Chapter 551: Chapter 551

The ragged man in silk.

The nameless Northern Gatekeeper studied Jeong Yeon-shin closely, clearly doubtful of Northern King Yaryul’s confidence in ruling.

But he didn’t openly object.

Not after he had vouched that Northern King Yaryul had killed a high-ranking official of the Ming Empire.

Blood dripped in droplets.

Even now, crimson blood trailed down the armrests of the Taesa throne.

All of it was Jeong Yeon-shin’s. A sight so commanding it was impossible to ignore.

The scorched and blackened cuffs of his robe, burned by overwhelming Heat Yang Qi, were no exception. Some of the Yozoku within the inner fortress of Yeokluseong had started lingering near the edge of the chamber just to get a whiff of that acrid, charred scent.

This was a land that endlessly revered battle.

The Flame King’s corpse had long since been removed from the inner sanctum.

The Yozoku of Yeokluseong didn’t display a hint of hostility toward Jeong Yeon-shin. Instead, they grinned with twisted, contorted faces. Their powerful bodies visibly warped from intense cultivation.

That was Jeong Yeon-shin’s honest thought.

Just then, the Northern Gatekeeper asked,

“Where did you learn to fight like that? Each strike—every fist—carried such brutal weight... It must’ve come from the North, no doubt...”

“It’s a martial art I created myself.”

Jeong Yeon-shin spoke with unmistakable pride. His martial techniques were proof that Seomye of the Jeong Clan—once thought a fleeting phantom—had truly left his mark on the world.

But the Gatekeeper looked almost dumbfounded as he asked,

“You... made it yourself?”

“Not at all. If anything, that’s the problem. The other Northern Kings will see you as a rival.”

A method the Yozoku revered just as much as crescent blades and axes. Smashing a man’s skull with a massive fist or crushing their ribs in a flurry of strikes—such displays were symbols of strength.

The Fist King, back when he roamed the North unifying clans, had been considered the greatest hand-to-hand martial artist in the world for a time.

Barehanded arts were excellent for winning over the Yozoku.

But just as easily, they could stir envy and hostility among kings and rulers.

Jeong Yeon-shin remained unfazed and spoke slowly, hardening his nerves beneath the cool silver mask.

“I don’t want Yeokluseong to be the end of my territory. This land is far too vast for me to settle for such a small piece.”

The Northern Gatekeeper gave no verbal reply. His expression said it all: Of course you do.

Jeong Yeon-shin had a sudden hunch that Shin So-bin, standing beside him, wore a similar look—but with her silver mask on, he couldn’t be sure.

“Let me ask first. Can I use the flag of Yeokluseong as my own?”

“...You did claim the seat by your own hand. It’s true you’ve proven yourself worthy of kingship by defeating the Flame King. Of course, being acknowledged across the Northern lands is another matter entirely... but it’s also true that no one else here could rightfully claim the title of Lord of Yeokluseong.”

“That’s enough for now. But where are the Demon Annihilation Blade and the former Lord of Yeokluseong? I expected them to return after disposing of the corpse.”

As Jeong Yeon-shin scanned the room, the Gatekeeper sighed.

“They’re ambitious. Just as they regard martial strength as necessary, they see authority and influence as power in equal measure. Rather than follow a stranger, they’re the sort to seek out familiar rulers or kings to align with for future gain.”

Jeong Yeon-shin gave the order, adopting the air of So Cheonmujuk through the Seonryong Transformation—the way of wielding power with utter certainty.

Ming Cult Master ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) Yaryul Jin was such a person—one who commanded without hesitation. It made Jeong Yeon-shin perfectly suited to play the part of a Northern King here.

Everything was for the sake of flawlessly executing the Northern Campaign as Commander of the Divine Sword Corps.

‘My body feels... lighter. Why?’

His words and actions fit him disturbingly well.

Meanwhile, the Northern Gatekeeper pointed to himself, visibly confused.

“Because we’re in the same boat. We may not be enemies-turned-allies like Wu and Yue, but we should still look out for each other, don’t you think?”

“If you don’t want to be cast aside by the Yozoku after vouching for my identity.”

Then Jeong Yeon-shin added—if helping him felt too disagreeable, the Gatekeeper was welcome to challenge him instead.

The moment he said that, his mind and body felt astonishingly at ease. As if some long-festering pressure had finally eased.

This was the path of domination—pado.

Or perhaps, in the way he acted for his own benefit, it was closer to the demonic path—mado.

‘Is this the appeal?’

The thought came to Jeong Yeon-shin suddenly, but he shook his head inwardly. He reminded himself—this was all born of necessity.

“Why are you still standing there?”

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

He asked the Northern Gatekeeper—a man wrapped in silken rags who harbored intense hatred for the Ming people. A man to keep a close eye on.

If his skills and footwork weren’t extraordinary, the Northern Fist King wouldn’t have assigned him a post.

Jeong Yeon-shin had just found the ideal vanguard for his northern campaign.

“Move. You southern traitor.”

He clenched and opened his hand, from which blood still dripped.

The searing pain tore through his skin like blades, but immersed in his imitation of So Cheonmujuk, Jeong Yeon-shin let out a low chuckle.

That sound alone halted the Gatekeeper from stepping back. In this northern land where there was no Imperial Army, no one wanted to be chased down by a mad supreme martial master.

—Um... Master, weren’t the Divine Sword Corps seniors and the elders of the old sects also supposed to come up here eventually? Are you sure this is okay? I mean, I don’t know what kind of mess you’ll have left behind by the time they get here...

Shin So-bin’s voice transmission trickled into his ear like an uneasy stream winding through a valley.

Northern King Yaryul seized total control over Yeokluseong.

Just as the pursuit of mu (martial strength) had splintered into countless sects and schools, so too had humanity long since divided into many clans, each scattered across the land.

The Bai people of the Dali Kingdom, for example—most had fled their homeland as descendants of a fallen nation. The mysterious Ming clan had already solidified its place among the ruling elite of the Ming Empire alongside the Han.

In the east, a clan famed for their supreme archery retained a history rivaling that of the Ming dynasty. Their traditions rigidly blocked the rise of local martial sects, safeguarding their dominance.

Some descendants of the Heavenly Demon, capable of conjuring pitch-black flames, were now known as the Fiery Blaze Clan.

Because aside from the First Heavenly Demon himself, no others had truly inherited that power. To pass on such might—a being of nearly unparalleled supremacy would have had to leave behind blood heirs.

“So that horrible, pitch-black Trifire Annihilation Flame isn’t a martial technique? You’re telling me that wasn’t cultivated—it’s an innate ability?”

A voice thick with contempt.

They stood atop a hill of corpses—more than a hundred dead martial artists.

Each one still clutched broken weapons.

Their bodies were covered in long, narrow palm prints. Every last one of them. Their garments, even their defensive qi techniques, had been torn apart.

At the summit of the mound, a young man lay sprawled out. His long legs stretched lazily, occasionally flicking blood from his soaked hands.

“So they say she’s the greatest in Tibet now, huh? And it’s all because of her bloodline? So Cheonmujuk... what a joke of a world.”

He muttered bitterly, glancing down the slope.

The one who had spoken of various clans earlier was leaning against the base of the hill.

A woman whose face was veiled in pitch-black silk.

Her body shimmered transparently below the neck, as if pierced helplessly by the cold northern sunlight. It was obvious to anyone that divine-level cultivation was active at all times.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

“And you’re any different? If not for your Upper Dantian’s ability tied to the Dream Phantom Physique, your clan would’ve earned no respect from us.”

At the same time, she reached out with invisible hands, scooping a pool of blood.

And, as if by habit, she painted it across her transparent body. Slap. Slap. Over and over.

Each time, her flesh turned a vivid red. But her body never regained full shape. If anything, only the stench of blood thickened.

The youth watching her from above spoke again, just as slowly.

“Respect from the Yozoku? You mean from the God of Combat’s chosen, don’t you? No one’s earned more of his favor than that man. Not even Bukdo, and certainly not the Southern Emperor.”

“The Southern Emperor?”

“You dare speak that name aloud? Names like that carry weight. Do you want to be haunted by human-shaped fireflies on a moonless night? You’re nowhere near ready.”

“What’s stopping me? I’m the trusted aide of the Shame King. That means I’m on the same level as the Southern Emperor, no? Aren’t we both just someone’s pawn?”

The young man was clearly being facetious.

He was the very one who had built that hill of corpses—this woman before him was none other than the Northern King of Shame.

And he, stretched atop the summit, was her son-in-law—called Prince Consort of Shame in the North.

The Shame King’s son-in-law.

And at the same time, a supreme martial master who had faced the Celestial Dragon Commander of Ipwang Fortress, slain five of his Blue-ranked elites, and retreated unharmed.

He always took pride in that feat—but among the northern martial clans, wagers were already being placed on how the Prince Consort of Shame would eventually be killed.

This despite news spreading of the Celestial Dragon Commander’s imprisonment in the Forbidden City.

The Shame King looked at him and replied flatly.

“The Southern Emperor has long served as the God of Combat’s right hand. He crippled the Abbot of Shaolin—a man as formidable as any cannon in the Ming Empire. It was like stilling a volcanic eruption. There's no comparison between you and him.”

The young man, like a petulant son-in-law, waved a hand dismissively.

“So what if he plucked the eyes from a monk whose arms were already severed? If you’re going to hand out credit for that, shouldn’t the two Northern Kings who fought alongside him be mentioned first...”

“That’s not the point. As you said, the Southern Emperor is already part of the God of Combat. Closer than any other. Respect for the Dream Phantom Physique comes entirely from its own merit. You should cherish your bloodline as dearly as the God of Combat cherishes his.”

But the Prince Consort shook his head.

His sharp jawline moved fluidly in the wind, exuding a natural allure—a trait inherent to those born of the Dream Phantom lineage, regardless of gender.

“God of Combat, God of Combat... Aren’t you all tired of the name by now? In the end, wasn’t he brought down by the Emperor of Ming?”

“Watch your mouth. The God of Combat has never been defeated in battle. That Thunderclap War ended with natural disasters and the corpse of Emperor Gunreung. Do you really believe the God of Combat’s body was weaker than the Ming Emperor’s?”

The Shame King continued smearing blood across her skin.

Thunderclap War—that was how northern warriors referred to the duel between Emperor Gunreung and the Fist King. Among Yozoku warriors, it was a name that inspired awe.

The youth fell silent.

In the distance, the outline of a massive earthen fortress shimmered across the wasteland.

It was here, upon hearing of the upheaval in Yeokluseong, that the Shame King had gathered several powerful warriors.

Their conversation—beginning with So Cheonmujuk and moving through the Fist King, the Dream Phantom clan, the Southern Emperor, and eventually the Northern Kings—was no coincidence.

These were the names shaping today’s Northern world.

And they said them aloud deliberately.

The Court of a Thousand Li—the kind of names that could reach even those beings who could hear the wailing of the Northern wind from impossible distances.

Dry wind kicked up the dust beneath their feet.

And then, within that ochre-tinted gust, the sound of lazy footsteps drifted in. Not alone, either—steps that chilled the ground around them like frost.

Judging by their silhouettes, it was a man and woman.

The Shame King spoke.

“Our strongest allies have arrived first.”

“North Sea Ice Palace...”

The Prince Consort of Shame murmured under his breath, lightly tapping the mound of corpses with his heel.

In that moment, BOOM— the bodies exploded like geysers, hurling blood into the air like volcanic eruption.

It was a combination technique—Middle-Pressure Qi Manipulation and Striking the Ox from Across the Mountain—blended with genius-level footwork.

A display of dominance.

He landed on the ground, clicking his tongue.

“The woman must be the Great Palace Lord. And the one beside her is the disgraced heir of the Hwangbo Clan, I imagine. Betrayed his family and Ipwang Fortress both. Hardly worthy of the title Grand Warrior, what with how he usually behaves...”

Frost suddenly formed over the young man’s entire body. He froze in place.

A bored male voice fell alongside the tinkling of ice crystals.

“Darling, it’s cold.”

“Oh, hush. You love it. Want me to warm you up right here?”

A flat, emotionless female voice. The one who’d frozen the Prince Consort—her, without a doubt.

The man beside her slowly shook his head.

Then he turned to address the Shame King.

“In my view, this isn’t the time for you to be loitering around here. Yeokluseong has risen in revolt. They're marching with a thousand-strong martial army straight for your Shame Fortress... You mean to say you haven’t heard?”

The first to arrive at the gathering of the Northern Kings.

The one speaking was the First Consort of North Sea Ice Palace.