Recently, many martial artists of the Hwagyeong Realm had died.
Among them, the number personally slain by Heavenly Lord Lee Seo-jun was considerable.
Starting with Si Hyeol Mancheon, followed by Hyeok Mun-yak, the Master of Gi Ryeon Sect, Geomhyeon, the previous Sword Sect Leader, Baek Yoon and Neung Wol of Myeolshinhwe, and even Sword Maniac himself.
Six Hwagyeong had met their end at the hands of a single man.
It was nothing short of unprecedented. In all of martial history, there were few instances where so many Hwagyeong had perished in such a short span.
And yet, the blood on Heavenly Lord Lee Seo-jun’s hands did not stop there.
From the countless warriors of the Dark Blood Lotus, to every foe he had encountered in Zhongyuan—if one were to count them all, the number would comfortably exceed five figures.
A true textbook example of a deranged serial killer.
Had he done this on Earth, his name would have at least been recorded in history books.
Of course, Zhongyuan was no different.
The title Heavenly Lord was already infamous.
His reputation spread indiscriminately across orthodox, unorthodox, and demonic factions alike. The mere mention of Myeol (Annihilation) from Heavenly Lord’s name was enough to make the warriors of Dark Blood Lotus tremble in terror.
The merciless, bloodstained serial killer, Heavenly Lord Lee Seo-jun, pondered.
"Is the concept of karmic debt even real?"
If it were, then every martial artist in this world was surely bound for hell.
However, he recalled the stories his fiancée, Namgung Sua, had told him about the afterlife.
Even Yama, the Judge of the Dead, had not uttered a single word about karmic retribution when he judged Namgung Jincheon, the greatest warrior under the heavens, and his wife Yeon So-hee.
If such a concept as karma, sin, or retribution truly existed, then such a thing should have been impossible.
Someone might argue:
"Perhaps their sins were far greater than mere killing, which is why Yama did not mention it?"
It wasn’t a very convincing argument, but let’s assume it were true.
That raised another question.
"What weight does a human life truly hold?"
Is there a difference between the life of a human and that of a beast? If so, what determines that difference?
That nonsense about natural human rights was just that—nonsense.
The heavens had never granted such a privilege to mankind.
If a human life weighed more than a beast’s, it could only be because of status and hierarchy.
Otherwise, there was no logical reason for a difference in weight.
While this way of thinking was undeniably human-centric, the undeniable reality was that humans were the majority in Zhongyuan.
Thus, according to those who argued for the supreme value of human life, humans were of a higher rank compared to other beings.
But that led to yet another question.
Martial artists refine themselves through the pursuit of strength.
They reach their peak in the Supreme Realm, surpass humanity as Transcendents in the Hwagyeong Realm, and ascend beyond into the divine.
In that case—was there really any difference between a Hwagyeong slaughtering a mere human and a human butchering livestock?
****
Seo-jun stared blankly at the sight before him.
Chunbong was training Bi-yeon.
Lately, his daily life had been quite simple.
He had intended to track down the remnants of Myeolshinhwe, but after Baek Yoon, Neung Wol, and Sword Maniac were taken down, the survivors had seemingly caught on.
No matter how many times he tried to contact them through communication crystals, not a single one picked up.
As a result, all that was left for him to do was:
Right now, it was inner demon contemplation time.
Lately, the topic Seo-jun had been fixated on was talent.
The thoughts he had earlier—about the weight of human life and the nature of hierarchy—were merely extensions of that.
Can talent determine the status of one’s soul?
Or is the real measure of hierarchy what someone has already achieved?
If karma were something dictated by the heavens, then why would those very heavens treat humans as anything special?
“So?”
Namgung Sua’s question snapped him out of his thoughts.
Seo-jun shrugged.
“Well... I doubt karma even exists. Killing is just killing. If anything like that did exist, it’d probably be more like a curse left behind by the dead.”
“Hmm... Then that means your inner demon probably has nothing to do with karmic debt either?”
“Yeah. Honestly, I think it’s something I’ve had since birth.”
He had spent some time reflecting on his own flaws, trying to understand the origin of his inner demon.
Perhaps, if he could uncover the cause, he could find a way to resolve it.
The result?
Nothing.
His inner demon hadn’t worsened.
But it hadn’t improved either.
So Seo-jun simply gave up.
“Huh? You’re giving up?”
Namgung Sua looked at him in disbelief, but Seo-jun remained unfazed.
“Yeah. Might as well just get used to it.”
After all, not using Hunwon wasn’t an option.
Not for any grand reason—just because it pissed him off.
‘Who the hell does it think it is, interfering when I want to use my own power?’
Seo-jun turned his gaze inward.
There, coiled deep within his subconscious, lay a massive, serpentine figure.
Perhaps due to the time that had passed since being beaten half to death by Giant Chunbong and Namgung Sua, it had grown a bit quieter.
At least, locking eyes with it no longer made him cough up blood on the spot.
‘Maybe I should just—’
Clicking his tongue, Seo-jun idly spun Hunwon in his palm.
Namgung Sua watched him with concern, but he remained indifferent.
Once again, he fell into thought.
Mugeuk and Hunwon—the more he analyzed them, the more meaningless the distinction between the two seemed.
Mugeuk was emptiness, an unmanifested potential.
Hunwon was the primal chaos, where all things were mixed together.
As the womb of all creation, Hunwon contained Mugeuk within it.
Did that mean Hunwon was a higher concept than Mugeuk?
If that were true, then why did Mugeuk still possess the potential to become Hunwon?
In the end, weren’t they simply different names for the same thing—depending on whether something existed or didn’t?
And if that was the case—
Then wasn’t everything in existence—perhaps even every person around him—
“Urgh—!”
Seo-jun abruptly coughed up a mouthful of blood, patting his chest.
“Hah... The more I do this, the more I’m getting used to it.”
“Are you sure that’s something you should be getting used to?”
A horrified Namgung Sua wiped the blood from his lips.
“It’s fine. I won’t die.”
“You sure?”
“Mmm... Probably?”
After pressing a brief kiss to Namgung Sua’s forehead, Seo-jun suddenly got up and headed toward Chunbong.
With a deep sigh, Namgung Sua followed behind him.
“Oh, hey, big bro! You’re here.”
Chunbong greeted him with a bright smile, and Bi-yeon didn’t look particularly gloomy either.
“What’s this? Did you make some progress?”
When Seo-jun asked, Chunbong nodded.
“Yeah. Maybe about... a hundredth of an ant’s eye gunk?”
“Chunbong... We don’t call that progress.”
“What? It’s still progress, isn’t it?”
Chunbong declared with absolute confidence.
“At this rate, we should be done in... sixty years?”
“To reach Supreme Realm?”
“Nah, just First-Class.”
“...Ah.”
So it wasn’t that they looked bright—they were just resigned.
And Bi-yeon’s expression wasn’t not gloomy—he was just completely empty inside.
“Sixty years just to reach First-Class...”
By that time, revenge would probably be meaningless.
To take revenge, the people you want to kill actually need to be alive, don’t they?
Most of those in the Unorthodox World didn’t live long. After sixty years, there was a good chance their bodies would already be buried underground.
The only possibility left was discovering some kind of hidden talent in Bi-yeon and training him in a style suited to that.
But Bi-yeon insisted on learning the Yangrok Clan’s martial arts, which ruled out that option entirely.
So for now, they were simply going through the basics of swordsmanship.
And both Chunbong and Bi-yeon knew this was leading nowhere.
“Right?”
“Yeah...”
Chunbong pouted.
As a teacher, she had taken great pride in raising Lee Seo-jun.
But in the past few days, she had come to a realization.
Seo-jun would’ve done just fine even without a teacher...
“Ugh...”
“What.”
Chunbong’s sulking.
It hit Seo-jun like a bolt of lightning.
His hyper-intelligent mind instantly began piecing together fragments of insight, gathering the tangled threads of his recent thoughts into a coherent conclusion.
And just as he had always done, Seo-jun responded to Chunbong’s frustration with complete nonsense.
“If you don’t have talent, just make some.”
“...What?”
****
According to Seo-jun:
“If you don’t have talent, just make some.”
According to Chunbong:
“Don’t talk nonsense, you idiot!”
Utterly baffled, Chunbong screamed at him.
But Seo-jun was dead serious.
“What exactly is talent?”
“Something you’re born with.”
“Right. If you’re short, you can grow taller. If your limbs are too short, you can stretch them.”
It was pure nonsense no matter how you looked at it, but Chunbong humored him.
“Then what about intelligence? That’s the real issue here. It’s not like he’s failing because his arms are too short.”
“If he lacks intelligence, we just replace it with something else.”
The Golden Fortune Divine Art was built on Mugeuk and Taeguk.
Mugeuk was the ocean, while Taeguk was the waves.
Even when waves rippled across the surface, ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) the ocean itself remained unchanged.
And Mugeuk was nothingness—the ultimate void.
Bi-yeon’s body, a blank slate, was Mugeuk itself.
“...I don’t think that’s how it works.”
Chunbong’s words went in one ear and out the other.
Seo-jun pointed at Bi-yeon.
“Hey, kid. What do you think can replace talent?”
Bi-yeon’s eyes rolled around as he struggled to find an answer.
“...Effort?”
“A bit cliché, but yeah.”
Technically, if Bi-yeon put in sixty years of effort, he could reach First-Class.
But sixty years was not a short amount of time.
Others could reach that level in a year (though that was unusual), or in ten, maybe twenty years at most.
Why was Bi-yeon the only one who needed sixty years?
It was because he lacked:
But among all of that, Seo-jun could give Bi-yeon something to replace intelligence.
“Your job is to replace talent with effort.”
Effort to replace talent.
And something to replace intelligence.
When those two factors were balanced, only then would Bi-yeon finally stand at the same starting line as everyone else.
Staring into Seo-jun’s eyes, Bi-yeon instinctively spoke.
It wasn’t because he was expecting an answer.
It was just... an unresolved anxiety he couldn’t suppress.
“...Why are you doing this for me? I have nothing to give you in return.”
At that, Seo-jun grinned.
“A reason to help you? Of course, I don’t have one.”
Bi-yeon’s face froze in shock.
“T-Then why...?”
“Because Chunbong asked me to.”
“...Huh?”
“So be good to Chunbong.”
Seo-jun ruffled Bi-yeon’s hair roughly.
“If you make her cry, I’ll kill you.”
Bi-yeon immediately stiffened.