CHAPTER 26: CHAPTER 25: SECOND MATCH BEGINS 2

The scent of smoke and tension still hung faintly in the air as the second round of the Grand Open Tournament entered its latter half. The ring, marred by deep slashes and broken tiles from the earlier exchanges, was a battlefield still humming with the echo of clashing ki. Most of the spectators had gone silent—not out of boredom, but disbelief. Only the faint whispers of astonishment or skepticism buzzed among the crowds. Many eyes now locked onto the two who stood motionless amidst the fallen bodies—masked Jinmu and serene Haria.

They hadn’t just won. They overwhelmed.

"...They defeated all eleven from Azure Thunder Hall’s circle. That’s... That’s not supposed to happen," one voice murmured behind a folding fan.

"They weren’t even scratched..."

"It must be some trick. They’re hiding something."

The other participants, especially the ones clustered behind the three remaining young masters, exchanged nervous glances. But behind the facade of hesitation was something far more calculating. As if on silent cue, their formation shifted again.

"Hoh," chuckled Juhwa Gyeongcheol, reclining with his arms behind his head, flame-patterned swords slung lazily across his back. The bare-chested prodigy of the Hwagyeong Sword Sect grinned as he nudged the tip of one sandal against the railing. "Looks like those two aren’t dull pebbles after all. That was... entertaining."

Across from him, Baekrin White Tiger Hall’s Seoryeon Baekho remained still, arms folded beneath the thick furs of his robe. Mist drifted faintly around his frame like breath in the cold. His gaze never shifted. He stared at Jinmu and Haria without emotion, as though studying wild beasts in a cage.

And seated closest to the edge, quietly sharpening his twin-edged saber with a whetstone drawn from his sash, Do Sangin of the Mugang Martial Pavilion let out a subtle breath.

"Still calm... after all that. Their footwork wasn’t just elegant," he murmured to himself. "It was... refined."

But despite the apparent interest, none of the three young masters seemed threatened.

Juhwa’s grin widened as he leaned forward. "Still, we can’t have them taking all the fun for themselves, can we?"

Do Sangin raised an eyebrow. "You want in now?"

"Not me," Juhwa replied, voice smooth like oiled steel. "I just think it’s time our... companions got some proper exercise."

At the exact moment he said it, one of the disciples stationed behind him—recognizable by the fire-red armbands marking the Hwagyeong Sword Sect—took a single step forward.

Without words.

And then another stepped beside him.

And then another.

In less than a breath, eleven of them had lined up at the ring’s southern edge.

A similar motion began from the eastern side, where the white-robed followers of Seoryeon Baekho assembled like silent statues.

And again, from the west, the members bearing the crest of Mugang Martial Pavilion began to move in deliberate unison.

Thirty-three in total.

"Now then," Juhwa murmured, resting his chin on his palm, "Let’s see how long they can dance."

In the arena, Haria tilted her head slightly as if feeling a wind shift. The rhythm of the field had changed. Again.

"They’re coming," she said quietly.

Jinmu didn’t respond. His hands rested calmly over his sheathed sword. His body was relaxed. But his mind?

This isn’t arrogance... They’re orchestrating this. Everything is too clean. Too... intentional.

He could see it now. The circles around each Young Master weren’t just about protection. They were distributed. Equal. Eleven each. This wasn’t a tournament anymore. It was an execution order disguised as choreography.

And now they were moving.

Thirty-three participants advanced in synchronized formation, spacing themselves like well-trained wolves circling a pair of deer. They didn’t rush in, not yet. They moved with purpose, lining the edges with a slow, enclosing gait.

"Seems they don’t like leaving loose ends," Jinmu muttered, voice low.

"I suppose we’ve become too inconvenient," Haria replied. "But thirty-three all at once...?"

"No," Jinmu said, stepping forward just a half-step. "Not all at once. They want a performance. They want to take turns breaking us."

"You sound like you’ve seen this before."

A beat of silence passed. And then, they came.

The first wave surged from the southern end—eleven warriors under the young master of the Hwagyeong Sword Sect. They moved with fiery aggression, their blades lighting with orange-gold ki. Twin sabers, whips, spears—they spun with momentum meant to overwhelm.

But Jinmu and Haria didn’t flinch.

Haria moved first. A pivot of her heel. A twist of her wrist. The Lotus Mist Footwork unfurled beneath her like petals blooming on still water. She didn’t dash—she glided. Every strike aimed at her missed by inches, her presence like a shimmer in the air. When her arm rose, her palm struck lightly, and her enemy’s sword dropped before he did.

Jinmu followed. No flourish. Just efficiency. A single side step to evade a crescent slash. A short elbow to the jaw. His body rotated like a branch bending in wind, and his opponents crumbled like leaves caught in a storm.

The crowd erupted. Not because it was flashy—but because it wasn’t.

"Th-They’re not even using techniques!" someone gasped.

"No ki flares. No arts. Just movement—pure movement!"

"They’re... playing with them...!"

Juhwa’s smile thinned. Seoryeon Baekho’s eyes narrowed. Do Sangin put down the whetstone, his saber now gleaming.

Haria spun past a twin-spear user, tapping his ribs mid-motion and twisting her foot. He toppled like a puppet with strings cut.

Jinmu countered a thrust with a simple pivot and slapped the attacker’s hand. The weapon clattered across the floor. A palm to the chest sent him sliding back five feet.

And then silence.

All thirty-three... were down.

Breathing heavily. Groaning. Some unconscious.

Not a scratch on Jinmu or Haria.

They stood still again. Their clothes barely ruffled. Their breaths measured. Their eyes unreadable.

The announcer didn’t know whether to speak yet. The audience was stunned into a quiet that felt too fragile to break.

Only the young masters moved.

Juhwa stood up, crossing his arms. "Not bad."

Seoryeon Baekho remained silent, though his foot tapped once against the wooden floor.

Do Sangin simply watched.

And Jinmu... slowly let out a breath.

This isn’t over. That was just the message. Their real intent... hasn’t shown itself yet.

The smoke of defeated intentions had yet to clear when the final gong of the Pavilion rang through the skies.

"—That concludes the second match!"

The announcer’s voice cut through the groaning silence like a butcher’s knife over soft meat. His feet echoed as he descended from the ceremonial dais, robes fluttering around him in stiff waves, and his expression was tight despite the decorum. It was the look of someone trying—and failing—not to look completely caught off-guard by what had unfolded.

In the stands, people were already standing, whispering, stretching necks over railings.

Even the noble guests weren’t bothering to keep their fans up anymore. Most had dropped the act of elegance, exchanging hushed words and furrowed brows. The prestigious second match of the Mugang Martial Pavilion had become something else entirely—something unorthodox, brutal, and decisively scripted.

Jinmu exhaled slowly, shaking the sweat from his brow as the sun dipped lower in the sky. Beside him, Haria hadn’t moved. She stood with the hue of her ki ebbing slowly from her knuckles. Though she looked calm, the corners of her mouth were tight, her gaze unfocused in thought.

They were going to attack us all at once. That wasn’t a coincidence,

Jinmu thought, eyes scanning the ring that had just moments ago been filled with over a dozen opponents. Most were now unconscious. A few dragged themselves toward the outer boundary with what pride they had left. But none dared meet his eyes.

From the moment the bell rang, it had been obvious. The alignment in their stances, the shared glances between the other martial artist, even the way they spread out to encircle only him and Haria while leaving others untouched—it had been more than just strategy. It had been collusion.

And even more disturbingly, coordinated collusion.

"All eleven of them," Haria said softly, breaking his thought. Her eyes flicked sideways, but her voice was firm. "Azure Thunder Hall disciples. Every single one. They weren’t even trying to hide their formation."

Jinmu let out a bitter exhale.

"They probably thought it’d be easy," he muttered. "Take us out first, then go back to fighting each other. No one would bat an eye if the so-called rogue palace got eliminated in a ’misunderstood accident.’"

"They underestimated us," she said simply, brushing a loose strand of hair back behind her ear.

He glanced sideways at her, a flicker of something sharp and respectful in his gaze. "They won’t again."

They hadn’t used any flashy forms. Not even one of the later petals from Blossom Flow Requiem had been necessary. Both of them had fought using simple movements—well-placed steps, perfectly timed counters, and defensive parries that turned into clean knockouts. A show of control, restraint, and absolute superiority.

And that was what frightened the audience more than anything.

Not rage.

Not brute strength.

But ease.

Because nothing could explain away ease.

Not luck.

Not coincidence.

Only overwhelming skill.

The announcer, after a moment of consulting with the scroll bearer beside him, cleared his throat and raised one hand, unfurling a green jade scroll. His voice returned, now with more caution behind its tone.

"Ahem. Due to the... significant number of disqualifications, the Pavilion Council has reviewed the match results and decreed that only six participants shall proceed to the final round, which will commence tomorrow at high noon."

The words caused a ripple through the audience, louder than applause. Murmurs swelled from the various balconies and noble seating lofts.

"Only six...?"

"Wasn’t it ten? Why change it now?"

"They’re trying to cover up how badly the others failed, aren’t they?"

Jinmu didn’t react to the noise, but he noticed how the martial artists who allied Mount Hwagyeong young master tensed at the announcement. Even the Azure Thunder Hall young master Eunwon Jinseong flinched slightly before masking it with a deep breath.

The announcer continued, gaze moving across the blood-splattered ring.

"The following disciples shall proceed to the final round: Muyeon (Jinmu’s fake name, the one he use during registration), Eun Haria of the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace. Eunwon Jinseong of Azure Thunder Hall. Juhwa Gyeongcheol of Mount Hwagyeong Sword Sect. Seoryeon Baekho of Baekrin White Tiger Hall. Do Sangin of Mugang Martial Pavilion."

No cheering followed. Just an uncertain pause and sparse, obligatory clapping.

The names were spoken with formality, but it was obvious—this year’s match had lost the flow the Pavilion prided itself on. The sudden imbalance caused by Jinmu and Haria’s effortless domination had thrown a wrench into the entire structure. No one could pretend anymore. And the ones who had bet on Azure Thunder Hall now sat silently, faces tight with forced dignity.

Jinmu leaned his sword against his shoulder and exhaled again. "Six, huh."

"It was bound to happen," Haria replied, her tone almost apologetic. "They all fought like they thought they had numbers on their side. They didn’t even focus on the match format. Just... us."

He didn’t reply to that. Because she was right. And part of him wished they had gone all-out, just to make an example of it. But restraint was what made it more effective in the long run. They hadn’t needed force. They had used only what was necessary.

And even that was enough to break the match format itself.

Up in the eastern private loft, Do Giseon remained unnervingly composed.

The First Blade of Mugang Martial Pavilion was seated alone in his section. His fan lay closed on the table, untouched. His tea sat in its porcelain cup, completely cold. And yet he didn’t seem even mildly disappointed that all eleven of his Pavilion-backed martial artist had been knocked out in one match.

He simply watched.

Unblinking.

Waiting.

Behind the thin silk curtains, a presence emerged—one so quiet that even the guards nearby didn’t turn their heads. A cloaked figure with the telltale pattern of falling raindrops embroidered along his dark collar stepped forward and bowed deeply.

"First Blade."

Giseon didn’t look at him. "You’re late."

"I didn’t wish to disturb you during the match."

"You should’ve. I was bored halfway through."

The assassin didn’t reply.

After a long pause, Giseon finally turned his gaze toward the cloaked figure. "I assume it’s done?"

The assassin nodded.

"All current members of Yeonhwa Lotus Palace stationed inside the Pavilion grounds have been located. That includes both their disguised guards and civilian staff. The Palace Master herself—Danhye Yeoryeong—is confirmed to be within the Pavilion, housed under a sealed title in the western guest courtyard."

Giseon raised a brow faintly.

"Danhye Yeoryeong. She came in person?"

"Yes, sir. Disguised under the merchant registry."

Giseon let out a faint sound of amusement, folding his hands behind his back.

"They really did send their best children into the fire. And now their mother’s arrived to watch them burn."

The assassin remained still.

After a breath, Giseon’s expression flattened.

"Have the others been notified?"

"Yes. Our forces are already circling the compound. We’ve confirmed the presence of ten Yeonhwa staff spread across three buildings. Two are guarding the Pavilion Master Hyeon Ryu’s sealed quarters."

"Perfect."

Giseon took another slow step toward the edge of his loft, his eyes drifting across the Pavilion floor once more—where Jinmu and Haria still stood.

"Tonight, we wait," he said, his voice low and calm. "But at first light tomorrow, I want every last one of them in chains."

"Understood."

"Put them in together with Pavilion Master Hyeon Ryu. Let them keep each other company. It’ll be good practice for the kind of prison we’ll be running once the new pavilion is formed."

The assassin hesitated. "Sir... if I may."

"Speak."

"Do we plan to use them as hostages for the final round?"

Giseon didn’t turn his head. His voice, however, lost its velvet edge.

"No."

He let the word settle like a blade falling through silk.

"I don’t take hostages, I don’t need too," he continued.

He finally turned his head slightly, giving the assassin a sidelong glance sharp enough to cut bone.

"I’ll let the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace learn this lesson properly. That no matter how pretty their ideals or how noble their disciples—when the sword comes down, nothing can stop it."

The assassin bowed without another word and vanished into the curtains like water slipping into cracks.

And in the Pavilion ring, the wind shifted.

It swept dust across the empty floor where so many proud disciples had fallen.

Where six remained.

And where one storm was only just beginning.