People on the Cliff's Edge
Jo Gwan's response had not been wrong.
An overwhelming sword strike came crashing toward him. To avoid being crushed, he lowered his stance and thrust the spear shaft upright.
That was the best he could do. But even the best was not enough.
Jo Gwan lay collapsed on the ground, gasping raggedly for breath.
Namgung Myeong had clearly swung a sword.
But the wound left on Jo Gwan's body wasn't a simple cut. It looked torn apart, as though ripped by something.
"Hhhuhh… huhhh… You… what did you do…?"
"I've played around enough. That was just a small fragment of my true skill."
Namgung Myeong spoke with forced composure. Jo Gwan coughed blood.
"Liar. Who plays around until they've got a hole through their shoulder…?"
Namgung Myeong gave no answer.
Jo Gwan's lungs must have been pierced—each breath escaped with a faint, whistling hiss.
There was no trace of fighting spirit in his eyes anymore. He knew the outcome was decided, that his death was near.
Before long, the sound of air leaking from his lips ceased.
Jo Gwan was dead.
At that moment, Namgung Myeong's strength collapsed.
Crossing the wall into the pinnacle realm through a life-and-death duel—such an ordeal was taxing for anyone. And for him, to cross it only to unleash a martial art of such terrifying caliber immediately after—that was far beyond what his body could endure.
He crumpled and fell unconscious.
The one most shocked by the sight was Pyo Chung.
For a moment, he even forgot the sect master and his fellow disciples who had fallen over the cliff.
To him, "Young Master Myeong" had seemed little more than a talented youth, barely clinging to the edge of first-rate. Promising, yes—but nothing more.
He had already done more than expected, enduring Jo Gwan's attacks with mere first-rate skill.
But that wasn't all. The instant he grasped a sword, he transformed. He leapt beyond the wall of pinnacle, and in a single stroke, crushed a pinnacle master.
So overwhelming was the strike that Pyo Chung even wavered in his lifelong faith in Wudang swordsmanship.
Amazing… No, this is no time to marvel.
He hurried over to check Namgung Myeong's condition.
Though no physician, he could tell the difference between one on the brink of death and one who was not. Namgung Myeong, fortunately, was not at immediate risk.
Thank heavens.
Only then did his thoughts return to Tanglang and Sanjeo.
"...Tanglang, Sanjeo…"
With a heart torn in grief, he approached the cliff's edge. He could not see their bodies through the trees, but he felt compelled to check where the sect master had fallen.
But as he peered down, the sect master's figure shot upward—springing up onto the cliff, landing softly.
"…!"
Pyo Chung was so startled he could only gape like a fish out of water.
The sect master tilted his head casually.
"That was rather dangerous."
"...H-how… how did you—?"
"How? Do you think this is the first time someone's tried dragging me into death with them?"
His words were light, but his heart still pounded.
Had he been a moment later releasing Tanglang's grip…
Had Sanjeo's charge been a little stronger…
Had he failed to spot the tree in that desperate leap—
Any one of those, and he would now be a corpse at the bottom of Nogunsan's cliffs.
Rain poured harder. He wiped the water from his face, scanning the area.
…Why is Jo Gwan dead?
He couldn't tell. But it didn't matter. The only one before him now was Pyo Chung.
He drew his sword.
"Your suffering will be brief."
***
Meanwhile, Tang Mujin had finished his fight along the narrow ledge.
Half the warriors had been hurled to their deaths below; the other half had fled in terror.
For a moment he considered chasing them to finish the job—but no. The cliff-top battle came first. The situation there was surely dire.
I hope they've held on.
When he climbed back up, the scene before him was not what he expected.
Jo Gwan lay dead. Namgung Myeong sprawled unconscious, bleeding from the shoulder—yet smiling faintly, so his life wasn't in danger.
And Pyo Chung—struggling to block the sect master's relentless strikes.
Tang Mujin knew at once what he had to do.
He sprang forward with Shadowless Steps, drawing his sword in a seamless flow to intercept the sect master's blade as it lunged for Pyo Chung's heart.
Steel screeched up his arm.
The sect master shifted smoothly, as though Tang Mujin had been his true target all along, and unleashed a flurry upon him.
Tang Mujin parried two swift thrusts—barely.
Before he could reset his stance, an elbow came from the blind angle—aimed to crush his temple.
He reflexively cast aside the strike with Flowing Silk Palm. His hand went numb from the force.
It was precarious, but it was the best a lesser fighter could do against a master.
A brief silence fell.
The sect master, inwardly, was impressed. At his age, to reach such skill…
Both of them—remarkable talents. So that's what Pyo Chung was relying on.
Two budding flowers, just before full bloom. How had a wretch like Pyo Chung drawn them in?
The sect master even felt a desire to take Tang Mujin as a disciple.
But he knew this talent was too great to hold. And if he could not claim it, better to kill it—especially now that their swords had crossed.
His attacks slowed, becoming more deliberate. The wild, crushing power in his strikes was gone.
Instead, he struck gently, gradually piling small wounds on them—while his defense grew ever more impregnable.
At some point, neither Tang Mujin nor Pyo Chung could so much as nick his robe. Tang Mujin's frustration mounted.
This will get us nowhere.
To defeat a master, a lesser fighter had to gamble on exploiting a flaw.
The sect master knew this. That was why, instead of forcing a quick finish, he erased every flaw.
Together, Tang Mujin and Pyo Chung struck—blocked easily. Quick jabs with fists and palms—never landing.
Tang Mujin even tried a hidden dagger. But the sect master's senses caught it instantly, knocking the poisoned blade away into the abyss. The wall of pinnacle was high indeed.
"You've some talent with the sword—and even learned some grappling too."
Tang Mujin didn't answer. He was thinking.
He couldn't poison the air—his venom arts weren't yet perfect. Worse, Pyo Chung would be poisoned first.
I need another way.
A memory came to him—when he had once been cornered just like this. Back then, Dan Seol-yeong's Celestial Needle Case had saved him.
And now—he felt the faint weight in his chest pocket.
Yes… I have it.
One last gamble remained. Whether it would work or not, he didn't know.
"Hhhup!"
He swung his sword heavily, forcing the sect master's eyes. At the same time, he slipped a hand into his robes and opened the case. Three slender needles fell into his left hand.
Earlier, the sect master had caught his hidden dagger with a pinnacle master's senses, flicking it away without effort.
But will he notice needles flying in the rain?
With a flick of his left wrist, Tang Mujin sent the needles outward—in a direction entirely apart from his enemy.
So small the motion, the sect master paid it no heed.
All the while, Tang Mujin pressed him with his sword—and quietly guided the needles with his inner power, sending them curving back through the falling rain toward the sect master.
It wasn't even a lethal martial art—just a simple trick of pulling objects through the air—yet the lives of Tang Mujin, Pyo Chung, and Namgung Myeong now depended on it.
The moment the needles curved mid-air, blood streamed from Tang Mujin's nose.
He hadn't trained in any legendary dual-mind techniques like Twin Hands in Harmony. To wield two arts at once was reckless.
Even though his left hand performed nothing more than a simple pulling art, not some profound technique, it still strained him unbearably.
His vision flashed white.
With a single attempt, Tang Mujin hit his limit. Not physical—mental.
Yet it had worked. A pinnacle master's senses were sharp, yes, but how could one detect needles flying from behind, hidden by pouring rain?
As he swung his sword, the sect master felt a prickling pain on his neck.
What's this?
Some venomous insect of Nogunsan? No—the storming rain made that impossible. And no mere insect venom could be this potent.
He instantly brushed his nape and plucked out three fine needles.
"You think such cheap tricks will work on me?!" he roared.
Of course, such poison alone could not topple a pinnacle master. He channeled his inner energy and suppressed the venom with ease. His swordplay suffered no hindrance.
But after only a few more exchanges, a sting struck his shoulder.
He lightly pulled the needle free to continue fighting—but something felt different.
Not the same poison.
Every toxin had its own nature. To resist each required a different method.
One poison alone—even a deadly one—could be expelled by any first-rate fighter.
But two combined? Even a pinnacle master found it troublesome. Add a third, a fourth, and the problem grew dire.
So… he means to gamble everything.
The sect master abandoned his defensive stance.
Even at the risk of exposure, the fight had to end quickly.
He thrust his blade at Tang Mujin, thick killing intent seeping from it.
Tang Mujin reflexively raised his sword to block—but his dulled mind faltered, and the guard came too slow.
The blade would have pierced his throat—if not for Pyo Chung leaping before him, intercepting the strike.
"Keep going!"
Though Pyo Chung shielded him, Tang Mujin could not release his own blade. As he slashed again, his left hand flicked outward.
The sect master's attention split—he had no choice. Blocking them was another matter.
Tang Mujin clenched his hand. The needles shifted mid-air, redirecting toward their target. Now three poisons mingled inside the sect master's body.
"Ghhhaaahhh—!"
Tang Mujin, half-lost in trance, swung his sword, cast needles, pulled them through the rain. His inner qi and his venom arts tangled together chaotically.
It felt as if every fluid in his body boiled at once, his jaw quivering uncontrollably.
He dimly realized: This is the onset of qi deviation.
Yet he did not collapse.
For though the form differed, Tang Mujin had already once overcome inner demons. His mind was firmer than most men's.
The Blue Palm arts he had trained underground in Mount Emei, the White Lotus Divine Fist of Shaolin, and Shadowless Step all resisted the encroaching madness.
Lost in a near-trance, he swung again, needles flying who knew how many times.
And suddenly—he entered a world of white.
He was running, frenzied.
In this pale void, the only thing not white was a massive wall towering in the distance.
He didn't know what it was. But some nameless impulse drove him to crash against it.
Once, twice, thrice he struck—
The wall didn't budge. He knew—too early to break it.
Yet he did not retreat. He struck again and again, until at last he slumped against it and lost consciousness.
***
On the cliffs of Nogunsan, rain poured down in torrents.
Tang Mujin stood drenched, motionless—unconscious on his feet.
Before him was the sect master, leaning on his sword like a cane.
Unlike Tang Mujin, he had not lost consciousness. But neither could he move.
Dozens of needles still bristled from his neck, back, and arms, never plucked free.
Within him, venoms tangled into knots impossible to unravel.
His state was no different from an insect trapped in a spider's web.
I thought him a bud yet to bloom—but he was a venomous spider with sharper fangs than any.
The sect master laughed hollowly, gasping for air.
Nearby, Pyo Chung knelt, coughing blood into his palms.
At the battle's end, he had borne the sect master's sword almost alone. His body was battered.
Yet he forced himself upright, lifting his blade.
Raindrops danced off the silver edge.
Drawing a deep breath, he slowly drove the sword into the sect master's heart.
The man's breath ceased. His eyes dimmed.
After thirty years, it was finished.
Something welled inside Pyo Chung's chest.
He howled like a beast—
For his fallen brothers at the cliff's bottom,
For all those who had died trapped in Nogunsan.
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