched into the air. Every time Heonwon Chang struck, at least two men fell. The shockwave from the Divine Hero's blade was like a total solar eclipse—a dim white light that concealed a dark, seeping assassin's intent. He used the hazy current of the shockwave as a distraction, while beyond it, a silent, cold blade-work spread stealthily.
Blood sprayed into the air.
The afterimage of a sword severed heads.
Even while executing such an insidious sword style, his advance never faltered.
The sight was exhilarating. A noble young master, escorted by a grim reaper wearing the Hero's Headband, simply walked slowly forward, moving within an encirclement that shifted along with them.
A noble existence.
From the city's alleys, scholars who had fearlessly peeked out stared blankly at the scene, like common busybodies of the Jianghu.
Swish!
Amidst flying stone fragments and dust, another man's neck was severed in a single stroke.
A path paved with headless corpses.
Heonwon Chang painted a scene with his Desolate Fortress Sword that defied common sense, continuously engaging in single-strike duels within the encirclement. At every moment, he staked his life on the tip of his blade. This was why so few could parry his killing sword, even in a head-on clash.
These men were originally from collateral branches, raised by Moyong Myeong-jun to solidify his succession, so they couldn't be considered the absolute elite of the Moyong Clan. But they were by no means weak.
"He's using killing techniques! Do not approach rashly!"
"Brothers who have mastered the Meteor Sword, fall back! Heavy swords won't work! Masters of the Galaxy Silk Stream Sword, to the front!"
The enemies were using their heads. They had grasped the compatibility of their martial arts.
Pitter-patter.
The experts forming the sword formation swapped places in perfect order. No one rebuked the one who had shouted the name of their family's martial art. Since their young master's identity had been exposed to the Commander of the Demonlight Wing, their only option was to silence them forever.
The swords of the dozen or so men who stepped forward were incredibly thin, the blades almost as narrow as the hilt. They were masters of the illusion sword or the fast sword.
Jeong Yeon-shin, who had been walking silently, paused, concerned for Heonwon Chang's safety.
But the Divine Hero of the Desolate Fortress merely shrugged. Then, continuing his stride, he slashed upward diagonally, the wide arc of his arm showing not a shred of hesitation.
Clang!
It was the first sound of a direct clash. His strike was blocked by two crossed swords. Two Moyong Clan swordsmen in white martial robes stared at Heonwon Chang with cold, emotionless eyes. They had parried his killing technique by utilizing a split-second time difference—the target had met his blade first, and another expert had supported him from below with a fast sword to withstand the force.
"You use a sword style without roots," the swordsman on the left said.
The corner of Heonwon Chang's mouth twitched upward. "I appreciate the high praise." He mimicked the man's tone exactly. Doesn't that just mean it's a nightmare to face?
The eyes of the swordsmen facing him sank into a heavy gloom.
That was the end of it.
Screech— Clang!
The clash between the lone protector and the crowd of killers continued.
Amidst the dizzying tangle of sword paths, the necks of the two swordsmen were the first to be severed. Blood also began to spray from Heonwon Chang's body. This style of fighting did not suit the Divine Hero of the Desolate Fortress; an assassin's sword was meant for sudden ambushes. The style he displayed now was a fusion of techniques learned as a sword boy, the Vast Art Formula, and the killing sword. It was, indeed, worthy of being called "rootless."
"Just minor scratches!" he shouted like a battle cry, fearing Jeong Yeon-shin might stop his healing to intervene. It wasn't just out of concern for his Commander; surrounded on all sides, their best option was the manifestation of the Lotus Nezha.
Jeong Yeon-shin accepted the Divine Hero's intent.
Step.
He walked on without intervening, focusing entirely on his recovery. Fifteen minutes felt like an eternity.
This feeling persisted even as they entered a barren, basin-like wasteland on the outskirts of the city.
"They probably haven't broken the formation at the entrance yet! I can tell by the bastards lingering around!" Heonwon Chang shouted, his voice slightly hoarse as the forest of blades parted instead of rushing them.
They had reached their destination. It was a basin surrounded by cliffs, situated beneath a precipice in the wasteland.
Whoosh—
An incredibly dry, dusty wind brushed past them, sounding like the wailing of ghosts.
"They say this is the aftermath of the battle that occurred when the heavens opened," Heonwon Chang said, swallowing a rough breath. His attempt to feign being fine was clumsy, but the enemies who had descended to the cliffs to surround them didn't seem to notice.
The swordsmen of the Moyong Clan.
Wearing patternless masks, the aura surrounding each of them was uniformly solemn. Their numbers had dwindled to about forty.
Just then.
Rustle.
Parting the encirclement, a man wearing a mask of the Ox-Demon King, complete with carved bull horns, stepped forward. His astonishingly light footsteps were a testament to his mastery of the Body Protection Scripture.
"You are correct," the masked swordsman said in a middle-aged voice. The hem of his white robe draped all the way to his leather shoes. Invisible sword Qi emanated from his massive frame, which easily exceeded six feet, slicing into the ground around him. Anyone could see he was a super-ascension expert.
"We have found the entrance. Is it not over there?" he asked, pointing toward a section of the cliff. Beyond the encirclement was a sunken spot where about ten men and women dressed like scholars were searching the area. They paid no mind to Jeong Yeon-shin or Heonwon Chang, seemingly focused on finding the core of the formation blocking the entrance.
"Their faces haven't changed much. Those are the ones who stuck needles into my body and tore through my veins when I was a child," Heonwon Chang ground out. In that instant, Jeong Yeon-shin's clear gaze swept over them.
The Ox-Demon King swordsman lowered his hand.
Rustle.
His snow-white sleeve brushed against his waist. Even his smallest movements were elegant, exuding the refinement of a martial aristocrat who had lived in a prestigious family for decades. The black precious sword fastened to his white sash also looked incredibly valuable. The mask only made him seem more mysterious.
The moment he stepped forward, the other Moyong Clan experts lost their lofty postures and shrank back. It was easy to tell what position he held. He didn't seem to care in the least about the clansmen who had died.
"I can speak my name here. Shall we introduce ourselves before we cross blades? I am—"
"Moyong Gi-hwang, the Great Ritual Sword!" Heonwon Chang bared his teeth and roared. "This motherfucker has finally stepped forward!"
"..."
The swordsman in the Ox-Demon King mask spoke no further.
Moyong Gi-hwang, the Great Ritual Sword of the Moyong Clan. He was a figure known to nearly everyone in the upper echelons of the martial world, said to be the swordsman second only to the clan head. The reputation he had built with a single sword reached all corners of the Nine Provinces. In the harsh lands of Liaodong, he was known as King Yama himself.
"You must have taken Shaolin's medicine for internal injuries. I was curious if the rumors about you were true." Moyong Gi-hwang gestured with his chin over Heonwon Chang's shoulder. "I shall strike."
His declaration was aimed squarely at the Commander of the Demonlight Wing, who stood silently behind his protector.
It was a challenge foretelling a clash rarely seen under the heavens.
The onlookers held their breath. Even the wind that had been blowing moments before seemed to stop.
Jeong Yeon-shin slowly parted his lips. "Brother Heonwon."
"Speak. If needed, I can..." Heonwon Chang said, waving his blood-soaked sleeve. But the tails of his Hero's Headband had already drooped limply. The technique that had boosted his internal power had expired, a skill similar to the Ultimate Lightning.
"I sense presences similar to yours nearby, Brother Heonwon."
"I am truly ashamed. They are senile old fools trying to make a move on you, Commander. The few elders who actually care for the disciples would have returned to the main sect long ago. Or they are helping disciples escape elsewhere..."
Heonwon Chang's words were cut short.
Shring!
Suddenly, Moyong Gi-hwang drew his sword.
"Commander of the Demonlight Wing, I shall show you my face when the battle is over. You ought to know what your opponent looks like before you die, shouldn't you?"
After that unfitting banter echoed through the basin, an incredibly thick sword light flashed from his fingertips. At the same time, a surging white sword force, a complete Fa Jin, materialized and tore through the air. The sound of the atmosphere ripping apart was monstrous—a shockwave of a sword that lunged forward, drawing a massive line like the mast of a great ship.
Simultaneously, five old men in black capes leaped down from the high cliff, their downward-pointing sword tips all aimed at Jeong Yeon-shin's head. Was this retaliation for the counterattack against the old woman at the city gates? They glided down as if they had been waiting for the exact moment Moyong Gi-hwang extended his slash.
A split-second pincer attack.
The only peaceful ones were the men and women still examining the formation on the other side.
Jeong Yeon-shin closed his eyes.
On a timeline ahead of theirs, he recalled a single line of a mnemonic.
His Upper Dantian glowed white-hot. Beams of light erupted from his Baihui Point, rapidly forming the shape of a fan that overlapped with the mental image of the Northern Light Sword hanging at his waist.
A cool sensation filled his mind.
Sword.
'Go.'
He muttered inwardly.
At the same time, a single sword path raced through his mind in a straight line.
It did not stop at mere imagination. The moment he opened his eyes, a violent tearing sound erupted from his waist as space itself split horizontally.
A pale line of light surged past the incoming sword shockwave and Moyong Gi-hwang's neck, drawing a perfect circle in a split second before slamming back into Jeong Yeon-shin's scabbard with a deafening clang!
Thud! Rumble!
Sixteen headless corpses hovered in that terrifying, liminal space between life and death for a fraction of a heartbeat, a silent testament to the blinding, unfathomable speed of the blade that had just claimed them. Then, as if an invisible string had been cut, gravity took hold. They collapsed in grotesque unison, a macabre symphony of thudding flesh and crumpling bone as they heavily struck the earth.
A heartbeat later, the gruesome reality of the sword strike finally manifested. Fountains of crimson blood erupted simultaneously from sixteen severed necks, painting the air in a horrific, misting spray that caught the ambient light. Among the fallen was the formidable Moyong Gi-hwang, a man whose name once commanded immense respect and dread, now reduced to nothing more than a twitching, decapitated carcass. Beside him lay the elder assassins, veterans of countless shadowed kills, and the elite martial scholars who had poured their absolute focus into maintaining the inescapable formation. All of their profound cultivation, all of their decades of martial mastery, had been utterly obliterated in a single, transcendent flash of the blade. The sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood instantly overpowered the scent of the surrounding air, pooling rapidly into a dark crimson tide beneath the crumpled bodies.
"..."
A suffocating, deathly silence descended upon the battlefield. It was a quiet so absolute, so incredibly heavy, that it felt as though the very world had stopped turning on its axis.
The remaining experts of the Moyong Clan, those who had formed the outer layers of the grand encirclement, froze exactly where they stood. They were paralyzed, turned to pillars of ice by an overwhelming, primal terror that completely bypassed their rigorous martial discipline and struck directly at their souls. The encirclement they had so confidently woven to trap their prey now felt like a slaughterhouse pen, locking them inside with an unfathomable monster. Wide, trembling eyes stared at the geysers of blood and the fallen bodies of their strongest leaders, their minds completely failing to process the sheer impossibility of the slaughter they had just witnessed. Not a single one of them dared to breathe, let alone draw a weapon or channel their qi.
Step.
The soft, deliberate crunch of a leather boot touching the blood-soaked earth shattered the absolute stillness. It was not a heavy sound, yet it echoed like a deafening thunderclap in the minds of the paralyzed Moyong experts.
Jeong Yeon-shin began to walk. His rhythmic, unhurried footsteps carried him forward, his path taking him directly past a severed head that had rolled away from the center of the carnage. The decapitated head was still clad in the fearsome, grotesque visage of the Ox-Demon King mask, its demonic features now staring blankly at the sky in silent mockery of its former owner's grand ambitions.
Yet, Jeong Yeon-shin did not so much as pause. He didn't even cast a downward glance at the grisly trophy resting at his feet. His eyes remained fixed straight ahead, completely devoid of any lingering emotion, triumph, or curiosity. To him, the true identity of the man hiding behind the Ox-Demon King mask was entirely irrelevant. The mighty leader of the ambush, a figure who had sought to end his life only moments ago, was not even worth the effort of a passing glance—discarded from his mind just as easily as the blood had been flicked from his scabbard.