CHAPTER 29: CHAPTER 28: THIRD MATCH AND HUNT

The shadows of Mount Mugang felt different as Jinmu moved through them, more alive somehow, as if they were aware of his presence and watching his every step. He had been searching for nearly an hour since leaving his copy to handle the tournament preparations, and the morning sun was climbing higher with each passing moment, marking time that he couldn’t afford to waste.

Where would Do Giseon keep them? he thought, pausing behind a stone wall to survey the pavilion complex spread out before him. The Palace Master and her people aren’t just prisoners—they’re political assets. Too valuable to kill immediately, but too dangerous to keep anywhere obvious or easily accessible.

He had already checked the most obvious locations: the guest quarters where visiting dignitaries might normally be held, the administrative buildings where records and supplies were stored, even the outer watchtowers that commanded views of the surrounding terrain. All of them had been empty, showing no signs of recent occupation beyond the normal activities of pavilion staff going about their daily routines.

But the emptiness itself was telling. Mount Mugang was a large complex, but it wasn’t infinite. There were only so many places where a group of prisoners could be held securely without attracting attention from the thousands of visitors who had come for the tournament. The fact that he hadn’t found any trace of them in the obvious locations meant that Do Giseon had been more careful and clever than he had initially assumed.

Think like him, Jinmu told himself, settling into a crouch behind a decorative boulder that provided both concealment and a good view of the central pavilion structures. You’re a man who has spent years planning a conspiracy to overthrow your own master and seize control of one of the most powerful martial sects in the orthodox world. You’ve kidnapped the Palace Master of a rival sect and her entire entourage. Where do you put them?

The answer, when it came to him, was both obvious and disturbing. Do Giseon wouldn’t just want the prisoners secured—he would want them symbolically positioned. Somewhere that demonstrated his power over both his enemies and his own organization. Somewhere that would send a message to anyone who discovered them about what happened to those who opposed him.

The sealed chambers, he realized, his blood running cold at the implications.

The sealed chambers were located in the oldest part of the pavilion complex, built into the mountainside itself rather than constructed on top of it. They had originally been designed as meditation retreats for the pavilion’s most senior masters, places where someone could withdraw from the world to focus on advanced cultivation techniques. But their isolation and security made them equally suitable for other purposes.

Jinmu began moving toward that section of the complex, staying in the shadows and avoiding the main pathways where he might encounter guards or servants. His progress was necessarily slow—Mount Mugang was crawling with people preparing for the final tournament match, and any sudden movement or suspicious behavior would draw exactly the kind of attention he couldn’t afford.

The copy should be with Haria by now, he thought, feeling a strange dual awareness of his own consciousness existing in two places simultaneously. Meeting with the other finalists, going through the pre-tournament ceremonies, maintaining the deception that nothing unusual is happening. I hope it can handle the stress of performance while I’m focused on this search.

As he got closer to the older sections of the pavilion, the architecture began to change. The newer buildings were elegant but functional, designed to house large numbers of disciples and administrative staff. But the older structures were different—more fortress-like, built during an era when the martial world was more chaotic and pavilions needed to serve as actual military strongholds rather than just schools and meeting places.

It was also quieter here. The sounds of tournament preparation that echoed throughout most of the complex were muted to distant whispers, absorbed by thick stone walls and the natural acoustics of the mountain itself. Which made it easier for Jinmu to detect other sounds—the subtle indicators that would tell him whether he was on the right track.

And that was when he first noticed it: a faint residue of unfamiliar ki lingering in the air like the scent of flowers after a storm had passed. It wasn’t the clean, disciplined energy that characterized of assassination techniques, nor was it the wild, aggressive signature of unorthodox cultivation methods. This was something else entirely—subtle, refined, almost invisible unless you knew what to look for.

Shadow ki, he identified, his pulse quickening with the recognition. The signature energy..... They were here recently, and in significant numbers. This has to be the trail left by the kidnapping operation.

The trail was faint, already beginning to disperse as the morning air moved through the corridors and courtyards. But it was there, a barely perceptible thread of evidence that led deeper into the older sections of the pavilion. Jinmu followed it with the patience of a hunter tracking wounded prey, pausing frequently to let his senses map the subtle variations in the energy signature.

Multiple people, he determined, analyzing the different patterns within the overall trail. At least ten. Moving in coordinated formation, carrying additional weights—the prisoners. The energy signature is consistent with what I’d expect from a professional extraction operation.

The trail led him through a series of increasingly narrow passages, past meditation chambers that hadn’t been used in years, around courtyards filled with ancient stone sculptures whose faces had been worn smooth by decades of mountain weather. With each step, the feeling of isolation grew stronger, as if he was walking deeper into the heart of the mountain itself.

And then, just as he was beginning to wonder if he had misinterpreted the trail, it led him to a sight that made his breath catch in his throat.

A pavilion unlike any of the others he had seen. Not built into the mountainside like the newer structures, but carved directly out of the living rock. Its entrance was guarded by two massive stone dragons whose eyes seemed to follow his movement, and the air around it practically hummed with defensive formations and concealment techniques.

This is it, he thought, studying the structure from the concealment of a cluster of pine trees. This has to be where they’re being held. The shadow ki trail leads directly here, and the level of security is far beyond what you’d expect for a simple storage facility or unused meditation hall.

But as he observed the pavilion more carefully, his heart sank. The security wasn’t just extensive—it was professional. He could sense at least a dozen guards positioned around the perimeter, all of them skilled enough to maintain concealment while remaining alert for threats. These weren’t ordinary pavilion disciples assigned to routine guard duty. These were specialists, probably Night Drizzle Sect operatives who had remained behind to ensure the prisoners stayed secure.

Twelve guards, minimum, he calculated, mapping their positions based on the subtle variations in ki signature and breathing patterns. All Expert level or higher, positioned to provide overlapping fields of observation and response. Any attempt to approach the entrance would be detected long before I could reach it. And even if I could somehow get inside, fighting my way back out with prisoners in tow would be suicide.

The realization was bitter, but undeniable. He had found the Palace Master and the others, but finding them and rescuing them were two entirely different challenges. The pavilion was a fortress, and he was just one person operating without backup or support.

But at least now I know where they are, he thought, beginning to retreat from his observation position. And I know they’re alive. Do Giseon wouldn’t maintain this level of security around corpses. Which means there’s still time to find a way to get them out.

As he moved away from the carved pavilion, Jinmu’s mind was already working through possibilities. Direct assault was out of the question—the guards were too numerous and too skilled. Stealth infiltration might be possible, but only if he could find a way to neutralize the sentries without raising an alarm, and the layout of the approach routes made that highly unlikely.

What I need is a distraction, he realized. Something significant enough to draw away most of the guards, leaving only a skeleton crew that I might be able to handle. But what kind of distraction would be compelling enough to risk leaving high-value prisoners inadequately protected?

The answer came to him as he made his way back toward the newer sections of the pavilion complex. The tournament. The final match that would determine not just the winner of the competition, but potentially the future balance of power between the great sects. If something went wrong during the tournament—if there was some kind of emergency or unexpected crisis—it would be natural for security personnel to be redirected to handle the situation.

But that would require the copy to do more than just maintain the deception, he thought, feeling the mental connection between his two forms of existence. It would need to create the kind of disruption that would justify pulling guards away from the prison. And that means revealing capabilities that we’ve been trying to keep hidden.

It was a risk, but everything about this situation involved risks. The question was whether the potential gains justified the potential costs. The Palace Master and her people were depending on him to find a way to rescue them. The copy was depending on him to provide the intelligence needed to make the tournament performance convincing. And somewhere in the background, Do Giseon was undoubtedly preparing his own moves in whatever larger game he was playing.

Time to head back, Jinmu decided, checking the position of the sun to gauge how much time had passed since he began the search. The copy needs to know what I’ve discovered, and we need to coordinate our next moves. This is far from over.

As he made his way through the shadows of Mount Mugang, Jinmu carried with him the image of that stone pavilion and the knowledge of what it represented. The Palace Master was alive, but trapped. The other prisoners were secure, but heavily guarded. And somewhere behind those carved stone walls, the fate of the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace—and possibly the entire orthodox martial world—was hanging in the balance.

The morning air was growing warmer as the sun climbed higher, but Jinmu felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain weather. The game Do Giseon was playing was more complex and dangerous than he had initially realized, and the stakes were higher than he had imagined.

But we’re not done yet, he thought, his jaw setting with determination behind the mask. The copy is maintaining our position in the tournament, I’ve located the prisoners, and we still have options available. Do Giseon thinks he’s won, but he doesn’t know what we’re really capable of. It’s time to show him that he’s miscalculated.

The carved pavilion fell behind him as he moved through the maze of passages and courtyards, but its image remained burned into his memory. Soon, very soon, he would be returning there. And when he did, it wouldn’t be as a scout gathering intelligence.

The Grand Arena of the Mugang Martial Pavilion had never felt more electric than it did on this final morning of the tournament. The massive stone coliseum, capable of holding over fifty thousand spectators, was filled to capacity and beyond. Every seat was occupied, every standing space claimed, and the overflow crowd had spilled into the surrounding courtyards where giant bronze mirrors had been positioned to reflect the action for those who couldn’t fit inside the main structure.

The air itself seemed to vibrate with anticipation, thick with the combined breathing of tens of thousands of people who had traveled from across the martial world to witness this moment. Merchants hawked their wares between the rows, selling everything from tournament memorabilia to medicinal pills guaranteed to enhance one’s appreciation of advanced martial techniques. Children perched on their parents’ shoulders, wide-eyed with wonder at the spectacle unfolding before them. Elderly masters sat in dignified silence, their experienced eyes already analyzing the six figures who stood at the center of it all.

Jinmu’s copy stood among the finalists, maintaining the calm exterior that had become his trademark throughout the tournament while internally marveling at the scale of what surrounded him. The wooden practice sword felt familiar across his back, and the mask covering his face provided both concealment and a strange sense of security. But beneath the surface, he was acutely aware of his reduced capabilities and the enormous responsibility resting on his shoulders.

Master level instead of Peak Master, the copy thought, flexing his fingers slightly to test the flow of ki through his meridians. The difference is noticeable, but not crippling. I still have access to all the techniques, all the knowledge and experience. The question is whether that will be enough against opponents of this caliber.

Beside him, Eun Haria stood with her characteristic poise, her white and violet robes pristine despite the chaos of the morning’s preparations. The thin silk veil covering the lower half of her face fluttered slightly in the arena’s breeze, and her eyes remained calm and focused as they surveyed the crowd. She had accepted his earlier explanation about having "clarified his plans" without pressing for details, but he could sense her continued concern beneath her composed exterior.

"The energy in the crowd is different today," she said quietly, her voice barely audible over the general din of thousands of conversations happening simultaneously. "Not just excitement. There’s tension, as if everyone knows that something more than a tournament is being decided here."

The copy nodded, his gaze sweeping across the assembled spectators and noting the unusual number of sect representatives and political observers who had positioned themselves in the premium seating areas. "They’re not wrong. Win or lose, what happens here today will influence the balance of power in the orthodox world for years to come."

If only they knew how right they are, he thought grimly. This isn’t just about determining a tournament champion. It’s about whether Do Giseon’s conspiracy succeeds, whether the Palace Master survives her imprisonment, whether the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace continues to exist as an independent sect. Everything we’ve worked for comes down to the next few hours.

On the far side of the finalist area, the other four competitors were making their own preparations. Juhwa Gyeongcheol of the Hwagyeong Sword Sect.

He’ll be relying on overwhelming offensive power, the copy analyzed, studying the young master’s stance and breathing patterns. His techniques are built around rapid escalation—starting with moderate heat and building to levels that can melt steel. The key to fighting him will be preventing that escalation, forcing him to fight at temperatures where his advantages are minimized.

Seoryeon Baekho of the Baekrin White Tiger Hall presented a completely different challenge.

Raw power incarnate, the copy thought, noting how other people unconsciously moved away from Seoryeon’s position. He won’t rely on complex techniques or elaborate strategies. Just overwhelming physical dominance backed by cultivation that makes him nearly invulnerable to conventional attacks. Fighting him will be like trying to defeat a mountain.

Eunwon Jinseong of the Azure Thunder Hall was perhaps the most unsettling of the four remaining opponents.

Unpredictable, the copy decided, watching the way Jinseong’s eyes darted constantly between different targets. His techniques are based on lightning and electrical manipulation, which means speed and precision rather than raw power. But more than that, he seems to enjoy chaos for its own sake. Fighting him will be like trying to catch lightning with bare hands.

Finally, there was Do Sangin of the Mugang Martial Pavilion.

The most dangerous of all, the copy realized, noting the way Do Sangin’s eyes seemed to catalog every detail of his opponents’ equipment and posture. Not because he’s the strongest, but because he’s the smartest. His reputation for copying techniques mid-battle means he’ll be studying all of us, looking for weaknesses and patterns he can exploit. And as Do Giseon’s cousin, he may know more about the larger conspiracy than he’s letting on.

A fanfare of horns echoed across the arena, cutting through the crowd noise and drawing everyone’s attention to the elevated platform where the tournament officials had assembled. The announcer, resplendent in jade-green robes embroidered with the symbols of all five great sects, stepped forward with a scroll in his hands and a voice projection technique that would carry his words to every corner of the massive space.

"Honored guests, distinguished masters, and martial practitioners of the Central Plains!" his voice boomed, creating a momentary hush in the crowd. "We welcome you to the final day of the Grand Open Tournament, hosted by the Mugang Martial Pavilion under the auspices of the Five Great Mountain Sects!"

The cheer that followed was deafening, a wall of sound that seemed to make the stone walls of the arena vibrate. Banners waved, drums pounded, and somewhere in the premium seating area, fireworks exploded in controlled bursts that painted the sky in brilliant colors.

Spectacle, the copy thought, maintaining his calm exterior while internally calculating how the crowd’s energy might affect the upcoming matches. They want drama and excitement, but they have no idea what’s really at stake. To them, this is entertainment. To us, it’s survival.

"Today, six warriors remain from the hundred who began this journey," the announcer continued as the cheering gradually subsided. "Six exemplars of martial excellence, each representing the finest traditions of their respective paths. They have proven themselves through trials of skill, endurance, and honor. Now, they will face the ultimate test."

The copy felt Haria shift slightly beside him, her posture remaining relaxed but her attention sharpening. She knew as well as he did that whatever format the final matches took would determine not just their tactical approach, but their chances of maintaining the deception long enough for the original Jinmu to complete his rescue mission.

"The format for the final round," the announcer declared, unrolling his scroll with theatrical flourish, "shall be individual elimination matches! Each finalist will face every other finalist in single combat. Victory earns two points, defeat costs nothing, and surrender earns one point for each participant. The warrior with the most points at the end of all matches shall be declared the champion!"

Round-robin format, the copy calculated quickly. Six fighters means fifteen total matches. Each of us fights five times, with opportunities to rest and observe between our own bouts. That’s... actually favorable for our deception. Multiple shorter fights instead of one extended battle, with time to adapt and adjust between matches.

The crowd erupted again, but this time the copy could hear distinct conversations emerging from the general roar of approval.

"Fifteen matches! We’ll see everyone fight everyone!"

"Who do you think will take the most points?"

"My money’s on the Twin Blaze Scion! Fire beats everything!"

"Don’t count out the White Tiger! Have you seen the size of him?"

"What about the masked one? He’s been quiet, but he made it this far somehow."

The copy felt a moment of satisfaction at that last comment. The persona of "Muyeon" that he and the original Jinmu had cultivated throughout the tournament was working exactly as intended—mysterious enough to be intriguing, skilled enough to be respected, but not flashy enough to attract excessive scrutiny.

"The order of matches," the announcer continued, consulting a second scroll, "has been determined by lot to ensure fairness and excitement! The first match will pit Juhwa Gyeongcheol of the Hwagyeong Sword Sect against Do Sangin of Mugang Martial Pavilion!"

The crowd’s reaction to this announcement was immediate and enthusiastic. A match between the host sect’s representative and one of the tournament favorites was exactly the kind of opening that would set the tone for everything that followed.

Good, the copy thought. Starting with those two means I can observe their fighting styles and capabilities before I have to face either of them. Information is always more valuable than immediate action.

"The second match," the announcer went on, "will feature Seoryeon Baekho of the Baekrin White Tiger Hall against Eunwon Jinseong of the Azure Thunder Hall! Ice and lightning, stillness and chaos, in a confrontation that promises to shake the very foundations of the arena!"

More cheers, more speculation, more excitement building in the crowd. The copy noted that the matchups seemed designed for maximum dramatic impact rather than simple random selection, which suggested that tournament politics were influencing the proceedings in ways that might not be immediately obvious.

"The third match will see Eun Haria of the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace face the mysterious warrior known as Muyeon!" the announcer declared, and the copy felt his heart skip a beat.

We’re fighting each other in the third match, he realized, glancing at Haria’s profile and seeing her own moment of surprise. That’s... problematic. We’ll have to stage a convincing fight without actually harming each other, while maintaining our respective personas.

Haria’s voice was barely a whisper, audible only to him. "That’s going to be interesting."

"Indeed," the copy replied, his mind already working through the choreography that would be required. "We’ll need to make it look real without making it dangerous."

The announcer was still speaking, outlining the remaining matches and explaining the point system in greater detail, but the copy’s attention had shifted to more immediate concerns. Fighting Haria would require a completely different approach than fighting any of the others. She knew his capabilities, his preferred techniques, his tactical preferences. But more than that, she was someone he needed to protect rather than defeat.

We’ll have to coordinate somehow, he thought. Establish signals or cues that let us control the flow of the match without making it obvious that we’re cooperating. And we’ll need to decide beforehand who should win, because that will affect the point standings and determine who we face in subsequent matches.

Around them, the crowd was reaching a fever pitch of excitement as the announcer concluded his presentation and began the formal introduction of each finalist. One by one, they were called forward to acknowledge the crowd’s cheers and demonstrate their martial bearing.

Juhwa Gyeongcheol stepped forward first, his flame-patterned swords catching the light as he drew them in a brief salute that left trails of fire in the air. The crowd roared its approval, and he responded with a grin that promised spectacular entertainment in the matches to come.

Seoryeon Baekho’s introduction was more subdued but no less impressive. He simply stepped forward and stood motionless for a moment, letting his presence speak for itself. The temperature in his immediate vicinity dropped noticeably, and frost began forming on the stone platform beneath his feet.

Eunwon Jinseong danced forward with movements that left afterimages of electrical discharge in his wake, his tattoos flaring to brilliant life as he acknowledged the crowd with elaborate bows and theatrical gestures. The spectators ate it up, cheering and calling his name.

Do Sangin’s introduction was more restrained. He stepped forward with dignified composure, bowed once to the crowd, and returned to his position without flourish or drama. But the copy noticed that his eyes never stopped moving, cataloging details and filing away information about his opponents’ reactions and behaviors.

Still analyzing, the copy thought. Good to know his priorities haven’t changed.

Haria’s introduction was elegant and graceful, her movements flowing like water as she acknowledged the crowd’s cheers with subtle nods and gestures. Her veil fluttered in the arena breeze, and the twin blooming petals emblem on her chest caught the light, clearly identifying her sect affiliation to even the most distant spectators.

Finally, it was the copy’s turn. He stepped forward with calm confidence, his masked face turning to acknowledge different sections of the crowd. He didn’t draw his wooden sword or demonstrate any techniques, but his presence alone was enough to generate a wave of curious murmurs and speculative conversations.

"The mysterious boy!" the announcer declared. "A warrior whose identity remains hidden but whose skills have proven themselves through trial by combat! What secrets lie behind that mask? What techniques drive his quiet confidence? Today, we may finally learn the answers!"

If only they knew, the copy thought as he returned to his position among the other finalists. The biggest secret isn’t what’s behind the mask. It’s that there are two of us, and the one they’re looking at isn’t even the original.

As the formal presentations concluded and the arena staff began preparing the fighting space for the first match, the copy felt the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders like a physical burden. The original Jinmu was counting on him to maintain their deception while searching for the Palace Master. Haria was trusting him to protect her during their staged fight. The fate of the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace potentially hung in the balance.

No pressure at all, he thought wryly, watching as Juhwa Gyeongcheol and Do Sangin began their pre-fight preparations. Just perform convincingly in front of fifty thousand spectators while hiding the fact that I’m not actually the person they think I am. Simple.

The copy took a deep breath and prepared himself for what might be the most challenging performance of his brief existence.