Surviving as a Genius on Borrowed Time-Chapter 408: Transcendent Realm (8)

The voice came from behind the swordsman, about five steps away.

A man, clad in a black Pi-poong robe, smirked beneath the brim of his wide bamboo hat.

He lazily clapped his hands together, making a soft sound with only the tips of his fingers. The air of mockery in his demeanor was ingrained, an effortless part of his very being.

“It’s finally worthy of being called Pahwang Samsik—The Three Desolating Strikes. For something born from the world’s most dull-witted talent, the name no longer seems excessive...”

“It is now One Strike.”

A deep voice rumbled forth—the reply of the swordsman gripping the enormous blade.

After speaking, he fell silent once more. He simply gazed down at his own sword.

On its broad surface, two words were engraved: Mukgong (Silent Strength).

The handwriting was far from elegant—crooked and uneven, as if a child had clumsily copied the script before it was etched in place.

The Silent Strength Sword.

A blade signifying the Lord of the Blade Sect—the head of the Paegeom Sect.

The man beneath the bamboo hat chuckled soundlessly.

“Only One Strike now? That’s quite a surprise. If I were to withstand that blow, I’d have to draw my Dancing Moonblade and fully manifest my Primordial Spirit Palm.”

“State your business.”

The Blade Sect Lord lowered his greatsword to the ground. Despite hearing mention of a technique belonging to the Lord of the Thirteen Spirits of Yeoryeong, his expression remained utterly unchanged.

Yeoryeong Lord lowered the brim of his hat slightly and folded his arms. Then, he spoke.

“I nearly died to Ancient Sword. He was relentless in his pursuit, as if I were his own parents’ murderer.”

“...Ancient Sword.”

“In the end, he was wailing like a child, screaming the Open Palm Lord’s name. It was both pitiful and unsettling.”

“If the world’s greatest Lightness Technique master had truly blocked my path, I would have died there.”

“You fled.”

“Indeed. I didn’t even have time to receive word on what happened with the Heavenly Net Formation. I barely managed to slip away using Lightness Technique while he swung at nothing from afar...”

“You won’t be seeing him again.”

“That’s precisely the flaw of these so-called Great Nine Sects, the thousand-year temples and monasteries. In exchange for the nation’s recognition, they must forever endure the sporadic emergence of monstrous talents...”

His voice carried a note of derision.

Yeoryeong Lord absentmindedly traced his fingers over the corner of his lips. Through his slightly curled hand, another sentence slipped out.

“A rather significant piece of information came to me while we were pressing Singeom Squad Leader into a corner. You’ll find it intriguing.”

“Speak.”

“Hwasan has created another Jasodan.”

That confirmed it. Among the current Great Nine Sect Masters, the most competent was undoubtedly Yulha Nangnang.

“Jasodan... that is worthless information.”

The Blade Sect Lord turned his gaze toward the moon. The shadowy scar across its surface—carved by his sword—had already faded, the full moon restoring itself to its original form.

The Holy Fire Sword Deity, Yulha Nangnang.

An anomaly among Hwasan Sect Leaders, known for having consumed only a single Jasodan in her lifetime.

Despite having access to an uncountable number of Hwasan’s supreme elixirs, she was infamous for sharing them generously with her disciples instead.

Some attributed it to her unparalleled talent, but many in the martial world regarded her with both respect ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ and ridicule.

Certain skeptics even dismissed it as a mere publicity stunt—a ploy to bolster Hwasan Sect’s reputation.

But the Lords of the Great Sects—they knew the truth.

“Worthless, you say? She has gone into seclusion again.”

Yeoryeong Lord feigned seriousness.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Step.

The sound of footsteps followed his words.

The Blade Sect Lord had turned away. At the same time, Yeoryeong Lord’s lips curled upward.

“Indeed, if you leave now, you can witness the Holy Fire Sword Deity after she has fully absorbed the Jasodan’s energy. While you’re at it, why not take her head as well?”

The Blade Sect Lord stopped.

Yeoryeong Lord, however, did not.

“As time passes, the disciples of the Great Nine Sects only grow stronger. And Yulha is still young. Seomye, So Cheonmujuk, Yulha... Every single one of them should be severed before they bloom, yet you, stubborn as ever, have left two unchecked.”

“The Holy Fire is a touchstone.”

“How absurd. Even now, she spends years entranced by the Royal Family’s Torture Techniques, lost in illusion, yet you still cling to the memories of your youth—”

In that instant, the moonlight receded.

A sword materialized from the darkness between them.

Somehow, the Blade Sect Lord’s Mukgong Sword was already aimed at Yeoryeong Lord’s heart.

It had happened in the blink of an eye. There was no sign, no preparation.

“This is not Yeoryeong’s domain. Stay out of it.”

The Blade Sect Lord spoke. Yeoryeong Lord slowly parted his lips.

“...A surprise attack? How peculiar. That you could bypass my Internal Energy Defense with a single strike... I know the depth of your wretched senses. Even if you had endured three or four more years of meditation, you wouldn’t have refined them to this level...”

“......”

“How long did you remain trapped in that memory since that day?”

“One hundred years.”

The night air trembled with his answer.

***

Sunlight poured down on the elegant pavilion, illuminating its wooden structure with a golden glow. Beneath the roof, a hanging plaque bore the inscription Shingeom Pavilion (Divine Sword Pavilion), its calligraphy emanating a subtle fragrance of ink.

“You have quite the awful handwriting, Squad Leader.”

“What? I go through the trouble of obliging the host’s request, and this is the thanks I get? Seomye, you wouldn’t understand, but for someone like me, this is rather...”

A quiet commotion rippled through the air.

Mist swirled lightly over the riverbank, and the distant mountain ridges shimmered under the morning light. The pavilion stood at the heart of this breathtaking landscape.

Not a sound disturbed the area for ten li around them. Even the three-story inn just behind the pavilion remained eerily silent, despite being filled with finely dressed patrons seated by its windows.

It was the kind of structure any lover of refinement would covet.

In this world, both human labor and natural beauty were commodities—currency exchanged in gold and grain. Not even times of chaos changed that fact.

Wherever martial artists roamed, bloodshed followed, and disputes over wealth and influence were inevitable.

Indeed, just beyond the nearby village lay the grand city of Wuchang, where a black-rank sect made its living by extorting tolls and station fees from travelers—robbing outsiders under the guise of protection fees.

Now, they were gone.

“I have been remiss as Squad Leader. Seomye, it has been quite some time since you joined the Black-Rank, yet I still don’t know what delicacies you prefer.”

“You don’t need to know, Yongga. I’ll be returning to an unranked Violet status soon anyway. Ji-geuk, you ordered Five-Tone Mountain Herb Cuisine, didn’t you?”

“My name is Wei Ji-geuk.”

At the pavilion’s table sat Yong Hui-myeong, Squad Leader of the Singeom Squad; Ak Su-rim, Vice Leader; and Wei Ji-geuk, Lord of the Heavenly Dragon Division.

But they were not alone.

The faces gathered here, drinking and sharing a meal, were figures so illustrious that even the greatest in the martial world had rarely seen them together.

Black-robed warriors bore the 荒 (Wilderness) character on their shoulders, mingling with swordsmen in violet robes.

No one dared approach the pavilion.

Only two attendants shuffled forward, cautiously serving food and wine, while a middle-aged man—the unmistakable innkeeper—stood anxiously by the doorway, watching the pavilion with nervous apprehension.

“Move carefully, damn it! If you spill anything, today next year will be the anniversary of your death!”

He hissed, voice sharp with fear.

And rightfully so.

The guests gathered at the pavilion possessed not only imposing appearances but also overwhelming martial prowess.

It wasn’t uncommon for fools to impersonate Ipwang Fortress warriors and end up as corpses, but no one here dared question the legitimacy of the warriors seated at Shingeom Pavilion.

Even if their atmosphere seemed jovial, the weight of their presence was undeniable.

“This is an especially potent Dukang Wine. Seomye, are you accustomed to strong liquor? Judging by the state of Singeom Squad, you seem to be the only true gentleman among us.”

Yong Hui-myeong lounged against the pavilion railing, looking more like a drunken scholar than the fearsome Squad Leader he was.

Sitting across from him, Jeong Yeon-shin nodded without hesitation.

“Of course.”

“Well, naturally. There’s no way you’d be weak to alcohol. Then, I assume you know the proper drinking etiquette?”

“It’s water.”

“Let me serve you a cup, Beijing style.”

Just as Jeong Yeon-shin’s tongue curled from the strong scent of alcohol, Yong Hui-myeong’s hand made a delicate circular motion as he poured.

The arc of the wine mimicked the shape of a Tai Chi symbol.

Jeong Yeon-shin watched the movement in silence. Noticing his gaze, Yong Hui-myeong raised an eyebrow.

“You should return the gesture. This tradition originates from the Noble Clan of Ultimate Balance.”

“...I know. It’s just been a while since I’ve had a proper drink.”

“That makes sense. Your efforts have been immense. No matter how many times I say it, it’s difficult to fully express my gratitude.”

The two men drank.

For a brief moment, Jeong Yeon-shin’s brow furrowed, but the tension dissipated almost instantly. His entire body seemed to smooth out as if the sensation had never been there—a testament to his mastery of internal energy flow.

Yong Hui-myeong smirked.

“You drink well. Even the Imperial Grand Eunuch of Rituals wouldn’t dare offer me a toast. You should remember—you are not beneath him.”

“You look different up close. When did you get this tall?”

Ak Su-rim tilted her head as she peered up at Jeong Yeon-shin. Resting her chin in her small hand, she wore an amused smile.

Behind her, a battered Ming Clan martial artist lay sprawled haphazardly—the Lesser Lord of Phantom Night, his Life Vein sealed.

Yong Hui-myeong cast her an annoyed glance before speaking.

“Listen up, all of you.”

His voice swept over the pavilion like a quiet tide, the sheer density of internal energy making it resonate deeply.

Even Hahoe Wi-jin, who had been leisurely chewing dried meat, paused mid-bite.

Even Jin Myeong-jo, standing far away on the water’s surface, turned his head.

“We must decide on our next course of action. First, disbanding temporarily is inevitable. Returning to Ipwang Fortress together would be far too dangerous. The Imperial Court is watching us closely...”

“Well, yeah. If we keep moving like this, they’ll brand us rebels for sure. Then Singeom Squad Leader here will be responsible for destroying Ipwang Fortress.”

Ak Su-rim brushed aside the stray strands of hair falling over her nape. None of the Squad Lords refuted her words.

Yong Hui-myeong nodded.

“My personal goals have already been achieved in abundance. We have survived, and the martial world will hesitate—at least for a while. Nearly half of the Thirteen Heavens’ Leaders have fallen.”

“The role of Bright Wing Lord was crucial. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to call him the key to our success.”

Wei Ji-geuk fiddled with the rope tied to his belt.

No one spoke of Suncheon Ik-lord Ha Do-un.

They merely swallowed their resentment toward the martial world, hiding it beneath this moment of celebration.

“Alright, for now, we should return to our individual assignments. We’ve made our presence known to the martial world—there’s no need to expose any more of our skills. Seomye, you and I will head to the Forbidden City—”

Suddenly, Yong Hui-myeong furrowed his brow.

Jeong Yeon-shin parted his lips. His gaze flickered to the side.

“Your Evasive Art is remarkable, but you seem a bit young to be drinking.”

His voice was calm, but firm—authoritative.

‘To have achieved this level of mastery at such an age... So, there exists a genius greater than myself.’

Jeong Yeon-shin mused.

A figure standing beside him, curiously fingering a wine cup, froze.

It was a young Daoist.

He wore a pristine white robe embroidered with cranes and swords, with a belt bearing an intricate pine tree pattern.

The boy spoke.

“...Are you talking about me?”

“This is a table for adults. Martial arts aren’t everything. Come back when you’ve finished the Lesser Studies.”

Jeong Yeon-shin’s tone was quiet but stern.

For a moment, the boy’s expression turned awkward.