CHAPTER 16: CHAPTER 15: EMERGING RIPPLES

The soft creaking of old wood filled the air as Jinmu shifted his weight on the roof beam, his arms folded behind his head, gaze locked on the night sky that had already begun to pale with the hints of dawn. The room beneath him remained silent, untouched by the chaos of last night, yet his mind refused to rest. The fight. The mask. The kill. The name — Do Giseon. It all echoed inside his head, looping like a slow-burning ember.

I should be sleeping, Jinmu thought, though his lips twisted into a faint smirk. But what’s the point? It’s not like sleep will untangle what just happened.

He sat up slowly, arms resting on his knees, staring out the narrow window at the still-dark courtyard. A flicker of wind stirred the tattered banner hanging from the gate, the one that had welcomed him with warmth just days ago. Peaceful Blossom Inn—it really lived up to its name. Except now he was no longer the nameless youth taking a stroll through Hwagok.

"Now I’m the bastard in the mask," Jinmu muttered under his breath. "The masked lunatic who just killed off half a Crimson Flow squad and knocked out their Peak Master."

He chuckled dryly, shaking his head, though the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. He could still feel the blood on his blade, the weight of the man he carried to the cave. A Peak Master, no less. And yet, it wasn’t guilt that bothered him. Not really.

What am I doing? he asked himself again, this time not out of hesitation, but reflection. This isn’t something the young master of an inn should be doing. This is the path of a blade, a shadow, a player in the Murim’s bloody theatre.

And yet, he didn’t flinch.

He stood up from the roof beam, brushing his clothes off. "No... this is part of it. Whether I want to or not, the moment I drew that sword, I stepped onto the stage. I just didn’t think my debut would start with blood."

He walked toward the far end of the roof, landing silently in the courtyard with a soft thud. The inn remained asleep—no footsteps, no creaking floorboards, not even the faint echo of a boiling kettle. The city outside had yet to stir. It was the perfect time to move.

"I guess I should check on my guest," Jinmu muttered. "Wouldn’t want him waking up and wandering around."

He left the courtyard quietly, cutting across alleyways, staying in the shadows like a natural instinct. Every now and then, he adjusted his mask even though there was no one around. It was made of the same materials as Yeomhwa—strong, refined, and slightly warm to the touch. It wasn’t just a tool for concealment anymore; it felt like a second face.

The path to the cave wasn’t long, but every step echoed in his mind louder than his footsteps.

Do Giseon, he repeated the name again. First Blade of the Twelve Blades... So the rumors were true. Mugang isn’t neutral anymore. At least not all of it.

That was the part that still left a bad taste in his mouth. Do Giseon wasn’t just anyone. The Twelve Blades of Mount Mugang were known throughout the entire martial world as the paragons of neutrality—keepers of balance, protectors of martial harmony. But neutrality didn’t mean weakness.

And if someone like Do Giseon was colluding with the Crimson Flow Blade Union, then neutrality had already shattered. This wasn’t just a factional skirmish anymore. This was the kind of spark that could burn through the entire Jungwon Plains if it wasn’t extinguished early.

And right now, I’m the only one who knows.

He paused at the edge of the cave, where the trees thickened into shadows and moss-covered stone. The entrance was hidden behind a natural fold in the rock—a perfect place to stash someone unconscious. Or dead, depending on how things went.

Jinmu slipped in without a sound, the mask obscuring half his face while his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The Peak Master from Crimson Flow was still there, still bound, his breath slow but steady. Blood crusted the side of his mouth, but his ki was intact. He was recovering.

"You’re more durable than you look," Jinmu said casually, crouching down near the man, though still keeping his blade sheathed. "Which is good. I need you alive. Dead men can’t talk."

The Peak Master stirred, letting out a groggy groan as his consciousness returned in waves. His eyes fluttered, then opened, burning with crimson-tinted ki. But the moment he saw Jinmu—masked, standing tall, unwavering—he didn’t speak. He only clenched his jaw.

"Welcome back," Jinmu said evenly. "No need to get dramatic. If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it already."

The man grunted but remained silent.

"I know who sent you," Jinmu continued. "But I need to know why. Do Giseon doesn’t strike me as the type to dirty his hands for no reason. So what does he want?"

The Peak Master spat to the side, blood mixing with saliva. "Why should I tell you anything? You wear a mask. That’s the face of a coward."

Jinmu didn’t flinch. Instead, he slowly stood, walking in a slow arc around the man. "A coward? Maybe. But I’m still the one who put you on the ground, aren’t I? Or are you going to pretend that didn’t happen?"

"You ambushed me."

"You were planning to assassinate the successor of Yeonhwa Lotus Palace," Jinmu replied. "We’re all playing dirty. Let’s not act holy now."

The man’s lips curled into a bitter smile. "Fine. So what? Kill me, then. You won’t stop what’s coming."

Jinmu tilted his head. "So something is coming."

No reply.

He knelt again, this time letting a hint of killing intent slip through the mask. It wasn’t enough to choke the cave, but enough to remind the man that Jinmu could crush his windpipe before he finished blinking.

"I’m not here to torture you," Jinmu said calmly. "I’m not one of those demonic path types who enjoys playing with knives. But I am someone who’s very good at keeping secrets buried. Especially when those secrets try to stab someone I know."

The man’s breathing became heavier.

"I don’t need much," Jinmu continued. "Just confirmation. Are the Twelve Blades all involved? Or just Do Giseon?"

A long silence stretched between them. Then, finally, the man spoke.

"...It’s his doing."

Jinmu’s eyes narrowed behind the mask.

"He’s the one who told us to move. He gave the order. The Crimson Flow Blade Union never makes the first move without a reason. He promised something. I don’t know what. I was just told to cut down the successor before the tournament."

"Why?"

The Peak Master looked away. "He said the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace is a problem. That it’s the first domino that has to fall."

Jinmu stood in silence.

So Do Giseon is targeting them before they can rise. He wants to destabilize the orthodox path and claim control through chaos.

It made sense. Ugly sense.

"Rest up," Jinmu muttered. "We’re not done."

He turned and walked toward the mouth of the cave, where morning light was beginning to trickle through. The shadows behind him grew long, the silence stretching like a blade across stone.

As he stood at the edge of the trees, watching the city stir to life in the distance, Jinmu closed his eyes briefly.

I can’t confront the Pavilion Master yet. Not until I know who else is involved. If the Twelve Blades are splintered, this could mean war. And I don’t have enough pieces on the board.

He took a breath, exhaled slowly, and tightened his grip on the mask.

No... Not yet. But soon.

Then, without another word, he turned back into the cave.

Somewhere in the Mugang Martial Pavilion

"...Still no sign of him?"

The voice was calm. Far too calm for someone asking about a Peak Master’s disappearance.

A black-robed martial artist, drenched in sweat despite the cool night wind, knelt on the wooden floor of the secluded chamber deep within the Mugang Martial Pavilion. Torches lined the stone walls, flickering in rhythmic waves, as if breathing with the tension hanging in the air.

"N-No, First Blade. We’ve sent scouts across the outer perimeter and combed the city routes... there’s nothing. It’s like they vanished into thin air."

The First Blade of Mount Mugang’s Twelve Blades — Do Giseon — leaned back against his seat, one leg crossed over the other, tapping his finger along the lacquered armrest. His blade rested across his knees, unsheathed. Polished, spotless, waiting.

"That’s not possible." His tone didn’t rise. It never did. But every syllable carried the kind of weight that turned air into ash. "Peak Master doesn’t vanish. If he’s not back, he’s either dead..."

He shifted slightly.

"...or someone interfered."

The kneeling man swallowed hard. "First Blade, do you believe the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace might—"

"Use your brain." Giseon didn’t shout, didn’t move. He simply let the words fall coldly. "If Eun Haria had the strength to kill someone at Peak Master level, she wouldn’t have been barely holding out during the scuffle."

He fell silent for a moment, gaze narrowing.

Something doesn’t fit. Someone’s cleaning up the traces... and it wasn’t the girl.

Then, as if cutting through his own thoughts, he stood. His blade slid smoothly back into its scabbard.

"We proceed."

The black-robed subordinate blinked. "Proceed, sir?"

"Poison the Pavilion Master."

"...!"

Even the torches seemed to flicker violently at those words.

"B-But First Blade, the Pavilion Master—he’s a Grandmaster. Even with the Crimson Flow’s help, if anything goes wrong—"

Giseon’s cold gaze snapped toward the man. "If he were in his prime, even ten of us would fail. But the medicine we acquired from the Crimson Flow Blade Union isn’t an ordinary blend. It targets his ki roots. Slowly. Quietly. He’ll feel it only after the seal is already in place."

He took a step forward.

"You think I waited this long because I was cautious?"

The man shut his mouth immediately.

"I waited," Giseon said, voice a whisper of steel, "because I wanted him to see who would rise after him. That old man believes neutrality is the Pavilion’s legacy, but this era has no room for cowards standing on the sidelines. This Pavilion must choose a path — and I’ve chosen for it."

"...Understood."

"Tonight, we move. Before dawn, this Pavilion becomes mine."

"...Bring it here."

The one holding the vial moved without speaking. Two other black-robed martial artists, bearing the mark of the Crimson Flow Blade Union embroidered on their inner sleeves, stood guard outside the chamber.

A steaming pot of tea sat atop a tray already prepared for the Pavilion Master’s evening meditation.

Giseon inspected the vial — faintly glowing purple, with a scent that was neither sweet nor acrid. It didn’t kill. It erased.

"The ’Silent Pulse Powder,’" murmured Giseon. "Once it’s in his system, it seeps into the danjeon and interrupts the flow of ki circulation... layer by layer, like vines strangling a tree. He won’t even notice until it’s too late."

The black-robed servant poured the powder into the teacup.

"Will he be restrained immediately?"

"No." Giseon smiled faintly. "He’ll meditate. And when he realizes something’s wrong, the poison will already be sealing him from within. We won’t have to fight."

The servant nodded and quietly left.

On the highest floor of the Mugang Martial Pavilion, a serene courtyard overlooked the mountain. There, amidst bonsai trees and smooth tiles polished by decades of discipline, sat the Pavilion Master.

Master Hyeon Ryu.

He was a man beyond years — white-haired, but with a gaze that could humble any Expert with a single glance. Clad in gray robes, he sat in stillness, the air around him completely quiet despite the night wind.

He reached toward the tray, lifting the teacup with slow, practiced grace.

His fingers paused.

Then, without hesitation, he drank.

"...Hm."

Nothing.

No flavor. No scent. No heat.

He set the cup down.

But the next moment, the hand he lifted for a second cup stopped midair. His brow twitched.

"...Something’s wrong."

He closed his eyes and sent his ki inward.

And then he felt it.

Like roots. Or more precisely, vines. Slowly spreading from his lower danjeon, coiling upward like strangling cords.

"...So it begins," he muttered. "Giseon."

He stood, but staggered.

This poison... it’s meant for long-term suppression. Not immediate death. They want me sealed. Not gone.

His eyes narrowed.

It’s not just the Crimson Flow Blade Union’s doing. Giseon is moving now. That boy...

He took a deep breath.

If this is the price for holding the line of neutrality all these years... then so be it.

He turned to the stone wall beside the garden — a hidden mechanism disguised among carvings of tigers and dragons.

But before he could reach it—

"Master Ryu."

The voice came from the entrance.

A silhouette walked in. Calm. Straight-backed. Clad in the official inner robes of the Twelve Blades.

Giseon.

"...So you’re not even pretending anymore."

"I’ve waited long enough."

The Pavilion Master stood still, breathing slow.

"You poisoned me. Without honor. Without challenge."

Giseon smiled faintly. "Challenge is for equals. You were a giant. I’m simply dragging down the old tree so the new forest can rise."

Master Ryu coughed. A thin trickle of blood escaped the corner of his lip.

His ki was already fragmenting.

Giseon stepped forward.

"You’ll be taken upstairs. Where the stars can keep you company. And your story can end quietly, without violence."

"...I protected this Pavilion for forty-seven years."

"And I’ll lead it for the next forty."

Two martial artists entered behind him, both Peak Masters from the Crimson Flow Blade Union.

"Take him."

Master Ryu didn’t resist. His limbs had begun to betray him.

But even as they carried him to the topmost level of the Pavilion, where an abandoned chamber was repurposed into a silent prison, his eyes never once lowered.

Only when the last lantern was extinguished and the door sealed behind him did he finally close his eyes.

Outside the Pavilion, Do Giseon stood at the edge of the mountain balcony, overlooking the training grounds below where disciples still trained under the moonlight.

"The Pavilion has always been too proud of its neutrality," he said softly to himself.

"But soon, everyone will know where it stands."

Behind him, a messenger knelt.

"The poison worked. The Grandmaster has been restrained. The Crimson Flow Blade Union sends their regards. They said the stage is now set for the tournament."

Giseon gave a small nod.

"Good. Then prepare the Twelve Blades. We’ll give them a tournament... they’ll never forget."

The moon hovered high above the Inn. Still. Cold. Silent.

Inside, however, Jinmu Yeon wasn’t asleep.

He sat by the window in his room, legs crossed, a steaming bowl of untouched tea beside him. His fingers tapped against the wooden sill without rhythm, as if they moved on their own.

The night wind filtered through the open window. He didn’t mind. It was quiet enough to think.

"...I killed Peak Masters," he muttered under his breath.

He paused, then smiled faintly.

"Feels like I should be a little more shaken."

But I’m not. Why? Because they came for Haria? Because they would’ve killed her if I didn’t interfere?

His gaze drifted to the trees swaying outside. He remembered the way Eun Haria fought — proud but desperate. The blood, the bruises, the anger she tried to hide behind a calm face.

And then he remembered her voice when she whispered to the unconscious girl, when she gritted her teeth and dragged her away, not even realizing someone else was moving in the shadows.

She has people she’s trying to protect.

He lowered his hand onto the windowsill and let his fingers curl into a fist.

And so do I.

His family. His mother’s laughter. His sister’s sarcastic teasing. His father’s calloused hands gripping a broom like it was a spear.

And somewhere between that and now...

He’d started killing people.

Jinmu leaned back against the wall.

I thought I’d hesitate. But I didn’t.

"Maybe that’s what it means to be part of the Murim world."

He shut his eyes briefly.

Then opened them again, clearer than before.

"No... it’s not about right or wrong anymore."

He looked down at his palms. The same hands he used to chop vegetables at the inn. The same hands that now split blood into the grass without hesitation.

"This is just my debut."

His voice was calm. Steady.

I showed them I exist. And someone out there will start looking.

He stood up, walked to his drawer, and pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle — the same one he always carried when moving in secret. Inside was a simple black robe, the kind used by mid-level martial artists across countless sects. Not flashy, not signature. Anonymous.

Just like he wanted.

He opened the window wider and stepped onto the rooftop once more. The night was colder now. Crisper.

But he liked that.

Haria went back to her sect. She’ll report what happened. Which means the people behind this might react sooner than expected.

He squatted on the rooftop, hands resting on his knees, eyes fixed toward the distant west.

Toward Mt. Mugang.

Mugang Martial Pavilion. They were neutral until now. But someone there is working with the Crimson Flow Blade Union.

He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small strip of red cloth — a fragment he cut from the robes of one of the Peak Masters. The embroidery on the edge was too clean, too elaborate, too similar to what he’d seen during that previous skirmish.

These weren’t just ordinary assassins. They were official. Someone gave the order.

He crushed the fabric in his fist.

So what are you hiding in that Pavilion, Do Giseon?

The name wasn’t confirmed yet. Not out loud. But he knew. He saw how that Peak Master referred to someone above him. And he remembered the name whispered once at the edge of the battlefield.

Do Giseon.

The First Blade. The Pavilion’s pride.

A Peak Master who hadn’t appeared in public for years — and the one said to succeed the Pavilion Master someday.

I need to know who’s behind it all.

He stood up.

His shadow lengthened against the slanted roof tiles. His black hair fluttered slightly in the wind.

"I’ll infiltrate the Pavilion."

He didn’t say it out of impulse.

He said it because it was the only step left.

Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But soon.

He turned away from the city and began walking back toward his room, footfalls as light as mist.

There’s too much I don’t know yet. How far has the Pavilion fallen? Is the Pavilion Master still alive? What’s their end goal?

He slid the window shut behind him.

Then he walked to his desk, sat down, and pulled out a map.

At the corner of it was a rough outline of Mt. Mugang. The Pavilion grounds. The twelve towers of the Blade Lineage. The observatory. And the Summit Pavilion at the peak.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he smiled. Just barely.

The Crimson Flow Blade Union thinks no one noticed. That they can move freely while the world watches other sects.

He leaned back. Folded the map.

And there was no one more suited for the job.

"...Let’s see what the Pavilion is hiding," he whispered.

"Before they realize the real enemy has already walked through the door."