Black and White Martial Emperor

Did he get out.

He knocked on the wall several times. No answer. Looked like the escape had worked.

Na Il moved quick and natural.

“Who goes there!”

“It’s me.”

“Ah! Man, you nearly scared my soul out!”

“Sorry.”

“Why are you here anyway? You’re assigned to the east wall, aren’t you?”

“My shift’s over. I’m going to relieve the watch.”

“Tsk. I figured you’d know to come on your own.”

“I haven’t eaten all day. My belly’s about to stick to my spine.”

“Sometimes I wonder how big your heart is. The Chief Steward just got nabbed as a spy and you’re not even tense?”

“He’s already caught, isn’t he? What’s there to tense up about?”

“Good grief, you. When have you ever seen a spy infiltrate alone? There’s bound to be a leak somewhere.”

“Leak or whatever, I don’t care. I’m going to eat.”

“Honestly. Give me your shoulder badge.”

“Here.”

“Be careful. On a night like this, that unflappable personality of yours can poison you. Eat quiet and go rest.”

“That serious?”

“You really have no sense. Not just anyone—the Chief Steward. Didn’t you see the Law Blade Pavilion Master earlier? His eyes were full of killing will.”

“Mm... I’d better keep my head down today.”

“See? That’s what I mean—you’re an odd one.”

“Either way, thanks. I’m off.”

“Yeah, turn in.”

Na Il trotted off, clutching his belly.

Watching his back, the warrior cocked his head.

“Told you—odd bird. You can be unremarkable, but that unremarkable? Is it just that he’s so steady it erases him?”

A little later, Na Il ducked into the refectory, heaped cold rice with a couple of cold sides, then scurried toward the barracks.

Clack.

He slid the barracks door open—

—and froze.

...?!

The barracks housed ten men.

But it was empty. Even at this hour, four of them should have been snoring.

His hair prickled with a formless dread.

Then—

“The rice is cold?”

Gooseflesh ran over Na Il from scalp to heel.

“I know a place that cooks well. Want to go together? Looks like you’d at least earn your keep.”

“......”

“If not, can’t be helped.”

Yeon Hojeong stepped out of the shadow, smiling coldly.

“They say even a ghost who dies on a full stomach looks fair. No one’s going to offer you rites—so choke that down and die.”

Whap!

The big rice bowl hurtled for Yeon Hojeong’s face. At the same time, Na Il’s body flashed up onto the barracks roof like lightning.

“......!!”

Na Il’s eyes went round.

Shff-shff. Shff-shff-shff-shff.

Beyond the roofline—

Warriors appeared on multiple buildings throughout the inner compound.

What shocked him was where they stood. Each perch was a retreat route he’d marked in case things went wrong.

Na Il’s eyes shook.

H-how—?!

They were exit lines only a spy or a killer would know—easy-withdrawal paths that even seasoned old-timers wouldn’t pick out without instruction.

Every one of those chokepoints was blocked. Darkness pressed in on Na Il’s vision.

“I’ve no mind to bandy words with a sewer rat at this hour. So let me say this up front.”

Na Il looked down.

Yeon Hojeong stood with the axe laid across his shoulder. The flung bowl and its contents rolled on the dirt.

“Your handler from the outer-compound stables lost his head to the Azure Hawk Captain’s sword.”

“......!!”

“Come down.”

They even knew a handler existed.

Na Il was dumbfounded. Even decent-sized outfits rarely ran two spies and a handler.

Raising a handler at all was no small feat—and there were a thousand cases where a sloppy insertion got one caught.

But the handler planted in the Yeon Clan was different.

He was a specialist rated first-class in this line. A handler’s very function meant he took fewer risks; catching one was harder than catching a spy.

Knowing a handler existed was startling enough—but how did they know he worked in the stables?

Slip. Vmm.

Na Il dropped to the ground.

Light feet, both soles touched down without a sound. Exquisite movement art.

“Name.”

“Yeon Hojeong.”

Killing intent skimmed Na Il’s eyes. He’d sensed there was no hole to slip through.

But there was one thing he wanted to know.

“Who told you a handler existed?”

“I did.”

“You?”

“What’s supposed to be so hard about that.”

“You, a hothouse flower, claim to know infiltration and killer-tradecraft?”

Yeon Hojeong snorted.

“If you saw the greenhouse I grew up in, you wouldn’t say that.”

Spy insertion? Assassination? Handlers? In the Demonic Path, that was daily bread.

They prized baseness over justice, lies over truth—deceiving in an instant, killing as routine. Men whose martial skill might fall short of Na Il’s—but whose prowess outstripped his by multiples—were thick on the ground.

And the one who crushed and unified that rabid battlefield of deceit and slaughter was Yeon Hojeong himself.

Once you confirm something exists, catching a spy or a handler is as easy as swatting flies.

Na Il’s gaze wavered.

“I don’t believe it. What are you, a Yin Deity?!”

“Is that some new fashionable way to insult someone? Don’t compare me to that creeper.”

Thud!

The butt of the haft struck earth. The shock rolled hard enough to shiver the yard.

“Kneel.”

Tsss.

An ominous current rose off Na Il’s body.

Yeon Hojeong nodded.

“Knew you wouldn’t.”

Booom!

Na Il sprang in.

Given the trade, most spies and killers are masters of movement arts. They train in a way wholly different from ordinary martial artists.

So Na Il was fast. Faster than any master Yeon Hojeong had seen since his return.

Thunk!

A half-fist for the chin hit air.

Not blocked—diverted. From that response, Na Il knew.

He’s a professional!

You never hard-block a spy’s trained bodywork. They keep a film of undetectable venom on their fingernails at all times.

Papapapam!

Na Il’s attack rolled on.

It wasn’t a one-hit finisher like Yeon Hojeong’s art. One scratch from those nails would put a man out of the fight—no reason to waste stamina.

His assault was relentless. A chain assault that demanded extreme endurance—top-grade assassination work that, once it surged, was near impossible to reverse.

And Yeon Hojeong unraveled that top-grade craft with grotesque ease.

Papapa!

Impossible.

Fast and razor-sharp, yet unbroken—every dark, murderous fist-thrust hit nothing.

How!!

Yeon Hojeong’s answers were so spare they looked lazy.

With those lazy little motions, every sinister kill-stroke went crooked.

He was too versed in this kind of art; he knew how every line would come. If he didn’t, maybe he couldn’t have stopped it—but knowing and still failing to stop it would mean he wasn’t the Dark Emperor.

Damn it.

Despair wrapped Na Il.

He’d planned to drop an opponent, take a hostage, and break out. Instead, he couldn’t land a single strike.

I can’t win...

Four walls closing. Going for a hostage against a high master who didn’t yield had been the worst choice.

A flash kindled in Yeon Hojeong’s eyes.

Once a man’s heart buckles, his martial execution wavers. The keen edge bled out of Na Il’s dark fists.

Hup!

Yeon Hojeong’s long leg cut for Na Il’s lower line. Shaken or not, it was a hard angle to guard.

Crack!

“Ghh!”

Na Il’s face drained. His right knee collapsed inward—snapped.

“As I thought—sloppy.”

Na Il stared up at him.

Yeon Hojeong raised the axe high in both hands.

“You sent a man out without even making him bite a poison pellet? What kind of confidence is that.”

Kraaaang!

“Graaah!”

One brutal chop—and the leg flew. After a few shuddering spasms through his scream, Na Il blacked out.

Yeon Hojeong lifted cold eyes to the sky.

Moonlight was clear.

“This side is finished, Father.”

****

“Hah... hah...”

Sweat glazed Tae Gyeong as he ran through rough woods.

He’d cultivated inner power, but he hadn’t trained much in martial arts. Even so, his sprint was fast.

Faster—faster!

Once you’re thrown in a solitary cell, it takes time «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» to open again.

But you never know. His past had been too rough to gamble on uncertainty. Not until he was out of Jiangsu would he allow himself to breathe.

At least hit the first safe house!

Thankfully, he knew the lay of the land cold. There’s no such thing as a spy deployed without a memorized map.

How long did he run?

The low mountain’s crest loomed ahead. Over that ridge, a copse by the official road. In that copse stood a safe house the Mo Yong Clan had raised with special care.

“Hah... hah...”

From here, it was downhill. He’d pick up speed compared to the climb.

Just as he drew breath to dash—

“That’s all you’ve got?”

Crack.

A snapping branch boomed loud. He’d stepped on it.

Sweat-soaked, Tae Gyeong’s face went pale shade by shade.

“To show that paltry state—after deceiving me and slinking in the dark near ten years?”

Tae Gyeong’s hands trembled.

He turned his head, slowly.

Rustle.

A middle-aged man stepped out from behind a broad trunk.

Tall, lean frame. At his left hip hung a plain longsword, unadorned by any fancy work.

Plain blade or not, his eyes were anything but.

The apex of dispassion. The brink of ruthlessness.

“...Clan Lord.”

“You do at least still call me Clan Lord?”

Tae Gyeong closed his eyes.

It’s over.

Among the Clan Lords of the Seven Great Clans, Yeon Wi ranked at the very top in martial attainment. Against a peerless master rare in the martial world, Tae Gyeong had no path.

He looked up at Yeon Wi.

In the cold moonlight, those two eyes were fear made flesh. A beast’s gaze would not be so terrifying.

“I... I only...”

“Only?”

“Only wished to reach the world.”

“With filth like that?”

Tae Gyeong burst out despite himself.

“What do means matter in reaching the world! Not everyone is like you! Born and raised inside the fence called the Yeon Clan—you could never understand me!”

“I don’t believe I need to.”

Tae Gyeong bit his lip.

“Let me go.”

“I can’t.”

“I—I wasn’t the only one who infiltrated! In the Yeon Clan there are others—!”

“Dungeon guard Na Il. And the stablehand Jang Hak.”

“......!!”

“Were there more?”

“H-how do you...?!”

Yeon Wi’s eyes deepened.

“You made too light of my son.”

Only then did Tae Gyeong understand. Yeon Hojeong had lied to him to the end.

Up to the last moment before he was led to the dungeon, he’d been deceived.

“Any last words?”

“Y-you... that dog-blooded bastard!!”

Slice.

Tae Gyeong’s head thumped to the ground.

Yeon Wi stared at the fallen head with winter eyes.

“I asked if you had last words—not for leave to insult my son.”