Chapter 75 There had once been a time when she enjoyed sensations like this.
Was it because she had been young and reckless? Or because she had believed she might finally put an end to the life of a doll?
Without the slightest intoxication or thrill of victory, Yeo Il fixed her gaze on Namgung Hui-myeong—who calmly encouraged his opponent—and searched for the faintest suspicious trace that might be caught.
Just moments ago, they had been in an uproar about Wolgeom Ilsal appearing.
Yet now, as though nothing had happened, the atmosphere was no different from yesterday's festival.
Which meant—
Tang Maeryeong had yet to make contact with the Alliance Leader or the General Administrator.
With no proper investigation underway, the matter had simply faded.
Here and there across the tournament grounds stood the Wind and Thunder Unit, acting as the Alliance Leader's eyes and ears. Their discipline was taut, yet their gazes did not carry the vigilance of men searching for a hidden threat.
And aside from Namgung Hui-myeong, she could not find a single familiar face.
Not when she casually borrowed a wandering swordsman's blade.
Not when she slipped into the Murim Alliance's main hall while evading all detection.
Not even when she heard the martial artists gathered in one wing of the hall laughing boisterously in broad daylight.
"Yeo Il."
Even when dark clouds gathered overhead, casting shadows upon the earth.
Even when a strange stillness began to consume the surroundings—
"Do you even know where you're going?"
Yeo Il halted.
They had crossed into the inner corridor of the main hall, where thick bamboo grew in abundance.
Thud. Thud.
"…The reverberation is growing."
Under normal circumstances, Jin Cheong-ak would have joked, "Reverberation? Is it my face?" But he remained silent.
He looked at her with an utterly expressionless face. His lips parted as though to speak, then closed again.
"Jin Cheong-ak. Go back."
Yeo Il drew her sword.
She turned and ran. Eyes closed, she flew through the labyrinthine corridors she had once crossed hand in hand with Jin Cheong-ak, reaching a massive gate.
One stroke.
A single stroke was enough to shatter the doors barring her way.
Boom.
She threw herself through the broken opening. The stale scent she had felt during the secret meeting was now mixed with the acrid smell of blood. The sealed interior, without a single window, was stifling and hot, swollen by the oppressive aura of two martial artists locked in combat.
Her sudden intrusion drew every gaze.
No—not every.
There were only three people.
Tang Maeryeong, kneeling, clutching her side as she struggled to breathe.
A bizarre man soaked in blood, gripping his opponent's collar, emanating a chilling aura.
And—
Bang Woo.
Dying.
Wuuung.
Yeo Il released sword qi, forcing apart the unknown martial artist and Bang Woo. Thrown backward, Bang Woo coughed up blood and barely propped himself up on trembling arms.
The man had not completely evaded the sudden strike; retreating to the wall, he clutched his left shoulder.
But as if nothing had happened, he ran along the wall and launched himself at Yeo Il.
Fwaaah—!
Even in broad daylight, the blade shone with unmistakable brilliance, pressing down upon hers.
Yeo Il endured.
She did not overpower him with brute force. Slowly—yet not sluggishly—she deflected and received his strikes.
Her gaze, sharper than ever, scanned the sword, the face, the frame, the movement.
Without a word.
Without agitation or leisure.
She simply countered.
Thud.
Thud.
Hot blood surged through her head and eyes.
The unfocused eyes of the martial artist, the filthy red mist swirling within them… dragged forth memories she wished never to recall.
[Yeo Il, Yeo Il….]
Meanwhile, Tang Maeryeong, having checked on Bang Woo, looked utterly bewildered.
"You are…?"
Her surprise at Yeo Il's arrival lasted only a moment.
Believing her to be their sole ally, Tang Maeryeong urgently warned,
"Be careful! That man is one of the Three Calamities—Wolgeom Ilsal! Though he appears unwell, he will not fall easily. Do not let your guard down!"
Wolgeom Ilsal?
This is Wolgeom Ilsal?
Yeo Il let out a hollow laugh.
"That's not Wolgeom."
This was not Wolgeom.
"Huuk… huuk…."
And far less was it Ilsal.
A body unable to keep pace with its own swordsmanship.
That was her opponent.
Absurd.
To wield such refined swordplay with such a lacking physique?
"If not Wolgeom… then what is that grotesque sword and its master?" Tang Maeryeong's voice rang with confusion.
Facing her opponent—who swung his blade like a madman lost in trance—Yeo Il murmured,
"Ilgeom."
Born as Wolgeom's twin—another famed blade, and a demonic sword.
"Ilgeom?"
Just as Wolgeom had belonged to Yeo Il, Ilgeom had an owner as well. A very clear owner whom she knew well.
That was why the confusion deepened.
I suspected as much the moment Wolgeom was mentioned.
Why was Ilgeom here, in the hands of someone whose identity was unclear?
"Impossible! If it is Ilgeom, then surely—!"
Tang Maeryeong cried out, agitation plain in her voice.
"It is the blade of Cheon Mu-ryeong!"
Yeo Il's sword pierced her opponent's shoulder.
Not through a shift in technique or a sudden surge—simply because his body had begun to collapse.
Yet he gave no cry, no change in expression, as though he felt no pain at all.
Like a wooden puppet moving.
Then the realization struck like lightning.
Sorcery.
This was sorcery.
How else could he dare wield Ilgeom? How else could he display swordsmanship beyond his body's capacity? How else remain insensible to pain?
Someone had stolen this man's will and manipulated him like a puppet, stitching long, rigid strings into him.
Meeting those dim eyes confirmed it.
Of course it would.
Foolishly.
[Yeo Il, Yeo Il….]
[Did I not always say?]
There was only one sorcerer in the martial world who could command Ilgeom.
[This elder brother cherishes you greatly.]
"Cheon Mu-ryeong."
The red mist pooled within those eyes sharpened.
In that instant—
Something beyond the mist pierced Yeo Il.
A revolting sensation of her thoughts being laid bare.
A chilling laugh echoed like an auditory hallucination.
The man spoke.
[I've found you.]
A voice stretching long and tenacious as creeping vines seized her ankle.
It felt as though bile had surged up to her solar plexus, threatening to spill forth at any moment.
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