Return of the Mount Hua Sect [EN]: Chapter 1377

Smoke billowed on the horizon. ‘Lord!’ a breathless voice hissed. ‘The Suro troops – they attacked Gwangju! Ships burned, then they vanished!’

A beggar, hidden in the shadows, grimaced as he heard the news. He was tracking a grand carriage, pulled by four gleaming horses, moving away from the main army.

“‘The ships?’ he growled. ‘Yes, Lord, burned to ashes.’ The beggar’s eyes narrowed. ‘Those Suro dogs… they’re finally making their move.’ He’d felt it coming, a storm brewing.”

For the Beggars’ Sect, news from the ground was gold. Books and maps couldn’t tell you what the air felt like, the danger hanging thick in the air. The Odorless Beggar, his senses sharpened by years in the field, felt it now – a raw, explosive tension. This wasn’t just talk; something big was about to happen. Even here, far away, he could feel the threat like a physical weight.

“‘What now, Lord?’ the younger beggar whispered, fear in his voice. ‘Gangnam… if war starts here, we’re dead men! Shouldn’t we run?’ His face was white as chalk.

The Odorless Beggar’s jaw tightened. ‘Run?’ he snapped. ‘Since when do beggars run from a fight?’

‘No, but…’

“‘Black Filth Unit, you call yourself? Coward!’ The words stung, laced with anger and disgust. The younger beggar hung his head. ‘Sorry, Lord…’ The Odorless Beggar clicked his tongue in annoyance.”

The Odorless Beggar scoffed, watching the Four Seas Alliance march on. Run? Where to? Lose them, and nowhere would be safe, not even across the river. Jang Il-so was like a shadow stretching across the land. They had to stay close. Tracking him, even if it meant death, was the Black Filth Unit’s purpose, *his* purpose. A dry chuckle escaped him. *Does he even know we’re here?* Of course, he knew. A man who controlled so much, who saw everything… he’d know. Maybe Jang Il-so *wanted* them to follow. Running was pointless.

“‘Lord, halt!’ hissed the lookout. ‘They’re stopping!’ ‘Down!’ The Odorless Beggar shoved his men flat. They pressed themselves into the earth, only eyes peering through the tall reeds. *Why now?* He strained to see, focusing all his senses. Nothing obvious. Then his gaze locked on the central carriage, the one draped in rich colours, pulled by those ghostly white horses. The door, shut tight until now, creaked open. A flash of crimson – the Odorless Beggar’s breath hitched. *Jang Il-so.* Distant as a toy soldier, yet instantly recognizable. Millions walked the earth, but only one dared wear that arrogant red. Jang Il-so, the Overlord. The man who commanded armies, who held nations in his fist. He was here. A shiver, cold and sharp, ran down the Odorless Beggar’s spine.

No holy man, no abbot or master, ever commanded such reverence. Not even the Emperor himself, in his distant palace. Only two men in the world held this kind of power: the Emperor, and Jang Il-so. The Odorless Beggar’s teeth gritted. Martial artists, even the greatest, were still just men. This display… it was arrogance, defiance of the Emperor, worship of raw strength. It should disgust him. But… his heart hammered in his chest. He’d never admit it, not to anyone, but a part of him, deep down, yearned for this kind of power, this kind of awe.

“‘The nerve of that man…’ the younger beggar muttered. ‘Quiet!’ The Odorless Beggar hissed, cutting him off. Even if it wasn’t Jang Il-so himself, but a shadow, they couldn’t risk being seen. *What’s he doing?* He watched, tense. Jang Il-so raised a hand, a casual flick of his fingers. And then, men peeled away from the group, vanishing into the trees. *What?* The Odorless Beggar’s eyes widened. Normally, he’d send his own men after them, but not now. Too risky. ‘Lord…’ his subordinate breathed, panicked. They couldn’t follow them all. And then, again, Jang Il-so gestured. More men gone. And again. They were being stripped bare, right in front of him. ‘Damn him!’ the Odorless Beggar cursed under his breath. Just then, Jang Il-so turned. He looked right at them, his face blank, unreadable. *Thump-thump* went the Odorless Beggar’s heart. He slammed his face into the dirt, burying himself in the earth. *He saw us.* He knew it, cold certainty gripping him. Impossible, but true. No one should see them here. Sweat slicked his skin, cold and clammy. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. He was a rabbit frozen before a hawk, waiting for the strike. The smell of damp earth filled his nostrils, the sharp scent of crushed grass, the sour tang of his own fear.

“‘They’re moving, Lord,’ the voice trembled. The words pulled the Odorless Beggar back to himself, like waking from a nightmare. Shame burned in his gut. He’d groveled in the dirt. He pushed himself up, shaking off the clinging earth. The carriage, the guards, all moving on, as if nothing had happened. He stared, speechless for a moment. He felt… played. But anger? No. Anger was for equals. He was a leader, yes, of the Black Filth. Respected, feared even. But here, now, he was nothing. Relief washed over him, cold and weak. He’d survived. A shiver ran down his back, the sweat chilling on his skin. ‘Lord? Track them?’ ‘Track them?’ A hollow laugh escaped him, a puff of air. ‘No. Leave them. Report back, follow the main force.’ ‘But…’ ‘What do you think you’ll learn, chasing shadows?’ Silence. A bitter smile twisted the Odorless Beggar’s lips. ‘Just… follow properly. Don’t be seen.’ ‘Yes, Lord.’ He stared at the carriage, at that small, dark window. From inside, Jang Il-so saw everything. He, with his wide-open eyes, saw nothing. *I may not see his vision, but I will follow his path. I will learn.* A hard glint entered his eyes, fixed on the carriage. The white carriage, gleaming in the sun, the red birds darting across the sky. For now, that small carriage was the center of the world.

*Inside the Carriage…*

The carriage door slammed shut. “Ga-myeong is useless,” Jang Il-so sighed, slumping back against the cushions. “Trivial orders… have to do everything myself. Tsk.” He reached for a bottle and glass on a small table. He poured, the clear liquor flowing smoothly, even as the carriage bounced. The air filled with the sharp, clean smell of strong drink. He set the bottle down, watching the liquor swirl in the glass, then settle. His eyes, bright but cold, stared into the still liquid. He drank, slowly, letting the fire burn down his throat. Only then did he turn to the small window. He wiped his mouth with a flick of his hand. “Easy enough,” he murmured. “Yes, easy.”

The view from the window was small, yes. But he’d pull the world to *him*. Draw them all into his little box. Then, the whole world would be his to see, through this tiny frame. One by one, they were coming. Those hungry for power, those trapped by duty, the mindless followers, and… the fools burdened by their noble dreams. “Hmm,” he hummed, hearing the drums. Loud, insistent drums, pulling everyone’s eyes, everyone’s ears. The music of the opening act. “The stage is set.” Jang Il-so turned his head, slowly, towards the windowless wall of the carriage. His gaze went south, beyond the wood and cloth, distant and cold. Hate and longing, tangled together. “Come then, Hwasan Sword Saint,” he murmured, a smile spreading across his face. “The play can’t start without you.” His smile was wide, sharp, like a blade in the moonlight.