CHAPTER 25: CHAPTER 24: SECOND MATCH BEGINS

The moment the gong thundered across the arena, a heavy silence fell like fog. The second match of the Grand Open Tournament had officially begun, and with it, the tension that had been simmering throughout the crowd reached a palpable boil.

It begins, Jinmu thought, his gaze scanning the massive field before him. It was a larger battleground than the first. A rough estimate placed the number of fighters at just above fifty—excluding Haria, Jinmu, and the infamous Five Great Young Masters.

But there was something else.

He narrowed his eyes.

Something strange was happening.

Within moments of the match beginning, nearly all of the other participants—forty-four in total—began shifting across the wide arena floor. But instead of charging at random or finding the nearest opponent like most chaotic matches, they each moved toward one of the four corners of the field... toward the young masters.

No, Jinmu’s brow creased beneath the mask. Not toward them to attack.

It was unmistakable.

One by one, groups of eleven formed around Juhwa Gyeongcheol, Seoryeon Baekho, Eunwon Jinseong, and Do Sangin. The coordination was too smooth, too precise for it to be coincidence. There were no wasted movements, no clashing, no confusion among the forty-four. It was like they already knew where they belonged—even before the match had begun.

So they’ve chosen their sides.

Each of the Four among Five Great Young Masters stood like immovable pillars amid their growing alliances. None had even drawn their weapons yet. Jinmu watched as Juhwa stood bare-chested, arms folded, battle robes flowing behind him like twin embers ready to ignite. The molten aura around him seemed to blaze hotter with each step taken toward him by his new allies.

Baekho, cloaked in a thick fur-lined robe and shrouded in frost-like ki, didn’t move. He merely stood in still, dignified silence, as eleven figures formed a loose circle around him, eyes full of reverence.

Jinseong, the one cloaked in mischief, let his usual smile bloom a little wider. His fingers twitched once, and glowing tattoos sparked slightly beneath his blue sleeves. Eleven had gathered near him too—lean, fast-looking types. Assassins or rogue cultivators, judging by their light footwork.

Then, there was Do Sangin.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t gloat.

But he also didn’t look surprised.

His fan remained closed in one hand, while the other rested lazily on the hilt of his twin-edged saber. The eleven who approached him carried weapons both strange and diverse—maces, halberds, even iron chains. Like him, they looked unpredictable. Like him, they didn’t say a word.

This wasn’t just strategy. Jinmu’s fists quietly clenched under his sleeves. This was orchestrated.

He tilted his head slightly toward Haria, who stood calmly beside him. Her eyes followed the same pattern. She, too, had noticed.

"They’re not even trying to hide it," she murmured, almost too softly for the noise of the crowd to swallow. "Pre-arranged coordination this early in the match? They must’ve set this up days ago."

Jinmu didn’t reply immediately. His thoughts swirled, the silence behind his mask like a looming cliff edge.

The Five Major Sects planned this.

It wasn’t just about surviving the second match anymore. No. This was about isolating a threat.

Because amid the eleven that gathered around each Great Young Master, none came toward him. None even looked his way—at least, not with any sense of alliance.

They had all made their choices.

All but him and Haria.

The tension coiled like a serpent around his ribs.

So this is how they’re going to play it. Four alliances formed under the guise of fair competition, and two outliers left alone in the middle.

No allies. No support. Just us.

A ripple of laughter rose somewhere behind the crowd. On the outer wall of the arena, high above in the First Blade Pavilion, Do Giseon stood watching with a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His hand rested on the ceremonial blade strapped across his back, but he made no move to touch it. He didn’t need to. The chaos below was already unfolding just as he had hoped.

Just like a fox waiting at the edge of a trap it didn’t even need to spring.

The announcer’s voice rang out again, amplified by ki and echoed across the vast coliseum.

"Honored guests and distinguished elders of Murim! The second match of the Grand Open Tournament has now begun!"

The cheer that followed was wild and expectant, but there was also a strange rhythm to it—as if even the crowd knew something was different this time.

"The rules for this round are as follows," the announcer continued. "There are fifty participants remaining. This round will continue until only ten remain standing. Formation of alliances, temporary or permanent, is permitted. Killing, however, is prohibited unless your life is directly threatened. Lethal force will result in disqualification—and depending on severity, sect consequences."

The mention of "sect consequences" made a few of the lesser participants flinch.

Jinmu’s gaze remained on the field.

He didn’t need to look to know what was happening beyond it. Somewhere in the shadows of the arena, the Night Drizzle Sect’s assassins were already moving. They weren’t participants, but they didn’t need to be. Their job was to watch—to observe the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace, and more specifically, the masked boy and the cold-eyed girl who walked together in strange harmony.

They were waiting for weakness.

Waiting for something to justify striking in the dark.

Jinmu didn’t show it, but he knew they were close. Somewhere in the edges of the crowd, tucked in cloaks and perfume, watching with still eyes behind veiled faces.

Let them watch. They’ll only see what I allow them to.

On the field, the momentum began to shift.

Weapons were being drawn, ki began to shimmer faintly through veins.

And the Five Great Young Masters?

They hadn’t moved a step.

Each one stood at the center of their own alliance. Each one was watching. Waiting. Calculating.

Juhwa Gyeongcheol stood tall with both of his twin flame-patterned swords still strapped to his back. He didn’t need to unsheathe them—not yet. The eleven around him were eager, burning with fervor, but he knew better than to ignite early.

Let the heat build first. No fire burns eternal if wasted in the first breath. Mask boy... you’ve drawn their attention already. I wonder what you’re really hiding behind that mask.

Seoryeon Baekho didn’t speak to his allies. He didn’t need to.

They formed around him like wolves seeking warmth from their frozen alpha.

His thoughts, as always, were quiet—cold, even.

A formation this early... unnecessary. He glanced toward Jinmu and Haria once, and once only. But necessary to eliminate distractions. He’s not just talented. He’s dangerous.

Eunwon Jinseong

chuckled as he tilted his head, watching the arena like a bored prince sitting atop a lightning cloud. His tattoos sparked occasionally, more for show than substance.

His eleven allies were fast. Sharp. Opportunistic. Just like him.

Let’s see how long your mask holds up, Copy Boy. The grin on his lips stretched wider. I wonder... will it break before your spirit does?

Do Sangin, unlike his cousin, wasn’t grinning.

He simply gave his allies a small nod. Each had already been briefed beforehand. Their formations, their codewords, their escape patterns. All set.

He exhaled once, slowly, as his eyes drifted toward Jinmu.

If I can see how you fight... maybe I’ll understand how you broke the Crimson Flow.

Meanwhile, in the center of the arena—two figures stood isolated.

Jinmu and Haria.

No allies. No sect flags to fly.

Just themselves... and a growing number of hostile eyes beginning to shift their way.

They’re waiting, Jinmu thought as the energy of the match thickened. Waiting for someone to make the first move.

He didn’t look at Haria, but he felt her step half a pace closer.

It was subtle, but deliberate.

As if to say, I’m ready.

And Jinmu, without speaking, answered with silence.

Because beneath his mask, his eyes were already narrowing—not in fear, but anticipation.

Something was coming.

He could feel it.

A wave.

A storm.

And they were standing in its eye.

The hostility wasn’t just a lingering unease anymore—it was tangible now, settling into Jinmu’s skin like the chill of a deep mountain winter. Every single pair of eyes in the arena, save for Haria’s and perhaps the impartial announcer’s, had turned to him. Not in awe. Not in admiration. But in veiled—or in some cases, unveiled—intent.

One by one, participants spread across the massive arena began to draw their weapons, unsheathing blades, flicking open fans, winding knuckles with corded cloth, or simply dropping into a combat stance. The wind itself stilled for a moment, and Jinmu could almost hear the unspoken message behind their synchronized movements: eliminate them first.

He said nothing. Nor did Haria. But the look they exchanged beneath the dull roar of rising tension spoke volumes.

So this is how they want to play it...

A whisper broke the rising silence—light, almost playful, coming from Eunwon Jinseong, who sat casually near the edge of the arena stage, legs crossed and chin in hand. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was perfectly placed, the kind of offhand remark designed to travel. "Shall we watch how long they last?"

The moment his words dropped, it began. Eleven participants, all clad in hues of stormy blue and electric grey, surged forward from various points in the arena. The crest of the Azure Thunder Hall gleamed faintly on their belts. Some carried swords, others crackling whips, but all bore the unmistakable mark of coordinated strategy. Their goal was obvious.

Jinmu and Haria.

As if they were a single force of nature, Jinmu stepped half a pace forward while Haria took one back, their motion fluid, unspoken.

The first attacker was a spear-wielding youth with tattoos mimicking his master, Eunwon Jinseong. His movements were quick—whip-fast feints, sudden lunges, a spiral jab meant to open a ribcage. Jinmu parried it with a flick of his wrist.

CLANG!

The spear bent under the sudden burst of force. Not broken, not shattered, but halted—utterly. Jinmu didn’t even need to draw upon Blossom Flow Requiem. Instead, he redirected the spear with a pivot of his foot and a palm thrust that sent the boy flying backward, skidding across the stone tiles.

"Just simple moves," Jinmu murmured. "No need to show our hand yet."

Haria nodded, her expression unreadable as she ducked low under a pair of blades that came from opposite directions. With a swift upward palm strike, she knocked one attacker into the other. They collapsed in a heap.

A second wave from the same group approached, this one armed with a heavier arsenal: twin sabers, a rope dart, and an archer who had somehow managed to notch an arrow mid-melee. Haria turned to Jinmu calmly.

"Take the archer?"

"Done."

Jinmu didn’t need to run. He stepped.

And then he was gone.

The archer, perched on a chunk of raised platform stone for better sightlines, barely had time to react before Jinmu was already there, right in front of him, one hand grabbing the bowstring mid-draw. The sudden stop snapped the momentum in reverse.

"Too slow."

A single flick sent the arrow spinning harmlessly through the air before Jinmu jabbed a finger into the man’s solar plexus.

THUMP.

The archer dropped.

Below, Haria was moving like ink poured across silk. Every step she took disarmed someone, every dodge was a trap in disguise. Her hands never left the small confines of her center, but the momentum behind them was enough to throw bodies into the air like they were dolls.

"What... what is going on?" one from the Azure Thunder Hall muttered, crawling backward. "This wasn’t supposed to happen..."

Jinmu stepped beside Haria again, dusting imaginary dirt off his robe. "Simple enough?"

She exhaled slowly. "So far."

Juhwa Gyeongcheol tilted his head slightly. "They barely used any ki," he muttered, mostly to himself.

From the other side, Seoryeon Baekho’s quiet gaze flickered ever so slightly. The mist around him remained undisturbed.

Back in the arena, the remaining Azure Thunder Hall fighters hesitated. Their formation had been broken almost instantly. Coordination shattered. Eleven against two, and they were already six men down. Jinmu hadn’t drawn his sword. Haria hadn’t even fully unsheathed her inner techniques. Yet here they stood—untouched, unbothered.

"Withdraw," one of them whispered, a girl with a whip. "We should regroup!"

Too late.

Jinmu moved again, not fast enough to be considered an advanced technique, but with perfect footwork and balance. One palm to the shoulder, one tap to the ankle, and two more fell. Haria mirrored him, striking the sides of necks and twisting arms in ways that broke flow without breaking bones.

It was almost surgical.

Minutes later, all eleven were down.

The crowd didn’t know whether to cheer or remain silent. Many had hoped for bloodshed. Others had wanted to see how far the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace duo would go when cornered.

Instead, they got this—calm, clinical dismantling.

Back in the shaded corner where Do Giseon sat watching from afar, his smirk finally faltered. He leaned closer to the person beside him, a hooded figure from the Night Drizzle Sect.

"They were supposed to weaken them. Not fall instantly."

The hooded assassin’s lips barely moved. "You underestimate the Lotus Palace, First Blade."

Giseon scoffed, folding his arms. "No. I simply haven’t seen enough. I want to see if they stay calm when the other young masters come at once."

Back in the arena, Haria flicked blood from her sleeve—not her own—and turned to Jinmu with a voice low and dry.

"Think they’ll give up now?"

Jinmu’s answer was simple.

"No."

Because across the arena, the next group was already moving.

And this time, they weren’t just eleven.

They were thirty-three.