The wine touched his tongue.
Rich. Heavy. Metallic, laced with a subtle bitterness that slipped beneath the sweetness, sharp as a hidden blade.
Cheon Ye-mok drank slowly. Deliberately. One measured sip. Then another. Deeper.
The hall held its breath. Every eye fixed. Every aura suppressed.
The chalice was half-empty when he finally lowered it.
Three heartbeats of calm.
Then the chill came. Subtle at first — a whisper of winter curling through his meridians.
He recognized it instantly.
Nine Yin Soul-Extinguishing Elixir. The rarest poison in the Nine Provinces. A venom designed to bind even a Transcendent cultivator for exactly ten minutes.
A single drop of blood escaped the corner of his mouth, stark against his pale skin.
Baek Cheon-il rose from his kneel. The warmth that had always lingered in his eyes was gone. In its place: triumph. Raw. Unmasked.
"Yes, Master," he said. Reverence abandoned, authority reclaimed.
From the shadows along the pillars, the other four elders stepped forward, weapons drawn. White-robed figures emerged behind them — Shaolin, Wudang, Kunlun, Emei. Masters who should never have survived an audience with Cheon Ye-mok… yet here they were.
Guests. Allies. Betrayers.
Cheon Ye-mok remained seated. Crimson eyes sweeping the hall, cataloging every blade, every aura, every movement.
Finally, he looked at his five disciples — the ones he had raised, fed, taught, and trusted.
"Eighty years, Cheon-il," he said quietly, each word cutting through the tension like a knife. "I carried you from the snow. Your fingers were black with frost. You could not even hold a sword."
Baek Cheon-il's smile widened, cold and satisfied. "And you kept me in your shadow ever since. No matter how high I climbed, your peak was always higher. The throne would remain empty when you ascended. We would inherit only fragments."
Hyeon Mu-geuk's voice followed — sharp, precise. "The complete Heavenly Demon Arts. You intended to ascend alone. Leave us behind."
Jin Sa-ryung laughed. Sharp. Bitter. "We were loyal dogs long enough."
The twin sisters said nothing. Their blades were already in hand. Silent, fluid, inevitable.
Cheon Ye-mok closed his eyes. One breath. Then he opened them again. The crimson deepened. Not with anger. With clarity.
"I see."
He placed the chalice gently on the arm of the throne. The metal rang softly against fused steel and bone.
"Then… come."
The hall erupted.
Baek Cheon-il moved first. His palm struck out — black demonic qi condensing into the Heavenly Demon Annihilation Palm, the very technique Cheon Ye-mok had first taught him. It slammed into Cheon Ye-mok's chest, a thunderclap of power and precision.
The others followed. Blades flashed. Hooks slashed. Spear shadows pierced. Righteous arts collided with demonic — golden Buddha palms, Daoist sword light, pure yang flames — all directed at the seated man.
Blood sprayed. Robes tore. Flesh parted.
Cheon Ye-mok did not rise. Did not block. Did not retaliate. He simply endured.
Each strike landed true. His dantian shuddered. Meridians froze, then fractured. The poison spread inexorably. Ten minutes — that was all it allowed. Enough.
The steps to the throne became slick with his blood. Steel rang against bone. Qi exploded. Flesh was rent. The hall trembled with violence and betrayal.
Finally, Baek Cheon-il stepped forward alone. The others parted.
He raised the sword Cheon Ye-mok had personally forged for him on his centennial. Demonic runes hummed along its edge.
He looked down at the man who had been everything: father, master, god, monster.
"Thank you… for everything, Master."
The blade rose high.
And fell.