Surviving as a Genius on Borrowed Time-Chapter 367: A Supreme Martial Master (2)

The sound of silk brushing against blades of grass was stark against the silence.

The junior disciples of the Nine Orthodox Sects, who had been studying the traces left by their masters' techniques, stood frozen in place, ears straining in disbelief.

Even those who had been glaring daggers at the Five Sentinels of Vengeance turned their heads.

"Did he just say... Lord of Ipwang Fortress, Ma Gwang-ik?"

"I saw Seomye at the Han-Zhong Martial Alliance Gathering—his physique was completely different from this man’s."

"He was much younger."

"Of all people, to lie to the elders of Mount Qingcheng and Emei...."

The group of junior disciples traveling with the Nine Sects' masters consisted of about twelve well-trained warriors.

They had all properly learned and internalized the foundational principles of their sects’ Qi perception techniques, making them leagues apart from ordinary vagrant martial artists.

Even as they devoted mental focus elsewhere, they kept their Qi senses attuned to their surroundings.

This was the nature of their battlefield training—they had endured countless blood-soaked conflicts, always needing to remain vigilant.

Naturally, they were observing every subtle movement of the black-clad youth before them.

It was impossible not to feel uneasy.

The elders of the Nine Sects could not be spoken down to—not only would it be an affront to Ziwei Arhat and Qing Eun Daozhang, but it would also humiliate their entire sects.

"Brothers, let’s be patient. This layman's Qi is no ordinary thing—his words cannot be dismissed outright."

"I agree."

The Golden Staff Saintess of Emei and Red Cloud Dragon of Mount Qingcheng, two rising prodigies of the Nine Sects, did not lash out at the black-clad youth’s remarks.

Instead, they calmly reassured their companions, then observed Jeong Yeon-shin with composed, contemplative expressions.

"Lord of Ipwang Fortress?"

Qing Eun Daozhang, standing with Red Cloud Dragon at his back, echoed the name. His sharp brows furrowed with doubt.

"Can you take responsibility for those words?"

He had felt it—a faint yet overwhelming Qi presence when Jeong Yeon-shin had used his light movement technique earlier.

His wariness was justified.

"Do I need to?"

Jeong Yeon-shin tilted his head slightly.

He thought to himself—was there any real need for this conversation to continue? It wasn’t as if he planned to travel alongside them.

Sensing his indifference, the middle-aged bhikkhuni, who had previously been brutally crushing the Five Sentinels with her iron staff, brought her hands together in a formal gesture and spoke.

"Even the slightest brush of sleeves in passing is fate. And yet, layman, it seems you have no further business with us."

"The sleeves never brushed," Jeong Yeon-shin replied absently.

And then—

"The Twin Venomous Dragons of the Tang Clan...?! What the—!"

"They have no Qi presence! They’ve already passed away!"

A commotion erupted behind him.

The junior disciples—led here by their masters of the Nine Sects as if shepherded into place—had noticed the Tang siblings' corpses lying on the ground.

Some, having mastered Qi perception techniques, had immediately recognized the absence of life.

"So it was all a lie! He’s no warrior of Ipwang Fortress!"

"Or maybe he is—is it really so surprising that the imperial blade would cut down fellow martial artists? It wouldn’t be the first time."

The sound of hurried footsteps rang out.

The swift movements suggested an attempt to seize the bodies of the Tang siblings—likely to return them to the Tang Clan.

Jeong Yeon-shin thought to himself.

That cannot happen.

The world had already plunged into chaos, and these people could barely withstand a monkey’s feeble grip on chopsticks, much less deliver the bodies of the Twin Venomous Dragons safely to Tang Clan territory.

"Stop."

He spoke without turning around.

A response came immediately.

"By what right do you make such demands? Even if what you said earlier was true, that is not for you to decide."

"Entrust the direct bloodline of the Tang Clan to a warrior of Ipwang Fortress? That’s absurd."

"You should be the one answering for this—who’s to say you weren’t the one who killed them?"

Several figures rushed forward with long strides, heading straight for the Tang siblings' bodies.

Yet, the true masters—Ziwei Arhat and Qing Eun Daozhang—stood in place, watching Jeong Yeon-shin warily instead of intervening.

The Golden Staff Saintess and Red Cloud Dragon, caught between their elders and junior disciples, looked increasingly uneasy.

And then—

Jeong Yeon-shin said nothing.

He simply took one step forward.

It was deliberate—as if he had already expected this outcome.

His movement was slow, like a casual stroll.

Or was it?

For just a moment, a faint shimmer of starlight seemed to glimmer beneath his foot.

Behind that light, only a phantom afterimage remained.

At the same instant, the grass and thickets—which had previously been leaning toward him—suddenly bent in the opposite direction.

Fwaaaah!

The eyes of the four orthodox masters widened.

The gentle displacement of air brushed past their ears—before they could even process it, they realized:

Jeong Yeon-shin had already passed them.

A true martial master.

No—something beyond that.

Red Cloud Dragon instinctively whipped his head around.

But even his trained gaze was too slow to follow.

Instead, he saw three disciples, who had just reached for the Tang siblings' bodies, suddenly lose balance and collapse.

And beyond them—

The black-clad youth, already moving past, scattering faint trails of light in his wake.

His movement was fragmented, like a constellation shifting in the night sky.

At the very tip of his outstretched hand, a pale, radiant glow dissipated like an illusion.

"When did he—?!"

A divine technique.

A momentary dance across space itself.

A level of mastery beyond mortal reach.

The force of his strike, scattering like starlight, swept through the air—before anyone could react, all of the junior disciples surrounding the Tang siblings were sent flying.

A deafening impact, followed by absolute silence.

Red Cloud Dragon had not even seen how he struck.

The movement had seemed simple, yet something about it was utterly ungraspable.

And then, he realized why.

"Unbelievable... Qing Eun Zhen...!"

The subtle intricacy in every motion had been immense.

Even the slightest twitch of muscle and the smallest burst of internal Qi had a purpose.

Even though it lasted only a fraction of a second—

He glanced to the side.

The Golden Staff Saintess, her lips slightly parted.

Her talent rivaled his own—and she must have felt the same overwhelming gap.

"At his age... with such mastery... even Peng Gaihu wouldn’t compare. Only the Holy Child of the Ming Cult could match this...."

The Little Sword Queen of Mount Song, Golden Staff Saintess of Emei, Red Cloud Dragon of Mount Qingcheng—

They had all been hailed as the next generation of the martial world.

Yet they had all hit a wall.

For the Little Sword Queen, it had been when she met Seomye of Ipwang Fortress.

For the Golden Staff Saintess and Red Cloud Dragon, it was this moment.

As their gazes darkened with realization—

Swish.

Jeong Yeon-shin slowly turned.

The radiant energy lingering in his hands vanished without a trace.

"The Twin Venomous Dragons forged this sword for me."

He placed his hand on the silver-hilted blade at his waist.

"Do not interfere. I will repay my debt first."

The gazes of the junior disciples who had not lost consciousness, along with the orthodox sect warriors, briefly flickered toward the hilt of the sacred sword.

Jeong Yeon-shin paid them no mind and continued speaking.

"Where exactly are we?"

"...This is Chodam Path in Deogyang."

Ziwei Arhat, who had been watching him intently, answered unexpectedly.

She was the mentor of the Golden Staff Saintess—a senior woman of her sect.

Jeong Yeon-shin glanced briefly at the iron staff in her grip before shaking his head slightly.

Still, he felt relieved.

Deogyang wasn’t far from the Tang Clan.

He recalled that there was a sizable village further down the road.

Once there, he could purchase a coffin and a cart to transport the bodies.

He couldn’t continue carrying the Tang siblings' corpses like this—it would be a disgrace to the honor of the dead.

"To the Tang Clan...?"

Qing Eun Daozhang asked.

Jeong Yeon-shin gave a slight nod.

With deliberate care, he lifted the Tang siblings' lifeless bodies, securing them under each arm.

The junior disciples, still scattered across the ground, stared at him in stunned silence.

Step.

The golden 荒 (Hwang) character on Jeong Yeon-shin’s shoulder caught the fading twilight glow as he turned his back and began to walk away.

From a distance, the Golden Staff Saintess and Red Cloud Dragon watched his retreating figure in silence—until they spoke.

"Let's follow him."

"We need to confirm it for ourselves."

The elders of the Nine Sects, standing beside them, detected a subtle mixture of rivalry and excitement in their voices.

The competitive spirit one martial artist felt toward another of the same generation.

Neither Ziwei Arhat nor Qing Eun Daozhang said a word.

They simply nodded.

As the elders of their sects, they could not fault their disciples for harboring such ambitions.

Besides, they needed to visit the Tang Clan sooner or later—there had been a great disturbance there.

***

A vast estate, its high walls stretching endlessly in either direction.

The fortified walls, basked in sunlight, were a clear testament to the Tang Clan’s wealth and power, a rare sight even in Sichuan.

Yet amidst this grandeur, the air shook with constant explosions, like thunderous detonations.

The ground trembled, turning over on itself as massive chunks of earth were sent soaring into the sky.

This was Tang Clan territory.

The home of the greatest martial aristocracy of Sichuan had long since transformed into a war zone.

"That area’s exposed!"

"Prepare for Poison Flooding Techniques! Don’t just focus on your footwork, reinforce your defensive Qi armor!"

"The flank has been breached! Hold the line!"

Countless martial artists darted through the battlefield, too many to track at once.

Figures clashed and fell, only to be replaced by more warriors surging forward.

Each time a stronger clash of Qi erupted, shockwaves rippled through the air, shattering roof tiles and sending debris raining down.

The Tang Clan’s fortress was built against the back of a towering cliff.

On that very cliff face, clinging like a spider, was So Il-su, a White Rank Warrior of the Ipwang Fortress Sichuan Division.

Cold sweat trickled down his back.

Even after clinging to the wall for over a day and a half using Wall Gecko Technique, the sheer scale of the battlefield below left him utterly shaken.

The battle aura—rising like razor-sharp blades—was crushing.

The residual shockwaves from countless kicks and strikes weighed heavily on his skin.

And amidst it all—

Supreme martial masters, their bodies blurring from sheer speed, sliced through the battlefield like phantoms.

So Il-su swallowed hard.

Sweat pooled in his palm, which was pressed tightly against the wall, channeling Qi to maintain his grip.

"The Tenfold Gate, Sunmaryeon, Yeoryeong Sect... and the unorthodox sects that submitted to them. This is madness. The branch leader should have come himself!"

Though scattered battles had erupted across the martial world in recent times, this was different.

A direct assault on one of the Eight Great Families was an entirely different matter.

This was no ordinary conflict between martial factions—

This content is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

This was an attack on the Tang Clan itself.

Among the Eight Great Families, the Tang Clan was one of the few that maintained cordial relations with Ipwang Fortress.

The reason?

They helped uphold order in Sichuan’s martial world.

Despite their immense power, the Tang Clan never engaged in wanton plunder, nor did they clash needlessly with Ipwang Fortress.

A rare sight among martial sects.

For Ipwang Fortress, which was always short-handed, /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ the Tang Clan had been a blessing.

They could not be allowed to fall.

And yet, to So Il-su’s eyes, they were on the verge of annihilation.

"Advance! We’re clear to move in!"

"The Poison Veil has already taken those corpses—no need for internal Qi circulation, just rush in!"

At the Tang Clan’s front gate—

Warriors stepped over the corpses of their fallen brethren, their faces pale with fear.

The Nine Poison Formation, which was meant to turn the entrance into a death trap, had already been overwhelmed and rendered useless.

The massive front courtyard leading to the inner chambers was no different.

The Deadly Silent Dragon Formation, a hidden underground mechanism that launched volleys of poisoned steel needles, had impaled dozens—yet the unorthodox warriors continued marching forward, using their fallen comrades as shields.

But the true horror was yet to come.

["Even after all these years, are you still bedridden, Clan Lord of the Tang?"]

An elderly man, his long white beard flowing like a celestial sage, stood in place.

His hands were covered in gleaming, poison-stained green gauntlets, yet he ignored the Tang warriors surrounding him.

With a mere snap of his fingers, the air itself blackened.

The Poison King’s Aura.

The Ghost King’s Spirit, a Tang Clan formation, was meant to unleash toxic green mist—yet before this man’s power, the mist ignited and vanished.

And each time his Qi-infused snaps rang out, Tang Clan warriors exploded into bursts of blood.

An inhuman display of overwhelming power.

This was the new Warlord of Sunmaryeon.

The former master of the previous Warlord, who had perished in a thousand-duel battle against the Holy Child of the Ming Cult.

He had once retired due to the backlash of demonic arts—but after hearing of his disciple’s death, he had reached the realm of transcending the demonic.

"That old monster refuses to die..."

So Il-su carefully shifted his gaze—his priority target list was growing.

A man clad in white armor stood nearby.

Like the new Warlord, he was also surrounded by Tang warriors—but at first glance, he did not appear to be a martial artist.

His Qi flow was tranquil, despite being one of the greatest masters of weaponry in the world.

"The Lord of the Tenfold Gate...!"

Sword in his left hand. Blade in his right.

Each time he thrust his sword, the air trembled.

Each time he swung his blade, the atmosphere roared.

His Qi-infused strikes were powerful enough to rupture the very space around him.

Even the Tang warriors, clad in Thunderstorm Formation Armor, their bodies crackling with electric Qi, were shattered by his attacks.

BOOM!

Even the monks of Emei and Taoists of Mount Qingcheng, who had been holding the line for days, instinctively stepped backward.

The battlefield was shifting.

"The Tang Clan won’t fall immediately."

So Il-su assessed.

For some reason, the unorthodox sects were tightening their grip on the Tang Clan, rather than delivering a final blow.

As if waiting for something.

If they had truly intended to destroy the Tang Clan, it would have already happened.

"Still, I need to report this. The number of shattered formations alone...."

Just as he prepared to retreat—

A voice.

["And what do we have here?"]

"...!"

So Il-su’s breath caught in his throat.

His body froze—still clinging to the cliff in his Wall Gecko stance.

A chill ran down his spine.

He could not move.

Behind him—

A man stood on thin air.

His beard, immaculately white, was neatly tucked against his chest.

His midnight-blue robe, adorned with landscape paintings, crackled with pure, black lightning.

A haunting smile stretched across his lips.

"An Ipwang Fortress spy? How amusing."

The old Warlord of Sunmaryeon spoke softly, yet his obsidian eyes blazed like a bottomless abyss.

So Il-su’s entire body trembled uncontrollably.

A true martial master.

A force beyond human comprehension.

He cursed the Sichuan Branch Leader, Jang Il-do, in his heart.

"Why... why did you send me here?!"

The old Warlord laughed.

His voice was a whisper from hell itself.

And then—

Creak.

A small, wooden cart rolled across the Tang Clan’s bloodstained gates.

A black-cloaked youth—dragging the weathered cart behind him—stepped quietly into the battlefield.