Survival (3)

The Zhongnan Sect’s main mountain was on full alert.

A mysterious assault had struck midway through the third promotion examination. The moment the intelligence arrived, the sect’s leadership had thrown itself into motion.

“Elders, reconfirm the mountain’s defenses. Gakhyeon and the rest of the first-generation disciples are to lead the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rescue of the second-generation disciples and the initiates.”

“What of the other initiates who stayed behind on the mountain and did not take the examination?”

“Evacuate them to Seondowon, where the retired elders reside. Even if the main mountain becomes a battlefield, they will be safe there.”

Under Sect Leader Okwon Jinin, personnel moved at a breakneck pace. The elders scrambled to recheck the defenses of Zhongnan Mountain’s headquarters. With the majority of second-generation disciples away for the promotion exam, a gap had opened in the guard force; they redistributed whoever remained and tightened the watch as best they could.

The initiates who had not entered the third examination were still going about their ordinary routines when the sudden news of the attack left them reeling. Even as they fretted for the brothers and sisters sitting the exam, they followed the first-generation disciples and fled to Seondowon for safety.

Meanwhile, the first-generation disciples who had finished their preparations set out to rescue those in danger at the testing grounds. At their core stood the Tae-eul Swordsmen, the Zhongnan Sect’s absolute elite—every last one of them seething, their faces promising no mercy for the intruders who had dared set foot on the sect’s domain.

And in the midst of that whole-sect uproar, a figure slipped through the dark, using the chaos as cover.

Its movements were so light and elusive that even a fair number of masters would have failed to notice them, and it threaded the blind spots of the redistributed patrols as if it already knew every gap. With ghostlike footwork the intruder made for Jangseogak, which currently stood empty of people.

Jangseogak’s design rose in levels: the higher the floor, the greater the martial manuals stored there. Reach the third floor and one found the advanced arts. The intruder turned toward the stairs, intent on climbing at once—

“Where are you rushing off to in such a hurry?”

A voice spoke from behind.

The intruder spun on instinct toward the sound. A Taoist of the Zhongnan Sect stood near the entrance, watching.

“……”

“Judging by your look, you’re wondering why anyone is here at all.”

The Taoist, Jinhyun, had read the intruder’s thoughts with perfect accuracy. The guards normally posted at Jangseogak had been pulled away for the mountain’s defense. By rights the library should have been empty. And yet someone was here.

“Reading the heavenly secrets is not your side’s privilege alone.”

“……”

At Jinhyun’s answer the intruder unleashed a blade of murderous intent. Reading the heavenly secrets. That single phrase was enough for it to judge Jinhyun a threat that had to be removed.

“That reaction tells me I was right. You people do move by reading the heavens.”

And not at Jinhyun’s own level—where the future was only dimly sensed—but with the clarity to see the future they desired, sharp and vivid.

They don’t even fear the heavenly punishment for leaking the celestial secrets.

The price of leaking the heavens was never light. At the least one coughed blood. In worse cases blood poured from the seven orifices—mouth, nose, eyes, and ears—in the affliction known as Seven-Orifice Blood Flood. At the extreme, a bolt of lightning could fall from a clear sky and kill on the spot. To see a desired future so clearly meant the punishment would strike all the harder.

But if one is willing to bear that cost, one can force the world into the shape one wants.

Learning the unannounced contents of a promotion exam in advance and engineering an ambush. Mapping the blind spots of a redistributed guard force and slipping in without a sound. The entire crisis the Zhongnan Sect now faced might well have been a situation deliberately crafted by them.

To move this boldly… do they have a way to block the heavenly punishment?

In the ancient age when immortals still walked among mortals, one might have wrapped oneself in dharma treasures and turned the punishment aside. But this was an era in which the mystic arts had dwindled nearly to vanishing. They were likely dodging the punishment by some other means—and Jinhyun doubted those means were anything clean.

But even that ends today.

Just as they had read the heavens, so had Jinhyun. The futures each side had seen had crossed in a single place and driven in a wedge that could no longer be avoided. The shadow that had hidden its existence behind the veil of celestial foresight would, whether it wished it or not, have to show its tail.

Even if that ending is the death of this poor Taoist.

Jinhyun drew up his qi—to face the infiltrator who had crept inside, and to let the others know he was here.

“……!”

Sensing his intent, the intruder lunged. On the first floor of Jangseogak a roar erupted, and a gale of force burst outward.

Cheonhwa moved exactly as planned, racing from one fireworks beacon to the next and pulling initiates free. The work was anything but smooth. Because they had been bracing for second-generation examiners throughout the promotion trial, more of them than expected managed to fend off the assassins’ first strikes—yet not all of them did. Some took wounds while holding the line; others were already past saving by the time Cheonhwa’s group arrived.

The chaos itself told the initiates the truth: this was a battlefield. That reality was more than enough to birth terror. And yet from deep in their chests a heat rose to drive the fear out. Anger. Rage at those who would harm their sect, the Zhongnan Sect, and their brothers and sisters.

Cheonhwa poured that burning fury into his voice.

“Let’s go.”

At his word the party that had halted moved again. Fire of wrath toward the invaders burned in every eye. The empty places left by brothers and sisters who had shared three years of hardship set the initiates’ hearts alight. They would have ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wept and mourned if they could—but there was no time even for that. All they could do was give everything they had so that no more would fall the same way.

“Don’t let the intruders escape!”

“Save our brothers and sisters!”

“You think we’ll let you run wild any longer?!”

The initiates spat their fury and threw themselves against the assassins to rescue the rest. To keep the losses from growing. To honor those already gone. That burning march only stopped when they had covered every point where fireworks had risen.

Cheonhwa counted the initiates gathered in one place.

All told, a little over thirty.

For a force scraped together under the Dark Night Assassination Pavilion’s assault, it was a considerable number. Wounded were among them, but so far no one had died. The problem was that there was no way to know whether everyone remaining on the testing grounds now stood here. Some, without doubt, had failed to fire their fireworks and were still hiding from the killers.

There is a way.

Have each person fire their remaining fireworks at regular intervals. The method was dangerously reckless: it would signal their position to allies and invaders alike.

But if we hesitate, the losses will only grow.

Cheonhwa put the plan to the others.

“I agree.”

“I agree as well. There’s no other way to gather the ones still scattered.”

The vote was unanimous. Every brother and sister accepted the plan for their own reasons; there was no more room to delay.

“Everyone except the wounded will form the Twenty-Four Sword Formation Under Heaven.”

Cheonhwa divided them into four teams of six and placed in each team someone whose senses were sharp enough to answer an assassin’s ambush. They set the wounded at the center and arranged the four teams around them to cover every direction. That did not mean the wounded had no role.

“Those gathered in the center matter just as much. You will fire fireworks skyward at regular intervals.”

Roles were set. All that remained was to execute. Once the operation began, they would have to hold until the assault was over. Resolve hardened in every face as the first firework streaked into the night.

The lookouts stretched their senses to the limit and poured every scrap of attention into their assigned arcs.

“North—three approaching.”

“East—two approaching.”

“West—six approaching.”

“South—five approaching.”

Barely any time had passed since the firework went up, and they were already swarming in from every side like a pack of dogs. Most of those would not be initiates, but assassins.

“Everyone, identify carefully. Not by clothing—by the face. There will absolutely be assassins wearing initiate robes.”

There was a clear difference in build between most assassins and the initiates, but some of the killers were close enough in size that the warning had to be given.

“Initiates, this way!”

“Assassins coming too—hold them!”

Friend and foe mixed from every direction as the initiates fought with the formation as their core. A coordinated storm of sword strokes shattered the approaching assassins in moments. Months of grinding drills, swapping members again and again, now paid their price in a crisis.

“Don’t close in! Get near them and the formation will cut you down!”

“Throw hidden weapons from range! Bleed their strength as much as you can!”

Faced with the initiates’ sharp response, the assassins changed tactics: long-range hidden-weapon volleys. Some of the blades ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠were coated in poison.

“Don’t try to block them—deflect as many as you can!”

“Anyone hit by a hidden weapon, fall back!”

“Anyone new who isn’t hurt, join the formation!”

The initiates had never faced a throwing assault; of course they took wounds. They batted weapons aside as best they could, but no one could stop every blade in a rain of steel. Even so, the assassins’ barrage could not last. Hidden weapons were expendable, and their numbers were finite.

While initiates and assassins traded blows back and forth, something arrived that could overturn the board. Two First-class assassins of the White Tiger Unit had come to assess the situation.

“All this fuss over a handful of initiates?”

“Wipe out everyone gathered here and return to headquarters!”

Sick of their subordinates’ performance, the White Tiger assassins stepped in themselves. If First-class killers joined the fight, the formation that had barely been holding would be driven back in a single push. Cheonhwa shouted to the only person who could match them.

“Daehwa, senior brother!”

“I know!”

Daehwa drew up his qi and thrust his wooden sword, hurling a blast of sword wind. The White Tiger assassins split apart to dodge it. Cheonhwa and Daehwa each charged the killer who had broken their way.

Six Harmony Sensory Path!

Cheonhwa collapsed the wide net of his senses onto a single assassin. The man drew his blade and poured out sword wind in a continuous stream, but Cheonhwa slipped each blast by a hair’s breadth and pressed forward. The residual edge of the wind opened fine cuts on his face; he paid them no mind. When the harassment of sword wind failed, the assassin charged him head-on. A dark crimson ripple ran along the steel—the technique of pouring internal energy into an external object to reinforce it, Qi-Infused Sword. Along with sword wind, it was one of the signatures of a First-class martial artist.

Meeting the blade head-on is a losing game. The wooden sword will break first; that’s certain.

The keen senses of the Six Harmony Sensory Path read every twitch of the enemy’s body. The murderous intent he felt so clearly spelled out the man’s aim: every thread of it pointed at a vital point.

But if I know where he’s aiming, I can dodge.

Trusting his instinct, Cheonhwa chose bold evasion over defense. He slipped past the merciless strikes that hunted only his vitals by the narrowest margins, and the instant the assassin extended, he struck faster than the man could recover. The assassin poured out attacks, trying to shake him off; Cheonhwa kept slipping free, and when a blow could not be avoided he rolled it along the flat of his wooden blade and clung on.

The assassin faltered. A heavy sword that read the opponent’s motion and applied slow pressure. A swift sword that stole the breath with sheer speed. A soft sword that received an assault and turned it aside. The principles of many sword paths mixed without favoring any one extreme—the Thirty-Six Swords Under Heaven, driven to its peak ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠by Cheonhwa, was the Zhongnan sword itself, the sword that walked the middle path.

A blade that held the desperate thrashing of a man fighting to live on the edge of death overwhelmed a killing sword that existed only to end a life. At last a gap opened. Cheonhwa did not miss it. His qi swelled and pulsed hard; the force he had stored through every exchange so far was about to erupt. He did not stop there. He raised his will and reinforced the Stored Jin.

CRACK—!

With a roar like thunder and lightning, overwhelming Jin Release force exploded outward.