The Final Flash
Tianshan in Xinjiang, known as the gateway between the Central Plains and the outer regions.
At this moment, Tianshan lay pristine, as though draped in flawless white silk. The snow-covered peaks were so still it felt as if time itself had frozen.
The only trace of time's passage was a trail of crimson dots stretching across the snow like a broken red thread.
Drip. Drip.
The source of those spreading red stains was a man covered in wounds. Though he staggered with every step, he never stopped moving forward.
His name was Jang Muhwi.
He had once led the Iron Blood Sword Squad, the Murim Alliance's most elite force.
Jang Muhwi glanced at his sleeve. Every time the fabric fluttered, droplets of blood scattered across the pure white ground. Yet his expression never changed.
Compared to the blood his comrades had spilled, his own was nothing.
He lifted his head and looked toward the summit of Tianshan. The path to Xianglo Peak, the mountain's symbol, was littered with jagged rocks. Those rocks were the bodies of his fallen allies.
A voice devoid of emotion reached him.
"You've come."
Jang Muhwi raised his gaze. A middle-aged man in flowing white robes stood with his back turned beneath the pavilion. This was the absolute being the jianghu called Cheonma—the one who had created this massacre.
Jang Muhwi raised his sword with his remaining arm.
"You…"
A tremor ran from his head to his heart, then down his arm until it reached the blade he held steady.
Cheonma turned, a faint smile on his lips.
"Are you angry? What is it that angers you so?"
"…"
Jang Muhwi could not answer. He did not know the reason himself.
Three years had passed since the Demonic Cult shattered the sealed gates and swept across the Central Plains. Every sect had been drenched in blood. Jang Muhwi and the last desperate force had climbed this mountain to end the tragedy. Yet most of the orthodox warriors had fallen before even reaching Xianglo Peak, where Cheonma waited.
If he had been stronger, could he have stopped this slaughter?
Jang Muhwi looked at his opponent. Even amid the carnage, Cheonma was smiling. That smile alone could have passed for the serene expression of an enlightened monk.
Then Cheonma spoke.
"A useful bait."
"…"
Jang Muhwi's eyes flickered. The word made no sense.
Cheonma continued.
"From what I see, you were all bait the Murim Alliance threw at me."
"What do you mean?"
"Did you notice nothing strange on your way here? Have you ever seen a martial artist conserve strength in a life-or-death battle? I have never met such a person."
Cheonma's words carried heavy meaning. As Jang Muhwi pondered them, his mind turned whiter than the snow-covered Tianshan.
It was true. Among those who had reached the final battle, disciples and heirs of the great orthodox sects were conspicuously absent. Jang Muhwi had known this fact. They had hidden their prized successors, claiming they needed to preserve them for the future. Those late-stage prodigies—the so-called future of the murim—who had been fed rare elixirs and taught peerless techniques since birth were nowhere to be found.
But none of that mattered now. Someone had to stand against them. He could not simply watch as the Central Plains were drowned in blood.
Jang Muhwi gripped his sword, suppressing his emotions, and shouted.
"Shut your mouth!"
"Your martial arts are impressive enough to reach this place, yet your thinking remains outdated. Were any disciples or heirs of the great sects among these corpses?"
Cheonma's voice held no emotion. His expression remained unchanged, as though he were merely flipping through a familiar book.
After observing Jang Muhwi for a moment, Cheonma took one step forward. Jang Muhwi's shoulders twitched. It felt as if an enormous wall were pressing down on him.
Cheonma smiled faintly.
"If you so much as graze my collar, I will show you my sword."
"I'll shut that arrogant mouth for you."
Jang Muhwi thrust his sword forward. For an instant, time seemed to slow. No—his sword was slowing. Even the snowflakes beginning to fall moved faster than his blade.
Cheonma walked toward him, faster than the sword. When he slowly extended his hand, Jang Muhwi twisted his blade, but it moved like a frozen waterwheel.
Swish!
With that sound, Jang Muhwi's sword flew into the air and embedded itself in the ground.
Thud.
Jang Muhwi stared at his right arm. Blood gushed from the severed limb like a fountain. Cheonma took another step forward.
A warrior whose presence surged like a tidal wave? There was no time to admire him. Even now, Cheonma approached slowly. Standing before Jang Muhwi, he wore a gentle smile.
"You lasted longer than expected, swordsman of nothing but malice. Though without arms, I suppose you can no longer be called a swordsman. Farewell."
Cheonma reached out. His expression was almost approving, yet his hand showed no hesitation.
Then his hand stopped. Cheonma looked at his sleeve. A palm's width of fabric had been cleanly cut away. He stared at Jang Muhwi in disbelief.
Jang Muhwi held a sword between his teeth. While Cheonma had been distracted, he had bitten the blade embedded in the ground and swung it. Naturally, it was that sword that had sliced Cheonma's sleeve.
Cheonma glanced between his sleeve and Jang Muhwi before speaking.
"What a pity. Such a pity… A eagle that could have soared has been reduced to a sparrow because it was born at the wrong time."
"Stop spouting nonsense… Cough!"
A clot of blood spilled from Jang Muhwi's lips. The sword he had been holding in his mouth fell to the ground.
Cheonma regarded him with interest.
"You are worth keeping my promise."
He picked up the fallen sword. He had promised to show his own blade if Jang Muhwi so much as grazed his collar. Now he intended to honor that vow. He raised the sword quietly. Even the snow falling from the sky seemed to avoid its tip. More precisely, time itself appeared to halt at the edge of that blade.
To Jang Muhwi, the sight resembled an ink painting.
Then the sword moved slightly. Cheonma's blade drifted toward his neck like a gentle breeze.
Swish.
In that moment, Jang Muhwi's eyes widened. Or rather, his soul seemed to leave his body. Cheonma's sword was more beautiful than any he had ever seen. Was it fitting to call the blade of a demonic leader who had drenched the Central Plains in blood beautiful?
The sword that had been approaching slowly touched his neck.
Swish.
Even as he felt his body lift into the air, Jang Muhwi could not tear his eyes from Cheonma's sword. He knew no one could stop Cheonma. But that was not what mattered. In this final moment, he refused to forget the trajectory of that last sword.
If he had been given more time, could he have drawn such a beautiful arc? It was impossible. He had not been born into a prestigious clan with elixirs in his mouth from birth. Even this thought was too extravagant now. Only an instant remained to him.
A dull sound rang in his ears.
Thud.
The world spun. As Cheonma's figure slowly receded, his eyelids grew heavy. Though a weight like a thousand pounds pressed down on them, Jang Muhwi did not want to close his eyes.
Then he saw it—a flash of light streaking across his vision.