Chapter 110
The hairpin left a thin cut on the back of Jegal Hyeonmun’s neck, then stopped there as if it had frozen in place.
Even with her own lifeline wavering, Yeo Il closely studied her opponent—who remained calm as ever.
Is he a fake?
No. There was no way.
Though the transformation she underwent had only been partial, once her body was reconstructed, Yeo Il was no longer swayed by a sorcerer’s hallucinations.
This Jegal Hyeonmun was real.
Which meant he had met her in person—knowing her identity—without even a single precaution, barehanded.
For a sorcerer, it was an absurdly dangerous decision.
“...Why did you leave me alone with you?”
“You’re not going to deny what I said?”
“I know well enough you’re not someone I can.”
Jegal Hyeonmun let out a calm, faintly amused laugh.
“Well now. For you to say that, you and I—aren’t we meeting for the first time?”
“…….”
“Fine. You don’t have to answer. I know exactly what you mean. We may not have faced each other directly, but for quite a long time we have known each other—and sensed each other….”
Jegal Hyeonmun was right.
Each time he pursued Salmak and sought out Cheonmu Ryeong’s whereabouts, he was always active.
His sorcery was powerful enough to finally catch Cheonmu Ryeong’s tail and even threaten him, and the traps he laid sometimes put Cheonmu Ryeong—more precisely, Yeo Il—into trouble.
[Yeo Il. Do you know that even a worm will squirm if you step on it?]
Through those processes, Yeo Il sometimes felt Jegal Hyeonmun’s presence… his clear trace.
[When a worm squirm… do you know it means it will hold “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth” in its heart, and aim for my back?]
The day Cheonmu Ryeong ruined the woman he had poured poisoned liquor for.
In the eyes of that woman—her breath cut off, her focus gone—Yeo Il had felt a fierce aura that could never have arisen on its own.
[Kill her.]
Only then did she realize it.
That what Cheonmu Ryeong had severed was not only the woman’s life.
He had also severed the assassin’s sorcery—sorcery meant to harm Cheonmu Ryeong—by controlling the woman like a puppet.
[Yeo Il. Kill her.]
And as always, the caster of that sorcery had been Jegal Hyeonmun.
“Each time I found Cheonmu Ryeong, I sensed the same trace beside him. It wasn’t the trace of Thousand-Faced Demon or Red Dragon Black Blade, so how many could be left? Only one—besides you.”
“…….”
“Sometimes I even used Wolgeom Ilsal’s trace in reverse to track Cheonmu Ryeong. Because it was so familiar, I recognized you the moment you crossed the clan’s gates.”
The method by which Jegal Hyeonmun identified Yeo Il was unexpectedly simple.
He wasn’t only sensing Cheonmu Ryeong. He had been sensing my trace too.
For years. Continuously.
But regardless, Yeo Il could not help questioning him.
“If you knew, why did you let me into the clan?”
He wore a strange smile.
“Are you curious?”
Unlike his benevolent, solemn air, Jegal Hyeonmun had a rather sly side.
“Coincidentally, I also had something I wished to ask you.”
“If you’re going to ask questions, keep the order, old man.”
“Hoo. You should learn that respect for elders has no ‘order,’ you know?”
Why were old men all shameless?
“Wolgeom Ilsal… why did you spread that rumor? The rumor that the real one dies by Wolgeom’s hand, and a fake takes her place.”
As if he could see, Jegal Hyeonmun’s eyes slowly narrowed.
“It was the first news I heard after your trace vanished from Cheonmu Ryeong’s side. I grew curious. Had Wolgeom Ilsal, whom I believed dead, returned alive? Then was Namgung Soyo’s death Cheonmu Ryeong’s will? If Cheonmu Ryeong disposed of Namgung Soyo and replaced her… what would he gain?”
He shook his head with a look as if he had been struck in the blind spot. Long white hair, neatly untied, slid over Jegal Hyeonmun’s shoulders and swayed softly.
“Thanks to that, when I found your trace, I was truly surprised. Heh-heh. To think you would become Namgung Soyo herself! It’s a course of action beyond expectation!”
As if sensing Yeo Il, Jegal Hyeonmun slowly extended a hand toward her face and nodded faintly.
“On top of that, Cheonmu Ryeong’s trace on you had grown quite faint. Doesn’t that mean it never returned even once after you vanished? Hm. Then, you see—the question I wish to ask you is….”
“You want to ask if I turned my back on Cheonmu Ryeong?”
Jegal Hyeonmun’s lips closed.
“If I say yes, you’re planning to suggest we join hands?”
He answered with grave certainty.
“…Yes.”
Jegal Hyeonmun and her?
Jegal Hyeonmun—practically a symbolic figure of the orthodox faction—and Wolgeom Ilsal of Salmak?
Yeo Il let out a sneer.
“You’ve gone senile.”
“Hm.”
“You’ve grown old and sick and already forgotten the old days? You’re not seriously thinking I’ll accept that proposal meekly. Don’t forget—I can cut your head off right here, right now.”
Yet in her mind she was drawing the opposite picture.
It’s not a bad opportunity.
She did not care about unburied grudges from the past. Pride did not exist for Yeo Il, who only ran out of Salmak after committing every evil deed there was.
Jegal Hyeonmun did not bristle at her mockery, nor did he try to rebut it.
Instead, as if laughing at himself, he lowered his head and spoke in a subdued voice.
“…Heh-heh. You’re threatening me with my life? A life not worth that much. What meaning is there in extending the life of an old man who couldn’t even protect a single grandchild….”
A seasoned veteran indeed.
So the “if you’re old, you should die” tactic, huh.
Or was he simply moving his tongue to coax her?
“I am truly afraid, Wolgeom Ilsal. Enough that I want to borrow not only a cat’s paw, but even the hand of an assassin like you… The older I get, the more fearful I become.”
It was a weak statement, utterly unfit for the countless followers he had, the reputation he had built, and the title of the greatest sorcerer in the Jianghu.
Jegal Hyeonmun swallowed a sigh.
“But what can I do? While I, Jegal Hyeonmun, grow weaker and sicker by the day, ‘that one’ remains brimming with vigor… I only fear that after this old man dies, ‘that one’ will harm my people.”
That one.
Strength surged into the hand holding the hairpin.
Blood gathered at Yeo Il’s fingertips, reddening them as if soaked in dyed water.
“So if there is anything you want, say it, Wolgeom Ilsal. Who knows? In my urgency, I might roll up my sleeves and actively help—”
“One question.”
At her voice dropping at once, he answered in an equally heavy voice.
“…Ask anything.”
“Is he here?”
That one.
Was that one here?
Not only the Cheonma Divine Cult—had that one begun moving personally as well?
The reference was vague, yet Jegal Hyeonmun did not question it and slowly nodded.
“Yes, Wolgeom Ilsal. Cheonmu Ryeong is here. I even heard his voice.”
Cheonmu Ryeong was here.
It was a name she had heard until she was sick of it, yet her mind turned strangely dizzy and her stomach churned. This feeling—like falling off a cliff—never grew unfamiliar no matter how many times she felt it.
“His voice… what did he say to you?”
After a brief silence, Jegal Hyeonmun answered.
[I came to retrieve what I lost.]