Chapter 612: Chapter 612

Until now, Ipwang Fortress had always fought defensively. The responsibilities of caring for the people, and even the long-past Great War of Ipwang, had all followed that pattern.

But now, it was different.

This was a relentless assault.

The Lord of Yongam Fortress had ultimately fled.

The side of his head was shattered like a piece of stone, and yet he still managed to shake off the three Black Ranks and vanish into the distance with peerless lightness skill—like a top general swiftly reading the situation.

In fact, he held the rank equivalent to a Grand General guarding the Ming Dynasty's Great Wall. After all, he was a royal general of the Qing Dynasty, already being formed around the Southern Emperor.

A supreme martial master.

As he fled, he twisted his path dozens of times, soaring through the heavens and plunging to the ground.

When the pursued and the pursuer are evenly matched, the one dictating the direction holds overwhelming advantage. Every now and then, he threw out suppressing techniques of shocking power—and being a Yozoku, he possessed a transcendent life force.

In other words, absolute freedom.

The Yozoku’s power was martial mastery beyond comprehension.

The only things that could kill them were one’s own pride—or a situation that offered no retreat. Any Commander under the Divine Sword Corps naturally understood this.

Among the command, the only junior Black Ranks were Namgung Hwa-shin and Hyeon Won-chang. And they trampled Yongam Fortress without a shred of hesitation.

“You have to kill them when they charge in.”

“He’s still a king, you know. He wouldn’t just flee like a dog. He’ll go down with the capital before he runs.”

A conversation between Wеi Ji-geuk and Bukgung Ah.

But the only one granted escape was the Lord of Yongam Fortress. His military forces were struck twice—first by the formless blade bombardment of the Divine Sword Corps’ Sub-Commander, then by the shining destruction of the Divine Sword Corps itself. Some of them even attempted mutual destruction in the face of that wave.

Yozoku martial artists, driven mad with pride.

They broke through before reinforcements could arrive.

Behind the five hundred warriors of the Divine Sword Corps, only curling smoke remained. The sky above Yongam Fortress, always murky and trembling, was now even more twisted from the shock of the divine barrier’s destruction. The Divine Sword Corps charged forward without pause, now arriving before the capital of the Demonic Territory.

Those who had lost Jeong Yeon-shin. Those who succeeded him.

The Black Swords who had learned what they once didn’t know were sharper than ever. It wasn’t the first time they had wiped out an entire sect. They were numb to the stench of blood.

And as soon as they crested the slope—there it was, vast and far below. A wide plain, backed by a tributary of the Black Dragon River.

Wide enough to hold two or three full-sized sailing ships side by side, yet what floated on the surface were only pitch-black scales and fragments of bone.

Occasionally, a wave would rise from the empty water, crash onto the muddy bank, and then sink back with white foam.

Even though it wasn’t the sea.

The sound reached them faintly from afar.

Perhaps it was the thick, sinking air, but the sound seemed less like waves and more like someone slapping leathery skin. Or like some giant tapping at its own flesh.

Meanwhile, there was no sound of people. With the river at its back, the massive city that loomed ahead in a vast circle stood utterly silent.

This was the Southern Emperor’s territory.

Roughly two thousand li northeast of Ming Dynasty’s Beijing, and over three hundred li southeast from the nearest point of the Black Dragon River's main current.

Naturally, it was closer to Arasa—Russia—than to Ming land.

From the moment it entered their view, its overwhelming scale was clear. Tens of thousands of buildings, arranged in perfect vertical and horizontal order.

The martial artists of the Demonic Territory called it:

The Go board of the giant Pangu.

A grid first described in an old Wu Dynasty text called Chronicles of the Three and Five Eras.

Every rooftop jutted up like a blade. The districts and waterways were obsessively clean and symmetrical. Each cluster of buildings was enclosed by roads forming the shape of the character for “well” (井).

Unreasonably orderly. The very temperament of the Southern Emperor could be felt.

Meanwhile, on a hill overlooking the Black Capital—

“To think I’d live to see the capital of the Demonic Territory...”

A swordswoman in black murmured. Her jet-black hair was tied down in a single braid like a training blade. One hand rested on the hilt of her sword, fastened by a white belt at her waist.

Hak So-seon, Grand Master of the Radiant Blade Corps.

She stood at the front alongside other commanders.

Beside her, Cheon So-so’s lips parted slowly.

“There were rumors that this was the Southern Emperor’s formation. That the entire land here can supply energy to the ruler, like a giant formation array.”

“I heard Chang’an was like that too... before the First Heavenly Demon flattened it.”

A step forward—Wеi Ji-geuk muttered to himself as he stepped out of formation. Then he squatted and stared toward the Black Capital with drowsy eyes.

“...I don’t feel anything. I can’t even tell if there are people. It’s way too quiet.”

He was gauging the enemy.

It had already begun. In martial arts terms, it was the phase of composing dismantling forms. Most of the Black Ranks were skilled and familiar with such analysis.

Even Han Cheol-mok, the towering Blue Heaven Commander who’d been murmuring incantations of the Jeong Family’s martial art the entire march, raised himself slightly on tiptoes to expand his range of inner sight.

“Did they evacuate all those civilians? There must’ve been at least a hundred thousand... how could they manage that...?”

Three things became clear.

The terrifying reach of the Southern Emperor’s rule, his intelligence network that pierced through even the Divine Sword Corps’ route thanks to Whirling Wind Hollow, and at the core, an emperor who genuinely cherished his people.

The chance for a surprise attack was long gone.

They had to finish this before more Northern Kings could gather at the Black Capital.

Yet rather than frown, Bukgung Ah—the Little Lord of Yeouicheon—smiled. She stood calmly at the center of the formation, beside the expressionless Shin Hwang, the Annihilation Grand Commander.

“Looks like they really were afraid of the Divine Sword Corps. Good. At least the civilians won’t get caught up in it.”

“I will infiltrate and bring back the heads of the Ming Cult Leader and the Southern Emperor.”

A young man, likely in his mid-twenties, stepped forward.

His eyes shone not with purity, but madness. His finely honed muscles showed between the folds of his sleeves—always the bearing of a genius swordsman.

“This body was raised by the main family as a Shadow Sword. And now I see—it was for this very day. I alone am enough to be shattered.”

Namgung Hwa-shin, the White Qilin, spoke with such calm clarity it was pleasant to hear. But no one responded.

Since the Great War of Ipwang, not a single Black Rank paid attention to the divine prophecies of the Heaven-Aligned Sword.

All they did was occasionally request spirit herbs that helped prevent mental deviation during cultivation.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Their chain of command was different to begin with. In the absence of the Commander of the Divine Sword Corps, authority passed to the acting commander; if none was present, then to the Sub-Commander.

In an instant, every gaze of the Divine Sword warriors turned in the same direction—to Jin Myeong-jo, perched alone on a single rock.

He sat with a blank expression, rolling pieces of stone in his palm. Clack, clack—a low sound trickled out.

Since the Ming Cult Leader So Cheonmujuk’s visit to Yeokluseong, his face had never changed. Even the divine prisoner he had struggled to guard had vanished the moment they approached the Black Capital.

Jin Myeong-jo was the only warrior here who had achieved the Void Moon Martial Art. Eventually, among the Black Ranks, Hyeon Won-chang tossed him a question.

“...Commanding the entire force is beyond me. I don’t know you bastards. I’ve never cared.”

His voice cracked like shattering ice.

Jin Myeong-jo’s low reply was followed by his gaze turning once more toward the distant Black Capital.

The blood demon, long scorned even in Ipwang Fortress. Red eyes now traced the complex grid of the city, one sector at a time—like stones placed on a giant Go board.

From this barren darkness, he gazed down at the bright world of the Ming. More precisely, at the Heavenly Tree they had long known about—the one recognized by both the God of War and the Southern Emperor.

“It feels like the entire city is preparing for something.”

Geum Cheong-won, Lord of Wu Geuk Pavilion, tapped his dark artificial leg gently. His voice came slowly.

“They’re not just defending against us. They’re definitely doing something else as well. Something like... the manifestation of the God of War.”

A bluish light lit up the city’s outer wall.

A thunderclap crashed down from nowhere.

The left side of the endlessly stretched wall was scorched pitch-black. From the sky to the Black Capital below, a bolt of lightning had stretched like the branch of a tree.

At the place where that blue lightning unraveled like a tangled skein, a towering woman stood.

Deep shadows framed her eyes, and her nose was broad and sharply raised. Her attire was foreign.

She wore blue silk wrapped at the waist, then draped another cloth across her shoulders and down like a sash.

She radiated dignity.

She wore no armor—just exquisite cloth. Clearly not dressed for combat. It was the ceremonial dress of Tianzhu—India.

Her lips moved slowly.

“I almost went straight to Yongam Fortress.”

A voice as clear as a bell.

No inner force spread from her lower dantian, no explosive six-fold transmission burst outward, and yet her voice pierced through the distant hill and echoed directly into the ears of the Divine Sword warriors.

Her endless inner energy had resonated with the air itself.

“You didn’t even realize you’d already lost.”

She was clearly one of the Northern Kings of Whirling Wind Hollow. Just by looking at her, anyone could guess her status.

The Great King Vajra.

She came from the homeland of Bodhidharma and pitied the famine-stricken world. That’s why, while wandering through the land, she became captivated by the God of War in the North.

She was a transcendent master of Thunderbolt Qi Art.

It was said that no martial artist who trained in metal-based arts could face her and survive.

Only a peerless expert could match her. Naturally, it was Jin Myeong-jo’s turn. In an instant, his body faded atop the rocky cliff—

—and landed in the center of the open plain between the ridgeline and the Black Capital. His movement technique was ghostly.

At the same moment, a hoarse voice stopped Jin Myeong-jo in his tracks. Exactly one hundred paces ahead.

A massive greatsword nearly a foot wide slammed into the cracked earth. An old man stood in the plains, gripping the gigantic sword handle upside-down like a cane.

He was clearly a head or two taller than Jin Myeong-jo, with thick, rugged facial features slightly askew around a weathered face. Wrinkles creased his brow, and a scar had carved through the corner of one sharp eye.

His white hair, completely desaturated, flowed without a trace of luster.

Jin Myeong-jo stared at him silently for a moment before slowly opening his mouth.

“Sage Sword Lord of Goyo.”

“That’s right. I govern the laws of this martial world, and I intend to deny your advance.”

The elder swordsman of the Yao clan spoke calmly. His composed tone didn’t match his imposing stature at all.

An ancient lawgiver from the time of Emperor Shun. To bear the title of Sage Sword meant to be the most virtuous of all Yao swordsmen.

It was a title bestowed by the God of War, who knew the history of the Central Plains better than any. Entrusted by the War God to uphold the order of this land, he held the rank of an imperial inspector with kingly authority.

His Five Punishments Hell God Sword Formation was a straightforward, tyrannical divine art. It was said only Mun Gok of the Six Liu Yuan Star Lords could withstand it head-on.

Jin Myeong-jo nodded slowly.

“We received intelligence from the Myeongryu Unit. If you simply hand over what we came for, we have no intention of pursuing grievances.”

“The formation for the God of War’s incarnation, the Western Celestial King of the Ming Cult captured alive, and the Southern Emperor’s head.”

Each of those conditions could shake the entire world.

The thick lips of the Sage Sword Lord of Goyo curved into a yellowish, cracked smile. A Yao’s grin.

“Such fine boldness.”

Just as he murmured those words—

“You made remarkably good time for a first visit. This puts us in a bit of a bind.”

The voice echoed from inside the gates. It was also in Han speech, but the pronunciation was far crisper than either Vajra or the Sage Sword Lord of Goyo.

The central gates, forged of iron, began to open boldly. To the martial artists of the Demonic Capital, the concept of defense was meaningless.

A massive man appeared at the wide-open gate. At that moment, across the ridgeline, the plain, and the capital itself, he carried the most overwhelming presence.

He wore refined scholar’s robes like those of Hanlin Academy scholars in Beijing. In one hand, he held a massive magistrate’s brush. It looked like a giant skewer, but if shrunk, it might pass for a brush.

Perhaps because his hand was so massive and rugged.

Ink dripped steadily from the tip of the magistrate’s brush. In his hand, it truly resembled a brush.

Mun Gok of the Six Liu Yuan Star Lords spoke.

“Before battle begins, allow me to make one thing clear. I doubt many outside the Black Swords know the truth, and I tend to use anything at my disposal...”

At the same time, he swung the magistrate’s brush toward the city wall. It was a literal one-stroke calligraphy. As if he wanted the entire world to read it, bold letters were engraved upon the wall.

Divine Sword Corps Commander Seomye.

The Western Celestial King of the Ming Cult once said of his lifespan:

Heaven is indifferent...

Jin Myeong-jo stomped the magistrate’s brush into the wall, driving it deep into the stone. Thick cracks raced across the wall like spiderwebs.

It was an obvious attempt to demoralize the Divine Sword Corps. Mun Gok smiled faintly.

“You’d break a scholar’s brush?”

“Act out of turn and you’ll die.”

Jin Myeong-jo looked up at Mun Gok and said:

And from the very start—he activated Empty Moon Dance.

In a flash, blood-colored mist in the shape of a sword flared from his hand, and in the same instant, he parried the Sage Sword Lord of Goyo’s massive greatsword, which had already swept toward his back—without even making a sound.

The Sage Sword Lord’s eyes widened.

A sharp whistle suddenly pierced the air from the ridgeline on the far side of the city. It was a signal arrow—an arrow with a flute tip—fired by Wi Ye-ryeong of the April Palace Ghosts, formerly of Ma Gwang-ik’s forces.

The chirping of mountain birds echoed like a flute through a peaceful forest path.

A one-armed storyteller in a straw hat spoke.

“This isn’t such # Nоvеlight # a simple sword cut, you know. You only saw me vanish, so you don’t get it, but if you could just slash your way wherever you wanted, why would spell arts even exist? Life’s like that—you fall into ravines, you bump into some mountain beast, and sometimes a path opens up out of nowhere. Gotta be lucky.”

“Don’t just sit there quietly like that. You’ve gotten way too mature. You should be cursing me out or something.”

“You’re less useful than I thought.”

“...That’s good motivation. Just wait. It’ll only take a moment.”