The banners of the Heavenly Accord flapped against the cold northern wind.
Langya Hall stood atop a raised plateau just outside Handan, the capital of Hebei Province. Its architecture was a marvel—crimson pillars etched with dragon motifs, layered eaves of black-tiled elegance, and dozens of silk banners swaying from spires and balconies. Every corner whispered of prestige. Beneath its high roof, the greatest martial authorities of the Central Plains had gathered. Leaders of the sects, heirs of the great families, enforcers of the Imperial Court—all present.
Ji Haneul stood at the foot of the hall's broad steps, his black robe trailing behind him like ash.
He said nothing.
The masters who faced him numbered twelve. They wore the flowing garments of Shaolin, Wudang, Mount Hua, and Emei. Behind them, several dozen elites formed ranks—disciples, commanders, envoys of the martial world's ruling order. Each of them stood at the peak of cultivation.
Each of them had taken part in the Purge.
The head of the Beggar's Union stepped forward. "Name yourself!"
Haneul tilted his head slightly. His long hair, untied, shifted in the wind. His hands rested at his sides.
"I don't need to," he said. His voice was low, yet it carried over the entire plateau.
"So you've come to die, nameless?" said the woman from Emei. Her fingers traced the hilt of her curved saber. "You desecrate the Accord with your silence."
Haneul stepped forward once.
The air cracked.
No visible energy burst. No flourish. But every master present tensed, their inner qi instinctively shielding their organs.
"You should have remained buried," said the Shaolin abbot.
Haneul's eyes flicked toward him. "You should have burned completely."
He drew his sword.
No sound. Just steel glinting for a moment—and then the killing began.
The first wave came from both sides—Mount Hua sword disciples and Qingcheng twin sabers. Haneul weaved through them with neither footwork nor qi burst. He simply moved. Blades swung, clashed, missed—his sword moved once, and five men dropped.
The second wave approached with formation technique—Emei's spinning crescent strikes and Wudang's soft deflection circle. Haneul cut through them as if they moved in slow motion. A shoulder split from torso, then a head slid sideways. The sword never rang.
The leaders descended in full force.
A monk of Kongtong attempted to seal his meridians with a palm strike. Haneul parried with his forearm and severed the man's wrist in one turn. Then his sword spun backward through the woman from Emei, and she folded forward, bisected at the waist.
The sky darkened.
Not from clouds—but from pressure. The twelve remaining masters gathered, each one a beacon of force. The ground trembled. Haneul stood at the center of their encircling formation.
"You've made it far," the abbot said. "But even ghosts can die."
"I'm not a ghost," Haneul said.
He raised his blade. His qi surged—not wildly, but like an ocean surfacing. Stillness turned to inevitability.
The masters attacked at once. Fist arts, inner flame, talismans, chained weapons, sonic strikes—all converged.
Haneul moved. One step. Then a blur.
His sword became an arc of silence.
Time split.
One by one, masters fell—limbs missing, throats pierced, meridians crushed. They were at the Resonance Realm. Haneul was beyond them.
At the peak of the Voidvein Realm, he was no longer bound by the motion of the world.
Blood painted the snow. Only the abbot remained.
"I see it now…" the abbot whispered. "You're the last one…"
Haneul looked him in the eyes.
Then he pointed his sword—not at the abbot, but at the sky.
And cut.
The world cracked. A line of light split the horizon. Langya Hall, and everything behind it, broke in two with no sound.
Stone, wood, flesh, and memory—split cleanly, as if by judgment.
Silence followed.
Then snow.
Haneul turned and walked away. Not a single drop of blood had touched him.