The summit of the Heavenly Pillar was a place where the distinction between the earth and the heavens was a mere suggestion. At ten thousand feet, the air was so thin it felt like cold glass in the lungs, and the clouds didn't float above—they swirled around the ankles of anyone brave enough to stand on the jagged limestone peak.
This was the traditional seat of the Yun Clan, a natural fortress that overlooked the Anhui province. Today, however, it was a court of judgment.
Seven figures stood at the edge of the summit's northern precipice, having ascended the vertical cliffs without the use of ropes or pitons. They were the Seven Swords of the Alliance, a coalition of the most esteemed "Gosu" from the Orthodox sects. Among them were the Plum Blossom Sword Saint of Mount Hua, the Taiji Grandmaster of Wudang, and the Ocean-Lord of the Qingcheng Sect.
They were not here to command an army. They were here as the ultimate "face" of the Murim Alliance. After the decimation of the Peng vanguard and the humiliation of the Tang assassins, the High Lord Jo Mu-Sang had realized that numbers were useless. To break the Yun, he needed to break their spirit in a formal challenge of "Martial Intent."
"So, this is the nest of the heretics," spat the Mount Hua Sword Saint, a man whose white hair was tied with a ribbon patterned with pink petals. He drew his blade, and the air immediately took on the faint, sweet scent of plum blossoms—a manifestation of his high-level Sword Qi. "It smells of nothing but cold stone and arrogance."
"Peace, Brother," the Wudang Grandmaster whispered. He stood perfectly still, his eyes closed, practicing a "Moving Meditation." The air around him seemed to circulate in a perfect Yin-Yang sphere, a demonstration of the Taiji balance that nullified the mountain's howling winds. "The Yun have touched the Dao, but they have forgotten the human heart. We are here to remind them of the weight of the Jianghu."
The Silent Host
Yun Baek-Ho stepped forward from the mist. He was still dressed in his simple white linen, looking entirely out of place next to the ornate, symbol-heavy robes of the Seven Swords. Behind him, the "Shadow Division" of outcasts stood in a semi-circle, their hands on their nameless blades.
"You have climbed quite high to find a grave," Baek-Ho said, his voice effortless despite the wind.
"We do not seek graves, boy," the Ocean-Lord of Qingcheng stepped forward. His sword style was known for its fluid, crushing weight, mimicking the tide of the Yangtze River. "We seek the Yun Patriarch. Tell him that the Seven Swords have come to collect the debt of the Southern Edge. If he surrenders now and registers his manuals with the Federation... we may allow the Yun name to remain in the annals of history."
Baek-Ho laughed, a sharp sound that echoed off the surrounding peaks. "You speak of debts while you sit on mountains of stolen gold. You speak of surrender while the 'Silver Vow' press-gangs commoners into a war they don't understand. The Yun Patriarch does not answer to debt-collectors."
The Clash of Intent
The Mount Hua Sword Saint's eyes flared. "Then we shall speak through steel!"
He didn't move his feet, but he swung his sword in a wide, horizontal arc. A wave of pink, razor-sharp Sword Qi—the Falling Blossom Strike—erupted from the blade. It was a technique designed to saturate the area, leaving no room for a "Qinggong" dodge.
Baek-Ho didn't move. But behind him, a voice rang out—not from his throat, but from the very mountain itself.
"Universal Origin Scripture: Atmospheric Lockdown."
The pink blossoms didn't hit Baek-Ho. They didn't even reach him. Ten feet from the Yun Young Patriarch, the energy petals simply... stopped. They hung in the air, vibrating frantically as if they had hit an invisible wall of solid stone.
The Seven Swords gasped. They were all masters of the "Peak Extreme" or "Transcendence" realms, yet they had never seen Sword Qi frozen in mid-flight.
"Intent is not a weapon," the mountain-voice continued. "It is a choice."
The Taiji Grandmaster's eyes snapped open. He recognized the frequency. "Nature Realm... Divine Transformation. The Patriarch is not just watching. He is the peak."
A single, tall figure emerged from the highest pagoda of the Yun estate, walking down a path made of nothing but swirling mist. Yun Cheon-Hwi, the Patriarch, carried a simple wooden staff. He looked no older than forty, yet his eyes held the depth of an ancient ocean.
"You seven represent the best of the Old World," Cheon-Hwi said, stopping at the center of the summit. "You are the masters of legacy. But your legacies are anchors, holding the Murim in the mud of the past. Today, I will show you why the Yun do not need iron to rule the sky."
The Seven Swords formed a circle around the Patriarch, their individual Sword Intents rising like pillars of fire, ice, and lightning. The atmosphere at the summit began to warp, the local gravity fluctuating as the power levels surpassed the limits of the mortal realm.
The Assembly of the Seven Swords had begun, but it was already clear that this was not a duel. It was a funeral for the Murim Alliance's authority.