The commander of the Wudang Sect’s northern expedition, Elder Immortal Master Taecheong, and the Deputy Head of the Sword Forest, Geom Gwi-hon, two legends of the Murim, were currently engaged in a brawl that would have made a common street thug blush.

“You crazy bastard! You go for the throat immediately?!”

“Look who’s talking! Have you lost your damn mind?!”

Because both men had been essentially belly-crawling through the mud of the crater, their opening strikes lacked the polished grace of a formal duel. Nevertheless, as warriors seasoned by a lifetime of combat, their blows were lethal; despite the awkward angles and cramped space, each had unleashed a strike of terrifying precision, yet both had parried with practiced ease.

Crazed old coot…! Immortal Master Taecheong felt a bead of cold sweat slide down his temple. So this is the Deputy Head of the Sword Forest, the place where only the most sword-obsessed lunatics gather.

Geom Gwi-hon was harboring similar thoughts. They say even a rotting fish still has eyes. The name ‘Monstrous Immortal of Mount Wudang’ certainly isn’t just for show!

After that initial, frantic exchange, their assessments of each other were identical. And because they were so similar in temperament, both cunning, pragmatic, and utterly devoid of vanity, they recognized the “rat” in one another instantly.

“A Great Elder of the ‘Orthodox’ Wudang Sect, hiding in a hole to ambush a dueling opponent?” Geom Gwi-hon was the first to weaponize his tongue, being a master of the verbal opening. He leaned into the attack, hoping to bulldoze Taechong with sheer moral indignation. “You’ve completely lost your mind! Truly insane!”

He wore a mask of perfectly crafted, unadulterated contempt, his expression devoid of any artifice. “If word of this gets out, the name of the Wudang Sect will be dragged through the mud, and every soul in the Central Plains will spit at the mention of your name!”

It was a sophisticated tactic, a psychological strike intended to trigger shame and fury, thereby shattering the opponent’s composure. It was arguably the highest level of technique one could perform while flattened in the muck of a crater.

“Ha! Listen to this absolute bullshit!” Immortal Master Taecheong, however, was older than Geom Gwi-hon and had eaten far more “sword-meal” than his counterpart. He didn’t yield an inch. If anything, he pressed closer, spraying spittle as he barked back. “Then what were you doing? Did you crawl into this pit to cheer them on?”

With the seasoned cynicism of a man who had survived a century of Murim politics, he countered with his own barrage of vitriol. “I thought the leader of the prestigious Sword Forest would be a man of class and dignity, but this? Seeing such a low-life, bottom-tier degenerate in charge is a disgrace, not just to the Sword Forest, but to the entire Luoyang Sword Clan!”

It was a masterful exchange of verbal parries and thrusts. However, there was a glaring flaw in their rhetoric: every single insult they hurled at the other applied equally to themselves.

“Kh…!”

“Ugh…!”

Provoking the opponent was all well and good, but in the heat of the moment, they had both successfully managed to offend themselves.

This goddamn bastard…!

This son of a bitch…!

The two men shared another striking similarity: when their tempers flared, their language turned foul. And because they were both pragmatic survivors who cared nothing for “face,” their blades always moved faster than their reason when they got heated.

Clang!

Sparks showered the mud as their swords crossed once more.

“Tsk…!”

“Crap…!”

Ultimately, it was impossible to execute a satisfying sword technique with longswords while pinned in such a narrow space.

“Fuck this!”

But the sword strike had only been the setup, a way to generate momentum through the recoil of the parry.

“You fake, shaven-headed Daoist prick!” Using the kinetic energy of the deflection, Geom Gwi-hon channeled his Silk Reeling Force and flipped his body, unleashing a devastating punch. It was the Sword Clan’s variation of the Generating Force through the Back.

Against a lesser opponent, the sudden, erratic strike would have been a death sentence. The Generating Force through the Back used a “striking the cow from behind the mountain” method, designed to bypass a guard and rupture the internal organs.

But Immortal Master Taecheong was a legend for a reason. He twisted his torso violently, his upper body swaying like a willow in a storm. It was the Wudang Taiji Palm, a high-level technique that used the recoil of the sword parry to redirect the opponent’s own massive energy back at them.

“Eat shit and die!”

It was the very essence of Wudang, the textbook application of Taiji.

“Hah!” Geom Gwi-hon sneered. A Wudang Elder using Taiji? It was almost too predictable. “I knew you’d pull that crap!”

He had fought too many battles to be caught by a standard redirection. He transitioned instantly into a technique of unknown origin, the Scorpion Tail Kick.

Realizing that trying to block a redirected Taiji strike was a losing game, he decided to strike first. As his momentum from the punch carried him through another flip, he arched his back like a scorpion and drove his heel toward the Daoist’s crown.

“Wait, what?!” Immortal Master Taecheong gasped. It was a street-level technique, an imitation of animal behavior that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a back-alley brawl.

Swoosh!

But the energy behind it was anything but amateur. Because the user was a master of his caliber, even a “lowly” martial art carried the destructive power of a high-tier secret technique.

Oh, shit…! Taechong realized his head would be pulverized before he could finish his Taiji redirection. Fine! Tit for tat, you bastard!

He unleashed a move of equally dubious origin: the Iron Head Technique. It was a skill found in the cheapest manuals sold on street corners, but Taechong slammed his forehead directly into the path of the incoming heel.

BOOM!

“GAH…!”

A simultaneous groan erupted from both men. Geom Gwi-hon felt as though his foot had slammed into a falling boulder, while Taechong felt like a giant had tried to kick his brains out.

Knowing that showing even a second of weakness would mean death, they both forced themselves into motion.

“You goddamn Sword Clan rat! Your techniques are as filthy as a back-alley thug’s!”

“You crazy Wudang tiger-Daoist! Your head is as hard as a goddamn rock!”

They continued to spew vulgarities while their hands and feet moved in a reflexive, brutal blur of close-quarters combat. The sight was surreal, one part slapstick comedy, one part lethal high-tier battle. It was a testament to their mastery that they could unleash such power in a muddy hole while improvising every single move.

Clash! Clang!

They even managed to exchange sword strikes amidst the chaos of their limbs.

“Dammit…!”

But since both were specialists in improvisation and dirty fighting, neither could gain a definitive advantage. Panting heavily, Geom Gwi-hon snarled through the mud. “Come out of this hole right now, you old coot! Fight me fair and square with swords! I’ll have your head in a single exchange!”

Immortal Master Taecheong spat a glob of bloody mud. “You arrogant shit! You come out! If I use my sword properly, it won’t even take one exchange! I’ll have your guts spilled in half a move!”

They barked and sprayed spittle in each other’s faces, looking for all the world like they were ready to kill.

“Out! Now!”

“You first!”

Yet, despite their bluster, neither made a move to leave the pit.

Because above them…

Clang! K-K-K-K-K-K-RACK!

The storm of sword energy raging over their heads was so violent that the word “storm” felt inadequate. It was a typhoon of steel, a localized apocalypse of light and sound.

“UOOOOOOOOO!”

“HAAAAAAAAGH!”

Stepping out now wouldn’t mean facing an enemy; it would mean being accidentally disintegrated by their own allies’ blades.

“You go first, Daoist!” Geom Gwi-hon shrieked. His face was covered in fresh scratches where Taechong had been persistently trying to poke his one remaining eye out.

“You’re younger! You go!” Immortal Master Taecheong screamed back. His knees, elbows, and wrists were swollen and bruised where Geom Gwi-hon had been systematically targeting his aging joints.

“Eeeek…!”

“Grrrr…!”

Their stalemate, however, was about to be forcibly terminated.

“…Hmm?”

“…Hmph.”

The two titans above, Elder Yeom Gwak-chu and the Sword Monarch of Mount Hua, had finally noticed the irritating commotion coming from the crater beneath them.

Hmph…! Sword Clan. Elder Yeom’s Secret Technique. Supreme Oppressive Sword: Mountain-Shattering Force.

Huuuup…! Huashan Sect. Sword Monarch’s Secret Technique. Plum Scentless Sword: Heavy Sword Form.

After their gazes met briefly in mid-air, they both let out a deep kiai and unleashed a strike simultaneously, as if by unspoken agreement.

Their target was, of course, the crater containing the two squabbling old men. Neither duelist was willing to tolerate a nuisance in the middle of their sacred battle.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

The impact was even greater than their first exchange. The crater didn’t just collapse; it exploded.

Fwoosh!

A volcanic plume of earth and mud erupted into the sky as if a massive bomb had been detonated. The force was so immense it completely leveled the area where the crater had been, momentarily silencing the entire battlefield.

Neither Yeom Gwak-chu nor the Sword Monarch bothered to check the results. They knew instinctively that…

“Cough…!”

“Hack, wheeze…!”

…those two roach-like survivors wouldn’t be finished off by a move as blatant as that.

Sure enough, two mud-covered figures stumbled out of the settling dust. Geom Gwi-hon was the first to find his voice, pointing an accusatory finger at the masters above. “Fuck’s sake! This isn’t a goddamn strength competition! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“Tui! Ptui!” Immortal Master Taecheong spat out a mouthful of dirt, his finger also wagging. “You muscle-brained idiots! I’ve got enough dirt in my mouth to start a garden because of you!”

It was a display of pure, unadulterated shamelessness, completely unbecoming of two men who had just been caught trying to launch a sneak attack. The duelists above simply stared at them in flat, silent judgment.

They weren’t the only ones watching. Because the explosion had been so massive, the surrounding warriors had paused in shock.

“Wait… isn’t that our Elder?”

“Is that the ‘Sword-Ghost’ of the Sword Forest?”

All eyes were fixed on the filthy, mud-caked figures of Taechong and Geom Gwi-hon.

“Ahem…”

“Cough…”

A sudden, sharp sting of shame finally pierced their thick hides. They were covered from head to toe in blood, mud, and grime, looking like they’d been rolling in a pigsty.

“F-fuck…!”

Unable to bear the scrutiny, Geom Gwi-hon suddenly sprinted toward a quieter corner of the battlefield. “Follow me, old man! I’ll finish you in one move, just like I said!”

“Fine by me, you brat!” Immortal Master Taecheong whirled around and gave chase. “I’ll split your belly in half a move, just like I promised!”

For a brief, absurd moment, a hollow silence hung over the battlefield as the two old men vanished into the distance.

But it was shattered instantly.

“AREN’T YOU COMING DOWN, YEON SO-HYEON?!”

A roar filled with an explosive, terrifying bloodlust erupted, causing every warrior to flinch instinctively.

“IF YOU WON’T COME DOWN, I’LL COME TO YOU!”

A silhouette was racing toward the cliff at a staggering speed. It was the Third Young Master, Yeon Jeok-gwang.

***