Chapter 12: Blade That Cuts Peace

In the heart of Mt. Mugang stood the imposing structure of the Mugang Martial Pavilion, a fortress of stone and steel nestled among the jagged cliffs. Though neutral in name and tradition, it held within its walls some of the most skilled martial artists in Jeonghwa. Among them were the Twelve Blades, each an undisputed expert in their own right, chosen not only for strength but for leadership.

And at the apex of them all was the man known as the First Blade—Do Giseon.

He sat alone in the pavilion's inner chamber, where a solitary brazier burned, its flames flickering low but hot. A scroll lay unrolled before him, its surface marked with the names of the tournament participants. Among them, one name had been circled thrice, red ink bled into the parchment.

"Eun Haria (은하리아)," he muttered under his breath, fingers tapping the side of his chair. "Successor to the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace. Just a little girl with a pretty face and a famous bloodline."

He leaned forward, elbow resting on his knee, and smirked with cold amusement. The fire in the brazier cast shadows across his scarred face, sharpening his gaze.

"They've remained above us for too long. Righteous, detached, untouched. That Palace of Women, with their petals and poisons… they think neutrality means weakness. They think we'll always be the Pavilion that stands between the factions, never choosing a side. But they've forgotten… blades are not meant to balance. They're meant to cut."

A knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," Do Giseon said, not bothering to lift his eyes.

The door opened and a masked man entered, wearing robes darkened with ash and wind. The faint insignia of the Crimson Flow Blade Union was barely visible on the edge of his inner collar, but the First Blade didn't need to see it. He already knew.

"You're late," Giseon said dryly.

"We were delayed by a… beast," the man replied, kneeling. "We lost a squad of Experts. Something or someone got there first."

Giseon's brow twitched. "Someone?"

"We're not sure. A masked martial artist. He didn't leave a trace, only bodies. And the corpse of the beast was gone."

The First Blade let out a slow breath and stood, walking toward the window where the peaks of Mt. Mugang stood shrouded in morning mist. Below, disciples of the Pavilion sparred in the courtyard, their shouts echoing faintly.

He didn't speak for a long moment.

"So… there's another player in the game. Hiding his name, hiding his face. Even the Union couldn't identify him. Good. Let the chaos deepen."

"The plan remains unchanged," Giseon finally said. "Whether the girl lives or dies before the final round doesn't matter. She must not walk away from the Grand Open Tournament alive."

"But if she dies during the tournament, suspicion will—"

"She won't die in the ring," Giseon interrupted coldly. "We'll orchestrate an incident. An assassination attempt during the chaos. Something fast. Poison. Or a concealed weapon."

He turned to face the kneeling agent.

"Do you think the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace will sit still if their successor dies under our protection?"

The agent shook his head.

"Of course not. And that's what I want," Giseon said, a smile stretching across his lips. "I'm tired of watching from the middle. For decades we've played peacekeeper, drawing swords only to separate others. But the Pavilion is strong. We have the Twelve Blades. We have the foundations. We have… me."

He stepped closer, gaze piercing.

"Tell your leaders in the Union: I will break the neutrality of Mt. Mugang myself. The Lotus Palace will retaliate. And when they do, the Pavilion will have no choice but to answer with force. War will come. The world will turn."

He clenched his fist slowly.

"And I will rise… not as the First Blade, but as Pavilion Master."

The agent remained still, as if sensing the finality in those words. Giseon's tone bore no ambiguity—it was a declaration, not a possibility.

"But the Council—"

"—is old," Giseon snapped. "And weak. Bound by dead men's rules. I've been carrying this Pavilion for years while they debate protocol. No more. This tournament is the spark. All I need… is one well-placed death."

He returned to the scroll and traced Eun Haria's name once more.

"She is young. Talented, yes. But her biggest flaw is the name she carries. That Palace of Mist and Petals has too many enemies. She won't know where the blade came from."

There was a long silence as the agent processed the scheme in full. Giseon had long since prepared this. All he needed was for the tournament to begin.

"And the other participants?" the agent finally asked. "The masked one?"

"If he reveals himself, eliminate him. If he doesn't… then he's not our problem. I want Yeon Seryeon dead by the third day. We'll use a match as the stage, and chaos as the curtain."

The brazier crackled.

"Now go," Giseon said, waving the agent away. "We have blades to sharpen."

Once the door shut behind him, the First Blade turned his gaze to the sword resting on a stand beside his table. Its hilt was wrapped in dark cloth, and the edge was honed to surgical sharpness. The weapon was old. Not ceremonial. Not showy. Just deadly.

"The Pavilion will change… and all of Jeonghwa will follow."

He sat once more, resting his hand on the hilt.

Outside, the Pavilion bells began to ring, signaling the approach of the Grand Open Tournament.

And high on the cliffs, where wind howled between the rocky peaks, the scent of blood was already drifting through the air.

Jinmu tightened the last strap of his newly crafted mask, its surface glinting faintly under the morning light as he turned it slowly in his hands. The mask, unlike the plain one he had hastily bought before, bore the same faint crimson-red shimmer as his sword. He had forged it from the leftover scales of the fire-breathing beast—the same creature that had nearly killed him. It wasn't just symbolic; the mask could withstand extreme heat, just like Yeomhwa, his Flame Blossom blade. It didn't only hide his identity. It declared that he had survived something meant to kill him.

He pressed it against his face, and the cool inner lining settled against his skin with a perfect fit.

It's better this way. The name Jinmu Yeon is too connected to the Peaceful Blossom Inn. If anyone from the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace recognizes me, things could become… complicated.

Not that they would suspect much. After all, the only person who had seen his face before the mask was unconscious during the entire fight. Still, the less attention he attracted, the smoother everything would go. And the Grand Open Tournament was exactly the kind of event that attracted all the attention he didn't want. But it was also the perfect opportunity.

The gates of the Mugang Martial Pavilion loomed ahead, an elegant fortress of stone and iron nestled within the heart of Mt. Mugang. Massive red banners fluttered from the outer walls, each embroidered with the image of a sword encircled by a coiling dragon—the proud emblem of the Pavilion. The clamor of martial artists filled the training grounds beyond the walls. Some sparred openly, others meditated beneath the statues of ancient masters. But almost all of them had the same expression—tense, determined, hungry.

"Name," barked a Pavilion disciple stationed at the front booth, scribbling on a scroll.

Jinmu hesitated for a breath.

"…Muyeon," he said finally. A name pulled together from nowhere, yet fitting—soft enough to be forgotten, strong enough to be remembered only in passing.

The disciple squinted, clearly noting the full red mask and dark robe.

"You from a sect?"

"No. Just a wandering martial artist."

"Then you'll be assigned to Group C. Low rank preliminaries start in two days." The disciple stamped a seal on a jade token and handed it over. "Don't lose it."

Jinmu nodded silently and moved on, weaving through the crowd of hopeful participants. Some looked no older than fifteen, others already had white in their hair. There were sword cultivators, palm specialists, and even one hulking body cultivator who walked around bare-chested like it was snowing pride instead of ash on Mt. Mugang.

But then, his steps faltered.

At the center of a ring of disciples stood a familiar figure—graceful yet firm, like a drawn sword balanced on a lotus stem.

"…The female martial artist?" he murmured beneath the mask, pausing in the shadows of the Pavilion's eastern courtyard.

It was unmistakably her, now clad in the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace signature pale-pink and silver uniform. Her long black hair flowed down her back, bound in a white orchid clasp, and her posture spoke of complete control—each breath measured, each glance calculated.

He had only seen her twice before—once in the Peaceful Blossom Inn, and once during the chaos after the monster attack. But this was the first time he saw her conscious and radiating that unmistakable air of command. The young female disciples standing behind her fawned openly. But what struck Jinmu wasn't her elegance.

It was the fire in her eyes.

She's not here to spectate. She's participating.

As if on cue, the disciple standing next to her raised a voice.

"Successor of Yeonhwa Lotus Palace, Eun Haria, registering for the Grand Open Tournament!"

Gasps and murmurs spread through the surrounding crowd like wildfire.

"She's really here?"

"That's one of the Four Blooming Flowers…"

"She's said to be the youngest expert-level cultivator among the Five Great Sects!"

Jinmu tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing behind the mask.

Ohh.... I did'nt expect that she is the successor of Yeonhwa Lotus Palace.

If she's here, then things are more complicated than I expected.

He moved further down the courtyard to avoid drawing her attention, even though he knew there was almost no chance she would recognize him behind the mask and without his innkeeper robes. Still, better safe than sorry.

As he slipped into the inner plaza, the hum of gossip caught his ear again.

"You heard about the young masters?" someone whispered nearby.

"The ones from the Five Major Sects of the Orthodox Path?"

"Yeah, all five of them are joining the tournament. It's a declaration."

"What kind of declaration?"

"That the Orthodox Path isn't going to stand idle anymore. They're trying to show they're still the foundation of the Murim World."

Jinmu lingered at the edge of the crowd, listening.

"They say the Fire Sword Son of Mount Hwagyeong is here."

"And the Thunder Child of Azure Thunder Hall too."

"I even saw a man with white robes from Baekrin White Tiger Hall!"

Jinmu's thoughts turned sharp.

So that's what this really is. Not just a tournament. A political move. The Five Major Sects are sending their successors, their future leaders, to display dominance. If the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace is involved too, then this is becoming far too dangerous to be considered simple competition.

He pressed his hand lightly against the hilt of Yeomhwa, feeling the quiet pulse of ki through the sheath. He hadn't expected this level of attention, this amount of elite participation.

I should lay low. Win a few rounds. No need to make waves.

But just as he made to turn and leave the training field, a strange sensation prickled across the back of his neck.

It was faint.

Subtle.

But unmistakable.

He was being watched.

Jinmu turned his head slightly, scanning the crowd without appearing obvious. The plaza was packed with martial artists of all types, and no one seemed to be looking his way.

But the feeling didn't fade.

It intensified.

Is it someone from the Crimson Flow Blade Union? No… I was wearing a mask back then too. They wouldn't recognize me by face.

Still, he couldn't shake the certainty building in his gut.

Somewhere, hidden among the hundreds of disciples, was a pair of eyes locked on him with surgical precision. Not with curiosity. Not with malice.

With calculation.

Far above, nestled beneath the shadow of one of the large Pavilion towers, a hooded figure leaned casually against a pillar. His arms were crossed, and one boot was pressed against the stone wall behind him as if he were simply resting. But his eyes—sharp, narrow, and tinted faintly green—were locked squarely on Jinmu.

"Still hiding in a mask, are you?" the man murmured, a crooked smile playing on his lips. "But that movement. I've seen it before. You're the one who killed the fire-scaled beast."

He tapped his fingers lightly against his sheath.

"No one else could've done that alone. Not even those Crimson Flow idiots."

He tilted his head.

"But who are you? And why are you hiding?"

The man chuckled under his breath, then pushed off from the wall.

"I suppose I'll find out soon enough."

As he walked away, the faint embroidery on his cloak shimmered.

A red blade encircled by smoke.

The mark of the Crimson Flow Blade Union.