The White-Robed Scholar’s expression continued to shift.

“Zihwa Divine Art… A martial art that never existed in this world.”

Ogum looked to the Scholar for orders.

“What are your instructions?”

The Scholar replied firmly.

“It’s a martial art we must make our own. Clearly superior to both Moonlight Cold Heart Technique and Golden Nine Free-Wandering Manual. The Master of Haomun invented it himself. I’ve never seen it before. Do you understand what I mean?”

I understood perfectly well.

Capture me alive.

I already knew that Ogum and Yukdo were highly skilled. Had we met under normal circumstances, they would’ve given me serious trouble—at least at the level of the Butcher. But in my current state… I couldn’t help but pity them.

Zihwa Divine Art is an emotional martial art.

And right now, my emotions were anything but calm.

Whether or not emotional martial arts existed before in Jianghu, I didn’t care.

When Ogum and Yukdo drew their sword and blade, I also drew mine. The speed at which the three of us moved was nearly identical.

But from my wooden sword, Zihwa Sword Qi burst forth, slicing toward them.

They each cloaked their weapons in energy to block.

But in a single stroke, one sword, one blade, Ogum’s arm, Yukdo’s arm, Ogum’s upper body, and Yukdo’s upper body were all severed at once—blood sprayed in every direction, and shattered blades clattered to the floor.

They died instantly.

There would be no more words from them.

“No!”

The White-Robed Scholar dashed forward like a thunderclap, leaping over their corpses. He rushed around the library, hastily inspecting books and scrolls. He pulled out a few and checked for damage before finally slowing, taking a long breath.

…A breath of relief.

“……”

I watched his every movement.

This lunatic didn’t care if his disciples died—he only cared whether his books were intact. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was experience—but I had held back. If my sword energy had reached the bookshelves, easily a hundred scrolls would’ve been destroyed.

The White-Robed Scholar turned around, face pale.

He had just made a serious mistake.

After boasting earlier that he wouldn’t care even if everything burned, here he was, shaken at the mere threat of damage to his library.

How should I interpret this?

I walked slowly with my sword still drawn, brushing my left hand against the books as I passed.

“Scholar… Didn’t you say there were copies? Why are you so rattled?”

I withdrew my Zihwa Divine Art and studied his face.

He looked genuinely stunned—like he hadn’t expected his own reaction.

So even if copies existed elsewhere… these books were irreplaceable to him.

I stared at his pale face and lowered my voice.

“Scholar, go sit down at the table. Let’s talk business.”

To settle him down, I figured the word “business” was appropriate.

His teeth clacked once, then words finally came out.

“Master of Haomun… Are you looking down on me just because you’ve learned a divine art?”

“Of course not. I know your strength. You’re not below me—far from it. But if you try to kill me, this place will be reduced to ashes. Look at your disciples’ corpses. I held back. But if I fight you, I won’t be able to. So sit. While I’m still being polite.”

He wasn’t shaken because his disciples had died.

He was shaken because the books might’ve been destroyed.

I sighed.

When he finally sat at the table, I sheathed my sword.

“Close the door. Let’s talk alone. If more of your underlings show up, I can’t guarantee anything. They’re probably stronger than Ogum and Yukdo anyway, right?”

He pressed a mechanism on the table. The wall flipped, sealing the entrance.

He said,

“Do you and I have business to discuss?”

I walked to the section labeled under Giseongja and pulled out Golden Nine Free-Wandering Manual. As I flipped through the pages, I spoke.

“…We do. You still don’t know three things about me: the Golden Nine, the Swift Party, and Zihwa Divine Art. And I know nothing about your organization. How many other libraries like this exist? Are you the head? Regardless of martial strength, it’s hard for either of us to destroy the other. Your group isn’t to be underestimated.”

“However…”

As I flipped to the end of the manual, I saw that it matched the version I’d read in my past life—proving it was the White-Robed Scholar’s distributed edition.

I returned the scroll and stared at him.

“Scholar. You made unauthorized alterations to the scroll.”

“…!”

His eyes widened.

Even as I spoke, I restructured my strategy a dozen times. If my assumptions were wrong, I had to be ready to pivot—so I watched his face for every reaction.

“I understand you. Maybe I’m the only person in all Jianghu who truly does.”

“What nonsense is that? Understand what?”

I leaned my back against a shelf and slowly sat down on the floor.

“Scholar, don’t get agitated. Listen to me carefully. Sometimes, there are things more important than life and death. You and I… we can kill each other whenever. But right now, there’s something more important.”

He smiled derisively.

“If we fight, you’ll be the one to die. You know that, right?”

“Shut it. That’s exactly why I’m saying this. Some things matter more than dying.”

“And what would that be?”

“Despite having copies, you didn’t want these books to be destroyed. You didn’t even realize it yourself—but that’s how you feel.”

He fell silent, staring at me.

I went in for the kill.

“…Who gave you the right to edit ancient martial texts without permission?”

His face didn’t change, but his throat bobbed—he swallowed.

I pointed around the room.

“The books you made here are different from the ones stored elsewhere. Your thoughts, your martial theories, your opinions have been inserted. You were supposed to just transcribe bamboo scrolls. Instead, you became a writer.”

“And what does being a writer mean? Don’t tell me you think I don’t understand the word.”

“A writer creates works. That’s what this is. These aren’t mere copies. You deleted some passages. Added your own theories in subtle ways. These books are your creations.”

He seemed too stunned to speak.

I pressed on.

“You know what happens when someone pours their soul into something—creates something of value?”

“……”

“They can never recreate it the same way. It’s impossible. Even if you went back to the bamboo originals and recopied them, your edits would be different.”

I gestured at the room.

“These works cannot be recreated. Not even by you. The originals are useless. The copies stored elsewhere are meaningless. And there’s no way anyone could rewrite this entire collection to be exactly as it is now. That’s why you cherish these volumes more than you know.”

“Mm.”

“Who else would ever understand you?”

“What are you trying to say, Master of Haomun?”

“I’m saying it. Right now, you bastard… Look at my sincerity. I’m the only one who understands your intent. Not your dumb disciples. Not the brilliant minds in your organization. None of them grasp your essence—or respect your work.”

“What are you proposing?”

“Let’s be honest. Whether we become enemies or allies doesn’t matter to me. Regardless, your library stands apart. This is my final warning: if we fight here, I swear I’ll burn everything. All your works, your life’s creations, will be reduced to dust.”

“If you won’t fight, what will you do?”

I exhaled.

“What were you even trying to prove with all this? At least for the scrolls already distributed—you made copies, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“So what’s your goal? Influence Jianghu? Pure research? Or just mock the martial world?”

I sensed his attention wavering—so I cut to the core.

“Hey, Scholar. Bring me your best sword techniques, blade manuals, internal energy methods—your top divine arts.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Why would I do that?”

“If you give them to me, I’ll spend the next thousand years creating heroes. They’ll learn from your works.”

“…What?”

He stared in disbelief.

I spoke in a flat tone.

“If we’re categorizing things, your group is demonic.”

“It is not.”

“It is. Because you don’t do this to help the world. You inherited your hatred from the First Emperor’s era. Just look at how you treat your disciples. You’re demonic. Whether you admit it or not—I declare it so. Those who hold the other copies? Also likely demonic. You all act from hatred.”

“We’ve moved beyond such logic.”

“And in doing so, you still act like demons. But I’ll give you a chance. Let your creations—your works, your art—teach # Nоvеlight # the next generation of heroes. These heroes will form sects, become Grandmasters, take disciples… and destroy the deviants. Eventually, they’ll destroy your organization too. It’s too vast, too hidden. I can’t do it alone.”

I pictured the future in my mind and whispered,

“Instead, those who inherit my will shall fight this war over the course of a thousand years. Maybe those future heroes will be your disciples too. In a way, they’ll be ours.”

I met his eyes.

“No one else will know our story.”

The White-Robed Scholar looked at me more clearly than ever. Still, I couldn’t let my guard down.

I pushed harder.

“I’ll give you time to think. But remember—I can use Zihwa Divine Art to become Ilwol Gwangcheon itself. You saw me drive back the Four Heavenly Kings of the Demonic Cult. Whether you’re stronger than me or not—I can die, you can die, and this place will burn. All of it. In a blink.”

“……”

“You know better than anyone just how insane I am.”

Suddenly, the Scholar inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, sinking into meditation.

I lowered my voice.

It was like reading scripture to a madman—but I meant every word.

“You inherited hatred for the First Emperor. But I… I think of Jing Ke—the assassin who tried to kill him and failed. If there had been more like Jing Ke, maybe this hatred wouldn’t have begun. Who can guarantee another tyrant like the First Emperor won’t appear?”

“……”

“The world needs more heroes than it has now. You inherited hate. I want to inherit Jing Ke’s heart. He failed alone—and so will I. But I can only hope future heroes will topple the second and third emperors to come.”

I summarized my vision aloud.

“If that happens—then what we started here… will be a revolution.”

I looked at the White-Robed Scholar with his eyes closed and declared,

“Choose. Die with me… or pass your works on to the heroes of the world.”

As I waited for his answer, I closed my own eyes.

The sound of wind through the cavern and the breath of two men mixed in silence.