Black and White Martial Emperor

“Damn, it’s hot.”

The young man who entered Ghostfire Pavilion with that spat-out complaint was enormous.

He stood well over six feet, nearly seven, and wore a sleeveless top made of tiger hide that left his thick, powerful arms completely exposed.

Black bandages were wound around his hands, wrists, and all the way up his forearms, making it obvious that he trained in fist arts. His close-cropped hair and fiercely gleaming eyes brought a wild beast to mind.

Everything about him was rough and savage.

And it was not merely his appearance. The ferocious qi wave pouring from him without the slightest attempt at concealment was equally formidable.

That beastlike presence plunged the entire spacious first floor of Ghostfire Pavilion into silence.

The young man looked at a waiter.

The waiter’s face instantly went pale. It felt as though a tiger were staring him down from inches away.

“Hey.”

“Y-Yes, sir!”

“What are you standing around for? Take me to the top floor.”

Ghostfire Pavilion’s top floor was famous for its view, and no one could go up without a reservation.

The waiter swallowed hard.

“M-May I ask your name, sir......?”

The young man frowned.

It was as though wrinkles had formed across a tiger’s snout.

Cold sweat poured down the waiter’s body.

“You don’t recognize me just because I haven’t been here in a few years? You new?”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

The young man snorted.

“I’ll let it slide because you’re new. Get the owner.”

“......Sir?”

“I said get the owner!”

Everyone on the first floor—and even the diners on the second—flinched and covered their ears.

His voice thundered like a Buddhist Lion’s Roar.

The only difference was that his shout contained nothing but aggression and irritation.

THUD.

The waiter collapsed where he stood.

He gasped repeatedly as though struggling for breath, then fainted outright.

The young man’s presence was aggressive enough to make even an ordinary Peak master hesitate. There was no way a waiter without a trace of Inner Qi could withstand it.

The young man clicked his tongue.

“Pathetic trash.”

Just then—

“Y-Young Master Jeon?!”

A man in his forties, dressed in ornate clothing, hurried down the stairs.

The young man, Jeon Hong, smirked.

“Been a while.”

“It truly has, Young Master Jeon. Have you been well?”

“Same as always.”

“Haha. It is wonderful to see you in good health.”

“Is that lie actually true?”

“A lie? Not at all. I mean every word.”

The middle-aged man rubbed his hands together and repeatedly bowed at the waist.

“If only you had told us you were coming, I would have prepared a place for you long ago.”

“So there’s no room?”

“G-Good heavens! Of course there is! I’ll ask the guests for their understanding and make room at once. Who would dare object when Young Master Jeon wishes to sit?”

If flattery possessed such a thing as dignity, there was not a shred of it to be found in this man’s performance.

Yet his shameless sycophancy seemed to work.

Jeon Hong chuckled.

“Lead the way.”

“Yes!”

“Oh, and my men will arrive in about half a day. Around thirty of them. Set aside space for them too.”

“Of course.”

“By the way, where’s the old Pavilion Master?”

“Haha. My father retired a year ago and returned to his hometown. I’m the Pavilion Master now.”

“Oh? Then I should congratulate you. Make some time later. I’ll pour you a drink.”

“I would be honored.”

The middle-aged man—the current master of Ghostfire Pavilion—kept bowing as he escorted Jeon Hong toward the top floor.

Once Jeon Hong disappeared up the stairs, the silence on the first floor finally broke.

“Terrifying fellow. Who is he?”

“They called him Young Master Jeon.”

“Shh! Watch your mouth. One wrong word and you might lose your head.”

“You know who that young man is?”

“Of course. I was born and raised around here.”

“Who is he?”

“Jeon Hong. One of the Fighting King’s disciples.”

“Gasp! The Fighting King? One of the Supreme Heavens?”

“That’s what I’m telling you. Now keep your voice down. They say martial artists have sharp ears.”

As Jeon Hong climbed the stairs, he heard every whispered word.

They were remarks most people would simply ignore. Someone with a particularly prickly temperament might have shot the speakers a glare.

Jeon Hong let them enter one ear and leave the other.

A man destined to stand above the masses would only look ridiculous if he responded to every bit of babbling from powerless fools.

Those who dared defy him and refused to lower their eyes deserved punishment, of course. But there was no need to react to every wagging tongue belonging to someone insignificant.

Jeon Hong genuinely believed that.

His personality had long since hardened into that shape.

It was unlikely to change easily.

Sitting on the third floor with a cup of wine, Yeon Hojeong gave a faint chuckle.

“I suppose I really am tied to Ink Dragon Manor in all sorts of ways. That’s Yangcheon’s third disciple?”

“Apparently so.”

“You know him?”

“I’ve heard plenty about him. Among the disciples Yangcheon took in, he and the first disciple were famous for having the greatest talent.”

“Really? I’d never heard of him.”

“He’s fairly well known in Dark Path circles.”

“I see.”

Gangryang’s voice was steady.

His eyes, however, had sharpened considerably.

Yeon Hojeong asked casually,

“You felt that qi wave of his too, didn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“What do you think?”

Gangryang smacked his lips.

“It’d be a close one.”

Astonishingly, Jeon Hong’s qi wave had already reached the threshold just before breaking through the Wall of Martial Arts.

He might have been the third disciple, but he was the same age as Buseon, the second.

The only reason he ranked third was that Yangcheon had accepted him as a disciple five years later.

In other words, Jeon Hong had trained in martial arts for five fewer years than Buseon.

And yet he had already reached the very brink of breaking through the Wall of Martial Arts.

Considering how the Martial Alliance’s masters had regarded Yeon Hojeong after he broke through that wall, Jeon Hong’s talent truly deserved extraordinary praise.

Yeon Hojeong shook his head.

“His personality looks rotten, but his skill is real. And those aren’t half-baked martial arts either. Looks like he’s seen plenty of real combat.”

He displayed his qi wave recklessly, yet beneath that rough exterior lay a certain flexibility and probing quality that could only have been acquired through surviving more than a few brutal battlefields.

Gangryang shrugged.

“Well, what does it matter how strong he is? Let’s just drink.”

“You’re right.”

Yeon Hojeong intended to send Yangcheon an invitation.

He had no intention whatsoever of getting acquainted with Yangcheon’s disciple.

He glanced at Jeongan.

“You should calm down too.”

“Excuse me?”

“That young man is Yangcheon’s disciple. He isn’t Yangcheon himself. Stop paying attention to him.”

Without Jeongan realizing it, the faint energy leaking from her had begun feeling its way toward the floor above.

She had been told that Yangcheon might be the seed of the turmoil consuming Putuo Hermitage.

And now his disciple had entered the very restaurant where she sat.

Of course she could not simply ignore him.

But Yeon Hojeong wanted her to settle herself.

Jeongan sighed and withdrew her True Qi.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for. Your reaction is natural enough.”

Yeon Hojeong refilled his cup.

“Don’t get impatient. This place may look peaceful, but we’re in hostile territory. One rash move could put the entire group in danger.”

“Yes.”

Gangryang grinned mischievously.

“That’s a funny thing to hear from the man who boldly infiltrated Ink Dragon Manor and even fooled the Lord of Ink Dragon Manor himself.”

“Shut up, you bastard. Have another drink.”

“Gladly.”

The three clinked their cups again and resumed their conversation.

Time passed.

A little less than half a day later, as the sun sank and the evening glow spread across the sky, more than thirty men entered Ghostfire Pavilion.

The already bustling restaurant grew even noisier.

“May I have everyone’s attention for a moment?”

The master of Ghostfire Pavilion came down to the third floor and bowed to the guests.

His face was flushed, suggesting he had already had quite a bit to drink.

“My apologies for interrupting while you are all enjoying yourselves. Several heroes of the martial world have come to visit our establishment, but regrettably, every seat is occupied. I must ask for your understanding.”

His expression was full of apology.

Whether sincere or feigned was impossible to know, but his manners were impeccable.

“We will not charge any of you for the food or wine you have had so far. I humbly ask for your understanding.”

For a proprietor without power, this was probably the best he could do.

Everyone seated on the third floor rose.

By now, everyone in the restaurant had learned Jeon Hong’s identity.

They likely would have left even if the Pavilion Master had not offered to waive their bills.

Gangryang muttered under his breath.

“Damn it. Why did it have to be the third floor?”

He looked at Yeon Hojeong.

“What do you want to do, Brother?”

Yeon Hojeong shrugged.

“Why create trouble for no reason? We’ve pretty much finished eating anyway. Let’s go. Besides, he says we don’t have to pay.”

Gangryang burst out laughing despite himself.

There was something absurdly funny about Yeon Hojeong—the Supreme Commander of a Martial Alliance field-force unit—cheerfully suggesting they leave because their meal was free.

Jeongan asked, sounding puzzled,

“We’re really just going to leave?”

“Why? You want to stay?”

“Not particularly, but...... I don’t think this is right.”

It was an honest statement.

Yeon Hojeong nodded.

“You’re right. There were already guests here. Even if he isn’t charging us, it still puts everyone in an uncomfortable position.”

“Then......”

“Whatever happens, the Pavilion Master is the one who’ll bear responsibility for this decision. Whether the result is good or bad.”

“Is that so?”

“He made a choice and acted on it. If we refuse to leave and make a stand here, the Pavilion Master is the one who suffers.”

“Suffers how?”

“People are sensitive to rumors. If word spreads that a fight broke out here—and with the Fighting King’s disciple, no less—then for every person who comes because it sounds exciting, several more will stay away because they don’t want to get caught in a fight.”

“Ah......!”

“Of course, that isn’t the only reason. There are plenty of things to consider. But by my standards, at least, this isn’t a situation worth making more complicated than it needs to be.”

Standards.

Of everything Yeon Hojeong had said, that word struck Jeongan most deeply.

“Everyone else is getting up. We should go too.”

The three rose from their seats.

Mad Dragon was far too large and conspicuous a weapon, so Yeon Hojeong had left it behind with the Evil-Smiting Corps.

He had brought the Black-White Twin Dragon Axes, but they were concealed beneath his long outer robe. Unless someone had an exceptionally sharp eye, they could easily go unnoticed.

Gangryang and Jeongan both wore swords at their waists, of course, but plenty of people carried swords for self-defense.

The group had just risen and was about to descend the stairs when—

“You three. Hold it a moment.”

Gangryang looked up.

Jeon Hong was sitting on the staircase leading to the fourth floor.

His cheeks were slightly flushed—not nearly as badly as the Pavilion Master’s, but enough to show that he too had been drinking.

Gangryang asked,

“You mean us?”

“Yeah. You three.”

The casual disrespect in his tone was blatant.

Gangryang frowned.

“Was there something you wanted?”

“......Well, well. You’ve got more nerve than most. Even with me right in front of you, your tongue still moves pretty freely.”

“If you have nothing to say, we’ll be leaving.”

“I suppose you’d need at least that much nerve to crawl all the way back here. Isn’t that right, Young Sect Master of the Ghost-Iron Sword Gate?”

Gangryang’s face stiffened.

Jeon Hong grinned.

“You thought I wouldn’t recognize you?”

Yeon Hojeong scratched his cheek.

I certainly thought he wouldn’t.

Jeon Hong’s eyes flashed.

“A remnant of a rebel sect crawling back into Hunan...... You people must really think we’re a joke.”

“......I don’t know about anything else.”

A glacial light entered Gangryang’s eyes.

A rebel sect?

“But someone like you certainly looks laughable enough.”

Jeon Hong grinned.

It was a smile brimming with Killing Intent.