Pyeong-u jong grew frantic at the faint, enigmatic smile playing on Langwang's lips, and pressed him again.
"Hero of Langwang, we must retreat. Do you truly not understand the saying, an egg against a boulder? You know it well!"
Langwang, gazing down the mountainside, replied evenly.
"Namgung Soo once said the same thing."
Pyeong-u jong flinched, his eyes narrowing with disbelief.
"Don't tell me… Brother Namgung is here as well?"
Even as he asked, he shook his head. Impossible. Namgung Soo would never take part in a losing venture.
He was the type to always keep people at arm's length, meticulous and unyielding. Yet he was so accomplished in both civil and martial ways that, within the Namgung Clan, many placed higher hopes on him than on the eldest son.
Gifted, diligent, backed by the foremost sword clan under heaven—the Namgung Clan, seat of one of the Eight Great Families—his rise into a giant of the martial world had seemed all but assured.
But Bang Yacheol's answer defied Pyeong-u jong's expectation.
"He had no choice but to come."
Pyeong-u jong's eyes widened like lanterns, as though bludgeoned across the back of the head.
"Namgung Soo… came? Th-that can't be! Wait—what do you mean he had no choice but to come?"
Bang Yacheol tore his gaze from the Tang estate below and looked up at the night sky. There, the Tyrant's Star gleamed.
It was the star he had once dreamed of. Over the years, it had dimmed—faded against the walls of reality, his dreams blunted.
But now it was different. That star was no longer the Tyrant's Star to him. It was the Star of the Wanderer.
A warm smile spread across his lips, spilling across his whole face.
Murong Lin recoiled in shock. Not a faint smile—this was a radiant grin, unthinkable for the man she knew.
"White Tiger Lord, are you… all right?"
Bang Yacheol ignored her. A question unworthy of reply.
Besides, after meeting the true Cheon Ryuyeong, Murong Lin herself somehow felt lighter in his eyes.
He even wondered how he had ever been cowed by the orthodox alliance's advisors' strategies. The thought almost made him laugh at himself.
Instead of silence, he turned back to Pyeong-u jong's question.
"Haweol! You asked why Namgung Soo had no choice but to come?"
Pyeong-u jong nodded stiffly.
"Yes. Brother Namgung would never join a battle he knew was doomed."
Bang Yacheol's smile faded. His face grew solemn.
"What warrior under heaven would shun the chance to join a battle that could become legend? A fight that everyone calls impossible—but that, if won, could be boasted of for a lifetime?"
The audacity in his words made Pyeong-u jong's chest tighten.
"Wh-what… are you saying?"
"He makes my heart race. Even for a worn-out old relic like me, he has given back excitement and dreams. How could a youth like Namgung Soo not follow him?"
The silence that followed was suffocating.
No one could agree that Langwang—the unrivaled master standing at the peak of the martial world—was any kind of "relic." But at that moment, no one dared dispute it.
Murong Lin swallowed and asked cautiously:
"By him… do you mean the Scholarly Lord?"
At the mention of Cheon Ryuyeong, Bang Yacheol's face lit with another smile.
"Military Advisor, who else could steal the heart of Langwang in a single meeting?"
Murong Lin stared, dumbfounded.
What kind of man was this "Scholarly Lord," that he could transform even the stony Langwang into someone like this?
Pyeong-u jong hastily smoothed his expression, steadying his breath before asking:
"From what you've said… are you claiming we can win this battle? Is that truly what you believe?"
"More than that. We shall reclaim even Sichuan Branch."
For a heartbeat, Murong Lin and Pyeong-u jong wondered if they were dreaming.
Then Pyeong-u jong felt his breath tangle again. A bitter laugh escaped him.
"Ha… haha… Surely you jest?"
Bang Yacheol shook his head.
"In this moment, do you think I would waste time on jokes?"
This time Murong Lin demanded, her voice taut:
"That's absurd. How? By what means?"
"We still have time. We can speak further while we watch the battle unfold. There will be enough time for that."
And as moments passed, Murong Lin staggered, collapsing to the ground, as drained as Hwa Gayon had been at Geomhyangjang.
Yet Pyeong-u jong, dazed, made no move to help her.
Bang Yacheol's eyes gleamed.
"At last… the true beginning."
The enemy breached the Tang Clan's inner fortress.
Bang Yacheol's thick brows furrowed.
"Why are the Tang defenders… still concentrated there? Don't tell me… the Scholarly Lord hasn't arrived yet? No, even so, he should have received the messenger pigeon…"
He had no way of knowing that the Heavenly Demon Sword had intercepted the pigeon, nor that misfortune had already befallen Cheon Ryuyeong.
The world never followed plans as one wished.
Bang Yacheol's eyes quivered violently.
Within the inner fortress, the last surviving ambusher of the Tang Clan—first disciple Tang Wulin—had barely escaped after being struck repeatedly by demonic energies.
Stumbling into the training yard before the Great Tang Hall, he knelt before his clan head and the gathered Tang warriors.
"Forgive me… I couldn't kill a single one."
At the foot of the Great Tang Hall steps, Tang Cheolhyeon sighed and beckoned.
"You've done enough. Fall back and rest."
Tang Wulin shook his head, blood trickling from his lips.
"I'm fine. I will fight with you."
Tang Cheolhyeon shook his head, smiling faintly, hoping to ease his disciples' tension.
"Heh… do you not trust me and your brothers-in-arms?"
"Eh? No, I didn't mean—"
"Do you think we cannot hold out until you recover?"
At his master's stern words, Tang Wulin bowed low.
"No, that's not it."
"Then trust us, and rest."
Tang Wulin bit back a bitter smile. He already knew victory was beyond their grasp. But he nodded anyway. Hope, however faint, was something to clutch until the end.
Suddenly, a thunderous crash shook the inner gates.
Kwaaaang!
The massive oak gates shuddered. The enemy had smashed through every defense from the outer gates to here.
Tang Cheolhyeon's eyes narrowed. He barked sharply:
"Come quickly!"
"Yes!"
Tang Wulin struggled to rise—when another deafening crash split the air.
Kwaaaang!
Half the thick crossbar splintered. Tang Wulin's fellow disciples shouted:
"What are you doing? Hurry!"
"Tang Wulin! Run!"
Then, on the high walls flanking the gate, figures in monastic robes appeared one by one. The Asura Corps of the Small Thunder Sound Temple.
Glancing back in panic, Tang Wulin lurched forward—only for his wounded legs to give out under the sudden strain.
Kwaaaaang!
The inner gates burst apart, shards of timber flying.
Startled, Tang Wulin dropped flat to the ground.
Step. Step.
Through the shattered gate strode the Red Wolf Captain, Geotap, carrying an iron staff across his shoulder.
Behind him, Ma Buldo entered the Tang compound, calling out:
"We take the vanguard."
The towering Geotap grinned.
"I'll count to a hundred before you follow. But as for that runaway rat—he's mine."
Before his words had even faded, his iron staff whistled through the air and smashed into the ground.
Boom! Kwa-kwakwa-kwang!
The granite-paved yard split open with a shallow trench, racing straight toward Tang Wulin as he scrambled to his feet.
Puhhhng!
"Urgh!"
Tang Wulin's eyes flew wide, as if tearing apart. Dozens of shattered stone fragments smashed into his back. A fountain of blood burst from his mouth, spraying into the air.
The Red Wolf Captain gave a vile grin and shouted:
"Today you'll come to know—down to your bones—the true might of our cult. That very power you've called demonic in fear, you'll soon taste for yourselves!"
The Tang warriors faltered at both his overwhelming martial prowess and the sight of their comrades being struck down.
Before the fallen Tang Wulin, Tang Cheolhyeon and the Poison Hand Elder, who had leapt forward to save him, froze half a pace away, hands trembling.
Tang Wulin lifted his head with difficulty. His vision blurred, but he could just make out his clan head, hazy before him.
"Clan Head…"
"…"
"Even if they scorned me behind my back… for not being a true orthodox warrior… I was happy. Happy to be a man of Tang. Cough!"
Dark, clotted blood streamed endlessly from his lips. The life in his eyes dimmed rapidly. Still, he forced out his last words:
"We will win… won't we? Because we are the fearsome… Tang Clan…"
Tang Cheolhyeon clenched his teeth, then growled:
"I'll avenge you."
"Thank y—…"
The words never finished. His face dropped onto the cold stone floor.
Tang Cheolhyeon stared at the lifeless body, then lifted his gaze and fixed the Red Wolf Captain with eyes like blades. The enemy leader only snickered.
"Fewer of you than I expected. Hmph—did some rats run off?"
Tang Cheolhyeon didn't answer. But the Captain swept a quick glance over the Tang faces gathered before the Great Tang Hall and caught the flinches some couldn't suppress.
He grinned wider. His sharpened sight, enhanced by inner energy under the bright night, missed nothing.
"Well, no matter. Cowards who abandon their sect aren't worth counting. Still… this place is cramped. Wouldn't the great central training yard be a better stage?"
His tone implied he'd already mapped the Tang estate. The outer fortress was secret, but the inner halls held no true mysteries.
Ma Buldo clicked his tongue and shook his head.
"Red Wolf Captain, you know very well why not."
The answer was obvious.
On a wide battlefield like the central arena, sheer numbers decide the fight. Outnumbered forces always prefer to fight in tight quarters.
Tang Cheolhyeon's killing intent burned in his voice.
"Do you fight with words? Then come!"
The Red Wolf Captain chuckled again, wagging a finger.
"Sadly, it's not my turn yet. If you're that eager, you can step forward."
"…"
"Then I'll happily take your head in a single stroke, old man."
Ma Buldo cut in sharply, irritated.
"I said it before—the vanguard is ours."
The Captain shrugged.
"I'll sit tight for now… but if any fool comes too close, I'll crush them."
Ma Buldo crossed the threshold and barked to the Asura Corps' commander standing at his side.
"Clear away the obstacles. Quickly."
The commander—a man with skin black as ink—nodded and raised his hand high.
By then, all the Asura Corps monks had poured inside and lined up in formation.
The commander swept his gaze over them, then slashed his hand down. His voice thundered:
"Kill them!"
The short command dripped with murderous intent.
"Waaahhh!"
The Asura Corps monks roared and charged.
Through the rear gate of the Tang estate, Tang Namu entered the outer fortress. An elderly guard stared in shock as Namu rushed up.
"Reinforcements are coming! Show me the vital path!"
A flicker of hope shone in the old man's eyes. Having lost his dantian to a poison mishap, he could no longer fight, and so stood lonely watch at the back gate.
"Reinforcements?"
"Yes, from Geomhyangjang."
Hope deepened in his gaze. He had thought Tang Namu, spirited away for the clan's future, was gone for good. But he had returned—with word of allies? Perhaps those who escaped were regrouped as a strike force, here to deliver crucial news.
And reinforcements from the orthodox Geomhyangjang too!
"How many…?"
"More than twenty."
"What?"
But Namu had no time for talk. He sprinted forward, feet striking only the narrow "living path" of safety.
Shouts and screams thundered ahead—by the sound, the fight raged in the training yard before the Great Tang Hall.
His whole body trembled as he ran.
"No… not there. They must fight in the central arena…"
His insides burned black with dread.
The old man left behind scratched at his ear, muttering:
"I must've misheard. Twenty men, he says…"
"Uha-ha-ha!"
The fastest among the Asura Corps monks lunged forward with staff raised high, bellowing a battle cry.
Swoosh!
The Meteor Hammer of the Poison Hand Elder lashed out to meet him. The monk's eyes widened at its speed, hastily raising his shield to block.
Crash!
The shield splintered. The iron weight at the hammer's end smashed straight into his forehead.
Crunch!
"Guehhhk!"
The monk's eyes froze in disbelief as he toppled, dead.
The Poison Hand Elder swept his gaze over the momentarily halted Asura Corps and roared:
"Do not underestimate us—we are Tang Clan!"
The Asura commander sneered. But then his face hardened, twisting into something demon-like. His pupils glowed turquoise, lit by murderous intent and his unique inner cultivation.
"Tang Clan? Hah… a name to be erased by dawn."
He barked again to his momentarily hesitant subordinates:
"I told you—kill them!"
The monks charged anew.
"Waaahhh!"
"Hold the line!"
The commander sprang forward as well, vaulting into the air.
Fwoooosh!
With a shrill whistle, his massive blade descended toward the Poison Hand Elder.
Whiiiish!
The elder spun his Meteor Hammer above his head, releasing one weight to intercept.
Clang!
Metal clashed, diverting the blade slightly—while the hammer's second weight whipped toward the commander's chest.
Crack!
"…!"
The elder's eyes trembled. The commander had caught the iron weight in his bare palm.
He grinned wickedly.
"Shall I say 'ouch' for you?"
"H-how?"
That strike should have shredded his hand to ribbons—yet his palm was unscathed.
Then the elder noticed: gloves. Black as his skin, and clearly not ordinary.
The commander bared his yellow teeth, killing intent pouring off him.
"I thought you might be strong. Disappointing."