Chapter 141
Wi Ji-un, the Young Clan Head of the Vast Cold Sword Sect, who had been casting heated glances at Bu Eun-seol all evening, finally spoke.
"Young Master Bu, you seem to be the descendant of considerable wealth."
Clearing his throat, he spoke in an insinuating tone.
"Might I inquire which clan you hail from?"
"What lineage could I possibly claim? I merely inherited a modest fortune from my parents."
"I see."
When an answer far more pitiful than expected returned, Wi Ji-un's lips curled into an undisguised sneer.
To him, Bu Eun-seol was nothing more than a pretty face with no substance.
"Then what is it you do now?"
"And what is it you wish to do in the future?"
From then on, Bu Eun-seol faced relentless questioning not just from Wi Ji-un but from all the young disciples of the Seven Swords Gate.
Yet most questions were thinly veiled jabs at his lack of prospects or ambition.
'No different wherever I go.'
Whether during his days as an undertaker or now in the martial world, people remained the same.
Their eyes shone only with the desire to elevate themselves.
'But elevating oneself is no simple matter.'
Bu Eun-seol inwardly shook his head.
People always chose the easiest method: tearing others down to make themselves appear taller.
This required no training—anyone could do it, and the results were immediate.
"I see. I hadn't realized."
Even when they laced their words with insults or dismissive sarcasm, Bu Eun-seol remained unperturbed.
He'd endured these things countless times as an undertaker; the current insults were nothing compared with being cursed at or pointed at for no reason.
'Best to withdraw now.'
Deep night had fallen, and the drinking party was reaching its peak. Having played along sufficiently, Bu Eun-seol decided he'd done his part.
"Hmm."
Feigning a low yawn, he rose from his seat.
"I'm weary and shall retire first. Enjoy yourselves."
At his words, the Seven Swords Gate youths exchanged delighted glances and nodded eagerly.
"Of course. Rest well."
"Do retire early."
"We shan't keep you."
Bu Eun-seol offered a bitter smile and turned to leave—only for Guyang Cheong to follow him out.
"Young Master Bu."
Her face was etched with genuine remorse.
"My deepest apologies."
"For what?"
"Those who train in martial arts tend to be overly competitive."
Though she'd pretended not to notice earlier, it seemed the exchanges had troubled her.
"Please allow me to apologize for my friends' rudeness. I hope you weren't too offended."
Her apology was sincere.
Bu Eun-seol had rarely received apologies, especially from those who considered themselves superior.
'She's different.'
Despite her brashness, Guyang Cheong possessed inherent grace and integrity.
"Think nothing of it. Enjoy your evening."
For the first time, Bu Eun-seol smiled genuinely.
The brilliance of that smile left Guyang Cheong gaping, transfixed.
"Then."
As Bu Eun-seol turned toward the True Fragrance Courtyard where he lodged—Zzzzing!
An ominous, revolting sensation crawled down his spine.
Numerous figures radiating razor-sharp killing intent were converging on their location.
'Not assassins.'
True assassins would have concealed their presence, approaching in absolute secrecy.
Yet these approaching killers oozed malice as blatantly as if announcing their arrival.
'They're targeting these people.'
Strictly speaking, Jin-yang fell under the Righteous Faction's territory.
Even if factions of the Demonic or Unorthodox Paths clashed here, no one would intervene—making it an ideal location for an ambush.
'How entertaining.'
Langya Pavilion's martial philosophy dictated learning even from others' battles.
One should pay for the privilege of witnessing combat, let alone refuse a spectacle freely offered.
'Troublesome. I need a closer view.'
But the Separate Garden offered no vantage points for covert observation.
After brief consideration, he turned back to Guyang Cheong.
"Might I stay a while longer?"
"Pardon?"
"The night air cleared my head... and truthfully, I've nothing awaiting me in my quarters."
Guyang Cheong looked perplexed.
Returning would only invite more ridicule—why would he subject himself to that?
"Well..."
Yet refusing might wound him further. Forcing an awkward smile, she nodded.
"Of course."
When Bu Eun-seol reentered the West River Courtyard with Guyang Cheong, the Seven Swords Gate disciples stared in disbelief.
—Has this fool no shame?
—Did Lady Guyang drag him back out of courtesy?
Their eyes brimmed with open contempt, but Bu Eun-seol ignored them, calmly taking his seat.
'They're here.'
No need to heighten his Beast Path senses.
The approaching group made no effort to conceal their presence as they crossed the courtyard's main gate.
Thud. Thud.
Soon, the heavy synchronized footsteps of a coordinated force echoed beyond the windows.
"Someone approaches?"
Only now sensing the encroaching killing intent, the banquet hall's occupants sharpened their gazes.
After exchanging alert looks, they moved toward the exit.
Crash!
The doors burst open as martial artists clad in crimson uniforms filed inside.
Their faces were corpse-pale, their hands empty of weapons—yet they radiated unmistakable, viscous killing intent.
"Who are you?"
Ma Han asked, eyeing the martial artists before them.
Yet the red-clad figures remained silent, their eyes merely flashing in response.
As the suffocating silence stretched on, Wi Ji-un stepped forward this time.
"You seem to have come to the wrong place. Which faction do you belong to?"
When there was still no answer, Wi Ji-un raised his voice once more.
"Or do you mean to make enemies of the successors of the Seven Sword Gates of Qinghai?"
His intention was clear—to subtly reveal their status and force the intruders to back down.
But the red-clad warriors only sneered in response.
"Seven Sword Gates of Qinghai?"
The man who appeared to be their leader stepped forward, his voice dripping with disdain.
"So it was just a bunch of brats playing house."
"What did you say?!"
Wi Ji-un's killing intent flared at the insult.
"Repeat that if you dare!"
The leader in red bared his teeth in a grin—one so chilling it seemed to warp the very air.
Then, suddenly, Wi Ji-un noticed the emblem carved into the back of their robes—a well.
"Blood Sea Demon Well..."
In an instant, the faces of the Seven Sword Gates' youths drained of color.
The Blood Sea Demon Well.
A den of the most vicious demonkin among the Demonic Path sects.
Over the past decade, their power had surged so rapidly that they were now counted among the Four Great Wicked Lands of the murim.
So why had these merciless fiends surrounded them?
As Wi Ji-un stood frozen, Ma Han stepped forward.
"I am Ma Han, Young Clan Head of the Sea Tower Sword Gate."
Though the Blood Sea Demon Well's warriors were infamous even among the Demonic Path as Killing Ghosts, Ma Han's bearing remained dignified—unshaken as a scion of a renowned demonic lineage.
"You appear to be a senior of the Blood Sea Demon Well. Might I ask—"
"You're not worthy of knowing."
Ma Han's eyes flashed with fury at the leader's dismissal.
No matter how fearsome the Blood Sea Demon Well was, they were the young clan heads representing the Seven Sword Gates. They couldn't let such humiliation slide.
"How dare—!"
Just as Ma Han moved to draw his sword, Guyang Cheong-jeong—Cheong-mae—stopped him.
"Young Hero Ma. Stay calm."
Then she stepped forward and addressed the leader directly.
"What do you want?"
The man's gaze sharpened as he studied her.
"So you're Guyang Cheong-jeong, the prodigy of the Wind-Shooting Sword Sect."
"I asked why you've come."
The leader chuckled lowly before nodding.
"You only need to come with us quietly."
Though his words were simple, the meaning was unmistakable.
Kidnapping. They intended to abduct the successors of the Seven Sword Gates.
"What nonsense is this?!"
The youths behind her drew their swords in outrage.
They were young, brimming with vigor, and confident in their mastery of their sects' peerless techniques.
Even against the Blood Sea Demon Well, they felt no fear.
"Pups playing at war."
The leader smirked, then turned to his subordinates as if further words were wasted.
"Subdue them. Drag them back like the dogs they are."
In an instant, the Blood Sea Demon Well's masters surrounding the Seven Sword Gates' young men thrust out their palms in unison.
Swish!
A sharp sound of breaking air followed as axe-like palm energy surged toward them.
The reason these warriors carried no weapons was simple—they were all masters of palm techniques.
Shhk-shhk!
The young swordsmen of the Seven Sword Gates drew their blades in response.
Their sword arts, honed over generations in Qinghai, were no mere trifles—they were peerless martial skills.
"Ghk—!"
"Ugh...!"
Yet as the battle raged, labored groans escaped the youths' lips.
Though their techniques were supreme, their mastery was shallow, and their internal power lacking.
They had spent more time roaming the martial world and building connections than truly tempering their skills.
"Ugh—!"
Finally, Jeong Gwang, successor of the Blood Essence Sword Sect, collapsed under a brutal palm strike.
"Young Hero Jeong!"
Guyang Cheong-jeong rushed forward, swinging her sword with all her might to weave a dense Sword Curtain.
She barely managed to push the Blood Sea Demon Well's warriors back—but the moment she did, they turned their full fury on her.
'They're too strong.'
The demonkin were not only ruthless but utterly indifferent to injury.
The Seven Sword Gates' successors, sheltered and inexperienced, having trained only in swordsmanship, were helpless against them.
'Why? Why are the Blood Sea Demon Well's masters doing this?'
Even as she fought, confusion swirled in Guyang Cheong-jeong's mind.
'No matter how cruel, they're still of the Demonic Path. Why target us, the Seven Sword Gates of Qinghai?'
Their sects had no grudges, no overlapping territories.
'Then... someone must have hired them.'
Just as her thoughts grew more tangled—
"Cheong-mae, we must retreat!"
Ma Han, frantically swinging his sword beside her, shouted.
"I'll open a path!"
She was about to nod when her gaze landed on Bu Eun-seol—still seated calmly in the banquet hall.
His composed posture, watching them as if observing a Beijing Opera performance, was eerily tranquil.
'He must be frozen in fear!'
But she was gravely mistaken.
She assumed Bu Eun-seol was too terrified to move.
Yet the truth was far different.
"No! We can't leave Young Master Bu behind!"
Her voice rang out sharply, cutting through the chaos. The thought of abandoning him—sitting there so unnervingly still—was unthinkable.