“So that’s it. There was a demonic spawn hiding within the Everlasting Snow Palace all along! Remove your mask at once!”

Seol Unwi simply shook his head and tightened his grip on his sword.

“I am very busy tonight,” he said calmly. “So let’s get straight to it.”

Slowly, the blood vessels along his arms began to pulse and stir, as if awakening to the coming violence.

“Let’s begin.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Do Cheonhaeng sprang into action.

For someone who had reached the Samhwa Meditation Hall stage, his movements were even faster than expected.

In an instant, he closed the distance between them, raising his sword high above his head and striking down with lethal force.

Cheongun Thirty-Six Sword Forms.

Form 4: Cheongun Soaring Dance.

Seol Unwi, standing calmly, pressed one foot against the ground.

A surge of cold energy, coiled beneath the earth, propelled his body backward with effortless grace.

Snow Cloud Step.

Do Cheonhaeng’s sword aura sliced through the air, grazing just in front of Unwi’s nose.

Its force was chilling and devastating, but what mattered was that it only grazed him—not a direct hit.

Do Cheonhaeng’s eyes gleamed sharply as he scowled in frustration.

The veins along his forearms bulged as he gathered even more internal energy, gripping his sword with both hands before swinging again with deadly power.

Cheongun Thirty-Six Sword Forms.

Form 13: Cheongun Mountain-Crushing Strike.

The sword aura, tinged with a brilliant blue light, swept through the chamber like a dragon ascending into the heavens.

Scrolls hanging on the walls flapped violently, and teacups crashed from the tables, shattering into countless shards.

Yet Seol Unwi still did not move.

At least, not his body.

His eyes, however, moved ceaselessly, analyzing everything about Do Cheonhaeng—the flow of his swordsmanship, the distribution of his energy, the way his weight shifted with each step, which foot struck the ground first, and how his energy circulated through his meridians.

He had seen enough.

Twice.

And for Seol Unwi, even a single observation would have sufficed.

With one effortless step forward, he raised his sword and thrust.

Black Ice Sword.

Form 1: Heavenly Ice Blossom.

The technique resembled the falling of snowflowers in midwinter.

Cold energy surged from the blade, encircling Do Cheonhaeng’s sword aura in a frost-laden embrace.

It happened in an instant.

The vibrant aura froze and shattered like frost-covered petals scattered by the wind.

Do Cheonhaeng’s face twisted in disbelief.

“What… what is this?”

For an ordinary martial artist, this reaction was inevitable.

How could someone at the Yang Radiance Appears stage so easily neutralize the martial techniques of a Samhwa Meditation Hall master?

The difference in the density of energy, not to mention its volume, should have made such a thing impossible.

Grinding his teeth, Do Cheonhaeng resolved to unleash an even stronger attack.

His internal energy surged upward like a rising tide.

Cheongun Thirty-Six Sword Forms.

Form 35: Cheongun Domain Severance.

The sword aura poured down like a waterfall, tearing apart the very air itself.

Condensed into a tangible force, the blue-tinged sword energy rained down with ferocious momentum.

Yet even as the deadly aura fell, Seol Unwi lifted his sword with a casual, almost languid grace.

He had no need to summon his False Void Energy.

Victory was not determined by the sheer quantity or quality of energy.

It was decided by judgment—by understanding how the opponent’s energy flowed through their meridians, how their techniques unfolded, and how to disrupt them at the critical moment.

Seol Unwi saw all of it with perfect clarity.

Even a man fallen from the heavens could still mirror the sky.

Among the countless sword strikes descending upon him, one shone brighter than the rest.

Without hesitation, Seol Unwi swung his sword toward that single point.

Black Ice Sword.

Form 2: Ten-Thousand-Year Snowfall Cascade.

The arc of his blade resembled a century’s worth of accumulated snow cascading down all at once from a towering peak.

Even as he met the full force of Do Cheonhaeng’s assault head-on, Unwi’s sword dispersed the energy with the softness of water flowing around an immovable stone.

It was not resistance.

It was dispersion.

One thread unraveled, and then the surrounding currents of energy collapsed in rapid succession.

In that moment, Do Cheonhaeng understood with horrifying clarity.

Seol Unwi’s thin stream of internal energy had disrupted the flow at its weakest point, severing the technique at its root without effort.

And once disrupted, the energy dispersed on its own, leaving Do Cheonhaeng helpless to intervene.

Such a feat was not easily described.

It required executing countless precise calculations within a fraction of a moment—

faster than thought, faster than instinct.

And Seol Unwi had done it not once, but twice.

Without a single mistake.

Do Cheonhaeng had not even been able to react.

The control Seol Unwi demonstrated over his energy not only surpassed that of a Samhwa Meditation Hall master, it overwhelmed it completely—

even to the point of interfering directly with another’s techniques.

It was beyond comprehension.

The once-mighty sword strike, delivered with such momentum, now fell to the ground, utterly drained of all power.

It struck the earth with a hollow, empty sound.

Everything unfolded as naturally as the falling of snow.

Thwack!

Seol Unwi’s sword pierced straight through Do Cheonhaeng’s heart.

Coughing blood, Do Cheonhaeng collapsed to the floor, his life force fading rapidly.

In his final moments, Seol Unwi’s calm, emotionless voice rang in his ears.

“Your swordsmanship is impressive on the surface,” Unwi said, his tone cold and steady, “but it reveals too many openings.”

Choke…

“Your energy leaks outward unnecessarily, giving the illusion of mastery when in truth it is nothing more than a hollow display.

How can a martial art that is only flashy ever possess true strength?”

Seol Unwi withdrew his sword and stood over Do Cheonhaeng’s fallen body.

His eyes were devoid of emotion.

He accepted this outcome as natural—

the gaze of a true master, of one who belonged to a realm far beyond reach.

And in facing those eyes, Do Cheonhaeng could not even draw breath.

It was not the sword through his heart that suffocated him.

It was the crushing weight of the difference between their very existences.

The overwhelming gap in their realms.

“Typically, martial artists who have reached the Five Realms of the Martial God use only a very small number of techniques.

And do you know what they all have in common?” Seol Unwi asked.

“…W-what is it…?” Do Cheonhaeng stammered.

“It is simple,” Unwi continued, lifting his sword.

“Even at their most skilled, most of them rely on no more than five distinct techniques.

Some, even fewer—sometimes just two.

And the reason for that is clear.”

He held his sword calmly, as if giving a lesson rather than passing judgment.

“When {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} a martial artist truly becomes one with their art, the number of techniques no longer matters. At that point, forms exist only as a starting point, a frame of reference.

A warrior who wields a sword will inevitably slash, thrust, or cut downward—these are basic actions that any technique must begin with.

What matters is that as mastery deepens, the lines between forms blur.

A thrust can become a slash.

A cut can become a spiral.

There is no boundary.”

Seol Unwi tilted his head slightly, as if musing.

“You referred to your sword art as the Cheongun Thirty-Six Sword Forms, didn’t you?”

Do Cheonhaeng’s breathing was ragged, his life hanging by a thread.

Yet he summoned all the willpower he had left, straining to listen—desperate to hear.

He nodded weakly.

“In the art of swordsmanship,” Seol Unwi said, “thirty-six forms are far too many.

You don’t need so many.

They become harder to merge later.

I don’t claim to know every single one of your thirty-six forms, but if it were me—

I would discard at least thirty of them without hesitation.”

“You… who are you really…?” Do Cheonhaeng gasped.

“I am Seol Unwi,” he said quietly. “The fool of the Snow Compression Branch.

The puppet they once propped up.”

“No… you’re not… you can’t be…!”

Seol Unwi no longer cared.

There was no point in explaining, no reason for mercy.

“This is impossible…” Do Cheonhaeng muttered. “How could someone like you…”

“It has been said,” Seol Unwi answered calmly, “that only those who have crossed the boundary between the possible and the impossible can truly understand its meaning.”

“I… I don’t want to die…”

Before he could finish, Seol Unwi swung his sword.

Slice—!

With a single, clean stroke, Do Cheonhaeng’s head fell to the ground.

A martial artist speaks with the sword, not with words.

Seol Unwi stooped, picked up the severed head, and turned away without a glance back.

There was still much left to do tonight.

****

Jang Muhwi, Master of the Jang Sword Gate, tossed and turned in his sleep.

Suddenly, an inexplicable sense of unease jolted him awake.

It was not something that could be explained rationally.

It was an instinctive fear, primal and oppressive.

His eyes were naturally drawn toward the table standing at the side of his private quarters.

There should have been nothing there.

Yet something was placed atop it now.

Narrowing his eyes, Jang Muhwi tried to focus—and what he saw froze him in place.

“…W-what…?”

A stupid, hollow sound escaped his lips.

Two severed heads sat on the table, unmistakably familiar.

They belonged to none other than Do Cheonhaeng of the Cheongun Sword Gate, and Ho Mucheong of the Hyeoncheon Palace.

Both had been masters of the Samhwa Meditation Hall stage.

Yet here they were, reduced to nothing more than grisly trophies.

And sitting casually next to the table, one leg crossed over the other, was a young man, calmly tossing a small medicinal pill into his mouth.

It was bizarre.

He was sitting there in plain view—yet somehow, Jang Muhwi had not noticed his presence until now.

It was even stranger that he had noticed the severed heads first, and not the living man.

Even as he focused his gaze, the sensation did not change.

It was as if the man’s existence bent reality itself.

But among all the strange things, the most terrifying was the young man’s identity.

“…Seol… Unwi?”

“You must still be groggy from sleep,” Seol Unwi said softly. “Allow me to explain a few things.”

Jang Muhwi swallowed hard and slowly rose from his bed.

Seol Unwi made no move to stop him. He simply continued speaking, as if reciting facts.

“Tonight, three of the Four Great Sects will lose their leaders—excluding only the Juryung Sword Sect.”

“You… you bastard…” Jang Muhwi began, but Unwi cut him off with a slight motion.

“I didn’t bother with long conversations for the other two,” he said, nodding toward the heads of Do Cheonhaeng and Ho Mucheong.

“But with you, Jang Gate Master, I have a few questions.”

His clear, piercing gaze locked onto Jang Muhwi.

“I imagine you’ve been hoarding quite a lot of cold jade essence.

Surely you didn’t divide the mining profits fairly among your sect members.

I also heard that recently, your warriors occupied the mines for more than two weeks.”

His voice remained calm, almost curious.

“I wonder,” Seol Unwi said, “where all that money went.

Surely the silver you extracted must total thousands of nyang.

Yet on my way here, I noticed something peculiar.”

He smiled faintly.

“The buildings are grand, but your warriors’ swords are chipped, and their cloaks are worn and torn.

Even their meals seem poor.

It’s clear you’ve been siphoning the profits for yourself.

Isn’t that right?”

Jang Muhwi said nothing.

Instead, he reached for a sword resting in the corner.

Seol Unwi chuckled softly.

“Judging by your expression, you must have something hidden away—something valuable, something meant not to be wielded but consumed when the time is right.

An elixir, perhaps.

Not a weapon. Not even armor.”

He let his voice trail off into a small laugh.

“But that doesn’t matter.

I can already tell by your face.

It’s time to move on.”

“Move on…? Move where?” Jang Muhwi spat, gripping his sword.

“To the Three Rivers of Death,” Seol Unwi replied coolly.

“You son of a…!”

“Your two dear friends are already waiting for you,” Unwi added, nodding toward the severed heads on the table.

“And, as you may have noticed,” he continued, “I’m feeling a little tired tonight.

So I would prefer to finish this quickly.”

Seol Unwi’s eyes glinted with cold light.

“Please, Jang Gate Master.

Show me your finest technique—the one you are most proud of.

There’s no need to waste time with anything else.”

Jang Muhwi’s face turned scarlet with rage.

“You arrogant little bastard! It’s not me who will die tonight—it’s you!”

With a roar, he lunged forward.

His longsword sliced through the air, aiming directly for Seol Unwi’s throat.

The strike was swift and sharp, as fine as a hair-thin thread.

It was vicious, deadly.

But Seol Unwi merely tilted his head slightly to the side.

The sword missed by a hair’s breadth, severing a few strands of his hair, which floated lazily through the air.

The sight stunned Jang Muhwi.

Such a perfect evasion, using only the smallest of movements.

He immediately withdrew his sword and swung again with all his strength.

However—

Clang!

Seol Unwi’s blade struck his mid-swing, deflecting it effortlessly.

Jang Muhwi stumbled back a few steps, the shock plain on his face.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep