“Master, shall I teach you Jeunjong?”

“Do I look like a beggar?”

It’s human nature to not want something the moment it’s offered freely. Walking alongside the White-Robed Scholar, I replied,

“No need.”

What I actually wanted to say was, “Do I look like a disciple?” But instinctively, it came out as beggar. When I rejected the offer, the White-Robed Scholar looked puzzled.

“Why?”

“Scholar, why are you so eager to hand out your secret techniques? Don’t you feel it’s a waste to have mastered so many skills? I really can’t tell what goes on in your head.”

The White-Robed Scholar chuckled lowly.

“Heh heh.”

I glanced at him sideways and said,

“What, you plan to teach me and then kill me later? I’ve got enough on my plate just training with the techniques I already know.”

“I did suppress disciples like the Butcher, but I don’t see you as the same kind of person.”

“Still, I said no.”

The White-Robed Scholar tilted his head and replied,

“So why not? Explain.”

“How ridiculous. I need a reason for this? Jeunjong just doesn’t suit me. Even setting aside how difficult it is, I’d rather keep pounding the ground with both feet. That suits my temperament.”

“Is that so?”

“Even if I’m a little slower, that’s fine. But if my footwork improves, it’s undeniable that it’s because I witnessed your Jeunjong.”

“You’re saying it did influence you somewhat?”

“I realized that light footwork also requires altering the body’s weight.”

The White-Robed Scholar nodded.

“Very well. Then how about a longer run this time? You should’ve digested those noodles by now.”

This lunatic had actually waited for me to digest my noodles. I still couldn’t grasp his real intention. After all, I’d already lost the footwork contest. Not that I cared about winning or losing footwork battles—what I was testing was him, not the technique.

“Let’s go.”

He set off again, clearly aiming for a long-distance trial this time—leaping over mountains and rivers. Day broke as we passed valleys, cliffs, swamps, and wastelands. On flat ground, I was slower, but in rough terrain, the difference wasn't as big. Still, unless absolutely necessary, the White-Robed Scholar never abandoned his Jeunjong posture.

This man ran like a maniac.

A normal martial artist would’ve collapsed mid-run from disrupted energy flow, but I maintained steady breathing and carefully monitored my internal energy to keep going.

I was slower than him, yes—but it wasn’t due to a lack of internal energy. No matter how great he was, I wasn’t that weak. After running nonstop at full speed for so long, I began to wonder why I was even doing this. The reason slipped my mind amid the madness.

But then I reminded myself—I was running in place of the subordinates and villains who had gathered outside Cheolli Inn.

This man was the White-Robed Scholar, and also Magunja.

But he hadn’t become a true villain just yet. That truth gave fuel to my legs.

I couldn’t say how this run would change the future, but for now, running felt like the best thing to do.

So I kept running.

Even though he didn’t stop, I was too stubborn to ask for a break.

Eventually—

He stopped and gazed ahead. Before us rose an impossibly steep cliff. The moment I laid eyes on it, I understood how Jeunjong had come into being. You’d have to master it to scale something like this.

It was clear—this was where the White-Robed Scholar had been leading me all along.

He looked at me.

“Can you follow?”

I nodded with a calm face. The cliff was so tall, its top was hidden by clouds. He shot into the air, using Jeunjong, and began scaling the cliff. I cursed under my breath, created some distance, then dashed after him at full power. Fortunately, there were steps carved into the cliff I hadn’t noticed before. They were faint, likely footprints worn by predecessors who had climbed before.

One slip, and it was a thousand-foot drop.

Eventually, I adopted the posture of Jeunjong and climbed the sheer cliff after him. At some point, he vanished into the clouds, but I heard his voice nearby.

“Come in.”

My thighs burning like they were about to explode, I launched myself up and slipped into what looked like a hidden cave.

Who could’ve discovered this place? Even if the martial world labeled him a villain and placed him on a kill list, there was no chance they’d ever find him here. Most martial artists couldn’t even make the climb.

The White-Robed Scholar was already out of sight.

The cave widened as I walked deeper. Suddenly, I sighed. A strange familiarity lingered in the air, like I’d been here before.

I stopped and looked at the wall.

It was covered in murals. Old, weathered murals—but I couldn’t decipher their meaning, so I slowly walked along the walls, examining them. Each image was similar but different. At the end of the path was a wide chamber. Instead of murals, this room was lined with framed paintings on every wall.

That’s when I realized the murals and the paintings depicted the same scenes.

They were all massacres.

Scholars in white robes were being buried in pits. Some were beheaded and tossed in, others were shown crawling out of the pit only to be impaled by soldiers’ spears.

With my hands behind my back, I stared at the paintings.

Only then did I notice—somewhere in every picture, something was burning. Piecing together what I’d seen before…

What burned were books.

That’s when I realized what these murals and paintings were depicting.

“Burning of Books and Burying of Scholars.”

It was literal—the books were burned, and scholars were buried alive. Many rumors surrounded the incident, but they all agreed on one thing: soldiers dug pits and buried scholars. That’s why the images showed spears raining down on scholars trying to crawl out.

The White-Robed Scholar reappeared, now in a change of clothes, walking among the paintings with hands behind his back.

“Are you familiar with the Burning of Books and Burying of Scholars?”

“Roughly.”

He pointed to a painting.

“Look at that. Back then, scholars and Confucians often hid books in their homes or secret rooms. They’d dig into the walls or bury them underground. If discovered, it was common practice to burn their entire house just to destroy the books. It happened so often that even historians grew tired and recorded little.”

I examined the painting again. There were people hiding books everywhere. Some pictures even depicted complex storage mechanisms—like they were hiding martial manuals.

It looked like something out of a secret martial arts archive.

“Hm.”

I couldn’t help but glance at the White-Robed Scholar again. What kind of man was this? He didn’t seem like someone who simply fell from the sky. He felt more like a successor of ancient hatred.

The Scholar looked at me and asked quietly,

“Most people think only Confucian books were burned.”

“Weren’t they?”

“Not quite. It was the works of the Hundred Schools of Thought that were destroyed. That term refers to all the philosophical traditions of the time. People only know a few—Daoism, Mohism, Confucianism, Legalism—but there were far more. Over a hundred.”

I was starting to understand what he meant.

“There must have been martial factions among them as well. Back then, there probably wasn’t a clear boundary between martial arts and philosophy.”

He smiled.

“Exactly. Do you remember Iryong Nogun, whom you killed?”

Just how much had this bastard investigated me? I sighed and replied.

“I remember.”

“Did you know which lineage he belonged to when you killed him?”

“I guessed he was a descendant of Guiguzi.”

He nodded.

“You were right. Guiguzi was a member of the School of Diplomacy and Strategy, one of the Hundred Schools.”

Suddenly, he burst into laughter, walked over to a wall, and pulled a rope. With a grinding sound, the mural in front of us lifted up.

I looked around calmly.

All around us were shelves crammed with books—wall to wall. The scent of aged paper flooded the chamber.

The White-Robed Scholar fiddled with another mechanism, and one of the walls flipped to reveal a desk. It had been hidden, flush against the wall, and rotated outward.

I scanned the countless books.

Were these all the texts supposedly burned during that era? Or had the Scholar selectively preserved only the martial-related philosophies?

He gestured with his hand as if to say, take your time.

“Master, feel free to browse.”

If this was all meant to be some sort of psychological attack, then I was already defeated without a single counter.

I was overwhelmed—by the books, by the mystery, by this place.

As I browsed the shelves, I asked,

“…So this is Three Delights Book Prison?”

“Three Delights Book Prison? That’s just some nonsense I told the Martial Alliance. Don’t mind it.”

So even if the Martial Alliance caught wind of the name, they’d find nothing. As I kept browsing, I noticed the Scholar had already sat down and begun writing something.

This mad bastard…

He invited me all the way here only to get back to work like nothing happened. I stepped closer to the shelves to read the titles more clearly. It seemed the books were organized by school. At the top was the name of a philosopher, and beneath were the scrolls.

As I read the titles and names, one stopped me cold.

Guiguzi.

Beneath his name were books that looked like they contained mechanical traps and strategic formations.

The strange thing was—they were written on paper.

But during the book-burning era, texts were typically carved into bamboo or wooden slips.

I turned toward the White-Robed Scholar, who didn’t even glance up as he spoke.

“…I copied them over.”

I stared at him as he worked. The term book prison wasn’t used lightly. If he’d been locked in here transcribing bamboo texts ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) nonstop, then this place truly was a prison of scrolls. And it became clear to me—this man was insane. The real question was: how insane?

As I continued examining the books, my eyes landed on another familiar name.

Giseongja.

What was this feeling?

I couldn’t describe it.

Lowering my gaze, I scanned the titles under Giseongja’s section.

And there it was—another familiar name.

Golden Nine Free-Wandering Manual.

I averted my eyes from the text and slowly looked over at the White-Robed Scholar.

“……”

He had paused his writing too, now watching me out of the corner of his eye—like he’d been waiting for my reaction.