Juwol hurriedly arrived at the rear gate of the Junggyeong division.

As he’d been told, carriages were passing through. The martial artists guarding the gate merely watched—until Jeonghyeok of the Demon Extermination Corps opened the gate for them.

“What is all this?” Juwol demanded.

“These are outside forces we requested,” Jeonghyeok answered, exactly as Jeonha-gun had ordered.

“You called in reinforcements without telling me?” Juwol couldn’t believe it. Not only were our own division’s warriors assembled here, but now outside troops were arriving too—and someone had asked for them?

‘Are we going to war?’ Juwol thought.

“You may be Extermination Corps, but this place is under my command. You brought in soldiers without my permission?”

Jeonghyeok bowed respectfully. “This is the Extermination Corps’ special operation. In an emergency, the Corps’ orders take precedence over the division’s, as you well know.”

Juwol had no answer to that, though he felt a sting of resentment toward Jeonha-gun.

‘Fine, but who did he bring?’

Juwol looked back at the carriages.

“They look too big to be for supplies,” he muttered, and strode over, flinging open the rear door of one transport carriage.

He froze. A dozen or so towering warriors sat inside. He’d never seen such hulking figures gathered in one place—and they all stared at him.

Normally, as Junggyeong division head, he would have ordered them to disembark and declare their affiliation. But their sheer presence cowed him into silence. Especially when one of them met his gaze—and Juwol’s heart shrank.

He’d met all kinds of martial artists in his life, but none had left so fierce an impression. The scar slicing across that man’s face told him he had walked the path of slaughter.

It was Magunju Jangho.

Jangho was the first to step down, followed by the others. From the other carriages, more Magun warriors disembarked. They weren’t just large—they were all elite, and Jangho’s promotion to Magunju had made them even deadlier.

Over two hundred strong, but only the most battle-hardened and highest-skilled among them had been sent. The crème de la crème of the Magun.

Jeonghyeok, who’d heard a hint of this, realized they were far more formidable than he’d known. They even concealed their demonic aura, making them all the more intimidating.

Juwol forced himself to hide his shock. “Who are you?” he asked.

Jangho’s deep voice rumbled. “We’re here to support the Extermination Corps.”

He spoke the word “extermination” himself—Jangho disliked it, but in this moment, small matters didn’t matter.

“And your affiliation?”

“None.”

Juwol could not have guessed the Extermination Corps would summon Demonic Martial Artists, so he had no idea who these Magun were.

‘Does Lord Jin really plan to attack us?’

Suddenly, one Magun standing near the building leapt onto the roof. His bulk landed lightly. From the roof he surveyed the area, then dropped down.

“He’s fast,” Jangho said. “Did someone lie in ambush?”

“No,” Juwol replied truthfully, though he had no idea what was going on.

Jangho’s face darkened—that meant someone was spying on them.

At that moment, three Magun by the wall charged.

Sharrrrk! Crack! Shing!

Their swords pierced through the wall. The third blade bore blood. The Magun who’d gone to the roof now stood atop the wall, scanning the rear.

“No body,” he reported. “They got away again.”

Spies skilled enough to evade these warriors?

“They’re inside already,” Jangho said urgently.

Juwol started to reply, but Jangho hushed him.

Jangho drew his qi and surveyed the area. A sharp wind cut through the air—then black demonic blades rained down.

“Iron Wall!” Jangho shouted. The Magun locked shoulders and backs, formed a shield wall, and drew their weapons. Spinning their swords, they deflected the falling blades.

Juwol and Jeonghyeok and the division’s warriors also struck down blades—but the division’s men, less skilled, couldn’t deflect them all.

One by one, Jangho leapt to intercept the blades in midair, protecting them.

“Thanks,” Juwol said, but there was no time for pleasantries. Screams rose from all sides and weapons clashed—it was a full-scale ambush.

Jangho turned to Jeonghyeok. “Which way is the prison cell?”

“There,” Jeonghyeok pointed, and Jangho barked, “Half of you follow me—rest, help the Junggyeong division!”

The division had to suffer casualties to draw the attackers’ focus, Geom Mugeuk had said—to protect as many as possible.

As ordered, the Magun split into two groups. One half followed Jangho; the others ran with Juwol and Jeonghyeok toward the main building.

Jangho led from the front. Through Tongcheongak, he’d already been informed of what was happening. This operation was more important than any other—he didn’t care about the Martial Alliance’s warriors or righteous sects. He only cared about one person: Seodaeryong.

Far ahead, masked fighters stood at the building’s entrance. The guards at the prison cell lay fallen. Jangho’s heart pounded as he realized more had slipped inside. He urged his massive frame forward.

Moonlight drifted through a slit window into the corridor.

Seodaeryong sat on the hard, worn bed, staring past the bars. He’d never been imprisoned before; always he’d stood outside and looked in. Someday, he thought, he’d tell the drinking party about this—what a tale it would be!

Suddenly he heard water dripping. ‘Outside echo?’

Then the stench of blood hit his nose. He realized it wasn’t water at all—blood drops fell.

Whoosh—

A masked man slid into view before the bars. Without a word, he hurled demonic blades into the cell.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

The blades struck the bed—Seodaeryong had shoved it upright against the bars.

‘They just kill like this?’

More blades followed, slicing the bed in two with the bars.

Crack—

A line of qi flashed from the bed’s broken halves. Seodaeryong, his inner strength suppressed and unarmed, couldn’t evade it.

Gasp!

The blade split the masked man’s body as if he were paper.

Seodaeryong swung his great sword, cutting through the bars.

The moment he stepped out—

Screech! Slash!

Blades filled the corridor, raining down. Seodaeryong slammed his sword to the floor as some blades struck it, others skirting past. He poured # Nоvеlight # his qi into the sword, using it as a shield in the style of his master, Hyeolcheon Doma.

‘These lunatics!’

Regaining his inner strength and retrieving his sword, he braced for the charging masked men. Their relentless onslaught struck like stampeded horses.

Seodaeryong dashed back into the cell. Though it looked like fear, he chose the confined space—where a sword bests blades.

The three masked men excelled at coordinated footwork. Seodaeryong’s sword darted and deflected each thrust: clang! clang! clang!

They pressed without pause, but Seodaeryong held firm. He’d no battle-hardened experience, but one thing he had—relentless training.

‘I should’ve trained even harder.’

His body moved before thought—muscle memory guiding him. As soon as he staggered under a fierce strike, the masked man on his left lunged. Seodaeryong recovered balance and—

Whoosh! Crack!

His sword sliced through the man’s neck, a feint drawing him in.

He pressed the advantage and cut down the second man, though his arm spurted blood. He’d planned to trade flesh for bone. With the coordinated defense broken, the fight went his way.

Slash!

He beheaded the third. In that moment, Seodaeryong was no timid investigator but a brilliant, daring martial artist.

Having dealt with the three, he stepped outside. His expression hardened: masked men stormed down the far corridor, too many to face.

The cell’s breach meant the entire place was being overrun.

They charged with suicidal ferocity. Seodaeryong stood his ground. He poured his qi into his sword.

His blade shuddered as he unleashed Hyeolcheon Doma’s third technique: Myeolma Do Hyeolpung—“Annihilating Blade Blood Gale.” Multiple sword-spirits whirled outward.

The masked men saw it too late: innumerable blades spinning toward them—

Whooaaaargh!

In the narrow corridor, they could not dodge. Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

Their bodies shredded, scattering. Even Seodaeryong was stunned by the technique’s power—and the brutal drain on his inner strength. He’d spent much qi deflecting the earlier blades, and now this feat left him weak.

“Hah,” he exhaled, surveying the corpses.

‘Who are you?’

He’d allowed himself to be baited and captured to glean clues—assassins, ronin, or something else?

Suddenly—Shreeeeek!

A throwing dagger flew at him. Seodaeryong blocked it; the qi embedded in that blade was immense. He looked at the approaching masked leader, calm and assured.

‘This must be their commander.’

He gripped his sword tighter. The masked man spoke no word—simply charged.

Clang!

The heavy impact rattled Seodaeryong’s arm—his qi was being overwhelmed.

Clang clang clang clang—

His martial skill held him up; his refined Myeolma Do compensated for his low inner strength. Yet this foe had both towering inner power and precise swordsmanship, honed by countless battles. The narrow corridor favored the blade wielder, not the swordsman.

Flash!

Blood spurted from Seodaeryong’s arm, but he couldn’t tend the wound. The masked man struck relentlessly at his vital points.

Seodaeryong answered back—

Shaaaa—

His blade cut into the masked man’s torso, blood spraying.

‘You bastard! A bait may be eaten, but it doesn’t die easy!’

Though frightened, he felt exhilaration—now he understood why martial artists risk death in battle.

Clang clang clang clang—

Gradually, he was pushed back. Against a dead end, blood dyed his other arm and side.

‘Even if I die, I must see my master.’

In his last thought, Geom Mugeuk leapt to mind.

‘Thanks to the Little Pill Master, I can die with honor!’

Whoosh!

A sword aimed for his neck—then KRAAASH!

A wall exploded outward, slamming the masked man into the opposite wall.

Seodaeryong saw a massive figure stride through the breach and hurl the masked man aside. The rescuer’s blade pierced the intruder’s heart in one motion. Twice the size of an ordinary man, and unmistakable—

“Lord!”

It was Jangho who’d saved him.

“Glad I wasn’t too late.”

Their eyes met in midair. Seodaeryong was too stunned and grateful to speak. He never dreamed the one who would come was Jangho. Behind the broken wall, huge figures formed a protective screen—majestic, reassuring.

How welcome those hulking forms were!

With a trembling smile, Seodaeryong said, “You missed your chance to be my right arm.”

Jangho cracked a grin. Never had that smile—and that scar—looked so fine.

“A right arm is nice,” he replied, “but I can’t lose my precious drinking companion.”