Chapter 939

That guy……

Jeok Cheongang recognized the familiar face hurrying toward them through the darkness and drew in the aura surging through his body.

Was it because the unexpected, unwelcome visitor was Hyuk Mujin?

No. Something about Mujin’s appearance was wrong.

Huff, huff.

His legs kept moving as he struggled for breath. Who knew how far he’d run? Sweat beaded on his face, and he looked desperate.

……Something must have happened.

Hoping his sudden sense of foreboding was mistaken, Jeok Cheongang called to Mujin, who had lost his bearings for a moment in the dark.

“What are you dawdling for?”

“Ah! Great Hero Jeok!”

Mujin rushed over, then stopped short when he spotted the Bow Saint.

“Th-this junior of Murim, Hyuk Mujin……”

The Bow Saint cut off his introduction with a small wave of her hand.

“Save the formalities. Tell us why you’re here.”

“It’s…… Captain. I mean, my lord ordered me to bring the two of you to him at once.”

“The two of us?”

“Yes. I searched everywhere and couldn’t find either of you. When I asked my lord, he told me where to look……”

The Bow Saint’s brow furrowed.

But it wasn’t because a junior so far below her—Jin Taekyung, who was practically still a child—had dared to summon her as if he could order her around.

“He said he’d explain everything in person. Everyone else is already gathered.”

At that, the Bow Saint clicked her tongue softly.

“Something more serious than I thought must have happened. Serious enough for him to summon you and me.”

Jeok Cheongang nodded gravely.

Taekyung could be reckless, but within the bounds he observed, the brat was scrupulous about courtesy. If he had sent a subordinate to fetch even the Bow Saint, who was an outsider to him, Jeok Cheongang couldn’t begin to guess how serious the matter was.

—Unfortunately, I think we’ll have to end our conversation here.

The Bow Saint’s Sound Transmission reached his ear. Jeok Cheongang studied her calm face with a heavy gaze. She didn’t look the least bit disappointed.

—So it seems. For tonight.

He meant to continue the conversation another time. There were things he still hadn’t said and questions he hadn’t dared to ask. He had no intention of leaving it at this.

—I hope our next conversation will be more meaningful than this one.

Despite his pointed words, the Bow Saint remained composed.

—I’m sure it will be. Even if it isn’t next time, we’ll have plenty of chances.

—What do you mean by……

Jeok Cheongang faltered at the many possible meanings in her answer. He was just about to continue when—

Flap, flap.

The sound of powerful wings suddenly rang overhead.

Those are……

Jeok Cheongang looked up. The Bow Saint turned at the same moment, and Mujin followed their gazes.

Whoosh!

Dozens of birds crossed the distant night sky. They flew in separate groups, each bound in a different direction, moving with the precision of creatures thoroughly trained.

“Messenger eagles……!”

Jeok Cheongang spoke almost in a groan. A weight settled in his chest.

Sending out so many precious messenger eagles—not ordinary messenger pigeons—meant the Great Nation’s imperial court was on the move.

Probably because of the news his Disciple had brought.

What could have happened?

At least one thing was certain: there was no time left to hesitate.

“Lead the way. Hurry.”

The night was still far too deep for dawn. Yet unseen unrest was already sweeping through the Imperial Palace.

“What happened?”

Those were Jeok Cheongang’s first words as he swept in like the wind. Instead of answering, I held out what was in my hand.

Swish.

His gaze darkened at the sight of several sheets of paper, still slick with oil.

“A missive?”

A veteran martial artist whose experience was second to none in the world, he had immediately recognized the papers. He took the stack from me and skimmed through it quickly.

Before even a few moments had passed, he looked up, his face as hard as stone.

“Is everything written here…… true?”

If it had been half an hour ago, I might not even have heard Jeok Cheongang’s voice.

But I’d since explained the situation to the Fire Dragon Pavilion members and passed the gist of it to Hong Jin and Qianqing Palace. I managed to answer calmly, though my answer was far from definite.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean!”

“To be precise, none of it has been confirmed yet. But……”

I looked from Jeok Cheongang’s rigid face to the Bow Saint, who was now reading the missive, and then to the Fire Dragon Pavilion members gathered inside the hall.

“The information is highly credible.”

“On what grounds?”

The Bow Saint set down the missive. Her gaze was graver than I’d ever seen it.

“No, before that—who sent it?”

“I don’t know that, either. Only that it was someone fairly high up in Dark Heaven.”

“How could someone like that send it to you……”

Her voice trailed off. Then she gave a low murmur.

“It wasn’t sent to you.”

Exactly. Whoever had written this missive had intended to pass the information to someone else.

“Could it be……?”

Jeok Cheongang spoke under his breath. I nodded.

“That’s right. It was among the things the Eastern Heaven Demon Lord kept.”

“……!”

“……!”

Their eyes widened. Even the Fire Dragon Pavilion members, who had heard the broad outline before Jeok Cheongang and the Bow Saint arrived, couldn’t hide their agitation.

Anyone who had read even one of those missives would react that way. The four or five sheets, still slick with oil, held information on which tens of thousands of lives depended. Maybe hundreds of thousands.

And one of them lay at my feet.

Tap.

I picked up the sheet with trembling fingers. Four characters caught my eye at once.

Shanxi Annihilation Plan.

At some unknown point in the past, someone had written to the Eastern Heaven Demon Lord: before the Double Ninth Festival¹, Dark Heaven’s main force would cross the vast northern grasslands and invade Shanxi Province.

Crack.

I clenched my teeth, swallowed a groan, and closed my eyes.

If—if this information was true……

Just half a month.

That was all the time left until the Double Ninth Festival¹.

All the time Shanxi Province had left. No—the Jin Family of Taiyuan.

Peace and turmoil went hand in hand.

Even in times of peace, disturbances great and small broke out somewhere in the world. And even amid the chaos of war, someone enjoyed peace.

That hadn’t changed when the long, fierce age of rival warlords ended and the Great Nation unified the land. It had always been true, was true now, and would remain true.

And nowhere in this vast world saw more constant strife than the northern grasslands.

A land of grass, earth, and horses. By day, birds rode the blue skies. By night, wild beasts huddled in the darkness and roamed in search of corpses.

Before the age of rival warlords, a nomadic people had conquered vast territories and called themselves rulers of the world. Their descendants still lived on those grasslands, in gers² made of cloth and grass rather than splendid palaces or behind towering walls, alongside the horses that had been their constant companions since they first learned to walk.

Yet the glory their great ancestors had won was slowly fading from memory.

“Hmm. Not bad. No—excellent.”

The man spoke with satisfaction and took another drink.

Like other nomads, he had shaved the crown of his head and braided his remaining hair into a long queue. His imposing build and the golden crown on his forehead would have made him stand out above everyone else—if not for the man seated beside him in the place of honor.

“Temur, my brother. Have you forgotten that too much of anything can become poison?”

The other man had deep eyes and a lean build. He clicked his tongue softly at the hulking Temur. On his forehead sat another golden crown, this one engraved with two horses.

“You’re right, Chinggen. You always are.”

Temur nodded at Chinggen, who looked displeased, then grinned, baring yellow teeth.

“But remember one thing. Alcohol is medicine in itself. It can never be poison.”

“Oh, Temur.”

“Don’t be like that on a fine day. Have a drink with me, hmm?”

Chinggen shook his head. Temur jabbed him in the waist, raised his cup high, and called out, “What do you say, proud brothers of the grasslands?”

“Waaah!”

Hundreds of warriors cheered inside the vast ger². Temur roared with laughter.

“That’s more like it!”

He was happy. Two years ago, he had led fewer tribespeople than there were warriors in this ger². But look at him now.

He wore a golden crown. Instead of drinking mare’s-milk wine, made by milking horses and boiling the milk with his followers, he drank his fill of fine liquor brought from the distant Central Plains.

And all around him, the cheers poured in.

“Long live Khan Temur! Long live Khan Chinggen!”

“May you live to a ripe old age!”

Khan.

Ruler of the vast grasslands. King over tens of thousands of horses and warriors.

How good it sounded. The title that had once been only a dream was his now.

The two brothers, who had shared life and death, joy and sorrow since childhood, had brought peace and prosperity to the endlessly turbulent grasslands—and at last earned the title of Khan.

“Can you hear them? Hm? I said, are you listening?”

Temur, who had been mingling with his warriors, filled Chinggen’s empty cup.

It was silver, imported from the Central Plains rather than carved from wood or animal bone. Its gleaming surface reflected both their faces: Temur’s broad grin and Chinggen’s unmistakable discomfort.

“Of course I hear them. But this isn’t the time to laugh and drink, Temur.”

“Good grief, there you go again. Since when does laughing and drinking need a special occasion?”

“My brother, didn’t I send a messenger with news?”

“Ah, that? I heard.”

Temur chewed noisily on a piece of meat as he continued.

“But don’t worry so much. We may be Khans now, but the grasslands are vast. We can’t do anything about what happens beyond our reach.”

Of course Temur knew. A few scouts had gone missing from time to time, and there had been several disturbances on the westernmost grasslands.

Not enough to make him forget the indulgence of the moment.

“Come, my ever-worried brother. Let’s empty our cups first, then talk.”

Temur laughed heartily and was about to offer Chinggen another drink when—

Flap.

A cold wind laden with sandy dust pushed open the entrance to the ger².