When the head of the Ghost Spirit Demon House and the black-clad man directed killing intent at me, Geomma spoke.

“Lord of the Ghost Spirit Clan.”

The eerie man from the Ghost Spirit Demon House turned to Geomma.

“Speak, Left Guardian.”

Geomma, his face completely emotionless, said,

“If you’ve come here with some ulterior motive, speak now.”

The Ghost Spirit Lord’s face twitched beneath his eyes as he looked at Geomma—perhaps he was more emotional than he let on.

While he struggled to form a reply, Geomma continued,

“If you’re here merely to broaden your horizons, I won’t kill you. It’s true I injured the previous lord of your clan in a duel for the Left Guardian seat. But there was no resentment between us—just a match for position. Unfortunately for you, I’ve already experienced your clan’s martial arts to the fullest. Unless you’ve surpassed your predecessor, what reason is there to be here?”

The moment Geomma finished speaking, it was as if everyone had their pressure points struck. No one moved a muscle.

Eventually, the Ghost Spirit Lord quietly stood and said,

“As the Left Guardian says—I came out of curiosity.”

Geomma replied,

“Good. I bear no grudge against the Ghost Spirit Clan. But I also have no interest in you spectating under false pretenses. If you challenge me needlessly or try anything under the guise of spectating, I’ll turn every last living member of your clan into spirits for my sword. I don’t underestimate your strength—but this is not the time to challenge me. Leave.”

This time, the silence was palpable.

The Ghost Spirit Lord asked with difficulty,

“You won’t even allow me to watch?”

Geomma nodded.

“We don’t know how many people will gather. It’ll be impossible to tell friend from foe, and I might end up killing indiscriminately. It’s best you’re not caught in the middle.”

Even someone with his grim demeanor seemed stifled. He cleared his throat.

“Then I’ll see you another time, Left Guardian.”

My eyes widened slightly in disbelief.

“What, he chickened out?”

A man who looked like a ghost, backing down with just a few words? It was a fresh reminder of how formidable Geomma still was—even in the Demonic Cult.

Surely a man like the Ghost Spirit Lord had no small amount of pride. Yet this was the conclusion.

As he walked silently back to his carriage, not a single person opened their mouth. If this had been a neighborhood argument, it might’ve been funny to see someone walk away, but this felt more solemn than that.

Now Geomma looked toward the black-clad man.

“And you—who are you? You don’t have the qualifications to challenge for the Left Guardian seat.”

The man responded,

“When you defected, I was in the pursuit squad. I’m known as Jeolsaeng.”

Jeolsaeng wasn’t a real name. It meant “cut to live”—the kind of alias that suited a killer.

Geomma replied,

“And?”

“The squad I led was wiped out by you.”

“And?”

“I hold no grudge. I just never got to die. That’s why I’m here.”

I glanced at the sword on his waist. The length and width matched my wooden sword exactly—the only difference being that his was black, not wood.

I pointed at him.

“Jeolsaeng, you bastard.”

Jeolsaeng looked at me, baffled. I opened my mouth and let the nonsense flow.

“You lowly assassin whelp, this isn’t a place for your tongue. Show some respect to your seniors in the Kill Gate. Address your elders properly before you start talking.”

Jeolsaeng frowned.

“What the hell are you on about?”

“You’re, what, a disciple of the Chief Commander Heo Gyeom’s disciple’s disciple? Watch your tongue. I’m Yi Zaha, the last direct heir of Chief Commander Heo Gyeom. If we go by lineage, that makes me your great-grandmaster.”

“What?”

Jeolsaeng turned to me in shock, then looked to Geomma for confirmation. But Geomma’s face was unreadable as always.

I held up my wooden sword in my left hand and asked him,

“What sword is this?”

His eyes widened.

“One Kill?”

“Correct.”

Jeolsaeng stood and spoke respectfully.

“I challenge you.”

I swore under my breath.

“Ah, shit…”

I’d hoped to scare him off with seniority—like Geomma had done with the Ghost Spirit Lord—but now he was formally challenging me?

That’s the problem with these demonic types.

The tactic might’ve worked on the more rule-abiding righteous sects, but I’d clearly misplayed my hand. As I struggled to find a way to talk my way out, Geomma said,

“Third brother, handle it.”

I glared at him.

“What?”

I couldn’t curse at my eldest brother, so I settled for glaring. With no choice, I gestured toward the open space in front of the inn.

“Fine. Let’s go. This fight really doesn’t match our hierarchy, though.”

Just like that, the duel was set. Jeolsaeng and I walked into the open ground. In the demonic sect, life-or-death duels are the norm. There’s no need to define the rules.

You live if you win. You die if you lose.

But this wasn’t the Demonic Sect—it was just the area in front of the inn.

As I took my place, Jeolsaeng stepped back about twelve or thirteen paces and asked,

“Are you ready?”

“Not yet.”

He turned away, took those twelve or so steps, then faced me again. I hadn’t fought a demonic master like this before, so I asked curiously,

“Is this a duel to the death?”

Jeolsaeng replied,

“You’re really the Chief Commander’s disciple? You sure that’s not a fake One Kill sword? Who asks that kind of question?”

I scolded him.

“You fool. The Chief Commander mellowed out in his later years. He stopped killing so casually. You demonic types, always thinking you have to kill when you fight—your worldview is narrow. You have to know the value of your own life before you can respect someone else’s. You dumb assassin, walking around in black robes in this heat—you’re out of your mind.”

Not that I had any right to say that, but scolding him was the important part, not the content.

He asked again,

“Are you ready?”

“Not yet.”

“When will you be ready?”

I turned and yelled toward the inn.

“Sam Bok!”

“Yes, Lord Yi!”

“I’m thirsty!”

Sam Bok darted over with a kettle. I drank and then glared at Jeolsaeng.

“How about a draw?”

“No.”

“Of course not.”

I wrapped my face with my left hand, surging Moonlight Cold Heart Technique into it. The chill across my face jolted my senses awake. Peering through my fingers, I looked at Jeolsaeng and said,

“Now I’m ready.”

The moment I spoke, dust beneath his feet rose in a perfect circle—he leapt into the air and unsheathed his sword mid-flight.

I extended the hand that had been covering my face—catching his sword near my neck.

All I’d done was move my hand from face to throat.

Yet in that instant, Jeolsaeng had crossed twelve steps in a single stride and struck.

But it was the hand I’d already infused with Moonlight Cold Heart Technique. I focused it even more, channeling cold energy from Cheonri Inn all the way to the snowy plateaus of the western mountains—the peak state of Hyunwol.

Jeolsaeng’s sword froze in my grasp. He froze with it.

“…”

I tilted my head and checked his state. Long ago, I’d dreamed of doing this—catching a master’s sword between my fingers.

The height of style, really.

Of course, if you weren’t a master, it’d more likely result in your fingers being severed.

That’s why I used my whole hand this time—fingers and palm. Without my ice techniques, I wouldn’t have dared.

I finally released the blade and spoke to the now ice-filled Jeolsaeng.

“How many times would I have had to spare you before you figured out how to live?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

I grabbed him by the collar and threw him toward the barracks with my internal energy.

His frozen body hurtled toward Chilgeom—who reflexively drew his sickle and swung.

Jeolsaeng’s body was cleaved in two.

“Phuak!”

Covered in blood, Chilgeom glared at me. I checked both his martial skills and his expression.

He glared, so I spoke.

“Who told you to spectate for free? Clean up the corpse.”

I pondered a moment and felt a chill again. Jeolsaeng—‘cut to live.’ So he got cut, and that was the end of his life. Fitting, I guess.

I left Chilgeom to handle the cleanup and looked toward the carriage. The coachman finally snapped the reins and got it moving again. The Ghost Spirit Lord had clearly watched the whole thing from inside.

I called out to him.

“Ghost Spirit Lord—nothing in this world is free. Stop before I chase you down.”

Just then, something flew from the carriage’s rear window.

Whizz!

I caught it with my index and middle fingers, charged with ice energy. It was a silver coin—payment for watching, I guess.

“Confirmed.”

I pocketed the silver and returned to the front of the inn. The Four Great Villains sat there, looking at me like I was some kind of circus act.

Geomma spoke dryly.

“Well done.”

So did the Drunk.

“Well done.”

Before the Lecher could speak, I cut him off.

“Shut it.”

“…”

I poured myself a drink from the bottle on the table and took a swig.

“One win, zero losses. Not bad. Sam Bok!”

“Yes, Lord Yi!”

He was panting every time I called him now.

“This is no small matter.”

“Indeed.”

“We don’t know who might show up, and we could ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) be surrounded. So go buy a stockpile of food. Get some jerky or emergency rations. Fighting our way out just to eat would be a hassle.”

“Understood.”

“You might be the one who has to break through that encirclement, you know. Why? Because we can’t be bothered.”

Sam Bok nodded with a look of clarity.

“I should go now, then.”

“Go on.”

“Money, please.”

“I already gave you some.”

“It’s gone.”

I tried to recall how much I’d given him, and what he bought with it—meat, sides, booze—but couldn’t remember a thing. I’m terrible with accounting.

With no other choice, I pulled a note from my coin pouch and handed it over—along with the silver tossed by the Ghost Spirit Lord.

“Here’s your errand fee. Pocket it.”

Sam Bok smiled.

“Confirmed.”

“What?”

“…I mean, yes. Got it. I’ll be off.”

He disappeared with light footwork. With only the Four Great Villains in sight, I glanced into the inn. At a table made from pushed-together benches, the Third Young Master was fast asleep.

“Did he take night watch?”

The Lecher nodded.

“He did.”

I almost said confirmed, but didn’t—thanks to Sam Bok.

I sat beside the Four Great Villains and pushed away the cluttered thoughts to focus on this peaceful moment. But the left edge of my vision wasn’t peaceful at all—Chilgeom was still cleaning up a corpse.

So Cheonri Inn’s once peaceful days were clearly turning into a martial hellscape.

I kept my mouth shut, but then Geomma began speaking, unprompted.

“…The previous Ghost Spirit Lord retired because of me. And I killed the entire squad Jeolsaeng led. I’d even forgotten that fact. Back then, I fought and killed without emotion. I thought that was the end—but people don’t forget. I thought the Cult Leader was just bored, sending people after me for his amusement. But maybe not. Maybe this is all because those I fought haven’t forgotten. I only realize this now, at my age.”

We all listened silently to Geomma’s reflection.

He continued.

“They’ll come for the sword, yes—but also for revenge. The Cult Leader is probably laughing somewhere, sending them one by one.”

I asked him,

“What would make the Cult Leader laugh?”

Geomma replied,

“The thought: ‘Did you think you could live a peaceful life?’ I can almost hear him sneering. Even after leaving the Cult, he won’t let me live quietly.”

His words sounded so lonely, I let out a sigh.

Then I snapped to attention and analyzed his tone and thoughts.

This guy might actually be depressed.

I glanced to the others, who were staring off like bored stray cats and dogs.

One by one—depression, obsession, sex addiction… and me? Madness.

I recognized it with a bitter heart.

We are not normal.

For a moment, I considered summoning Moyong Baek.

.

.

.

But then again, that guy’s dangerous too. Locked up in the crucible that is Cheonri Inn, he might end up giggling to himself while making poison in the kitchen.

Can’t have that.

I pulled myself together.