"Miss?"
"Huh?!"
What… what was I just thinking?!
It seems I wasn't in my right mind just now. No matter how alluring his body might be, he's still a man whose face I don't even know. Hasn't he kept saying it himself? That his face is hideous, that there's a reason he hides it, that he doesn't even like his own looks?
Whoosh!
"S-Sorry. I got lost in thought for a moment…"
"It's fine. You're teaching me on purpose, after all."
I couldn't tear my eyes away as he adjusted his disheveled clothes, smoothing the fabric with a casual grace that only deepened the pull. But if I didn't say something—anything—right now, I felt like something irreversible might happen. Not to him, but to me.
"H-Hey!"
My voice cracked louder than I'd meant, echoing off the shop's shadowed walls like a warning bell. I had to do this, or I wouldn't be able to control myself any longer. My hands trembled with the urge to reach out, my gaze locked in defiance of my will, my legs rooted as if drawn by invisible threads—all of them conspiring against their owner, urging me toward that one forbidden direction.
"Uh… have you thought about learning something other than joint-locking?"
"…Something else?"
I barely managed to steer the conversation away, the words tumbling out like a lifeline tossed into turbulent waters.
"Y-Yeah… I mean, your body doesn't seem suited for direct combat anyway. Since your goal is self-defense, how about learning hidden weapon techniques instead of this?"
"…Hidden weapons?"
"It might get you called cowardly by the hot-blooded fools out there," I pressed on, desperately wrestling my body back under rein, "but it's super efficient. If you land a hit properly, a surprise attack can take down someone stronger than you—sometimes without them even seeing it coming."
I continued like that, my voice a frantic tether, holding the reins as tightly as a coachman battling an excited steed through a storm. Was this the feverish haze they whispered about in forbidden scrolls—the primal surge that clawed at even the steadiest hearts?
"Hidden weapons, huh…"
His gaze drifted briefly to empty air, as if consulting some unseen oracle. I turned to follow it, half-expecting a flicker of sorcery, but there was nothing—just a plain wall, scarred by years of quiet neglect.
"Hidden weapons sound good."
"Oh, then I'll head out for today and come back next time prepared to teach you hidden weapon techniques."
"You're leaving already? You could stay a bit longer."
…
…
"Hey."
I grabbed his shoulder, my fingers digging in just enough to anchor us both, and spoke in a low, firm voice that brooked no argument.
"That was really dangerous, so don't do it again."
I barely held myself back in that moment. I almost did something I shouldn't have.
Really.
The Huashan Sect.
A faction named "Radiant Mountain," its characters evoking the gleam of sunlight on unyielding stone—one of the most formidable powers rooted in Shaanxi, where its mist-shrouded headquarters clings to the peaks. On the surface, it stands as a pillar of righteousness, much like the other Nine Great Sects: a beacon of honor and unyielding virtue. Yet beneath that polished facade, it pulses with the raw vigor of martial artists, though its disciples remain devout Taoists at their core, their paths woven with the threads of philosophy and steel.
And representing this storied Huashan Sect was none other than the famed Sword Empress herself. These days, she devoted most of her hours to the austere heights of Mount Hua, her blade an extension of the mountain's eternal vigil. But in her youth—when whispers dubbed her the "Sword Flower"—her blend of righteous fire and gentle grace had blossomed into something timeless. Time had only refined her stunning beauty further, etching lines of wisdom without dimming the light in her eyes.
…
…
Creak.
As the Sword Empress pushed open the heavy door of her seclusion chamber and stepped into the crisp mountain air, a familiar attendant awaited her as always. The woman extended a soft towel and a bundle of fresh robes with the quiet efficiency born of years at her side.
"How long has it been this time?"
"Exactly 190 days have passed."
"Longer than I thought…"
The attendant might have burned with curiosity—wondering if the isolation had yielded some profound breakthrough—but she held her tongue, as protocol and loyalty demanded. Such questions were shadows best left undisturbed.
"I know secluded training like this doesn't mean much at my level anymore," the Sword Empress murmured, her voice carrying the faint echo of mountain winds, "but my heart still isn't at ease."
She wiped the faint sheen of exertion from her skin with the towel, the fabric whispering against flesh long purified of mortal impurities, then slipped into the clean robes. Her body had transcended such base concerns years ago, but time's relentless march spared no garment, no matter how exalted its wearer.
"No movements from the Demonic Cult yet?"
"Thankfully, no."
"Phew…"
Her thoughts drifted unbidden to the Heavenly Demon's martial prowess, a specter from the brutal war against the Blood Cult. If any soul had scaled the absolute pinnacle of human potential, it was he—an overwhelming tempest of power, a force that bent the very air around him. A being who eclipsed even the wildest dreams of strength, rendering the impossible mundane.
Even if every master of the righteous sects, the unorthodox clans, and the wild fringes of the outer martial world banded together—including her own blade—they couldn't conjure a vision of victory against him. The sheer scale of it defied the mind's grasp.
"Honestly, I can't even dare to think I could reach that level."
The Blood Cult had been a nightmare made manifest, their strength a venomous tide. Especially their Leader, whose fusion of peerless martial arts and insidious sorcery had forged an adversary even she, in her prime, couldn't face with unshakeable confidence. Yet that dread cabal had been obliterated—not by a coalition of heroes, but by one woman's solitary wrath.
Their hubris, that arrogant dream of painting the world in rivers of crimson, had goaded them into awakening the slumbering Demonic Cult. They'd roused a monster best left chained in the abyss. Without that fatal misstep, the Central Plains might have drowned under the Blood Cult's yoke by now, its rivers choked with the fallen.
In a twisted irony, the Heavenly Demon stood as a reluctant benefactor to the realm. But gratitude was a fragile thing, easily severed by necessity. If he—or his successors—ever turned their gaze toward conquest, as past Heavenly Demons had, the Sword Empress would rise to bar their path. For the sake of the Central Plains, its people, and the fragile peace she'd sworn to guard.
"Anything happen in the martial world while I was in seclusion?"
"It's been peaceful. Even the Green Forest bandits and river pirates haven't made any notable moves lately."
"That's a relief."
A faint smile curved her lips, a quiet bloom of satisfaction. Her vigil, however solitary, hadn't crumbled into irrelevance.
"Oh, but there's some bad news."
"What is it?"
"A fortune teller called the 'Faceless Golden Ghost' has appeared in Shaanxi. An insolent fool mocking the heavens with wicked sorcery."
Like most in Huashan, the attendant's tone dripped with disdain for the interloper. As a Taoist through and through, she viewed such meddlers as affronts to the natural order, thieves pilfering the divine weave for mortal gain.
"Did this person use sorcery to scam people?"
"…I don't think so. He's apparently quite skilled, from what I hear."
"Did he demand outrageous sums from desperate people?"
"…As far as I know, he charges everyone two silver coins, no exceptions."
"Did he cause trouble with that sorcery or the money he earned?"
"…They say he frequents taverns and gambling dens every night, but he doesn't seem to stir up conflicts."
"Then what makes him a villain?"
No scams to ensnare the gullible, no extortion bleeding the vulnerable dry, no reign of petty tyranny with his coin. He wasn't a saint etched in jade, perhaps, but neither did he cast the shadow of true malice.
"Even if he hasn't done anything evil, he's using the heavens' energy for filthy profit—"
"Enough." The Sword Empress raised a hand, her voice gentle yet unyielding as tempered steel. "We're not the arbiters of the heavens' will. What right do we have to meddle in someone earning a living through their own gifts?"
"B-But…"
"If he turns to evil later, that's a matter for blades and justice. But from what you've shared, I see no fault. If his words have steered even one soul from a grim fate, isn't that a thread of good woven into the world?"
"…"
"I understand your unease—it mirrors the creed we hold dear. But on these facts alone, I can't brand him a villain."
"…I'm sorry."
"No need for apologies. If anything, I pity you more—bound here day after day because of my retreats, cut off from the world's breath."
With the exchange concluded, the Sword Empress turned toward the sect's heart, where disciples awaited word of her return from seclusion. Only she knew the quiet spark that news of the Faceless Golden Ghost had kindled within her—a flicker of curiosity amid the fresh mountain air, sharp and invigorating after so long in the dark.