Black and White Martial Emperor

Ming Chisan was genuinely impressed.

“Huh.”

Wind sliding through the bamboo stirred Yeon Hojeong’s collar.

It looked as if that breeze alone could scatter him. A hollow, airy energy filled his whole body.

“A rare one.”

They said he hadn’t even reached twenty.

Yet the atmosphere was strange. Even with ten experts arrayed before him, he didn’t seem the least perturbed.

And that stance?

“Unfettered.”

He was merely standing there, yet it felt like he could burst toward any direction at will.

It wasn’t that his movement arts seemed outstanding, either. He was simply a youth with that kind of mysterious bearing.

Ming Chisan admitted it plainly.

“So the Yeon Clan finally made a stir. You’ve raised quite the talent.”

Yeon Hojeong asked in an even tone,

“You from the Ming Clan?”

His voice was lower and softer than expected. Word had it his nature was rough, but from the voice alone there was none of that.

“Yes.”

“Later than I expected.”

“Later... meaning you knew we’d come?”

“Hard not to. Is there any place in Henan your clan’s eyes don’t reach?”

“What?” He laughed. “Ha!”

Bold brat. Arrogant brat.

Yet he didn’t dislike that confidence. Inside the Ming there weren’t many martial men with that kind of bite.

Ming Chisan spoke with a smile lingering.

“It takes nerve to stay so calm with the Ming’s dispatched warriors in front of you. I like it.”

“I don’t like men.”

“Your tongue is sharp too. I’ve swung blades all my life—men like you with quick tongues make me envious.”

A gleam flickered in Yeon Hojeong’s eyes.

“Strong.”

A peak expert.

But not an ordinary one. Not just beyond the Thunder Hero Chu Seong; not even comparable to Ming Onji, who was said to command the Shadow-Death Division.

“All my life with a blade?” He believed it.

Even hearing that from a junior, the man wasn’t the least offended. That composure was a strong man’s composure.

“This could get dangerous if I misstep.”

All the better.

To meet such a man as the first opponent—good fortune indeed.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ming Chisan of the Pure-White Martial Corps.”

The Pure-White Martial Corps:

Within the Ming Clan of the Nine Provinces, it referred to a body of warriors who held no posts—men who did nothing but temper martial skill.

They did not belong to combat battalions, nor were they used for household affairs. They bore no office for life; when an order dropped, they were inserted into that mission.

Fixers, one could say. But not common fixers.

Among the innumerable Ming-blooded lines, many collateral branches flowed into the Pure-White Martial Corps.

“And these men are from the Hall of Guarding the Ming.”

Yeon Hojeong shook his head.

“Never heard of it.”

“Heh, it’s fine if you haven’t. There’s no need for you to know.”

No need to know—but reason enough to beware.

Ming Chisan was strong. The nine he brought were plenty strong as well. He didn’t know their exact real-fight capability, but each held two or three measures of skill above the Shadow-Death men.

Yeon Hojeong tilted his head.

“So what brings you?”

“You said it yourself—you expected us. You must have had a reason.”

“The Shadow-Death Division?”

Ming Chisan’s eyes sharpened at once.

“The Shadow-Death... Did Ming Onji—did that girl rattle off even her unit’s name?”

“She confessed before I asked.”

“That’s impossible. She’s not halfway trained.”

“I chopped down with an axe without mercy. Maybe she didn’t want to die.”

Ming Chisan’s face hardened.

He read truth in Yeon Hojeong’s speech. The youth wasn’t lying now.

“Don’t tell me...”

And the part about chopping with an axe stuck with him.

His voice dropped a notch.

“I’ll be blunt. Where is the Shadow-Death Division?”

“Men who came to kill me—do you think I sent them home alive?”

Came to kill him?

“Nonsense. They absolutely did not intend to kill you.”

“You weren’t even there. How can you be so sure?”

“Cut the word games. I’ll ask again. Where are they?”

“You Ming all share the same poor comprehension. That woman was like that too.”

Yeon Hojeong’s grin bared teeth.

A low, mysterious energy vanished; a faint, blue-green current bled a murderous edge.

“It was a kill-or-be-killed battle. There was no reason to hold back.”

“...You’re saying you killed them all?”

“Should I have died instead?”

“You brat! Speak straight! I asked if you truly killed the Shadow-Death!”

Thung!

Yeon Hojeong lifted the axe by his feet, and his gaze turned cold.

“I did.”

Fwoom!

A vicious killing intent erupted from Ming Chisan’s body.

Not only his—the bodies of the Hall’s warriors bristled with murder as well.

It was heartfelt killing will. They looked ready to tear Yeon Hojeong apart this instant.

Ming Chisan spoke in a voice pressed flat:

“My orders were to bring you in, but they said nothing about your condition.”

“...”

“Consider yourself short a limb.”

Sssst.

Tightly packed fighting spirit shifted, hardening into killing intent.

Yeon Hojeong smiled, colorless and clear.

“Soft vows won’t do.”

Ming Chisan barked,

“Pin him down!”

At that instant, the man on the flank whipped out a horn bow like lightning.

Shwiiik! Twang!

Nocking and drawing flowed like a thunderbolt. In the flash of an eye, the arrow was already gone.

It was aimed at Yeon Hojeong’s thigh. The intent was to seal his movement first.

Tonk!

The archer’s eyes shook.

“Good arrows. Deep pockets.”

The arrow sat in Yeon Hojeong’s hand. He’d snatched it off the air as if he’d known they were aiming for his thigh.

His eyes went cold.

“Thanks to you, I missed my meal, damn it.”

Thud!

He stamped hard and sent the arrow back.

Fwish! Thock!

“Kh!”

The archer clutched his shoulder and staggered—an arrow buried in his left shoulder.

It was faster than when loosed from a bow. As if he’d trained hidden-weapon skill.

Ming Chisan’s gaze blazed.

“Fast!”

Archers who polish their craft have swift movement arts—it’s inevitable, given they must open space to shoot.

Yet this archer hadn’t even reacted properly and got hit. Had his upper body not tilted on instinct, it would have planted in his chest.

“All in!”

Tatatatat!

Eight experts charged Yeon Hojeong.

Faster and more aggressive footwork than the Shadow-Death. In a flash they closed and brought their weapons down; a joint assault without a drop of daylight.

Yeon Hojeong swung the axe.

Clang-clang-clang-clang!

Seven weapons ricocheted away. But one saber split the wind and carved his shoulder after all.

He spun like a whirlwind.

Crunch!

The saberman wheeled and slammed into the earth—caught by the Yeon Clan’s Empty-Sky Kick.

“Khak!”

The man tried to rise, vomited a mouthful of blood, and collapsed where he stood.

Surprise flickered across Ming Chisan’s face.

“In one blow?!”

Warriors from the Hall of Guarding the Ming train their bodies externally no less than their inner strength. In danger they must throw themselves in and block the enemy’s blade.

Yet a man with that kind of hardened body toppled from a single leg strike.

“Infiltrating force!”

Fwoosh!

Yeon Hojeong rushed in.

As if waiting, the remaining seven pressed him with weapons.

“Different.”

They were on another level from the Shadow-Death. If those had been jackals, these were wolves. Each held a clearly assigned sector and set of lines.

Land just one clean hit and you could shear down their overall strength. The formation was built with that intent.

As it stood, he had no choice but to go all-out from the opening beat.

Booom!

He drove his step harder than when he’d returned the arrow.

Yeon Hojeong windmilled the axe.

Clang-clang-clang! Boom!

Overwhelming majesty.

Weapons that met the axe edge lost teeth or snapped one after another.

No matter how well-forged, weight tells. All the more when the axe was hardened in degree by Yeon Hojeong’s inner strength.

Fwap! Thud!

A man took a fist and went down spitting blood.

Twang! Crash!

He swept with the axe face, flattening both weapon and chest. The man flew, smashed through more than ten bamboo stalks, and crumpled.

Kang! Kagagagang!

Amid it all, one swordsman’s technique stood out. Quick, crisp cuts; Yeon Hojeong parried with the axe haft like a spear shaft.

Without °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° breaking flow from the linked-chain swordwork, he launched a high-line kick.

Crack!

Hit at the temple, the swordsman folded on the spot.

Ming Chisan’s eyes wavered.

“Strong!”

Yeon Hojeong was a powerhouse.

Not only his martial arts—his fighting capacity itself was strong.

“The flow...? No, that’s not it.”

Thud!

Another warrior crumpled. They hadn’t even engaged—he fell to a flick of the haft as he tried to close.

“He reads weaknesses.”

He was seeing the formation’s weak points at a glance. Where it was thin, whom to target, what the next movement should be—he grasped it all.

Ming Chisan couldn’t help but admire it.

“A born talent. He doesn’t just crash through—he topples you by probing weaknesses to the hilt.”

He wasn’t “built” like a martial diehard. The frame itself didn’t scream “born for the arts.”

Yet he fought better than anyone.

Of the countless martial men he’d faced, he’d never seen one fight this efficiently. He attacked soft spots without hesitation, and when it came to head-on exchanges he charged like a savage beast and finished it.

Not a purist of the Way. Not merely a brawler.

A warrior. A man who fights only to win—and knows how to win.

Ming Chisan stamped.

Whoom!

Yeon Hojeong’s eyes flashed.

He hooked the remaining man’s foot and dumped him, then lifted with the axe face.

Thud!

Jaw, teeth, and ribs shattered as the man flew—exactly along the line of Ming Chisan’s advance.

Hwooom.

Ming Chisan seized the man by the collar and whipped him back.

And beyond him—Yeon Hojeong was there already.

“I’ve been waiting.”

“You brat!”

A heavy saber slid from Ming Chisan’s waist.

Jjjjeeeeng!

Metal slammed metal; the resonance swept the entire bamboo grove.

They started at full bore. Under Ming Chisan’s explosive saberwork, Yeon Hojeong gave up three, four steps.

Murder flickered in Ming Chisan’s eyes.

He might admire the foe—but admiration was only that. This was the man who’d killed the Shadow-Death, and beyond that, his own niece Ming Onji.

Unforgivable.

Tap!

His closing footwork beggared belief.

His whole body was spring steel. A movement on a plane apart from the Hall’s warriors.

Yeon Hojeong swung the axe.

Clang-clang! Clang!

A tremendous art.

He batted aside an eighty-cattie axe stroke for stroke, and his blade didn’t take a nick. Backed by overwhelming inner strength, that saber edge was an even crueler weapon than Yeon Hojeong’s axe.

Their weapons crashed in brilliant succession.

Clang-clang-clang-clang!

They collided at terrifying speed. A roaring, straightforward clash.

Slice—

Blood sprayed from Yeon Hojeong’s chest.

He’d bounced away that heavy weapon and, in that fraction, spun his blade and carved him anyway. The cut was shallow, but it snapped his focus.

Thump!

A rising punch from the Yeon Clan’s Thirteen Fists met a knee.

As fierce as his offense, his defense was just as stout. An art of offense–defense as one. Not an easy man to crack.

“Good.”

Thud!

He failed to slip the kick; blood flew from Yeon Hojeong’s mouth.

Even spitting blood, his eyes never left Ming Chisan.

“With this one—”

Vwoom! Crack!

Ming Chisan staggered half a pace—Yeon Hojeong’s springing legwork torqued his upper body.

In an instant his concentration peaked. Before a foe who could wreck him with one mistake, Yeon Hojeong’s will honed to a razor.

“With this one, it’s possible.”

Vvvvvvmmmm—

Within the faint, blue-green True Qi, a northern gloom stirred.

Black Tortoise Qi—but not the energy he drew to unfurl the Northern Heaven Twelve Walls.

A technique already prepared. True Qi already prepared.

Led by the Black Tortoise Qi, that current began to take shape.

“With this one, I can call it out.”

Ming Chisan’s blade swung mercilessly.

Vwooom! Shraaaaak!

A vicious blade-gale spat forward. A saber wind that crossed the gap and flew. If he didn’t stop it, the axe—and his right arm—would go in one cut.

For a heartbeat Yeon Hojeong’s vision went white.

“Wind.”

The world slowed.

Shivering bamboo leaves rolled like waves. Ming Chisan’s motion seemed mired like in mud.

And within it, the wind of a blade—impossible to see—shone white to his eyes.

The muscles of his thighs swelled.

Kwoooom!

The Stamping Step that hammered the earth roared like a tiger. The muscles of the arms gripping the axe bulged like enraged bulls.

“Come out!”

Fwaaaaah!

White wind surged into his lungs.

A cold, chill white energy flashed in an instant through every nerve.

His mouth opened of its own accord.

“Grrrraaaah!!”

With the bellow of a mountain king, his axe began to move in a way that defied reason.