Chapter 531: Chapter 531

“It’s quite peculiar when you think about it.”

“The Dark Celestial Emperor. His death wail was so thunderous. They say in life he desperately searched for the Founder of Wudang—the legendary Sambong Zhenren. I wonder what he would’ve asked, had he truly met him. Any ordinary swordsman might have requested a glimpse of his Heavenly Sword style.”

“Now, listen here, Hunga.”

“I’ve told you multiple times, it’s Heon-won Ssi...”

“Don’t you have anything a bit more useful to say? I’ve said it many times—this sword must contain your entire essence. The spiritual nature of a divine blade is forged that way. Your inner energy breathes through it just fine, but your life story—utterly lacking.”

“Are you belittling the hardships Lord Jeong and I endured together?”

“Well, I do acknowledge the suffering of being buried alive alone in the earth. That was certainly hardship.”

“To be honest, it doesn’t make sense to me. Do the wielders of divine weapons really just rant nonsense into their blades like madmen?”

“Where enlightenment falls short, sincerity must make up the difference. Magical swords and demon blades—such weapons choose their masters harshly. You, at your current level, won’t be able to handle such an absurd divine artifact. It’s best to soften it early.”

“You really do sound like the head of the Tang Family...”

“That’s enough. Tell me that story about Jang Sam-bong.”

“Ah, Sambong Zhenren... there are countless anecdotes scattered across the provinces. So, there I was, hungry and wandering Kaifeng in the 68th year of Gunreung’s reign, when I came across an inn. A breathtakingly beautiful couple was approached by some rogue martial artists claiming to be from a Wudang branch, and then...”

Jeong Yeon-shin knew it well.

That ever since he ascended to the violet seat of Ipwang Fortress, took on the title of Acting Master of the Divine Sword Corps, and was counted as one of the Five Swords of the World—the entire martial realm had been watching his every move.

But this place was different.

No matter how powerful the faction or great the authority, no one could track Jeong Yeon-shin’s every movement in such detail.

Even if by great fortune they pinpointed his location, the best they could do was speculate—never confirm.

It was a serene mountain path.

Jeong Yeon-shin walked with his shoulders slightly slumped, occasionally glancing up at the wooden signboard hanging above him. He’d heard it stood at the center of Wudang’s daoist sanctuaries.

Calling it a “gate” was generous—it was simply a plank fastened to one of the twisted pines lining the narrow path.

The only remarkable feature was the rich, almost intoxicating scent of pine.

He glanced at the writing again.

It was a sign with three conflicting origin stories. Even the Wudang Sect itself gave no official answer.

Some say it was a gift from a previous Grand Empress Dowager, moved by Sambong Zhenren’s martial virtue.

Others claim it was a return gift from the Yongle Emperor, who drove the Southern Royals north to battle the yokai tribes, and rewarded the neutral sects who stayed out of the civil war.

The final tale says Sambong Zhenren just carved it himself.

Seeing it now, it was clearly the third.

The strokes bore the traces of a dormant dragon, its coils shaped in the Tai Chi pattern.

The characters pulled at the soul like a gentle vacuum.

[Jade Purity—one of the Three Pure Ones in Daoist belief. Some say it is the first; others claim it is the final stage of the Great Dao, depending on the tradition.]

A soft sensation brushed against his shoulder. Jeong Yeon-shin turned his head.

There stood a woman with flowing black hair, cascading like a drawn sword. Her presence was as distinct and gentle as incense on a sacred altar.

Shin Cheonhwa, former master of the Divine Sword Corps.

‘Where have you been all this time?’

But the thought didn’t continue.

The trail rose into a low hill, and just ahead stood more than a dozen daoists, all standing with their hands respectfully clasped.

In unison, their sleeves draped down to the elbows.

Yet their robes were all a faded white. Not one of them wore anything new.

“We pay respects to the Seomye of the Jeong Clan. This is the Sword-Laying Pool.”

The one leading the group—a middle-aged man with a square jaw and deep voice—stepped forward. He was Jade Cliff, or Ok-am Zhenin, the newly appointed acting head of the Wudang Sect after the loss of Master Jade Sword.

Behind him stood Ju Se-hwa of the Jang clan, hands raised in a now noticeably more respectful posture than before. The stiffness of her previous demeanor had softened.

Jeong Yeon-shin opened his mouth slowly.

“I apologize for the disturbance these past days. It was unbecoming of a guest.”

Some of the daoists flinched slightly. A natural reaction to words that strayed beyond their expectations.

After all, who would have expected that the man who burst into Mount Wudang would turn out to be a gentleman? Even enlightened Zhenren with profound Daoist power would be caught off guard.

‘These are not mere bandits of the martial world. This is Wudang. They understand propriety and principle.’

And just like that, as Jeong Yeon-shin displayed courtesy, the atmosphere relaxed.

A moment of exchange between the Violet Seat of Ipwang Fortress and the Immortals of Wudang—leading naturally into the rite of Sword-Laying.

As the name of the Sword-Laying Pool implied, he was to temporarily relinquish his weapon.

Along with it—the killing intent, the sins imbued in the blade, and the chaos within.

“I swear upon all that our sect holds sacred, I will guard it.”

A young daoist accepted the blade, hands steady and voice calm.

He was a noble descendant of the Jang clan, disciple of Jade Cliff, and grand-disciple of Master Jade Veil—the successor to the Tai Chi Wisdom Sword.

Such ceremonial care was proof of utmost respect.

Jeong Yeon-shin gave only a slight nod in return, his face unreadable.

Led by Wudang’s masters, he was escorted past countless daoist sanctuaries before finally arriving at a large residence, his temporary lodging.

It was a splendid pavilion, adorned with blue-glazed tiles.

“Please move about freely as you wish. Only the Celestial Hall, where our secret manuals are stored, is off-limits. Other than that, you will find no restrictions.”

So said Jade Cliff, standing just outside the threshold. His tone was polite, dignified.

He was clearly treating Jeong Yeon-shin as the de facto master of Ipwang Fortress—on equal footing with the head of Wudang itself.

Such a sight—impossible to imagine for a fifteen-year-old boy once living near Wudang and Shaolin in Shinya-hyeon.

Jeong Yeon-shin looked at him for a moment and asked,

“Is something urgent troubling you?”

“Yes, but it concerns our sect’s private matters...”

Jeong Yeon-shin didn’t press further.

With that, Jade Cliff and the other daoists withdrew—quickly, yet with the elegant rhythm of Je Woon-jong’s signature footwork, unique in its flowing grace.

One person remained behind.

“There’s something I’d like to ask.”

Her tone was low and respectful.

Very different from before. Perhaps it was the sight of him holding his own against Master Jade Veil.

Now she addressed him entirely as an equal.

“During your stay, our disciples will attend to your needs. But it is difficult from a distance to read your qi signature. Is there a particular reason you always maintain a state of reversed meridian concealment?”

“So my enemies can’t either.”

Jeong Yeon-shin did not boast about the perfection of the Divine Sword Corps. He simply glanced at her once and turned toward his quarters.

[The junior doesn’t seem comfortable. One room should be enough.]

Shin Cheonhwa, hands clasped behind her back, silently walked up beside him. Her violet robes brushed lightly against his shoulder in a familiar gesture.

Ju Se-hwa’s skin visibly tightened under her eyes in subtle discomfort.

“...Our sect’s surveillance master, known for her mastery of shadow arts, is currently sweeping the mountains. Should the Sect Leader be discovered, we will inform you immediately. But as you know, Wudang’s terrain is vast, and even we cannot predict where Master Jade Veil’s path may lead...”

“Do what you can. No need to rush.”

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Jeong Yeon-shin offered a short reply before stepping up into the main hall.

He vanished through the sliding doors.

Thus began his retreat.

The air—born from the defeat of an eighteen-year-old—permeated deep into the joints of the blue-tiled roof.

A clinging, swamp-like stillness.

And a lingering sense of loss that sank quietly with the mountain fog.

Not a sound was heard.

A man in a conical hat sat beneath the signboard that read “Shangqing Gate.”

He sat carelessly on the bare earth, the end of the scabbard at his hip pressed firmly into the ground. His empty right sleeve, limp and unfilled, fluttered in the wind with a casual air.

The man let out a quiet murmur.

“I’ve been waiting quite a while.”

This was more than twenty li away from the Jade Purity Gate.

Over a hundred Wudang daoists had encircled him. They surrounded not only the open courtyard, but also stood atop the eaves of the surrounding buildings, the strong scent of pine flowing thickly through the air.

The blades they each held—the Songmun High Swords—were infused with focused internal energy.

At the center of it all stood Jade Cliff, Wudang’s acting head master, with one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

Dust swirled around his robe’s cuffs, rising to his waist in soft spirals before falling again.

He asked quietly, “The formation—was it set properly? I mean the isolation barrier.”

To his left, Jade Leaf, who always wore a gentle expression, answered with a more serious face than usual.

“Yes... but wouldn’t it be wiser to request aid from the guest at Jade Purity Gate—?”

“To beg a temporary guest to resolve our sect’s crisis? And not just any crisis, but one absent of natural disaster or external cause...”

“That would be disgrace taken to the grave. The Tai Chi turns unbound across the world, but a man’s face is shown only once in this life. What if, heaven forbid, the Head Master returns to the mountain unexpectedly? He’ll head straight to the sword keeper’s quarters where that guest is staying.”

Just then, the man in the conical hat slowly rose to his feet.

“I’m a coward by nature.”

At the sound of his voice, the entire mountain fell still. A breeze tinged with clouds drifted like mist across the courtyard.

“I didn’t go to the Sword-Laying Pool on purpose.”

“In hindsight, that was a wise choice. You’ve taken the guests’ swords—but the host still carries his blade. Is this not the ultimate truth that every swordsman seeks? A precious lesson indeed.”

He awkwardly raised his one remaining hand into a loose fist—a half-formed salute.

A faint smile touched his lips, but even that subtle curve struck down upon the courtyard like the pressure of a sword gale.

“I heard there’s an old madman in closed cultivation here. I’d like to join him, if I may.”

“False, true, false, false,” came a swift whisper from the woman at Jade Cliff’s right.

A disheveled-haired daoist—Jade Sword, Wudang’s “Talisman of the Seven Stars”—quietly voiced her judgment.

The level of force now gathered in the courtyard was close to three full elite divisions of the Divine Sword Corps.

And not ordinary divisions, either—this was akin to the annihilation squads, the elite Ruyi Division, the peak of Ma Gwang-ik’s prime.

In other words—invincible.

The very man who had killed the High Sword Keeper—a mortal enemy of Wudang.

Yet Jade Cliff remained silent.

His aura... is absurdly overwhelming.

Sword qi shimmered through the courtyard with flawless density. And still, this one-armed man remained counted among the Five Swords of the World.

It was a serious problem.

If ten Wudang masters died here, a thousand commoners at the foot of the mountain would follow.

It wasn’t just famine or monsters—Wudang bore responsibility for stability, always.

Now, it seemed only mutual destruction could result.

After long silence, Jade Cliff made his decision. Twilight had crept in, swallowing the mountain like the shadow of a giant sword.

“Are we unprepared? I should’ve brought my flute.”

The man in the conical hat began to idly stroke the hilt of his sword. The patience of this supposedly polite guest was clearly wearing thin.

“Yes, Acting Head Master.”

“Open the Celestial Hall. Invite our guest in.”

It was after Shin Cheonhwa had gone out for a walk.

Jeong Yeon-shin twitched in his sleep. He was curled up on his side in the thin bedding—his unique way of resting, unseen by others.

Suddenly, a low hum vibrated at his waist.

Not the Thunderblade—it was the Songmun High Sword. A chill tingled down through the crown of his head, deep into his Baihui point.

A surge of energy from his upper dantian was activating.

Mount Wudang was famed as one of the most sacred mountains in the land—shrouded in mystery. A place steeped in the traces of Daoist sages who’d cultivated divine secrets for centuries. The mountain itself was practically a spiritual artifact.

Even the monstrous cavalry arts of the Yuan Empire had failed to breach this place.

And Shin Cheonhwa, too, was said to be a mystery born from this very mountain’s strange power.

Thinking back, it was strange how none of the Wudang members had questioned it.

From the sword hilt came the rich, fragrant scent of pine. Jeong Yeon-shin sensed it even with his eyes closed.

Faint as candlelight... flickering just beside his pillow.

It wasn’t Shin Cheonhwa. It lacked her solidity.

Jeong Yeon-shin immediately opened his eyes.

In ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) an instant, his mind went white. A heat like no other consumed him. And then—like thunder splitting the night sky—

Three characters burned across his thoughts.

That was the name behind the presence.