"Uuuaaaagh!"
Hwa Gayeon screamed before she even realized it.
The words Ice Peak had just spoken froze her to the marrow.
That over two hundred demonic experts would focus first on fewer than thirty of them—just hearing it was enough to chill her blood.
Yet as she looked at the faces around her, she forced herself to steel her heart.
Don't tremble. You're a warrior. You're Hwa Gayeon of the Plum Blossom Sword.
Even so… she had never once experienced a true large-scale battlefield until today.
In war, whether master or novice, all feel nerves. Especially in a first battle—many a so-called expert had died to some absurd mistake, their nerves broken by that monster called the battlefield.
Back in her first taste of combat, she had only endured the crushing pressure thanks to Scholar of the Martial World, Cheon Ryuyeong.
A man who knew no martial arts, yet stood at the very front. He must have been afraid too, must have trembled within—but he never once lost his smile, never once shed his calm.
But now, he was not here.
Even if Cheon Ryuyeong stood among them now, with no Formless Deadly Poison in their hands and only sheer force to decide the matter, he could have offered no help.
Still, as she saw the demonic warriors rushing forward with shouts, she thought of him. If only he were at her side, her heart might have steadied.
And she was not alone. Most of the younger generation had never stood in such massed slaughter before.
Jang Deukmu, staring blankly at the onrushing demonic tide, suddenly shouted:
"Vagabond King! I trust you!"
Just as Cheon Ryuyeong came to Hwa Gayeon's mind, he too needed someone to cling to.
Ice Peak swallowed hard, again and again. She had spoken boldly before the enemy, chest proud—because she was the Martial Alliance's strategist.
But faced with the demonic horde roaring like a storm, her breath stuck in her throat. Shock struck her—her hands and feet trembled despite herself.
Then Pyeong-u Jong reached out, brushing her shoulder gently.
"Ice Peak."
Moyong Lin turned her head toward him. He grinned broadly.
"Stay by my side."
"Hwa-wol…"
She felt the tremors in her hands and legs ease.
Namgung Su clenched his teeth.
Third son of the Namgung Clan, foremost sword family under Heaven. The Azure Dragon of the Five Dragons and Three Peaks!
Among the new generation, his name always stood at the top.
Arrogant, condescending—yet now his eyes shook like an aspen's leaves. He had thought himself ready, confident of his composure. But his hope collapsed.
Is this pressure… this strong?
The murderous momentum of the demonic masters disrupted his very breath. When he tried to summon his inner power, his qi stuttered and broke.
He screamed inwardly:
No! This won't do! Get a hold of yourself! You are Namgung Su, the Azure Dragon!
Then a woman stepped boldly in front of him.
Dokgo Seol.
"I'll show you what I can do!"
Her fierce cry left him dazed. The sight of her—this beautiful woman, fearless, blazing with spirit—nearly stole his senses.
How stunning she was.
And shame crashed over him like a tide.
He had thought her a step below himself, and above all, merely a woman.
Yet now, no trace of fear touched her face.
At her side, Jo Jeonhu stepped forward, laughing.
"Hahaha! Lady Seol! Let's fight as we did against the Black Wolf Troop!"
"Gladly."
"Don't overdo it—just keep pace with me."
"That's what I should be saying."
"Kuhahaha!"
Their relaxed banter pulled a bitter smile from Namgung Su. He steadied his breathing, regained his focus. His wavering gaze found its place again.
"Right. A real fight, just like training."
His sword lifted high, qi circulating from his dantian.
Cheongu Yulsa and the nineteen Cheongseong disciples stared red-eyed, veins bulging. The thought of their fallen master and senior brothers weighed in their hearts—their regret at not even being able to keep vigil at their deaths.
Cheongu Yulsa cried out:
"Show them the sword of Cheongseong!"
Hands tightened on their blades.
And so each drew a deep breath, ready to meet the charge.
At the very front, the Vagabond King and Pyeong-u glanced at each other.
Bang Yacheol said:
"Once more…"
Pyeong-u smiled faintly.
"Let's have some fun."
A grin spread across Bang Yacheol's lips. He found himself liking this brash youngster, and now, trusting his skill, felt even reassured.
Moyong Lin shouted:
"Hold for one gak—that's all we need!"
The words had barely left her lips before blades fell toward Bang Yacheol and Pyeong-u.
Shhhrraak!
The sky shuddered under the violent sound of cleaving air.
The foremost demonic warriors had slashed down—but their blades carried with them the force of over two hundred behind.
A mountain's weight bore down.
That tide of power crashed toward the twenty-nine orthodox fighters.
Whiiirrrl—
The blade-wind whipped hair and clothes alike.
"Waaahhhh!"
The roar of the demonic horde battered their ears.
Through it, the sound of steel answered.
Clang! Chaaang!
Bang Yacheol's saber smashed his opponent's blade aside. The force made the demonic warrior reel, and in that instant, Bang Yacheol lashed out with his foot.
Thud!
"Ghuukh!"
The man flew back, crashing into his comrades.
Pyeong-u's sword met the saber of a Four Emperors Palace disciple. Sparks flew blue in the night as Pyeong-u's edge slid like lightning down the enemy's blade—then, in the next heartbeat, slit his belly.
"Huuk!"
He choked more in shock than in pain.
He had heard the boy's sword was fast. Seeing it was one thing—facing it another.
Shhhrrrak!
Pyeong-u's sword flashed like a thunderbolt, unceasing. With every clash of steel came screams, sprays of blood, shrieks of "Too fast!"
Dokgo Seol's blade was keen. She did not flinch from head-on clashes, but always sought to make the collision on her own terms.
When struck down at, she diverted or deflected. When thrust at, she slipped aside. But when slashed upward, she always struck first—or stepped back and struck in turn.
The art of harmonizing and adapting.
Lacking overwhelming qi or strength, it was her best choice. She had learned from her bitter struggle against the Black Wolves, and evolved. All the while, her sword stabbed ceaselessly at openings.
She won no great victories, but against masters she held her ground. Much of that was thanks to Jo Jeonhu at her side.
Jo Jeonhu wielded his massive five-chi greatsword as though in reckless abandon. All the while, he muttered—
"One gak. One gak."
It was self-hypnosis.
That he only had to endure for one gak of time, that it was fine to burn through every shred of inner power within that span.
Of course, he did not truly swing recklessly with murderous slashes. Doing so would leave him open to the enemy experts and get him cut down in a single stroke. Instead, he swung his sword ceaselessly, fiercely, to keep foes from daring to close.
That, in turn, was invaluable to Dokgo Seol, who fought alongside him. Whenever the enemy faltered from his wild defense, she drove her blade into the gaps.
Namgung Su fought as though pressed back, yet calmly turned aside every strike that fell before his eyes. As though a beginner at the sword, he concerned himself only with the blades that dropped before his sight.
Without greed, without rashness—thus he slowly adjusted to the rhythm of battle.
Pyeong-u Jong and Moyong Lin were struggling but managing, when Hwa Gayeon fell in with them, making a team of three.
Meanwhile, Jang Deukmu had joined the Cheongseong disciples, where the fighting was fiercest, shouting again and again:
"Trust in the sword of Cheongseong! Huuaaagh! Daoist! Over here!"
Each was fighting their own desperate battle.
Over two hundred masters of the demonic sects, the Small Hell Sound Sect, and the Four Emperors Palace hurled themselves at them without pause.
But at the very front, Bang Yacheol and Pyeong-u stood as the bulwark. Those behind fought with every drop of strength to prevent their formation from being encircled.
Whether it was their blood or the enemy's, all were drenched in crimson.
Whenever Moyong Lin felt things reaching the breaking point, she cried out:
"Ten steps back, retreat!"
Whenever the line could not withstand the pressure, they fell back ten paces to catch breath. Only Bang Yacheol and Pyeong-u were exceptions.
To give their comrades that brief respite, they always withdrew later, skirting the edge of isolation with every desperate clash.
Even so, they endured.
Meanwhile, the White Tiger Corps, the Dokgo Clan, and Kunlun pressed hard at the enemy rear on both flanks.
Won Pyeong shouted until his throat nearly split:
"Break through! We must break through!"
They had to fracture the demonic formation. Even if they could not shatter it outright, they had to carve wounds deep enough to matter—only then could the fewer than thirty comrades at the front hope to last.
It was the bold strategy of the Vagabond King and the Strategist of the Martial Alliance, betting on the timely arrival of the Tang Clan. It was, truly, the best course if they wished to protect Kunlun and the Dokgo Clan and still prevail.
But if it failed… those twenty-nine at the front would all die. Thus the anxiety grew unbearable.
"What are you doing? Crush them beneath your feet!"
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Steel rang out like thunder.
The darkness around them had already begun to pale with approaching dawn.
Dokgo Muyoung shouted himself hoarse:
"Hold on! Just a little longer!"
Drawing up the last dregs of his inner power from his dantian, he slashed wildly with his Gale-Slicing Saber.
His daughter, Dokgo Seol, was out there in that peril. He could not, would not, lose her so futilely.
So the White Tiger Corps, the Dokgo Clan, and Kunlun struck again and again at the enemy's rear flanks.
But they were as unyielding as an iron fortress.
Only the most seasoned experts remained, and the rear ranks focused wholly on defense. Even the veteran White Tiger Corps could find no opening.
Where before the Dokgo Clan and Kunlun had struggled desperately in defense, now the roles were reversed.
Han Chugwang, watching from behind, bit his lip.
At this rate, we'll never break their rear!
And the worst was—there was no answer. His heart ached to rush forward and carve a breakthrough with his own blade.
But even had he been in perfect health, without wounds, it was impossible.
He groaned and muttered low:
"If the Tang Clan doesn't come soon… we'll be finished."
Naeokcheon smiled grimly.
"Time to end this."
At his words, the others nearby—Blood Priest, Sa Hyeolgang, and the rest of the demon leadership—let killing intent blaze in their eyes.
Blood Priest stepped forward.
"Let's go."
They had gauged the Vagabond King and Pyeong-u's strength, and deliberately held back until the two grew tired. Now was that time.
In scarcely one gak, those two had cut down thirty of their finest.
Those thirty were their own direct subordinates, the best of their elite.
When they had first commanded those men to hold off the Vagabond King and Pyeong-u, never had they imagined that all would fall within such a brief span.
So the leaders now gnashed their teeth.
At Tang Clan, they had suffered utter defeat—an unchangeable fact. Here, at least, they longed for a decisive victory.
But even if they won now, could it truly be called a great victory? It would be a triumph scarred with loss.
Thus they seethed with rage.
"I'll devour them whole!" Ma Bul shouted, eyes blazing with madness.
Pyeong-u felt his breath growing ragged.
His foes were all formidable, forcing him to use his Ascending Arts without pause. And before that, he had fought the Taesang Elder, burning no small amount of inner power.
Nor was that all.
He had pushed his lightness skill to its very peak to arrive swiftly. And before that still, he had drained himself carefully channeling qi to save Cheon Ryuyeong's dantian for an entire gak.
I overestimated myself.
He bit his lip as he saw the lesser attackers withdraw and the demon leaders step forth.
Bang Yacheol likewise gritted his teeth, glaring as Sa Hyeolgang advanced once more.
His breathing was ragged. The gash across his chest from that earlier strike had torn wider.
Not just the two of them—all twenty-seven who still stood were covered in blood. No—twenty-three now, for six Cheongseong Daoists had already fallen.
Hwa Gayeon clutched her belly; Namgung Su's shoulders gaped open, bleeding freely. Jo Jeonhu and Pyeong-u Jong both bore cuts at their left flanks.
"Haaah… haaah…"
All gasped, breaths ragged. None could keep rhythm anymore.
Only Dokgo Seol, Moyong Lin, and Jang Deukmu remained without wounds.
Dokgo Seol and Moyong Lin, thanks largely to the aid of Jo Jeonhu and Pyeong-u Jong. Jang Deukmu… simply by fortune.
All had fought with all their might. But within just one gak, they were at their limits.
The merciless onslaught of masters wasted not a single heartbeat.
Moyong Lin swallowed hard and shook her head.
A variable had arisen—the Tang Clan was later than expected. And there was no way to account for it.
Not that all hope was lost.
One recourse remained.
They could flee toward where the Tang Clan would come from.
But that meant most of them would die.
Drained of inner power, they would soon be run down by the enemy's speed, struck down one by one from the rear.
Better, then, to fight here to the last, praying the Tang Clan arrived before all fell.
At the rear, Jang Deukmu muttered bitterly:
"Damn it… it feels like far more than a gak. When are the Tang Clan coming?"
He turned his head, almost by chance.
The way they had come.
To the east, the sun was rising. He had been too caught in the fighting to notice, but the sky now blazed with majestic crimson.
"Huh?"
The breath caught in his throat.
A horse was galloping toward them from the sunrise.
A red horse—or rather, a horse turned crimson by the light. And atop it, a figure with long robes streaming.
"C-Commander? Hahaha… I must be mad."
His half-muttered cry drew a few to glance back. And their eyes shook. They stared, holding breath, looking between the demons before them and the rider behind.
Disbelief painted their faces.
And yet, among them, one knew at once who it was.
Even without seeing the face—he simply knew.
That man—it was Cheon Ryuyeong.
Dokgo Seol's mouth fell open.
"T-this must be a dream."
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