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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: cyno
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The Supreme of the Martial World.
A name no one could easily confirm, one no one could definitively assign.
Some claimed the divine monk of Shaolin, the great master of martial studies, was the current supreme of the martial world. Others insisted the elusive assassin who had once made the entire martial world tremble without even revealing his identity was the true supreme.
There were those who believed the Blood Demon, said to stand a step above even the Five Peaks of Heaven, was the real deal. And then there were those who argued the Sword Saint, who had subdued and beheaded that very Blood Demon, was the rightful supreme.
Strangely enough, some even claimed the Heavenly Demon—a living relic of the Heavenly Demon Divine Art and the Qiankun Mind Technique, who had secluded himself in the Hundred Thousand Mountains—was the true martial world supreme.
Thus, when it came to debating the “greatest under heaven,” opinions were fiercely divided.
But if the scope was narrowed to “women,” and further limited to “the Central Plains,” then the people would unanimously point to one name.
“It’s been a while, Mount Hua.”
Jade Blossom (Okhwa).
The former sect leader of Kunlun, who had inherited the position at a young age after her predecessor died during the Great Blood War. Yet, in truth, her martial prowess surpassed even that of the previous leader.
A woman who upheld “absolute justice,” in stark contrast to the divine monk’s “merciful justice” and the Sword Saint’s “justice through chivalry.” A hero who had forged countless legends during the Great Blood War.
Though she bore the moniker “Seven Blossoms”—a title typically reserved for younger talents—people whispered that if Okhwa had ever desired a grander epithet, she could have easily ranked among the upper echelons of the Twelve Supreme Masters.
Just as she had once slaughtered Blood Cultists with near-ferocity during the Great Blood War, even surpassing the Sword Saint’s kill count.
Moreover, with the divine monk in seclusion and the Sword Saint missing, many considered Okhwa the de facto leader of the orthodox martial world.
Even if she herself had grown sick of the martial world and secluded herself at the peak of Kunlun Mountain.
“Mount Hua… one of the few places that hasn’t fallen to corruption.”
Her snow-white skin and even whiter hair fluttered with each step she took.
Thud—
As Okhwa took a single step forward, the gazes of the Wudang disciples, gathered to welcome the Seven Blossoms, all turned toward her.
Their eyes brimmed with reverence and respect.
Unfazed, she ascended the snow-covered steps of Wudang with an aloof stride.
Strangely, no footprints were left in her wake.
Thud, thud—
Climbing the symbolic “Three Thousand Three Hundred Thirty Steps” of Wudang, Okhwa gradually found herself lost in nostalgia.
The biting snowflakes brushing against her cheeks only deepened the feeling.
These steps, emblematic of Wudang, were a place of many memories.
‘I fought here too, alongside Cheolbin.’
Had it been seven years ago?
Okhwa, the Sword Saint, and the Heavenly Venerable had forged yet another legend here.
The Blood Cultists, setting fire to Mount Hua and riding the flames and wind upward.
The poison mist that had seeped into every corner.
With all the Wudang disciples paralyzed by the Blood Cult’s poison, unable to move a finger—
Here, on these Three Thousand Three Hundred Thirty Steps, Okhwa, the Sword Saint, and the Heavenly Venerable had held off three thousand Blood Cultists alone.
Back then, these thousands of steps had been dyed red.
‘Hmm…’
Now, seeing them blanketed in pristine snow, Okhwa felt a faint sense of pride.
The pride of having upheld “justice.”
A feeling she had forgotten years ago.
‘But what does it matter?’
Lost in thought, she realized she had nearly reached the top.
A mask of indifference settled back over her face.
‘Nine out of ten so-called orthodox martial artists are trash.’
The fleeting warmth of good memories was quickly overshadowed by unwelcome ones, and her expression hardened in an instant.
The Wudang Taoists welcoming her tensed up for no reason, sensing the shift.
“Okhwa! Welcome to our humble mountain!”
An elderly man at the center of the Taoist group called out to her.
The sect leader of Wudang, the Heavenly Venerable—revered as the most virtuous among the Twelve Supreme Masters, a grandmaster to all orthodox martial artists.
His long, white beard nearly touched the ground, and the furrow between Okhwa’s brows softened slightly.
She knew he was one of the few truly righteous men in this rotten martial world.
And he was someone she was genuinely glad to see.
“It’s been a while. I hope you’ve been well, Heavenly Venerable?”
“Hahaha, such lofty titles for an old man who’s done nothing but hide away in the mountains.”
“Still the same, I see.”
“Come, come inside! The other Blossoms will be arriving soon!”
Relieved that not all of the martial world was rotten, Okhwa followed the Wudang disciples into a side chamber.
Fitting for the dignified Wudang, the room was modest but not shabby.
Left alone in the chamber, Okhwa sighed.
“At least Wudang remains unchanged. The Heavenly Venerable too.”
She had heard the other Blossoms would arrive soon, but she had little interest in them.
Instead, the unwelcome memories from earlier resurfaced.
“If not for Wudang and Shaolin, the orthodox sects would’ve been labeled heretics long ago.”
Unlike before, these memories were far from pleasant.
“Especially that damned alliance…! Ugh, why am I even thinking about this?”
She tried to push the thoughts away, but they kept flooding back.
Most vividly, the faces of the alliance’s elders after the Great Blood War.
Their revolting expressions.
‘Even worse than the Blood Cultists.’
Years had passed, but the memory remained vivid.
Summoned to a banquet celebrating the end of the war, she had gone, buoyed by the victory.
But what she witnessed there would haunt her forever.
The alliance elders, reveling in their cruelty, violating the families and lovers of captured Blood Cultists right before their eyes.
The Blood Cultists, weeping tears of blood, begging for mercy—while the elders, grinning with vile smiles, called it “divine punishment.”
‘While the rest of the world mourned the dead, these so-called elders held their depraved feasts.’
Grind—
Her teeth clenched audibly, the anger still fresh even now.
Even after slaughtering every elder present that day, the shock lingered.
‘Why do these useless thoughts keep…?’
Try as she might, the memories refused to fade.
‘Most of them were like that.’
After that day, she shifted her focus from slaughtering Blood Cultists to investigating the orthodox sects.
And what she found—
‘The elders of the Nine Sects colluding with the Blood Cult, the alliance’s spies turning out to be double agents, the Five Great Families extorting the common folk under the guise of taxes… It was all a farce.’
The martial world was more rotten than she had ever imagined.
The very people she had fought to protect were nothing but hypocrites.
The only exceptions were Shaolin and Wudang, pure from the root.
Not all were corrupt, but most of those in power were no better than the Blood Cult.
‘They all deserve to die.’
Betrayed beyond words, Okhwa reached a simple conclusion: execution.
Evil must be purged.
Hypocrites in the orthodox sects were evil.
Therefore, they must die.
Whether revered as saints or feared as demons, it made no difference.
A simple syllogism, but one few in the martial world dared to act upon.
Yet, even she couldn’t purge all the evil in the world alone.
She didn’t care about others’ opinions. Even if the world called her a madwoman, her “absolute justice” would not waver.
Evil must die—whether a revered sage or the emperor himself.
The only problem was ability.
She had the resolve, but not the strength to cleanse the widespread corruption.
Against the Blood Cult, she had the Sword Saint and the divine monk at her back. But against the hypocrites of the orthodox sects, she stood alone.
Even if she found like-minded allies, few among the Twelve Supreme Masters had the power to punish them.
So, she went to the Namgung Family.
The divine monk was too lenient—he would likely preach mercy, just as he had given Blood Cultists a chance to repent.
The Sword Saint, however, was ruthless when it came to evil. In that, they were alike.
Perhaps he would join her in purging the hypocrites.
With that hope, she went to the Namgung Family.
But what she overheard shattered her expectations.
“The family head… how could he be so shameless?”
“Honestly, how can someone wearing a human face do such things?”
“At this point, even calling him ‘family head’ feels too generous. How could he… those children… ugh. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl.”
The servants’ gossip struck her like a hammer.
‘I never imagined even Cheolbin would be a hypocrite.’
One conversation, in particular, lodged itself in her heart.
“And how could he practice demonic arts? What’s the difference between him and the Blood Cult?”
“No wonder he managed to send the Heavenly Demon back with just a few words. Turns out he was the Heavenly Demon’s lackey all along.”
“They say you can know ten feet of water but never a man’s heart. The truth always comes out in the end.”
The talk of the Heavenly Demon.
Something she had always questioned.
What conversation could have made the Heavenly Demon, who had descended from the Hundred Thousand Mountains with his legions, retreat so easily?
When she had asked the Sword Saint directly, he had dodged the question, saying he couldn’t reveal it.
But if the condition had been him learning demonic arts—?
It was hard to believe the man who had championed righteousness was a hypocrite, but she couldn’t dismiss it outright.
So she stormed into his study and confronted him.
And there, she saw it.
‘I never doubted Cheolbin… but—’
The dark shadows under his eyes—the unmistakable mark of demonic arts.
The betrayal she felt then dwarfed all others combined.
And with it, despair.
Other hypocrites, even among the Twelve Supreme Masters, she could kill.
But the Sword Saint?
She couldn’t even hope to challenge him.
Having known him for so long, she understood his strength better than anyone.
‘I need to get stronger. Fast.’
So she secluded herself.
At the peak of Kunlun, seeking enlightenment.
Only once did she descend—when Namgung Cheolbin came looking for her.
But that encounter only reinforced her resolve.
“Um… O-Okhwa, Lady Hero?”
Lost in thought, a hesitant voice called from outside the chamber.
“Speak.”
“All the rooms are full… Would you mind sharing with the others…?”
“Fine.”
“Thank you! Thank you so much! Sword Blossom! Over here! There’s space!”
The door opened, and a black-haired, golden-eyed girl entered.
From the servant’s words, this was likely the “Sword Blossom”—a recent sensation in the martial world.
‘Not bad.’
Thud—
‘Someone else?’
As if answering her curiosity, a man in a white mask followed the Sword Blossom inside.
“Pardon the intrusion.”
His voice was rough, like metal scraping against stone.
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