The Double Agent of the Heavenly Demon Sect

He swung his sword, moving to the rhythm of his own heartbeat.

He ducked just in time, narrowly avoiding the massive paw of the beast, which smashed a tree into splinters.

Strength and grip.
Even speed—everything was in its favor.

He swung his sword, barely holding on, and twisted his body to match the trajectory of his blade.

Gwiyeongbo, his advanced footwork technique, shattered before his eyes. The elegant movements splintered like glass, scattering into chaos.

The sword was flung from his grasp, blood bursting from the torn flesh of his chest.

He twisted his body again, forcing himself upright.

"...Hoo."

He steadied his breath, opening every sense in his body to find a way past this fortress of impenetrable power.

Hundreds of failed attempts. Each time he was pushed back, but each failure brought him closer to a single opening.

He threw himself into the fray.
And broke.

He threw himself again.
And shattered.

He threw himself once more.
And was crushed.

Danhonchu—a technique created to face humans—proved useless against this beast. It was never designed to deal with such raw, primal power. None of its variations could surpass the essence of this creature.

Every minor scratch he managed to inflict came at the cost of a river of his own blood. It took an enormous toll, each cut requiring an exchange of pain and life. And yet, with gritted teeth, he pressed on, adding one scratch atop another.

The first day ended like that—with nothing to show but a single, shallow scratch.
The second day was the same.
The third day brought no change.

Five days. Six. Seven.

Despite the passing days, he seemed to be running in circles, making no real progress.

And yet, he still held his sword. He hunted the other beasts in the area, tearing into them and using their strength to keep fighting the Magok Lord.

He could see the beast starting to tire. Its movements grew sluggish, though it remained cautious, watching him from a distance without making any sudden moves. Like a sentinel guarding its domain, it refused to leave its ground, as though it wouldn’t eat or drink until it had dealt with this intruder.

So he brought it food.

The prey he had hunted himself.

"Eat," he commanded.

The beast glared at him with an inscrutable expression, its eyes filled with suspicion. To prove he hadn’t tampered with the offering, he tore into the raw flesh in front of it, consuming it himself.

His intent was clear. He didn’t want the beast to weaken.

His goal was to prove his ability, his worth. Victory over a starved opponent would mean nothing.

Hesitantly, the Magok Lord began eating the prey he had provided. Once it finished, he drew his sword again.

To add another scratch atop the ones he’d already carved.
To step back into the battlefield, where blood flowed like a river.

...

"This is madness."

There were no other words for it. Isipguho stood frozen, unable to describe the scene before her with anything else.

It was madness, pure and complete.

The area was drenched in blood, the ground sticky with gore and chunks of flesh.

She had always known that Samsipho was different. Ever since he’d been involved with Ilma, she’d understood that he wasn’t an ordinary person.

But this...

This was beyond anything her mind could comprehend.

In just a few days, he had shed enough blood for dozens of men. His limbs were torn off and reattached over and over again, as though he were a puppet.

His body wasn’t just strange—it was unnatural. No words like "unique constitution" could explain it.

But that wasn’t what mattered.

"Sa... Samsipho..."

This... this was wrong.

There was no way he wasn’t in pain. She’d seen him wince when struck with a wooden sword during their spars.

Samsipho was human.

No matter how unique his body might be, he still felt pain. This was nothing short of self-destruction.

His body would break down long before his mind could endure it.

"Samsipho, this isn’t right..."

She reached out to him.

"Please, just think for a moment..."

Samsipho knelt on a blood-soaked rock, his crimson-streaked body crouched low. The bizarre energy surrounding him shimmered, mingling with the sweat and blood dripping from his frame. The air around him shimmered with heat, his tattered clothing barely clinging to his form.

"..."

He didn’t respond, no matter how much she called out to him. His unfocused eyes stared blankly ahead, as though he were already lost to the world.

Desperately, she grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

"Why... why are you doing this? Please, just talk to me... okay?"

"..."

"Calm down, Samsipho. This isn’t right... It hurts, doesn’t it? You’re in pain, aren’t you?"

"..."

"You’ve done enough. You’ve been doing this for fifteen days straight—fighting, resting for barely a moment, and then fighting again."

Her voice trembled as she pleaded with him.

"If you keep this up... you’ll die."

She shook him harder.

"You’ll really die if you keep going like this!"

Finally, his lips parted slightly, his voice hoarse and faint.

"One... step back... two steps forward... counterstrike..."

"What are you saying?"

"A variation of Gwiyeongbo... strengthen the blade’s qi for the extended strike..."

He reached out, gripping the sword embedded in the ground.

A chill ran down Isipguho’s spine.

He wasn’t talking to her. He wasn’t even resting during this fleeting moment.

Even now, in this brief pause...

"Refine the strike... endure the unavoidable blow with the body..."

He was replaying the fight in his mind, refining his technique for the next confrontation with the Magok Lord.

Like a blade being sharpened.

"Ah... ah..."

He’s insane. He must be insane.

He was pouring everything—his time, his mind, his body—into his sword.

Why?

Why was he going this far?

"Is it really that important... your sword?"

"..."

Samsipho didn’t answer. He simply stepped forward, back into the domain of the Magok Lord.

His footsteps were his answer.

Helplessly, Isipguho muttered to herself.

"Madman..."

There was no other way to describe such obsession.

In a state of absolute focus, where nothing but the enemy before him mattered...

How many warriors in this world could reach such a realm? How many would be willing to stake their lives so completely?

Without realizing it, Isipguho gripped the sword at her hip, silently watching his back.

His foot slammed against the ground. The Magok Lord roared.

And what stood before it was no longer human.

It was another beast.

...

The blade strikes, moving, then extending.

A claw narrowly misses, tearing through skin but sparing the arm.

Another collapse. Yet when he rose again, he had gotten a little closer.

He forgot sleep. Forgot even the need to eat. All that remained was the drive to press forward.

The sword danced. Paeryeok Mado layered over Danhonchu, the intertwined energies of the Nine Heavens Blood Demon Technique (Gucheonhyeolmagong) screaming through the air.
The beast responded with a low growl, its movements swift and overpowering, exuding an incomprehensible force.

The crushing grip of its power shredded his body, yet he held the sword with both hands, bracing against the drain of his internal energy, which threatened to bottom out.

He was overpowered, his bones groaning under the strain as his body was slammed into a boulder.

Staggering to his feet, vision blurred with blood, he stared ahead.

Still far.
...Still so far.

A brief respite, then the sword lunged forward again.

As long as the blade didn’t break, he charged onward. Standing on the edge of life and death, he drew ragged breaths. Each step forward brought agony that wasn’t just painful—it was suffocating, dragging his mind into darkness.

The regenerative power of Cheongeop sustained him, but the associated pain was relentless, an unyielding torment. Without the enhancements granted by Cheonma, he would have crumbled long ago, his body destroyed before it could endure.

Each step forward felt like wading through a swamp. The temptation to retreat whispered promises of relief and comfort.

But between the desire for ease and the resolve of his sword, he found his footing.

One step.
Another step.

What is a sword? What does it mean to be a martial artist?

He sought the answers to those questions at the edge of his blade. When Danhonchu carved a new scratch into the beast, it roared in defiance.

The claws descended. Without his sword to block, he unleashed Gwisuilma.

From Baeksa to Acheon.
From Jinhyeol to Magak.

Every variation of Gwisuilma he had learned was thrown at the beast. The clash of energy and the crimson aura threatened to overwhelm his mind.

Yet he endured.

Endurance was his strength. So he endured.

With crushed arms and legs that felt ready to collapse, he pressed onward. What lay ahead, he couldn’t yet see.

Even if the path ahead was shrouded in darkness, it was the road he had chosen to walk.

The dream of all martial artists:

A back they might never reach, no matter how hard they ran their whole lives.

He struggled, hoping his efforts would find meaning.

But just struggling wasn’t enough.

Retrieving his fallen sword, he forced his depleted energy to gather, coughing blood as he channeled the Nine Heavens Blood Demon Technique.

He wanted to see it—the end of this path.

He wanted to surpass it—the beast roaring before him.

If his struggles seemed meaningless, he would give them meaning. If his pain was known to no one but himself, he would carve it into his body.

Effort never betrays.
And effort is never wasted.

He... didn’t know.

He didn’t have the genius to grasp everything in an instant.
He didn’t have the talent to surpass others effortlessly.

But still, he had something.

What did he have?

"...Grrk...!"

...He had his sword.

A sword, didn’t he?

Nine Heavens Blood Demon Technique (Gucheonhyeolmagong).
Third Form (Jesam-hyeong): Paeryeok Mado.

Everything he had seen and heard.
Everything he had felt with his body.

The Magok Lord’s roars, the overwhelming strength it radiated.
The whispers of the swamp that promised comfort if he just took one step back.

He grasped all of it, wrapping it tightly in his blood-soaked energy.

He stood.
He stood tall.
He stood to look down.

Even as he was torn apart and shattered,
Even as he was sliced and broken,

He stood with his sword.
A sword that would remain until the end.

The Paeryeok Mado, blazing with fiery energy, awakened a new form of attack within the Gucheonhyeolmagong, something beyond its written techniques.

Danhonchu wasn’t enough. Not even its variations sufficed.
Paeryeok Mado supported his strikes, but it still couldn’t break through.

Then what must be done?

Create it.

A technique that could go beyond scratches and pierce the beast’s hide completely.

He endured.
The feral blows, the Magok Lord’s roars.@@novelbin@@

Sword energy alone wouldn’t do. He twisted and braided his qi into a single, unified thread.

Leaning forward.
Gazing ahead.

Crouching to spring.

Through relentless suffering, he forged a technique that would one day surface above all others.

The sword of the mundane, the unremarkable.

The best technique he could wield in this moment.

A single strike that blended the Magok Lord’s fangs and claws with the soul of a man who had endured endless suffering.

Amid the beast’s roars, he unleashed his blade, his entire being thrown into the flaming crimson slash.

"Draw it."
"If there is no meaning..."
"Then create it yourself."

Nine Heavens Blood Demon Technique (Gucheonhyeolmagong).
External Sword Technique (Jeoegyeom): Geoseom Paeryeok Nachal.

The blade howled like a beast, spiraling with vibrating energy, distorting the air as it drew everything into its fiery core.

The fatal strike carved through the beast. Blood spilled from countless wounds, painting the world red. The Magok Lord’s body, unable to withstand the technique, shattered. The scabs it had formed flew away, mixing into the air.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he took a step forward.

His sword energy...

...No, fragments of Gang-gi colored his blade.

Stepping over death.
Recalling his dreams.

To see the end of the sword.

"...Magok Lord."

He coughed blood, a twisted smile forming on his lips.

"Raise your fangs."

And he leapt.

Offering even his vulnerable throat,
He charged at the beast.

—Like a beast himself.

...

The Magok Lord’s roars faded. A white world enveloped him, and he reached out, grasping at the fragile wall in front of him.

He pushed.
His hand left an imprint.

And from that mark, cracks spread, consuming everything.

Carve it.
Etch meaning into the struggle.

The Crimson Cloud of Bicheon-eup.

Two words: Jeok Woon.

...

Isipguho trembled as she stared ahead.

Before her lay a massive mound of flesh. The once impenetrable hide of the Magok Lord lay in tatters, scattered in all directions.

At the center, a gaping wound—a circular mark where the impossible wall had been broken.

By whom?

—By someone who had once trailed behind her, struggling even to begin mastering Paeryeok Mado.

"..."

Isipguho walked through the torn flesh, approaching the figure leaning on his sword.

Jeok Woon, his breathing ragged, turned to face her. His head drooped briefly as though waking from a deep dream, before lifting again with a faint smile.

"What day is it today?"

"...Exactly thirty days."

"I made it."

His body swayed as he nearly collapsed backward. Isipguho caught him, surprised by how light he felt, as if he’d emptied himself completely.

"Isipguho."

He extended his hand weakly.

"Would you... like to see something interesting?"

"..."

She looked down at his scarred face, which bore a peaceful smile.

What was that final technique? It wasn’t written in any manual of the Gucheonhyeolmagong.

Was it Ilma’s creation?
Or...

—Had he forged it himself, through his own experience?

The movements were not human. They carried the scent of the Magok Lord, the essence of a beast.

It was an ultimate technique that disregarded the cost to his body, delivering a power so immense that even his own body couldn’t handle the recoil.

A strike that could just as easily kill the user as it could the enemy.

And yet, he had unleashed it with a smile.

"...Samsipho, forget the interesting story for a moment. I need to ask you something."

"Yes?"

"Are you insane?"

"Insane... perhaps. I’ve lived more as an empty shell than a true person... Maybe I’ve just lost myself completely."

He wiggled his fingers faintly.

"But I have no regrets."

"...Why did you fight the Magok Lord? Can you answer that now?"

"It was to prove my ability... and because there was something I wanted to do."

"What was it?"

"Isipguho."

From his hand, a translucent energy began to coalesce. The shimmering, ethereal force swirled, forming a small, star-like fragment.

It was the mark of the transcendent realm: Gang-gi.

"Isn’t it beautiful?"

Isipguho’s eyes widened in shock.

"You... insane monster... What in the world... how...?"

"I witnessed death tens of times in a single day. I repeated that over thirty times."

He laughed softly, his shoulders shaking.

"Effort never betrays you, after all."

"...Who the hell... calls that effort?"

Isipguho raised her hands and slapped both his cheeks with all her strength.

SLAP!

"Hey, you crazy idiot!!!"

Finally, she unleashed her fury, shouting like a storm.