Chapter 150
A training hall engraved with countless sword marks.
For any seasoned swordsman, just glancing around would be enough to roughly gauge the nature of these strikes.
Indeed, this was a place surrounded by swords—swords without number.
And at the center stood the master of all those swords.
“Sword King, sir.”
“You’re here.”
Namgung Dowi slowly turned to face me. After giving me a brief once-over, he nodded in satisfaction.
“It’s truly curious. Still in your post-peak stage, yet bearing such a savage sword within you. And to think, you're a martial artist of the orthodox sects—not from the Demonic Cult or the Unorthodox Factions.”
“What did you see in me?”
“I didn’t see anything in particular. I merely sensed a bit of your sincerity.” Namgung Dowi lightly tapped the back of his neck with his fingertips and continued.
“You came here intending to cut me down for real.”
“This kind of opportunity doesn’t come often. Of course I’ll give it my all.”
I never even heard the sound of his blade being drawn. I didn’t know when it had been unsheathed—it was that natural.
The Changcheon Sword, a treasured blade of the Namgung Clan, glimmered crimson in the light.
“No need for lengthy talk. Come at me. As long as you don’t collapse from exhaustion, I’ll go along with you until the morning sun rises.”
“I came well-rested just for that, so don’t worry.”
With a slight smirk, I drew my sword.
It wasn’t the temporary blade I had used against Hwangbo Yeongcheon.
This was a black sword newly forged while the Hwangbo Clan’s warriors were being captured and interrogated.
A sword refined and perfectly balanced just for me.
The weight distribution, the length, even the feel of the grip—it all felt effortlessly natural in my hand.
The sensation of the blade rooting itself from my hand as if it were part of me—without any need to focus on it.
Entering the state of Divine Sword Unity with far less resistance, I assumed my stance.
I kept my shoulders relaxed and raised my sword to a moderate height. My body leaned forward slightly, as if ready to spring at any moment, while my soles remained firmly planted on the ground.
Dark-red sword aura flared across the blade.
“I’ll begin, then.”
Before I even waited for Namgung Dowi’s reply, I pushed off the ground.
Boom!
The Raging Thunder Steps, modified once by the pre-regression Seorin to suit me, then refined again post-regression after I saw the original technique with my own eyes.
Namgung Dowi, already settled and emanating a heavy, pressurized presence, calmly evaluated my sword.
“Fast. But—”
“It’s not enough yet.”
I clenched my teeth and twisted my body again.
Through repeated bouts with Namgung Jong, I revisited my old martial arts. Much of it was simple recollection, but some techniques revealed new insights.
One such insight was my own version of Chamjeok Sword, a technique originally meant to cut falling raindrops.
Raindrops don’t fall singly—they come down in countless, unending streams.
To cut them all, speed alone wasn’t enough—I needed continuous strikes, unrelenting swordplay.
Just like now.
“Hrrgh!”
The moment my sword clashed with Namgung Dowi’s, the shock was enough to fling my body back.
I twisted my muscles and joints to absorb the force, then refocused entirely on my sword.
Sswaeek!
My blade moved even faster than before. Namgung Dowi’s gaze shifted slightly.
“This… this is a Daoist method.”
He was right. I didn’t have the breath to reply, but he was correct.
The uninterrupted, flowing rhythm I had learned from the Zhongnan Sect.
It was truly a refined method, but not one I could fully embrace.
A martial art that begins and ends with the self—common in orthodox sects, but something I never truly understood.
After all, a swordfight involves at least two people, not one.
If I was to generate a “flow,” then it had to be a current that consumed not just me, but my opponent as well.
That conviction became the heart of my sword.
Cheng! Chaeng! Cheng!
The ringing of clashing metal filled the air without pause.
Since Namgung Dowi was matching my sword energy perfectly, there was no eruption of internal energy—only the pure clash of blades.
He continued to deflect my unrelenting strikes.
To an outsider, it might sound like rainfall—countless clashes like drops striking stone.
Then, for the first time, Namgung Dowi swung his sword.
A single, simple slash from left to right. But within it lay the subtlety of Absorption.
The torrent of sword strikes I’d unleashed clung to his blade as if drawn in—then were completely scattered.
With just one swing, he swept away the storm of attacks and nodded.
“Impressive. You’re fast, precise, and you leave few openings. Most opponents would be overwhelmed by your continued assault before they even understood what was happening. But it’s a tiring sword style.”
“Phew. You saw through it exactly.”
A sword style that began as the fastest blade I could swing—feeding off the clash to grow even faster, drawing strength from my opponent's power.
In other words, the burden on my body would only increase as the fight went on.
It wasn’t just tiring—if pushed too far, it could tear muscle or melt flesh.
“A sword like this must be used with a set limit. Otherwise, you’ll collapse before your opponent does. Hmm... if it were me, I’d blend in the principle of Explosion once your blade reaches a certain peak.”
“You mean… Explosion?”
“Yes. I don’t know the name, but your footwork—it gains speed by detonating internal energy, yes? Apply that to your sword. With this blade, it should be possible.”
“Thank you. I’ll take that into account.”
I’d been thinking of something similar, but what I had in mind was the principle of Rotation—a spiraling blade that maximized destructive force.
It was meant to grind down a panicked opponent, weapon and all.
But with this sword, forged of solid blacksteel and unmatched in durability, simply detonating my energy might be the better option.
As I bowed my head, Namgung Dowi flicked his sword tip and spoke.
“It’s a fine sword, but you weren’t planning to show me only this one, were you? Let’s see the others too.”
“I was planning to.”
Channeling internal energy through my slightly fatigued body to restore vitality, I raised my sword again.
I aligned the blade’s center with my line of sight, its tip resting just within view. My stance was wide, feet shoulder-length apart, weight centered low and solid.
Unlike before, this was a standard, textbook stance. But Namgung Dowi didn’t criticize—he simply watched quietly.
Before swinging again, I spoke.
“Just so it’s clear, I hold no personal grudge against you, Sword King. This technique is simply... that kind of martial art.”
“What exactly are you about to show me that requires such build-up?”
“Raging Wave Death-Stealing Art.”
Strictly speaking, Raging Wave Death-Stealing Art was a mental technique, not a sword art. But having never properly learned martial arts, the line between the two was blurred for me.
The rapid strikes from earlier were a sword born from recent enlightenment—I simply wanted to show it and receive feedback.
But the sword I was about to swing now—wasn’t for showing.
Ffwoosh!
A murderous aura spread outward from me like a wildfire, engulfing the entire training hall.
Namgung Dowi’s eyes widened slightly, surprised by the density of the killing intent.
“This is my true martial art.”
“I see. I already knew you came with the intent to cut me down, but I didn’t expect it to be this serious.”
With a pleased chuckle, Namgung Dowi shifted his stance.
“If you’re coming at me with that, it’s only right that I respond in kind. ...After all, isn’t that what you wanted to see when you challenged me to this duel?”
With that, Namgung Dowi naturally lowered his sword toward the ground.
At a glance, it didn’t even look like he intended to swing. But I’d seen it before, through Namgung Jong.
Even like this, he could swing any blade with absolute ease.
Realizing that, I suddenly felt a suffocating weight settle over me.
It was the subconscious battle of perceptions that all high-level martial artists waged. The difference lay only in how far and how clearly each could perceive—but it never stopped.
And right now, mine ground to a halt.
No matter how I swung, I felt I couldn’t reach him.
As that hopelessness set in, Namgung Dowi’s presence began to push back against my killing aura.
His sheer aura forced mine back into my body, becoming a pressure that crushed down on my shoulders.
When Namgung Jong used it, it wasn’t like this. His force was powerful, but it was simply a sword meant to overwhelm—something closer to a brute-force blade.
But now, experiencing it from Namgung Dowi directly—I understood.
This despair, which made the opponent feel so overmatched they would bind their own hands and feet and merely look up—This was the true Imperial Sword Form.
But I was too stubborn to bow before it.
I reignited the killing intent I had been forced to swallow—stronger, fiercer.
Even knowing nothing would work, I still burned everything I had just to cut down the man before me.
Smelling the faint scent of burning from the tip of my nose, I gripped my sword tighter.
Namgung Dowi nodded, pleased.
“I see. So this is the savage sword you carry within.”
I answered not with words, but by swinging my sword.
For those like us, the sword was a clearer expression of intent than words could ever be.
Kkaang!
To my sword-thrown question, his sword delivered an answer.