How much time had passed since he consumed the Azure Spirit Oil?
With utter concentration, he had lingered in a perfect state of no-mind for what felt like ages.
"Huuuuuu..."
After a long silence, an excessively thin and drawn-out exhale escaped, drifting lazily through the tiny side chamber that had been wrapped in utter stillness.
Thus, one day passed, and then another.
Finally, after enough time for the fervently steaming tea to cool not once, but three times over.
Fwush!
Whoosh!
"Hoo."
With a short breath, a fiercely surging aura as black as pitch erupted from Gwang-il's wide-open eyes, overflowing wildly.
For a cultivation technique of the renowned orthodox Point Cang Sword Sect—acknowledged by all—it was far too quiet and insidious an energy.
In that darkness, a fleeting glimpse of terrifying killing intent emerged, offering a momentary peek into the forgotten past of the Dark Heaven Emperor.
"...You've come a long way. Truly, there's still an impossibly long road ahead..."
Long ago, before his dantian shattered and his limbs' meridians were severed in defeat at the Righteous-Demonic War.
A bitter smile that he couldn't hold back crept across Gwang-il's lips as he briefly recalled that former overwhelming power.
"Still, it's not bad at all. Haven't I climbed higher than even I expected?"
In the past, he had taken it shortly after reaching the peak of Superb, achieving only a simple increase in inner energy.
But today, boldly downing a single drop with this first-rate body had not only shattered the wall to the pinnacle in one go but also purged every last impurity and stagnant qi from within.
This was more than enough to confidently claim rebirth at the tender age of twenty.
"Is it because my realm was so low? So much built up inside..."
A sharp, pungent stench assaulted his nose belatedly. Gwang-il shook his head with a wry grimace and rose to his feet.
'Should've gone back to the seclusion chamber to take it.'
It wasn't some elixir that dissolved in water, and with it sealed tight in his personal vial and wrapped securely besides—surely he could have.
Instead, he'd ended up defiling the side chamber where the sect's founding patriarch rested in eternal peace with this revolting stink.
"This unworthy disciple humbly begs forgiveness from our founding patriarch for committing an unforgivable sin... Hm? Ah, no?!"
Thud!
Splash!
Startled, his feet leaped back on instinct, only to land in the moisture and soak through once more.
But Gwang-il had no mind to spare for such trivial sensations right now.
"What in the world...?! This is beyond ghostly!"
The founding patriarch, who had been sitting ramrod straight just moments ago, had vanished without a trace.
No sky above to ascend to, no earth below to sink into.
Yet the spot was pristine, as if no one had ever been there.
If not for the Point Cang Sword before him and the dizziness-inducing stench, he might have doubted whether this was all a dream.
A bizarre event that surely hadn't happened in his past life.
"...Did my foul stench drive you away, unable to bear it, Founder?"
An awkward, embarrassing pang tugged at him.
For a moment, he muttered to himself in a petulant whine.
"In this life, I will protect it without fail."
That vow made here.
And Point Cang, which he had failed to safeguard in his previous life.
With that massive resolve firmly planted in his heart.
"Time to head back."
Gwang-il's form—clutching the Point Cang Sword tight—plunged straight into the pooling water.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Time flowed onward like a rushing river, day after day.
Spring's buds bloomed, summer rains poured relentlessly, autumn's chill nipped at the skin before they knew it.
By the time the thick snow piled before the particularly lofty seclusion chamber atop Point Cang Mountain's sharp peaks had fully melted away.
"Guess it's time to head back."
At last, the one year of seclusion permitted by the Sect Leader drew to a close.
"Not bad."
It hadn't been particularly grueling.
Merely reviewing a path he'd walked once before, swiftly charting the shortest route and climbing relentlessly upward, upward—keeping his mind fully occupied.
"I'd be lying if I said there wasn't some regret."
Still, breaking through to Superb at just twenty-one years old?
He could return to the sect without shame.
"For now, this will do. Racing ahead alone won't solve anything anyway, right?"
He needed to lead them all together, moving as one unbreakable unit.
Only then could he save Point Cang—and even one more life.
After stroking the well-worn hilt of the Point Cang Sword for a time.
Gwang-il slowly rose, his heavy, deliberate steps following the beam of light spilling from beyond the seclusion chamber outward.
As if rehearsing the path he would tread from here on.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
News of Gwang-il's return spread like wildfire through the entire Point Cang Sword Sect in an instant.
It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say every disciple within the gates gathered in twos and threes just to gawk at him.
"Th-That's him...!"
"He looks like some mountain hermit straight out of the wilds."
"Senior Brother, just watch. I'll thrash that arrogant little punk good."
"Huh? What's that at his waist...?"
"Narrow Tip Sword? Where'd that kid get his hands on something like that?"
"Third-Gen disciples can't even leave the sect gates, let alone have a single coin to their name..."
Buzz buzz!
The first murmurs came from the Second-Gen disciples, who had been humiliated and provoked by this mere junior.
Naturally, their feelings toward Gwang-il couldn't be anything but sour.
Meanwhile, the Third-Gen disciples—who had spent the past year tiptoeing on eggshells—split into two camps, showing contrasting reactions...
"Man, I've taken so much grief from Master all these months because of Eldest Senior Brother..."
"Don't even get me started. He ramped up training so hard I was shitting blood every other day last summer."
"Still, he must've had his reasons for saying what he did."
"Hey! Reasons my ass! If you're gonna pull off a stunt that huge, at least give us juniors a heads-up, right?!"
"What the hell? Why're you mad at me? Did I cause the mess? Make you shit blood?"
"The fuck you say?!"
'What a circus.'
Forget strict discipline—such lax, sloppy vibes permeating the sect?
It was no different from hauling the market stalls from the base of Point Cang Mountain right up here.
'Gotta rebuild from the ground up, step by painstaking step.'
Uproot the rotten mindsets entirely, then etch in unyielding resolve and killer instinct crystal clear.
Ignoring the group unwittingly doomed to harsh fate.
Gwang-il finally reached the Sect Leader's quarters, facing the Sect Leader, elders, and First-Gen disciples waiting there—including his master standing deferentially in the corner, fidgeting with barely contained joy.
'...This feels damn good.'
Missing them had cut to the bone when they were gone.
Now, with them filling the space around him again, no worldly riches or treasures could compare.
To savor this feeling ongoing, he needed to start off right.
Without hesitation, Gwang-il knelt politely and bowed deeply to the elders before him.
"Third-Gen disciple Gwang-il of Greater Point Cang returns to the sect, having completed the full year of seclusion granted by the Sect Leader."
"...Yes, truly... I can see it with my own eyes, yet I can hardly believe..."
Thick shock filled the Sect Leader Gwan-hae's bulging old eyes.
Not just him—even the few elders sharing the Superb realm let out successive groans and gasps of admiration.
They recognized it at a glance.
Gwang-il's overwhelmingly advanced achievement.
More accurately, they were utterly overwhelmed by his presence, standing tall in the same realm as them—something utterly unbelievable.
"What in the...?! What happened to you this past year...!"
"Sect Leader. As the old saying goes, seeing is believing."
"Hm!"
"If you'll permit it, I'd like to honor the promise from a year ago and demonstrate my progress to everyone. May I have your approval?"
"Hah...!"
A Third-Gen disciple who had broken through to Superb seeking permission to use force against his master and senior uncles still wandering the pinnacle?
Considering the Second-Gen disciples' pride, as Sect Leader, refusing would be proper... but.
[Unless they see it with their own eyes, they'll never truly accept it deep down. It could plant the seeds of an irrecoverable heart demon later.]
"..."
[And I wish to show you as well, Sect Leader. The true swordsmanship of our Point Cang that I've attained.]
'The true swordsmanship...'
For a mere Third-Gen disciple to speak with such pompous verbosity in every word.
Gwan-hae found the kid subtly infuriating, yet felt an inexplicable pressure, as if facing the master of some massive Jianghu power.
He couldn't comprehend his own reaction.
'But the boy's words ring entirely reasonable.'
They had already agreed to this—backing out now?
That would crush the pride of the Second-Gen disciples meant to lead Point Cang in the future.
It was a step already too far committed to retract.
"...Very well, I permit it. All disciples, assemble at the Grand Sparring Grounds. There, we shall all witness Third-Gen disciple Gwang-il's achievements clearly."
"Yes, Sect Leader!"
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
In the center of the vast Grand Sparring Grounds, surrounded by the entire Point Cang Sword Sect in a circle.
Tong-ryeol, the youngest of the Second-Gen disciples, strode forward confidently toward Gwang-il, who stood with his Point Cang Sword angled downward, exuding serene poise.
The consensus among most Second-Gen disciples—that even their lowliest could easily discipline a rude Third-Gen upstart—had carried the day.
"You ill-mannered brat. Ready to eat some humility?"
"This disciple is prepared at any time. Please, Senior Uncle, begin at your leisure."
"What did you just say?!"
His words and demeanor oozed the leisure of a senior expert yielding the first move.
This wasn't disciplining—it made it seem like he was the one begging for instruction!
That realization twisted Tong-ryeol's already fiery temper into a blaze.
"You little shit! Fine! I'll beat some manners into you proper!"
Whoosh!
His footsteps charged forward with the ferocity of intending an instant kill.
At first glance, it looked like temper overriding skill in a wild rush—but his years of training shone seamlessly through every step.
Point Cang's signature footwork: unflashy, yet concise, clean, and efficient.
'Now, what're you gonna do about it?'
Tong-ryeol had deliberately unleashed footwork permitted only to Second-Gen disciples and above.
A swift, precise motion no Third-Gen—focused solely on swordsmanship—could possibly react to.
His plan: topple the cocky junior in one fell swoop from the outset.
Unfortunately for Tong-ryeol, the footwork he prided himself on was nothing but a trash heap of flaws and wasted motions in Gwang-il's eyes.
'Such a mess.'
Any nostalgia for this old fragment of martial arts he now faced after so long lasted only a moment.
Even aiming for simplicity and cleanliness, to Gwang-il, it was all just needless clutter.
'When one step is all it takes to unleash swift swordplay.'
The very instant every Second-Gen disciple swore it was too late to retreat or evade.
Swish.
"?!"
Gwang-il casually stepped left by a single pace, dodging Tong-ryeol's sword strike by a hair's breadth. Simultaneously, his blade traced a diagonal flash silent as lightning.
And then.
Tap.
The tip of the Narrow Tip Sword rested ever so lightly against Tong-ryeol's throat.
"Th-That's...!"
"W-What the hell...?!"
"Impossible!"
The surroundings erupted into chaotic uproar in an instant.
Ignoring it entirely, Gwang-il calmly declared the outcome to the dazed Tong-ryeol, whose mouth gaped like a landed fish.
"This disciple wins, Senior Uncle."
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