People on the Cliff's Edge
"…Two people, you said?"
"The master of the Taeui Sword Sect at the front. And the man a little behind him with a spear. That one… I don't think he's first-rate."
It wasn't easy to gauge the exact realm of a martial master by sense alone. Tang Mujin only hoped his intuition was wrong.
Unfortunately, No Gun-sam Sword recognized the man with the spear.
"…Isn't that Jo Gwan?"
"Flat nose, short chin—yes, looks like him."
"And fittingly, he's carrying a spear."
Clearly, both No Gun-sam Sword and Namgung Myeong knew who Jo Gwan was, but Tang Mujin was hearing the name for the first time.
"Who is Jo Gwan?"
"A warrior of the Sangsan Jo clan, known for their Three Great Spear Arts. Although most people usually speak of the Yang and Ak families as the true twin peaks of spear arts, leaving the Sangsan Jo out… Regardless, Jo Gwan became first-rate at a young age. It wouldn't be strange if by now he's already crossed the wall into the pinnacle realm."
From the very start, the plan had gone awry.
Tanglang's expression twisted, as if he had already sensed defeat.
The master of the Taeui Sword Sect approached, waving cheerfully with a bright, lighthearted smile.
"Well, well. Familiar faces. Has it been twenty years since we last met?"
Just looking at the man's face twisted No Gun-sam Sword's stomach.
The lives of Pyo Chung, Tanglang, and Sanjeo had become entangled and ruined by this man.
Had they not crossed paths with the Taeui Sect Master long ago in Yichang, they might have simply completed their first martial world journey and returned to Wudang. They might have lived the peaceful life of Daoist cultivators.
But No Gun-sam Sword had been dragged into the man's schemes and committed a terrible sin—so grave he could not return to Wudang.
That was when they discarded their names and Taoist titles. Having committed acts unfit for human beings, they lived calling each other bug and beast: the ladybug, the mantis, the wild boar.
Their first martial journey remained unfinished even after thirty years—and likely would remain so until the day they died.
After a long moment of thought, Pyo Chung answered.
"…It's been more than twenty years."
"Has it? In any case, I'm glad to see you. I'll finish my business first, then we'll catch up. Step aside."
"Who in this world blocks the path with the intent of stepping aside?"
The plan was already broken, and the proper step would be to confer again on how to respond.
But Pyo Chung did not seek the opinions of Tang Mujin or Namgung Myeong. He knew it was selfish—but he could not retreat.
The Taeui Sect Master asked:
"With your skills, do you think you can stop me?"
"Of course we can stop someone like you. Isn't that why you brought Jo Gwan along? I was wondering why you were late."
The corners of the sect master's mouth lifted slightly.
"People don't call that fear. They call it prudence. Just as you dared fight me a second time because you had something to rely on, it's only natural to think you must have some trick to attempt a third fight."
He glanced at Tang Mujin and Namgung Myeong, then smirked.
"But this ploy is disappointing. You trusted just two youngsters? I thought at least you'd bring in a pinnacle master."
"…."
"And by the way, I wasn't late because of Jo Gwan. I was late because of this fellow."
He tossed something round toward Pyo Chung.
Catching it, Pyo Chung saw—a familiar head of a Green Forest bandit.
He stared at the face in silence, emotions roiling inside.
The sect master sneered.
"What's wrong, struck speechless with joy? I see my gift pleased you greatly."
Pyo Chung felt droplets on his forehead. The smell of rain filled the air, and suddenly a downpour began. It wouldn't be ending soon.
He looked skyward, then laid down the head and drew his sword.
"Your head won't be cut so neatly."
"Of course not. Because it won't be cut at all."
In the next instant, the sect master and Jo Gwan leapt up from the narrow mountain path, bounding off cliff rocks to land in a wide clearing.
Tang Mujin's party was now caught between foes front and rear.
In truth, the two could ignore them and run straight for the rope bridge if they wished. But as martial men, they wouldn't show their backs to supposed inferiors.
This much was expected—except that the one holding the rear wasn't alone.
'A bigger variable than planned…'
But there was no other choice now.
Tang Mujin stood alone blocking the front of the path, while the other four faced Jo Gwan and the sect master.
Seeing the youngest-looking Tang Mujin holding the path alone, a swordsman with an ornate scabbard scoffed.
"What's this? You think you alone can block us?"
"It's a narrow path. I'm enough."
Tang Mujin gauged their skills.
None were pinnacle masters, but at least three or four were first-rate. The man before him certainly was.
The ornate-sheathed swordsman snorted.
"Reckless brat. Even if the path is narrow, you're still just one man."
"I know. But I'm confident because I don't see anyone among you who can break through me."
As he spoke and drew his sword, the swordsman burst into laughter.
"You think a greenhorn like you can stop me, Hyungmun Quick Blade?"
Instead of answering, Tang Mujin asked back:
"Hyungmun—Isn't that a place? A town a few days east of here."
"Yeah."
"My master always said, anyone who puts their hometown in their nickname isn't worth much."
At that, Hyungmun Quick Blade twitched, then suddenly slashed at him. It was a swift strike, one to be proud of.
Most would meet blade with blade—but Tang Mujin chose a simpler way.
His most confident move: Point Thrust.
Once, it was simply his best technique. But after countless practice underground in Geumjeong Pavilion, refining the thrust with Blue Palm's Guan Su, it had reached another level.
Before the blade could reach him, Tang Mujin's sword pierced his opponent's glabella.
No special reason. He was simply faster. The simplest form of striking second yet first.
Those lined up on the path couldn't see clearly what happened.
Only the man behind Quick Blade saw the tip of a sword poking out the back of his comrade's skull.
When Tang Mujin withdrew, Quick Blade's body crumpled and fell into the abyss.
'The mountain beasts will feast today.'
Shaking off his blade, Tang Mujin said:
"If anyone came here believing the nonsense about slaying heretics, I'll let you leave unharmed now. The ones in Nogunsan aren't the heretics you think."
But none withdrew.
Too many stood together, the reward from the sect master too tempting, and none wished to be branded cowards.
The only exception was the man directly behind Quick Blade. The moment he saw the sword tip burst from the back of his leader's skull, his will to fight shattered.
The problem was, the line behind him had no thought of letting him through.
Burning to retreat, he couldn't even ask to step aside.
"…Damn it all!"
He lunged with a desperate thrust—and soon followed Quick Blade into the depths below.
"So. No one will step back."
Tang Mujin exhaled slowly, deeply.
The man nearest him felt the chill of venom in that breath.
Not enough to kill on its own—but enough to make him feel something terribly wrong.
In a low, grim voice, Tang Mujin said:
"Those who wish to flee… better hurry."
Shrouded in faint poisonous aura, he stepped forward.
The genial doctor's face was gone. In its place was a cold, merciless mask—one that resembled his master.
***
Unlike Tang Mujin, who pushed back the crowd almost effortlessly, the battle at the rear was far harsher.
Pyo Chung struggled to block the sweeping strikes of the Taeui Sect Master. The grinding clash of steel grated in his ears.
When the blade slid down, a searing pain burst in his shoulder, something wet dripping down. At least it wasn't fatal.
Unlike lesser swords that would bounce away, the sect master's blade clung, sticky and heavy. A damp style, fitting his own vile personality.
He spoke:
"You've improved quite a bit. You've trained diligently."
"Enough to take your head."
Pyo Chung blustered, but his heart said otherwise.
'…Hopeless.'
Three swords against one. For every swing of the sect master's blade, No Gun-sam Sword could swing three. Or at least two.
And yet, the one pressing the attack was always the sect master. The three could only narrowly parry and avoid mortal wounds.
The only reason they held out at all was because whenever they trained, they always pictured him as their opponent.
Endless imagined bouts had honed their unity until they moved as one body. It allowed them to barely fend him off, though at the cost of mounting cuts.
But with No Gun-sam Sword locked against the sect master, Namgung Myeong had to face Jo Gwan alone.
Naturally, his situation was far more dire.
Swish—!
Twisting madly, Namgung Myeong barely avoided Jo Gwan's spear as it grazed his temple. Whether raindrops or sweat, something ran coldly down his back.
'…That one nearly killed me for real.'
Unlike the three, who could sometimes mount attacks, Namgung Myeong hadn't been able to counter even once.
Such was the gap between one who had broken past the wall and one who had not; between the armed and the unarmed.
"Damn, you're fast. Did you learn only footwork instead of fists? You move like a thief."
Jo Gwan muttered as he withdrew his spear—still sounding utterly relaxed.
"…Senior, can't you go easy on me?"
"Sooner or later, you die. That's the only end."
In that short battle, Namgung Myeong's hand had reached for his waist several times—
Where once a sword hilt should have been.
A year had passed since he gave up the sword, yet his body still remembered it.
Of course, Namgung Myeong had some confidence in fist-and-palm martial arts. Against most late-stage second-rate fighters, he thought he could subdue them with fists alone.
But that didn't mean he could fight a pinnacle master with just fists.
No—if not for having grown up watching countless duels of pinnacle masters, he would already be dead.
'If only I could get inside his guard, it might be easier…'
But he couldn't close the distance at all.
Unlike swordsmen, who often neglected footwork while training swordplay, spearmen invested far more time in footwork than in spear techniques.
Maintaining the range where one could attack unilaterally while the opponent could not—that was both the beginning and the end of the spear.
'If only I had a sword. Won't anyone lend me one?'
Namgung Myeong glanced desperately to the side. But the No Gun-sam Sword, locked in struggle against the Taeui Sect Master, clearly had no leisure to spare him a blade.
If he stretched out his hand, he could probably snatch one from them mid-fight—but even Namgung Myeong knew that was madness.
As both fronts tilted dangerously, Tanglang threw himself into a desperate gamble.
Instead of avoiding the sect master's blade thrusting at his belly, he took it head-on.
Puuuk.
No warning, no explanation. Pyo Chung shouted in alarm:
"Tanglang!"
But Tanglang didn't care. Even with the blade buried in his stomach, he pushed forward toward the sect master. With each step, the sword churned his guts.
The sect master laughed.
"In the end, when the low face the high, all they think of is mutual destruction."
As he tried to withdraw his blade, Tanglang's hand coiled softly and caught his wrist. It was Golden Snaring Hands, at a very high level.
Tanglang grinned crookedly.
"They say Wudang's Ten-Section Brocade is unrivaled in the world."
For a brief instant, the sect master's movements were bound—giving Sanjeo the chance to act boldly.
He lowered his stance and, like a wild boar, charged straight into both Tanglang and the sect master—intent clear: to send all three of them tumbling into the abyss.
The sect master, sensing danger, tried to break free—when suddenly Tanglang's inner power surged, bursting with True Origin.
"Going somewhere?"
The sect master's elbow smashed into Tanglang's jaw, but he didn't let go. He only tightened his grip.
Then a heavy impact struck his lower waist—Sanjeo had rammed into them both.
'You sons of—!'
Thrown out over the cliff's edge, the sect master desperately tore free of Tanglang's grasp.
At the same time, kicking off Sanjeo's body mid-air, he barely managed to grab onto a small tree growing from the cliffside.
'Didn't expect both of them to try for double suicide.'
He looked down to see Tanglang and Sanjeo falling. Their eyes brimmed only with sorrow. They would die instantly, no question.
Glancing around, he saw footholds and rock ledges. If he used them well, he could climb back up.
Fortunately, Pyo Chung atop the cliff had no means to attack him below.
'In the end… this might have worked out well for me.'
As he scrambled to climb back up, the situation above the cliff shifted.
***
"Tanglang!"
At the same moment Pyo Chung shouted, a plain sword appeared beside Namgung Myeong—the one Tanglang had thrown before plunging to his death.
Without thinking, Namgung Myeong snatched it reflexively.
The feel of the hilt—so strange, yet so familiar.
Jo Gwan sneered at the sight.
"You think picking up a sword will change anything for a man who's trained only fists?"
He lunged with his spear once more.
In his head, Namgung Myeong thought: Block it with the sword.
But his hands refused to move.
Perhaps because he hadn't held a blade in a year. Perhaps because the sword, once part of his body, now felt foreign. He didn't know how to draw out the Namgung clan's sword techniques he had drilled endlessly.
He twisted away instead, barely dodging. The spearhead scraped his thigh, carving flesh.
Yet he didn't feel pain. Only shortness of breath.
All the martial arts he thought as natural as breathing now loomed alien before him—breaking apart. No, not breaking apart politely—exploding.
Everything he had learned of Namgung sword arts burst into fragments—then began piling up in his mind, neatly, freshly.
Enlightenment. Is this… enlightenment?
But the insight didn't flow smoothly. A voice cut across his mind. His father's.
"If I ever hear you've held a sword again, I'll cut your arm off."
Fear of his father blocked his path. He felt he must drop the sword.
And in that hesitation, Jo Gwan's spear pierced his left shoulder.
Puuuk—
Distracted by thoughts, he failed to move—and paid the price. This pain was real.
"Arrghhh!"
Namgung Myeong raged inwardly: What the hell do you want from me?!
Is my father the problem now? My arm the problem? If I keep worrying about losing an arm, I'll lose my life! My shoulder's already got a hole in it—what's the loss if I lose the whole arm too?!
And at that instant, he understood why he had been unable to advance all this time.
He had been shackled by the burden of not betraying people's expectations.
But by leaping walls freely, he had begun shedding those burdens.
The suffocating familiarity drilled into his body had shackled his feet.
But the past year without a sword had broken that habit.
And now—his last fear, the weight of his father's shadow.
He cast it off in this moment of agony and resolve.
Arm or no arm—whatever happens, so be it.
His right arm trembled. For the first time, he felt he could do it.
The Namgung clan's pride, the Everfree Sword Art of Soaring Skies—he could unleash it with a perfection he had never known.
No… Familiarity itself cannot be the answer reached by casting off familiarity.
And in that realization, his senses expanded into a new domain.
Namgung Myeong felt something. He saw beyond the wall that had blocked his path.
Not just a wall… I've crossed it.
He understood then which sword he must use.
The sword art his father had said could only be learned after reaching the pinnacle.
One he had never been formally taught—only glimpsed in stolen glances when elders performed it.
To steal what was forbidden—and now to wield it.
That only thrilled him more.
A sword art he had never been taught flowed through him now. A sword utterly different from the measured, precise Namgung style.
Not the orthodox way of the righteous sects, but a sword brimming with overwhelming force. The ultimate of tyranny.
The Emperor's Sword Form.
And with it, Namgung Myeong's blade crushed Jo Gwan.
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