Chapter 516: Chapter 516

How swift were the movements of the previous Supreme Commanders of the Divine Sword Corps when fully prepared for battle?

Jeong Yeon-shin had no time to ponder as he was forced to take in a breathtaking sight.

A flood of violet filled his vision.

Yong Hui-myeong and Ma Yeon-jeok had appeared before him, their bodies melting into the void and re-emerging as if they had momentarily ceased to exist.

Their reaction speed was such that they completely received and countered the sudden, transcendent ambush.

Even with Jeong Yeon-shin’s Sight-Heaven Technique activated, they did not appear slow. Before the blue light fully engulfed the whites of his eyes, their feet had already touched the stone pavement.

As the ground sank under their weight, a pale ripple burst forth.

Ma Yeon-jeok’s eyes widened infinitely, and in the next instant, he moved like a flash, his palm slamming into Yong Hui-myeong’s side.

Yong Hui-myeong twisted his body in response, spinning in midair like a scholar performing a fan dance.

Ma Yeon-jeok’s force shattered the air in succession, causing a fierce tremor. The sheer impact sent Yong Hui-myeong’s sleeve billowing outward.

A straight line of dust trailed from the strike, stretching into the distance, carrying the pungent scent of blood.

A land where sunlight did not reach.

At that moment, Jeong Yeon-shin felt a large hand clamp onto his shoulder.

“Yeon-shin! How did you...!”

Yong Hui-myeong brushed the dust from his side and spoke with a dry tone.

“I was already stopping on my own.”

“Have you been well?”

Jeong Yeon-shin greeted them politely before falling into a brief contemplation.

If he had faced their reflexive joint attack head-on, how much of their offensive could he have endured?

Considering that it was a combined assault, perhaps about thirty percent.

That was not a low number. In fact, it was surprisingly high—even to him.

‘Did I overestimate myself...?’

“The Elder Council Lord must be possessed. First Ihyeong Void, and now all of this. Too many surprises at once.”

It was Yong Hui-myeong’s voice.

Jeong Yeon-shin turned his head, taking in the face of the Supreme Commander of the Divine Sword Corps.

Yong Hui-myeong’s pupils gleamed subtly, vertically elongated. That alone made the air feel as if it had turned to ice.

‘Even by a little... he has grown stronger.’

For a fleeting moment, Jeong Yeon-shin fell into self-doubt, questioning whether he truly possessed the martial prowess to challenge him.

Meanwhile, Yong Hui-myeong’s gaze shifted elsewhere.

Shin Cheonhwa, arms crossed, moved her lips.

[So, you are the current generation’s Divine Sword Master? You were born with an absurd amount of talent. You hardly even seem human... Truly, our Fortress Lord has been blessed with extraordinary fortune.]

Her voice seeped leisurely into the air.

Yong Hui-myeong shrugged.

“I appreciate the compliment. And you?”

It was a conversation between those inherently and overwhelmingly powerful.

Although they did not openly express it, at that moment, Jeong Yeon-shin began to question whether the past and present of the fortress were truly stable.

‘In the end, I must take control of the fortress myself...’

Ma Yeon-jeok, who had been gripping Jeong Yeon-shin’s shoulders but had refrained from shaking him, finally turned his head. Their gazes met, and Ma Yeon-jeok spoke at once.

“You’re not too exhausted, are you?”

“The fact that this thing was unleashed means the fortress was in dire straits. How did you manage?”

Shin Cheonhwa’s lips curled slightly.

[You’ve grown quite a lot.]

Ma Yeon-jeok completely ignored her words.

It was as if he had erased the very existence of the former Supreme Commander from his awareness.

His gaze scanned Jeong Yeon-shin’s body once more before continuing.

“Your meridians seem intact, but I can see traces of fierce battle.”

“Those bastards... How great were the fortress’s losses? And what sort of filth dared to violate Yangyang?”

Suddenly, Shin Cheonhwa raised a sphere of compressed earth into the air above them.

A simple aerial manipulation, nothing extraordinary in this gathering.

Ma Yeon-jeok, looking mildly irritated, bluntly asked,

[There is something to discuss regarding your grandson—about the future of the fortress.]

Shin Cheonhwa flicked her fingers.

Immediately, the dirt sphere distorted the dusk with a translucent light, beginning to manifest an image.

A massive gate stood tall, flanked by an expanse of fortress walls. A dried-out moat, a lone old man’s head being crushed under Jeong Yeon-shin’s descending foot, robes billowing violently in all directions, the gleam of countless weapons flashing in the air...

She was freely manipulating the earth’s energy and its spiritual resonance. It was a sight beyond the realm of the impossible. This was no mere high-level martial art but a true spellcraft, an arcane mastery of unparalleled proportions.

[Let’s watch this first before we talk. I haven’t even seen it properly myself.]

Ipwang Fortress General Bureau.

The scent of ink that the scribes had once filled the air with had long since been tainted by the sharp, metallic smell of beasts.

It was the distinct scent of spirit creatures. The starkly contrasting aromas blended within the chamber, where transparent sunlight cascaded through, forming rippling patterns on the floor.

The spirit creatures that had once darted in and out of the General Bureau, delivering intelligence with urgency, had begun to move less frequently.

Amidst the rows of desks—dozens of them—surrounded by even more inkstones, brushes, and paper, the intellectual gleam of the scribes’ eyes flickered sharply as they traced their strokes with precision.

Im Jin-myeong, the Grand Commissioner, slowly exhaled and opened his eyes from where he sat. His breathing technique had come to an end—a method that had governed all battlefields as the central axis of the stronghold.

The moment his breath settled, the oppressive air that had weighed down upon him unraveled in an instant, sending a ripple through the papers stacked atop his desk.

Throughout the Great Ipwang Battle, Im Jin-myeong had encompassed the entirety of the vast fortress in his mind—held it all within a single head.

It was, of course, an impossible feat without forcibly extracting every last drop of inner energy and pushing his upper dantian to its absolute limits.

He needed time—if only a brief moment—to suppress the internal damage. That was why he had abruptly cut off his transmission to Jeong Yeon-shin earlier.

—The Imperial Family never sent reinforcements in the end. I heard a wave of Imperial warriors had surged down from the north—where did those monsters go after clashing head-on with the northern martial world?

—There’s news. A large number of them have suddenly gathered in Shaanxi. Hmm, searching for the remnants of the deceased Zhongnan Sword Immortal? They truly are an unpredictable lot.

—Perhaps they understood Lord Jeong’s martial prowess even better than we did...

At some point, the scribes in the chamber had begun exchanging words through sound transmission.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

The Guardian Moon and Sun Internal Art, a signature technique of the General Bureau, was known for its unparalleled sensitivity to external energy fluctuations.

Seated beside Im Jin-myeong, his back straight and posture composed, was a young scribe clad in the traditional robes of his station. He opened his mouth and spoke unhurriedly.

"The martial artists gathered in the southern sector of the fortress are rapidly dispersing. Additionally, Lord Jeong has declared victory."

"Indeed. Then it is a victory, no doubt. Ah... How long has it been since Lord Jeong revealed himself?"

Im Jin-myeong asked, as though confirming something. The young scribe replied without delay.

"It has been half a shichen and one additional ke."

"...Then he is no longer merely a newly appointed Violet Rank."

Murmuring almost absentmindedly, Im Jin-myeong soon steadied his gaze and posed another question.

"The situation at the eastern and western gates—has the infiltration of the fortress by unorthodox martial artists been dealt with?"

"Did you not already see it for yourself? With your Absolute Vision—the greatest observation technique in all of Ipwang Fortress."

The young scribe responded dryly, his voice carrying an arid, emotionless quality.

Yet none of the nearby scribes reacted to his peculiar manner of speech.

They did not even perceive that Im Jin-myeong had opened his eyes, nor that he was conversing with the young scribe.

A brief silence fell over the chamber.

Im Jin-myeong turned his head to the side, his gaze slowly rising.

The Grand Commissioner of Ipwang Fortress parted his lips deliberately.

"You speak Ho-gwang quite fluently. Your way of speaking is no different from a native of this land."

"You realized that much?"

The young scribe’s voice remained level as he posed the question. On one side of his otherwise unremarkable face, the flesh of his cheek momentarily turned translucent, like glass.

Above his head, a straw hat flickered like a mirage from the Great Desert—an object that had not been there before.

Im Jin-myeong did not respond. Instead, he posed yet another question with composed detachment.

"A rather straightforward scheme. Take advantage of the chaos wrought by the Great Ipwang Battle to infiltrate and strike at the heart of the fortress... Is this the Lunar Veil Dance of the Little Lord of the Thirteen Heavens?"

[My existence is what illuminates your kind.]

Even as the young man's voice began to resonate, Ipwang Fortress’s General Bureau continued to function as if nothing was amiss.

It was only the two of them who were detached from reality—like reflections in a mirror that showed a different world inside and out.

It was the young scribe’s energy field. His mastery of inner force had materialized a transcendent spectacle, warping the space around them.

The corners of Im Jin-myeong’s beard lifted slightly.

"A fascinating technique. Lethal, in fact."

[I asked how you discerned my identity.]

"I had thought the Lunar Veil Dance of the Little Lord of the Thirteen Heavens was merely an illusionary art. But upon reconsideration, I see that it is tremendously effective in practical combat. There’s no comparison to something as crude as a mere face-changing disguise."

[We have crossed blades for quite some time now. In the end, I have taken my fair share of this land’s strength. Your displeasure is understandable.

But shouldn’t questions be exchanged fairly? I have already answered one of yours.]

Both spoke with apparent ease, taunting each other with the composure of men accustomed to maneuvering within precarious positions. In a game of Go, this would be a checkmate. Naturally, it was Im Jin-myeong who was cornered.

He tapped his index finger lightly against the desk.

The battle had been won.

The greater conflict across the martial world made the matter of victory and defeat far less clear.

His opponent’s position rendered the outcome insignificant. If Ipwang Fortress were to fall, it would be an undeniable triumph. But even if it did not, it would not be a loss for them either.

It was the northern martial world.

Im Jin-myeong swiftly gathered his energy to his Baihui Acupoint, then discreetly drew it down into the depths of his eyes.

"To be honest, I only became certain of your identity just now. Though, of course, I had my suspicions.

Every single operation you carried out ended in failure, and yet you dared to incite such an incident once more, without a shred of concern for your own status... No matter how I looked at it, your temperament did not align with the martial world of this land."

He spoke slowly, revealing that he had long pursued the traces of the elusive Little Lord of the Thirteen Heavens—an entity even he, a supreme master, had never been able to catch.

The young scribe—no, the Little Lord of the Thirteen Heavens—smiled faintly.

[I concede. As the Lord of the Thirteen Heavens, I have failed.]

"Indeed, it is rather amusing to see an incompetent fool grinning so confidently."

[You've lost your mind.]

The Little Lord of the Thirteen Heavens muttered shortly as he raised his hand—a prelude to a strike. In that instant, a colorless glint flickered through Im Jin-myeong's eyes.

"It seems you've misunderstood something."

A voice, thick and resonant, rumbled out—one reminiscent of the demeanor displayed earlier by the acting commander of the Divine Sword Sect.

The faint smile on the Little Lord's lips vanished as his fingertip shimmered with a stark white radiance.

[A dying man who still knows how to run his mouth. Everything happening in this land is merely your self-destruction. It does not concern us in the slightest.]

"You have not weakened the strength of this land. All you’ve done is trample a pack of thieves that fed off the lifeblood of commoners—beneath Lord Seomye Jeong’s leather boots."

Im Jin-myeong spat his words out like iron.

"Of course, there's no need for you to dwell on it. No one in this martial world could have predicted Lord Jeong’s emergence."

[A name that will perish long before it reaches the God of War.]

"And naturally, no one could have foreseen the plans he would set in motion."

[Once you die, this land will only descend further into chaos.]

Both spoke as if their own words were the only ones that mattered.

Even as the Little Lord’s hand plunged toward him, Im Jin-myeong did not rise.

His internal wounds were already weighing heavily upon him. In a situation where resistance was futile, only two figures moved.

One was the undulating energy from the Little Lord’s palm strike, slithering through the air like a serpent. The other—an unforeseen hand that suddenly sliced through space with seamless precision, seizing the Little Lord’s throat.

A deafening shatter echoed as the surrounding energy field fragmented along with the Little Lord’s protective aura.

The hand that had grasped his throat was pale—ghostly white. Blue veins pulsed visibly beneath the skin.

Beside him stood a woman in a crimson robe, her jet-black hair cascading like the midnight sky. A smirk played at her lips, her breath thick with a dense, blood-soaked aura.

"Who did you say would perish early?"

The lips of the Seventh Apostle curved into the same expression as the Little Lord’s. Her voice, perfectly mimicking his, flowed out from her mouth—not by intent, but simply because her innate power made it so.

The Little Lord smiled back at her.

[A vampire specter with no shadow, a silent assassin of the Dark Oblivion? Did you think I wouldn’t anticipate your arrival?]

The martial prowess of supreme masters accounted for all possibilities. A meaningless, unceremonious death was a rarity among their kind.

The Little Lord's body blurred like smoke.

Almost simultaneously, Im Jin-myeong's technique activated—Absolute Vision.

His sight expanded, accelerating beyond the limits of perception, only for the entire scene to distort, compressing into nothingness before unfolding again atop a distant treetop.

It was the viewpoint of a spirit creature.

From above, he could see the open-roofed General Bureau hall, where spirit creatures flitted about restlessly.

He had shared vision with White Swallow. The small, snow-white bird hovered in the air, its short beak stabbing forward.

Perched on the shoulder of a woman nocking an arrow into a grand bow.

Even as he activated Absolute Vision, Im Jin-myeong had already sent out his sound transmission.

Tian Zhu-jin, the Celestial Archer of the World Tree, immediately released her bowstring.

The overwhelming recoil sent her body reeling backward, her light green hair fluttering wildly with the force. A streak of light traced across the treetop to the General Bureau, carving a luminous silver path like moonlight in the night sky.

White Swallow's tiny black eyes captured the scene.

The first thing it saw—

The Little Lord’s gaze suddenly shifting toward them.

Within the stretched-out time of supreme masters, where moments elongated into eternity, his brow lifted slightly.

A rare sight for someone who had spent his days toying with the world from behind lifeless eyes.

His hand moved in a blur, and the shattered fragments of the Lunar Veil Dance began to reassemble like shards of a broken mirror.

But before they could fully coalesce—

A crimson haze, thick as blood, ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) ripped through his movements.

In the brief instant of bewilderment that surged like a tide within the Little Lord’s eyes—

His head was obliterated into pieces.