CHAPTER 23: CHAPTER 22: GRAND OPEN TOURNAMENT 3

The wind that swept through Mugang Martial Pavilion carried no scent.

But First Blade Do Giseon had long learned not to trust what the wind chose to hide.

He stood alone beneath the great pavilion’s arched ceiling, its shadow stretching like a crescent blade across the floor. From this vantage, the dueling ring and its surrounding stone platforms were obscured by darkness. Only the echoes of servants cleaning up the debris from the first round of the tournament remained—sharp, repetitive sweeps of brooms brushing across cracked tiles and discarded bandages.

Do Giseon didn’t listen to the noise. His mind was elsewhere.

They’re here, he thought, arms crossed behind his back. Not just participants...

He turned his gaze slowly toward the eastern sector, past the watchtowers, beyond the tiled roofs, and into the mist-covered streets where the outlanders dwelled.

The Yeonhwa Lotus Palace wouldn’t remain passive. That woman never lets her pawns act freely. Everything she does is deliberate...

A flicker of memory came unbidden—of Danhye Yeoryeong standing at the edge of the Sword Pavilion three years ago, refusing to kneel during the Alliance Summit even when the Grandmaster himself spoke.

She didn’t argue. She didn’t shout.

She just smiled beneath her veil and turned her back to them.

Back then, the others called it arrogance. Do Giseon called it calculation.

He could feel that same intent now.

She hadn’t revealed herself. She hadn’t even announced her presence.

But Jinmu Yeon and Eun Haria didn’t move like untrained juniors.

They moved like trained shadows. Quiet. Precise. Measured.

And only one palace trained their disciples that way.

You always send mist to hide your fire, Danhye, he thought grimly. So let’s see if your mist can hide from the rain.

He stepped forward. The metal of his boots rang against the stone tiles, sharp and steady.

A single raised hand was all it took. Behind him, one of his personal attendants appeared from the shadows with bowed head.

"Summon the Crimson Flow Blade Union," Do Giseon said.

The attendant blinked. "Directly, sir?"

Do Giseon didn’t look back. "Now."

"Yes, First Blade."

The attendant vanished without sound.

There was no formal channel between Do Giseon and the Unorthodox sects. At least, not on paper. But alliances were built on more than law—they were built on control. And control came from knowing who to pay, who to bribe, and who to threaten.

The Crimson Flow Blade Union answered all three.

The meeting took place an hour before midnight, in a hidden stone chamber beneath the east annex of the pavilion. Only a single torch burned, casting long shadows on the ancient walls. The stone table in the center bore no sigils, no seal, no signs. Only silence.

Across from Do Giseon sat a man in blood-red robes with silver threading across the shoulders—a subtle pattern of wind slicing flesh. His hair was tied in a high knot, and his fingers bore no calluses.

Not a warrior. A handler.

Do Giseon recognized him immediately.

"Yong of the Crimson Flow," he said calmly. "You came in person."

Yong inclined his head, polite but never submissive. "Your summons were precise. We honor clarity."

Do Giseon raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"

Yong offered no smile. Only waited.

Do Giseon tapped a knuckle against the stone once. "I need the Night Drizzle Sect."

Yong blinked. Slowly. "All of them?"

"No. Just their elite."

Yong leaned back slightly. "They haven’t left their compound in three years."

"They will if you command it."

Yong crossed his arms inside his robe sleeves, considering. "There must be a reason. The First Blade doesn’t request assassins lightly."

"I’m not requesting," Do Giseon said coldly. "I’m informing."

A long pause stretched between them.

Then Baek Yong nodded. "Understood."

No questions. No demands. No conditions.

The Crimson Flow Blade Union operated under the pretense of commerce and external neutrality. But beneath the surface, their assassin network served many—orthodox and unorthodox alike. What mattered was discretion.

Do Giseon didn’t need blood spilled. Not yet.

He needed surveillance. Precision eyes in the dark.

"Their targets?" Yong asked after a pause.

"Anyone connected to the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace," Do Giseon said. "Especially those among the participants."

"Names?"

"Too risky," he said. "They wear no badge, no uniform. But they reveal themselves in motion. Watch their fighting rhythm. The moment it reflects Yeonhwa’s Blossom Vein Arts, mark them."

Yong hesitated for the first time. "The Blossom Vein Arts is subtle. Only those trained can recognize—"

"I’ve already trained two of my Shadow Captains to identify it. The assassins will coordinate with them directly."

Yong slowly nodded. "Then it shall be done."

Do Giseon finally exhaled, and silence returned to the chamber.

The First Blade rose from his seat, his hands clasped behind his back again.

"You’ll receive a private message at dawn," he said. "Use the eastern chimney flue. Burn no paper. Memory only."

"Understood."

As Do Giseon stepped into the torchlight, his figure became clearer—broad shoulders beneath steel-trimmed robes, his sleeves marked with the twin blades of the Pavilion Crest. But his eyes remained hidden in the flickering shadow.

"I don’t want them harmed," he added, voice cold and calm. "Not unless they make a move."

Yong bowed his head. "Your intentions are noted."

"But," Do Giseon murmured, "if the mist thickens too much—cut it."

Yong did not respond.

He didn’t need to.

That was the language of assassins. Clear. Sharp. Final.

Outside, the moon was high.

Thin clouds drifted past it like spilled silk, and the lamps along Mugang’s southern wall flickered in a silent rhythm.

Do Giseon stood at the upper edge of the Pavilion Balcony now, alone again, his eyes tracing the city below.

The tournament was merely a pretense now.

This was never about competition, he thought. It’s about shadows. Messages. Proving presence.

He could already feel the changes. Too many unfamiliar faces among the crowds. Too many fighters with polished stances but no sect affiliations. And now, these two— a mask martial artist (Jinmu Yeon) and Eun Haria—emerging from nowhere and defeating seasoned disciples without ki, without spectacle.

Mist doesn’t move like that without direction.

Do Giseon watched the inn district, just beyond the edge of the pavilion’s jurisdiction.

He knew that somewhere in that mess of travelers, mercenaries, and merchants, Danhye Yeoryeong had placed her pieces.

But unlike most masters, she didn’t use banners or slogans.

She used silence.

And now, so would he.

Far from the Pavilion, in the southern wing of the city, a small courtyard of weathered pines surrounded an old stone bathhouse. It looked abandoned at first glance—roof tiles chipped, signboard worn—but a single lantern glowed behind the wooden slats.

Inside, nine figures kneeled.

None of them spoke.

Their faces were covered by thin veils soaked in some black-dyed resin, and their robes were stitched with threads that disrupted reflections. If one blinked too fast, they seemed to vanish entirely from sight.

A tenth figure entered.

Clad in the pattern of the Night Drizzle Sect, he said only one thing:

"You hunt shadows tonight."

The kneeling figures rose soundlessly.

Their mission was not to kill. Not yet.

Their mission was to observe.

To memorize gait, rhythm, speech.

To follow.

And if necessary, to vanish.

Atop the highest tower of Mugang Martial Pavilion, Do Giseon closed his eyes.

He could already sense the shift in momentum.

Somewhere out there, Danhye Yeoryeong would feel it too.

Because the balance between Orthodox and Unorthodox had always been a delicate thing.

And tonight, the First Blade had tipped it.

Just slightly.

But in the martial world, even a slight tilt could begin an avalanche.

Let’s see what your disciples do when they know they’re being watched, he thought, still smirking beneath the stars.

And with that, the night deepened.

The assassins moved.

And the mist... stirred.

The inn was quiet.

The sounds of the day had long faded, replaced by the faint creaks of aged wooden beams and the soft rustle of night wind brushing against paper windows. Somewhere beyond the walls, the distant hum of Mt. Mugang’s nightlife murmured like an echo from another world—but within the confines of the small inn near Mugang Martial Pavilion, it was as if time had stilled.

The door to one of the rooms creaked open slightly, revealing a narrow corridor dimly lit by flickering lanterns. The scent of sandalwood and dried ink lingered faintly in the air, subtle and grounding. Inside the furthest room, the one that had been discreetly paid for in advance and bore no identifying marks, Jinmu Yeon sat in silence.

His mask remained on.

Even now.

Even here, where no prying eyes or sect spies could peer through the wooden slats or try to read his face.

He sat cross-legged near the open window, the moonlight casting of silver light across the edge of the bed, barely reaching his feet. His sword rested on the floor beside him—Yeomhwa, still faintly red even in the absence of flame.

His robe was loosened slightly at the collar, but the mask still clung to his face like a second skin.

He hadn’t even touched it.

Even now, I hesitate, Jinmu thought calmly, gazing out toward the darkened courtyard. No one can see me. No one is watching. But still... I don’t remove it.

He wasn’t paranoid.

Not exactly.

It was habit now—something that had sunk into his bones. The mask wasn’t just a disguise anymore. It was a shield. A symbol. A weight. A promise. And even here, in a room where not a single sect informant could possibly peek inside, he still felt the world’s gaze just beyond the walls.

His fingers brushed lightly over the edge of the mask.

This face doesn’t belong to Jinmu Yeon alone anymore, he thought. It belongs to the role I’ve chosen. To the people watching. To the ones waiting to tear it apart.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.

He didn’t turn his head. His hand was already on Yeomhwa’s sheath by instinct.

But the voice that followed was calm, familiar.

"It’s me," said Eun Haria.

He exhaled slowly and stood, walking over to the door. When he opened it, Haria was already inside by the time the hinges let out their second creak.

She wasn’t dressed in anything fancy—just a plain martial robe with her hair tied into a single braid behind her back. Her stance was casual, but her eyes were sharp. Always sharp.

Jinmu stepped aside without a word and gestured to the cushion near the small table. She sat.

"You’re still wearing it?" she asked finally.

He returned to his cushion and gave a faint nod.

She didn’t question it further. Instead, she looked over to the sword beside him.

"You didn’t swing it during the first round."

"No need to, wooden sword is enough, i don’t want to kill without a reason." Jinmu replied, voice even.

"Even so. That sword of yours," she said, narrowing her eyes slightly, "it feels strange. I watched closely during the fight. There’s something... hungry about it."

Jinmu didn’t answer.

But Haria didn’t seem to need one. She leaned back, crossing her arms loosely over her chest.

Silence passed between them like a comfortable pause—no tension, no urgency. Just a quiet stillness that often followed battles and bloodless victories.

Then, another voice came from the hallway.

"I assume this is where I’m supposed to pretend I stumbled in by accident."

Both Jinmu and Haria turned.

The door slid open fully without a knock this time.

A woman stepped through—no longer cloaked in a traveler’s robe, no longer hidden beneath layers of mist.

Danhye Yeoryeong.

The master of Yeonhwa Lotus Palace.

She didn’t wear her formal garments, nor did she carry herself with the usual flair of a sect leader seeking attention. Her robe was simple, grey, and tied at the waist with an old silken sash. But her presence filled the room immediately—calm, deliberate, and unmistakably sovereign.

"Palace Master," Haria said respectfully, bowing her head.

Jinmu gave a short nod, then quietly gestured toward the cushion between them.

Yeoryeong took it without fanfare and sat cross-legged, folding her sleeves neatly before resting her hands atop her knees.

"Your mask," she said after a few moments, voice gentle but probing. "You still wear it. Even here."

Jinmu didn’t flinch.

"Habit," he replied.

"Habit," she repeated, as if testing the word on her tongue.

Then she smiled faintly.

"No. Not habit. Discipline."

Her eyes lingered on him, studying not his body nor his sword, but the way his stillness breathed control.

"That’s good," she said, after a moment. "That’s rare."

Jinmu stayed silent.

But Haria didn’t.

"Palace Master," she said quietly, "what do you think of him?"

Yeoryeong’s eyes flicked to her disciple. There was no surprise in her expression—only patience.

"I think," she began slowly, "that Jinmu Yeon has done something very few martial artists manage before reaching the realm of Peak Master."

Jinmu’s gaze didn’t waver.

Yeoryeong tilted her head slightly.

"He’s learned to step aside from his ego."

Haria frowned faintly. "Meaning?"

"Most young cultivators," Yeoryeong explained, "especially those with talent, move like they’re desperate to be seen. They scream their names through their swordplay. They make every step shout for recognition. But Jinmu... he moves as if the battle is already over. As if he’s not part of the noise."

Her eyes glimmered faintly in the candlelight.

"That’s not just confidence. That’s foresight."

Jinmu looked toward the window again.

"I’m not interested in showing off," he said. "Only in reaching the end."

"Which end?" Yeoryeong asked.

Jinmu didn’t answer.

But Haria leaned forward.

"He doesn’t mean victory."

The room grew quiet.

For several breaths, none of them spoke. Then, Yeoryeong leaned back, folding her arms.

"You’re both doing well," she said at last. "But this is still just the first petal of the lotus. The Pavilion will not remain still. The First Blade’s presence changes things."

"I know," Haria replied quietly.

"And the others will not remain ignorant," the Palace Master continued. "You’ve stirred curiosity now. Next, you’ll face pressure."

She glanced again at Jinmu.

"The second match begins tomorrow. Are you prepared?"

"Yes," Jinmu replied calmly.

But internally, something tensed—barely.

Tomorrow, he thought. That’s when the real hands start to move.

Yeoryeong stood, brushing off her sleeves.

She looked to both of them once more before walking toward the door.

"Rest. Don’t waste your strength analyzing opponents who will reveal themselves soon enough."

As she opened the door to leave, her voice softened without turning.

"Oh... and Jinmu."

He looked up.

"If you’re planning to keep that mask on forever," she said, a faint smirk on her lips, "just make sure the world never forgets what lies beneath it."

The door slid shut.

Jinmu sat in silence again.

Across from him, Haria exhaled deeply and rolled her shoulders.

"Tomorrow, huh?"

He nodded.

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"Don’t hold back anymore. You already know they’re going to come for us next."

"I won’t."

"You’d better not," she muttered. "Because I’m going to crush whoever they throw at me."

Jinmu smiled faintly behind his mask.

Outside, the wind shifted.

And far beyond the inn walls, the bells of Mugang Martial Pavilion chimed once—just once—as if marking the breath between calm and storm.

The second match would begin tomorrow.