The fortress was no longer just a gathering point.
It had become a boiling crucible.
With the Assembly of Heirs approaching its climax, the ancient stronghold's halls pulsed with tension. Disciples and elders from every sect kept one hand on their blades and the other on their pride. Alliances shifted like sand. Whispers turned into strategies, and peace balanced on the edge of duel invitations.
And in the center of it all stood Baek Sun-Ho.
He walked through the stone corridors that morning without his mask, flanked by So-Ri and Ji-Mun. His presence—confident, unhurried—drew attention from every corner.
Some offered bows. Others scoffed quietly. But none ignored him.
"They're circling," So-Ri muttered under her breath. "Like vultures with etiquette."
"Let them," Sun-Ho replied calmly. "The longer they circle, the longer we prepare."
Ji-Mun leaned closer. "We could leak a fake weakness. Something ridiculous. Like, you can't fight unless it's raining."
"I'm not spreading a weather-based limitation," Sun-Ho said.
"Wind-based?"
"Please stop."
They turned into the courtyard where sparring sessions were being held between sect heirs. It was packed—disciples crowding balconies and walkways, eager to witness rising legends clash.
Today, one of the matchups was between Jin Ye-Hwa and a disciple from the Southern Thunder Clan. The elegance of her movements was artful. Her blade shimmered like moonlight on water, and her opponent never landed a single strike.
Ji-Mun whistled. "She's making it look easy."
So-Ri narrowed her eyes. "Because she wants us to think it is."
They stayed only long enough to watch Ye-Hwa bow to the crowd. Her gaze briefly landed on Sun-Ho—measuring, calculating. She offered a slight, graceful nod before walking off.
"She's not just aiming for leadership," So-Ri murmured. "She's setting up political theater. Every duel she wins earns her another whisper of support."
"Then we'll give them a louder whisper," Sun-Ho said. "One that doesn't beg for praise."
---
Later – War Room of the Discarded Pavilion
Master Jang Cheol-Oh had found them a secluded wing of the fortress: a ruined antechamber once used by the Discarded Pavilion sect. Faded tapestries still lined the cracked stone walls.
Sun-Ho unrolled a crude map drawn by Yeon onto a wide table, stones weighing the corners.
"The outer factions are clearly staking symbolic ground," he said, pointing. "But the inner halls—where records, history, and the true tests lie—are being ignored."
"Too risky," Ma-Rok said, crossing his arms. "Rumors say the inner chambers are cursed. Traps. Ghosts. One guy claims a bamboo scroll tried to stab him."
"Or," Ji-Mun offered, "the real trials of worthiness are hidden there, and someone doesn't want the others finding them."
Master Jang sipped tea from the corner. "The Murim Alliance always cloaked their rites in mystery. It's no surprise their heir trials would be more than political debate and fencing matches."
Sun-Ho traced a line between the map's oldest recorded halls.
"We move tonight," he said. "Silently. Only us."
"Back to mask?" So-Ri asked.
He shook his head. "Not this time. If the Alliance meant for secrecy, then we go in as seekers, not symbols."
Yul-Rin twirled a vial of clear liquid. "I'll bring antidotes. Ghost bamboo sounds fun."
---
That Night – Into the Forgotten Halls
The group moved with practiced stealth—Yul-Rin laying scent-masking powders behind them, Ji-Mun marking the walls with near-invisible chalk glyphs.
They passed beyond the walls of the official Assembly into old catacombs—a maze of ruined shrines, forgotten scroll vaults, and dry cisterns.
Ma-Rok led, hammer ready.
"I smell no ghosts," he grumbled. "Bit disappointed."
"That's the trap," Yul-Rin said. "You only smell ghosts after they get you."
Ji-Mun shivered. "Why are you like this?"
They reached a chamber that bore the sigil of the First Alliance—an ancient phoenix wrapped in ivy. The seal on the door was fractured, but not broken.
Sun-Ho stepped forward.
"It's responding," he murmured.
A faint hum rippled through the stone as his qi met the remnants of old power. Fire flickered in his palm—calm, controlled.
Then, lightning sparked behind it, wrapping the flame in silver coils.
With a quiet groan, the door opened.
Beyond lay a domed room filled with ancient pillars and a shallow circular basin, dry and cracked. Carvings lined the walls—each telling a tale of the first Murim leaders, the founders who had stood not for dominance, but for balance.
"This is it," So-Ri whispered. "The true test site."
They stepped in, reverent.
Sun-Ho approached the basin and knelt, placing his palm to the center. The stone flared with soft red and white light.
"Blood," Master Jang said, stepping forward. "Yours."
Sun-Ho didn't flinch. He pricked his finger, letting a drop fall onto the stone.
The chamber trembled. Light filled the room.
And then… silence.
A faint symbol rose from the basin—glowing with fire and lightning: the seal of Balance.
Sun-Ho stood.
The trial had begun.
---
End of Chapter 76 – Shadows Before the Flame